Say What?

My children are going to North Carolina next month for a reunion with Greg’s siblings and their families. The timing didn’t work out for me, but I would sure love to see them all. 

I have fond memories of visiting my in-laws in Iowa as a young woman. I had never really been out of the South before. I remember being intrigued by the differences, especially the dialect. They were intrigued by me too. Julie, Greg’s five year old sister, held a party for her friends featuring me and my funny talk as entertainment. I brought down the house saying “skewl” over and over. To Julie, that was comedy at its best. 

I was more interested in the different names of things. For instance, a casserole was called “hot dish”. It didn’t seem to matter what was in it, it was just hot dish, as in, “I’m taking hot dish to the church supper”.

Another one was “tavern”. Greg’s mom asked if I wanted tavern for lunch. Hmmm, I knew she didn’t drink so what was this about. I learned that tavern is the Iowa name for Sloppy Joe. Tavern was lovely for lunch. And it might have been served with “pop”, which I was disappointed to learn was just a “soft drink”. I had heard of soda pop from movies and tv and had always imagined it was some creamy, frothy indulgence. Just a coke, after all.

Now that I’m in Ireland I have really been inundated with new words and different uses of words. If you are a traveler, you are way ahead of me and know these. However, they have taken me by surprise. I know I’ve mentioned some of this before in my blog. But here goes again.

I already knew that a car trunk is a boot and gasoline is petrol. Also that diapers are called nappies. But what I didn’t know is that potato chips are called crisps and French fries are called chips (like English fish ’n chips). That took some getting used to. For a while I had MSPD, multiple spud personality disorder. I was always ordering the wrong thing.

Cookies are called biscuits and the Irish really never have regular buttermilk biscuits so there’s no name for them. They are replaced by scones, which are biscuits with sugar and sometimes fruit. So now I eat biscuits for dessert and scones for breakfast.

The other day I asked Dixie to bring some cream cheese from the store. He looked puzzled. I said, “You know, cream cheese”. We were back and forth a while before it finally dawned on him… “Philadelphia!” Yep, that’s it. The label just says “Philadelphia”. He's never heard of cream cheese. Like Vaseline, the brand has become the product.

Yes, these are good.

Irish bacon isn’t really bacon, but more like Canadian bacon, kind of hammy. After searching long and hard, I found bacon in Aldi labeled “American Style Bacon”, tastefully encased in Old Glory. Life without bacon was sounding dismal. But now that I’ve found it, I find I hardly eat it. Eating bacon alone is like drinking alone. Can be depressing.

It breaks my heart to tell you that there are no Irish words for grits, graham crackers, or corn meal. Can’t be found. No cornbread, No S’mores. Sad. I did, however, locate some soda crackers (saltines to some of you). They are marketed as Italian crackers here. And I've stocked up on grits and graham crackers from home.

Good prices too!

It took a while to figure out the stove/cooker conundrum. A stove in Ireland is not what you’d cook on. It refers to a wood stove in the fireplace that warms you. The "range" (they are not familiar with that word) is a "cooker". Makes sense. But I got funny looks when I mentioned cooking on gas vs. electric stoves. Huh?

Ovens are just ovens, thank goodness.

Both grocery carts and hospital gurneys are called trolleys. So fill your trolley with fruits and veggies or you might end up on one.

Over-the-counter meds were another mystery. Acetaminophen (Tylenol) is called paracetamol and packaged as Panadol. Ibuprofen is harder to find. The brands of all our beloved comfort meds are different, like Tums, Bean-o, Gas X (maybe TMI?). I have them mostly figured out though.

It’s all a part of exploring another culture. The names may be different, but we all love our fried potatoes, no matter what they’re called, and we all need relief when we eat too much. When in doubt, I just ask the chemist (pharmacist).  

House Beautiful

Since we made an offer on the house in October, I’ve been inhaling fixer-upper shows on the “telly” as if they were joints (are they still called that?) I actually think I got high a couple of times dreaming about all the open space and the decorating options. I was giddy for sure.

Now that we’re here, let the work begin! I knew there were a few things that needed tidying up and fixing, but like every house I’ve ever bought or rented, this one was full of surprises. Apparently, the lady who lived here was a chain smoker for years. I didn’t remember the smell, but it punched us in the face when we walked in the door.

Every room has to be cleaned and painted, including ceilings. And she took the light fixtures. Who takes light fixtures???

Fun yet?

I was struck by the unusual color of the kitchen cabinets. A kind of creamy light mustard, they made an attractive first impression. On closer examination we have come to realize that they were originally white. Cigarette smoke has stained them to this beautiful golden patina. I’m keeping them just as they are. At least they don’t stink.

There is very worn, dirty carpet throughout the upstairs. We pulled it back to reveal pine tongue and groove floor boards in pretty good condition. Unfortunately they were intended to be sub flooring so the tongues were not tucked into grooves very well. The look is rustic and primitive. I’ve been cleaning them with mineral spirits and doing a little repair work before they’re varnished. Anyone have wood glue?

The floor in the upstairs bath was covered with grimy linoleum. The pine boards underneath are REALLY primitive. But I’m refinishing them as best I can, and we plan to cover most of the floor with bath mats.

All the windows have to be resealed, the downstairs floors need to be replaced, a door (right in the middle of the only long living room wall) has to go (Of course it doesn’t HAVE to go, but I want it to go) and I WANT the fireplace opened up.

Dixie took out some horrible built-ins

Sometimes I just stop and think about what’s going on with me… moving into a new house in Ireland the same year I’ve applied for Medicare. Many of my post-menopausal girlfriends are still sailing smoothly on the same boat they boarded decades ago. Their masts are still strong, and they have a jolly crew of grandchildren who delight them to no end.

I have roses!

Others have chosen roads less traveled and maybe a bit bumpier. Some are getting advanced degrees, traveling the world, still deciding what to be when they grow up. Some are postponing retirement because their work is so important and fulfilling, and they just aren’t ready to let go. And some are feeling triumphant that they have finally realized after all these years that just “being” is enough. I’m so proud of us all. Look at us!

I’ll be a granny in October. I can’t wait! I’ll be traveling way more than I ever imagined, back and forth to keep two dreams alive and well. I know I can do it because my sailing ship, once drifting and taking on water, has been repaired and reconstructed, just like my pine floors. It’s been gleaming now for a couple of years and is voyage ready. All aboard!

A New Hobbit Hole

Did you hear? I bought a house! I’m so excited! Dixie and I have been living in a small, very old terraced (townhouse) rental for a year and a half. These structures are the most common type of housing in towns and villages, and many are made of stone and date back a couple hundred years or more. 

Does this mean I'll be cooking?

Even though it is two story and has three small bedrooms, it feels cramped and claustrophobic. I’m guessing 800 square feet or so in all.  I’m ashamed to complain because I’m told it was common for families with ten or twelve children to live in these homes over the years. I suppose some still do. 

House hunting in Ireland is a little different than in America. In our town there are four realtors (If there are more, they are hiding and I haven’t seen them). I was told they are not called realtors but auctioneers. That immediately made my stomach flutter… in a bad way. Did I need to go to an auction to bid on a house?

View from my new bedroom

No, but the houses are auctioned off nonetheless. The auctioneers represent the sellers and there is no one to represent the buyer. You shop for a house as you’d shop for a car… look online, visit the auctioneer’s office, browse through brochures, drive around.

When you see something that looks promising the auctioneer will show it to you. All the listings are exclusive to a particular auctioneer. You can make an offer and it may be accepted. But until the final closing, it’s still on the auction block and you may lose it at the last minute. But the buyer can also change her mind at the last minute with no penalty. There is a verbal “sale agreed”, but it isn’t binding.

Nice pine floors under the nasty carpet

Sometimes I feel like I’ve just come out of a coma with a little amnesia. The world is familiar and yet not familiar. I ask a lot of questions and no one seems to mind that I ask the same ones more than once. Like when you’re doing a jigsaw puzzle and you keep trying the same piece over and over thinking just maybe you can force it to fit this time. But it never does. 

After my offer was accepted I called on a structural engineer to inspect the house. There were rumors of a lawsuit a few years ago against the builder but no one seemed to know any details. The seller, an elderly woman, said it had been settled out of court but she had no documentation (and little memory) of anything.

The back yard complete with clothes line... Wut?

The engineer spotted some red flags and I almost backed out. But the auctioneer volunteered to make some calls and try to get it sorted. It took weeks… no, months, of investigating on par with Sherlock Holmes to find some answers. He finally located the carpenters who did some remedial work and they met with the engineer and everyone is satisfied that the house is now sound. 

So I bought it. There was no “closing” as such. I just wired the money to an escrow account then dropped by the lawyer’s office one day to sign the contract. Then a couple weeks later I picked up the key from the auctioneer.

It’s a cute house on the edge of town, with fields in the back with horses and cows but just a five minute walk from the town square. It needs interior painting, some new flooring and a few other cosmetic fixes. In the back there’s a waist high stone wall that is covered in briars and weeds. It was built about 200 years ago. I intend to release it from its weed bondage. 

The house has lots of room for when you come to visit. And best of all, it’s just around the corner from the Monk’s Pub. See you soon!