Fear and a Friend

Two meters please!

Hello out there! Yes, I’m still in Ireland. I’m well and hoping you are too. As in the USA, we are all social distancing, avoiding unnecessary shopping, shaking our heads at the bizarre decisions made by world leaders, and staying positive.

Some people are saying they refuse to live in fear. I say fear is a gift from my ancestors who landed on the happy side of natural selection. It was fear that persuaded them to run from rabid mammoths and reconsider their options when they heard a saber-toothed tiger roar in the distance. My ancestors (and yours) were survivors, partly because they lived with a healthy dose of fear.

So I’m proud to say I’m staying away from any threat at this time. I’m being reasonable and considerate. No music sessions, hair appointments, or calling on Dixie’s relatives (all closed anyway).

That said… there’s this lady who landed in Thurles over two weeks ago from Washington State. Yikes! It’s a hotbed, right? When she left Washington, things weren’t so out of control but of course they have deteriorated fast. So Karen has wisely decided not to return home any time soon.

I knew we were kindred spirits when we were first introduced by our mutual friend and Irish fiddle teacher, Theresa. Karen grew up in the south (central Texas) and has a delightful southern drawl. She is one of the most interesting people I’ve ever met. She made a career as a sea captain and is now a maritime professor. She has been on ice breakers in Antarctica and fish factory ships in the Bering Sea. Am I the only person on earth who never knew there were floating fish factories? I’ve obviously been watching the wrong TV shows.

Kilcooley Abbey

Karen knows all the Star Trek series and has read Jane Eyre multiple times. She loves Irish music, plays the fiddle and misses grits. What???

She also has a PhD in Archaeology from Cambridge (That’s NOT Cambridge, Alabama). When I showed her some pix on my phone of some of my favorite megalithic sites in farmer’s fields, I thought she was going to stroke. I’d think we were twins separated at birth except for the Cambridge thing. She's WAY smart.

So now… during this time of isolation and anxiety, I have a new friend. She is staying with Theresa and with us. It feels a little like having Anne Frank in the attic. If the virus comes for her, it will have to go through us first. (Too dramatic?)

Bourodomeany Wedge Tomb

It has thrilled me to no end to take her around to my beloved local isolated ruins. We might come away with the “Black Death” or “Putrid Throat” that's been smoldering for centuries around some tomb effigy, but there’s no trace of Covid-19 or anyone to catch it from. 

We have gone to Kilcooley Abbey (12th century Cistercian), the Bourodomeany wedge tomb (in a remote field in tiny Rearcross), the Shanballyedmond court tomb (also in Rearcross) and Ballynahow Castle (a round, 16th century tower house with spiral stone stairs you can climb all the way to the battlements on top). 

Shanballyedmond Court Tomb

Today we visited Athassel Abbey, a 12th century Augustinian monastery near Golden. We took sandwiches and picnicked on a lichen speckled sarcophagus, watching curious jackdaws flutter along their invisible zip lines. The sun was bright, but the wind was cool and as wild as our imaginations as we contemplated the plight of the poor, forgotten monks. 

Ballynahow Castle

If you’re paying attention, you have picked up on the fact that Dixie was not with us on these excursions. He opted to stay home and catch up on some yard work (and our back garden is looking spectacular). That means… I did the driving (on the left side of these ridiculously narrow roads)!

I have done very little driving in Ireland because Dixie and I are almost always together and it’s just more relaxing for him to drive. But I decided this was a good time to make the transition to the driver’s seat and go for it. 

Athassel Abbey

That fear that I was writing about earlier should have kept me from taking the risk and putting a friend in harm’s way. But Karen’s a sea captain, accustomed to perilous waters and uncertain outcomes. She was all aboard with it.

Picnic at Athassel

Athassel beneath a really cool cloud

When I recalled that FDR said the only thing to fear is fear itself, I ditched the Darwinian ancestor wisdom and charged up the GPS. I’ve been “flyin’ it”, as the Irish say, ever since.

I guess the fear response thing can take you either way… towards life or towards death. Some fears are justified and some are irrational. Some will keep you safe, but others will just keep you paralyed. I’m thinking the survival trait we inherited was just good common sense. I sincerely hope we can invoke it in the days to come.

Keep me posted about what’s happening with you. 

Scoil Cheoil an Earraigh

This could be a predicament. How do I explain to my children that I went off for the weekend with ten (that’s right…10!) awesome guys? Okay, I’m using that word "awesome" maybe a little loosely. Nevertheless, that’s what I did.

I should elaborate. It was the Scoil Cheoil an Earraigh (Music School of the Spring) trad festival in Ballyferriter, just outside Dingle on the southwest coast. Come to think of it, I did the same thing last year. The lads have been going for years. It’s a tradition and now they have a female tagalong. I didn’t hear any complaining.

First stop… John Mason’s (This is part of the tradition). John is a retired French teacher who plays concertina. We met in the kitchen of John’s “home place” which is old and inviting and delightfully Irish. There was tea and coffee and a selection of fine whiskeys. I had my latte in hand (so American) and sat cozily by the stove while the lads discussed the finer qualities of their favorite spirits and reminisced about trad festivals long past. They are all accomplished musicians and have delicious memories they savor year after year. The whiskey is a relaxing chaser.

Then we hit the road (designated drivers were still intact thank goodness). It’s a three hour drive from here to there. I dozed in the back seat while Dixie drove and Toss, Dixie’s tenor banjo picking brother-in-law, stretched out in front of me. I felt secure considering it was lashing rain and Irish roads are so narrow and precarious. I figured if we hit someone head-on I’d have the best chance of survival. Toss just thought I was being nice offering him the death seat. 

With no mishaps along the way we arrived in Dingle around four. We had rented two apartments behind a pub. The tradition is… arrive late afternoon, unpack and have “tea” which is the Irish word for supper. They brought everything! Hailing back to the days when they were all young and on stricter budgets, they didn’t waste a penny on restaurant food. But the spread was spectacular.

Whole chickens, turkey, whole ham for sandwiches as well as breads, biscuit cake, tea brack and apple tarts. ALL HOMEMADE!!! These guys know how to cook… and eat. I contributed southern style chicken salad and it went over well. Everyone ate their fill and not since Jesus fed the five thousand has there been so much left over.

After cleaning up (yes they did!) we gathered our instruments and drove the 15 minutes or so to Ballyferriter. Classes and concerts had been going on all week but we only came for one thing… to indulge our obsession with jigs and reels and have some good craic.

Since there were eleven of us, we needed a good space. We found it at Saors' Pub. There were some teens from the Scoil Cheoil there just wrapping up. We played along with them for a few minutes and when they left we moved in. We played almost six hours nonstop with other musicians joining us in and out.  We all slept well that night.

Saturday morning I woke to the smell of a traditional Irish fry (that’s breakfast). There were eggs cooked to order, more homemade breads, homemade granola (from me) and in true Irish heartstopping fashion (that’s figuratively and literally)…SAUSAGE THREE WAYS!!! No one left the apartment hungry. 

The lads then went for a drink to Foxy John’s which is owned by an old friend of theirs from Thurles. I knew the reunion would involve conversation about disgraceful calls made by incompetent officials against their favorite hurling, soccer and rugby teams… why Guinness is better in one pub than another… whatever happened to Paddy What’s-His-Name who used to play such a sweet button box… and discussions like that.

I opted to stay behind. There was a small library in our apartment and I picked up an Irish mystery called Buried in the Bog. It was actually quite well written (a NYT best seller) and I regret I never discovered who-done-it or even who it was in the bog. I might have to sniff it out on Amazon. 

When the lads returned we were all off to another great session at Murphy's in Ballyferriter. After a few short hours, we weren’t ready to quit, but we knew it was time when our stomachs were making more noise than our instruments.

Saturday’s tea was the crème de la crème. John unveiled his famous enormous beef stew (it’s rumored to contain six full round steaks as well as a vast assortment of Irish veggies) and mashed potatoes with wild garlic  (by now the lads were in spud withdrawal) and more homemade tarts. 

We were stuffed but we managed to brave the elements on foot to O’Flaherty’s Pub, just a stone’s throw away. Again, the lads knew the owner and we were welcomed with open arms and lively tunes. We played there a while then called it a night. I was blurry eyed and I’d only had one drink.

I took the safe seat home again as Dixie, Toss and I discussed the upcoming Fleadh na gCuach (the Cuckoo festival) in May. We have already booked three apartments on the scenic waterfront in Kinvarra also on the west coast. In the mean time, I have a list of tunes that aren’t going to learn themselves. I see more practice in my future.

Here's a clip of a session.

Home For The Holidays

The older I get, the more “home” becomes less a brick and mortar place to kick off my shoes and more an affirmation of love and belonging… it comes on me like the love alien that possessed Zefram Cochrane on Star Trek (It doesn’t matter if you don’t remember that episode). Sometimes I feel at “home” and sometimes I don’t. But I don’t associate it with a place… just people… and peace.

Dixie and I left Ireland on November 11th to go to the St Pete bungalow formerly known as “home” to finish the clean out then have the final closing on the 15th. I was taking my sweet time with those final loads to the Salvation Army just because I could.  But on the 13th, amid boxes of mismatched glassware and faded sheets, I got the call I had been expecting and dreading for two years. My mother in Georgia was sinking fast and if I didn’t drop everything and go go go, I wouldn’t get in that final farewell. It was mid afternoon around three. 

A few quick phone calls and I was at the title office scribbling my signature on who-knows-what. Phil, my haul away hero, once again offered (or at least agreed) to come to my rescue with his truck that could probably drive itself to the donation center by now. No time to sweep the floor or double check the cupboards. Off Dixie and I sped to Roswell. Phil had a key and a day to get the job finished.

The day of my mother's funeral

An adrenaline inspired road trip in the dark isn’t half bad. Not much traffic and you really don’t get sleepy. We arrived “home” in Roswell around 1:30 AM and were told the family had all decided to sleep instead of keeping a constant bedside vigil. A few days later we were all by my mother’s side when she peacefully passed from this world to the next. She was ready. She had told my brother a few weeks before that she was anxious to get to heaven and “see what it’s all about.” She was 93. Her mother died at 93 as did my other grandmother as well as my Irish born ancestor, James Johnson. I’m going to get very nervous when I turn 92.

All the family came into town for the funeral and we scattered my mother’s ashes around the big rock in the big woods where she played as a child… her childhood “home”.  Whosever idea that was… brilliant! It was a beautiful time together as memorials often are. Everyone loved my mother dearly, and she left a legacy of family unity and hilarious stories that we will cherish and pass on down the line. 

It’s the end of an era, and we are humbled by the elegance of time.

Then it was back to St Pete on the 21st where I had one day to get my annual routine medical appointments in. Talk about timing. We flew to Dallas for Thanksgiving on the 23rd.

My first grandchild, age six weeks, was anxiously waiting to meet his Grammy. My feelings were mixed of course but tilting sharply toward the joy side. I had been anticipating this visit for a long time… years actually.  Needless to say, little Gregory did not disappoint. He greeted me with big bluish-greenish-brownish (who can tell?) eyes, a couple of stinky blowouts and another new “home”, where I knew I would always love and be loved and welcome. We bonded quick and are plotting together as I write this to have him overnight himself to Ireland. It’ll be a first but we’re going to make it happen.

Ted and Leah from Tampa joined us in Dallas for Thanksgiving as has become our tradition in recent years. They made the exciting announcement that, after being in the adoption process for what seems to me like forever, they had been matched with a donor (that’s probably not what you call it because that makes the baby seem like a liver or a kidney), but nonetheless, they were expecting their little Long Awaited One on Christmas Day (just like Mary and Joseph). We were all a mixture of shock and exuberance and urgency. They had no nursery, no car seat, no imagining their dream could come true with so little notice.

We wished them well as they flew back on Dec 1, not much time to let it sink in. They had not even unpacked when they got the call that the birth mother was in labor, little Jesus was jumping the gun and if they didn’t drop everything and go go go, they wouldn’t get there in time for the first triumphant baby breath! It was a four hour drive to Ft Lauderdale. 

But an adrenaline inspired road trip in the dark isn’t half bad. Not much traffic and you really don’t get sleepy. My second grandchild proved to be both patient and considerate. She graciously waited until they arrived to make her appearance, with 30 minutes to spare. Leah was in the delivery room and cut the cord. After a few days in the NICU for observation, the happy, healthy family of three left the hospital on Dec 6th and I flew back from Dallas to Tampa on schedule on the 10th. A short “home” visit to meet Carolina (pronounced Caroleena) before Dixie and I flew back to Ireland on the 12th. 


It’s the beginning of an era and we are humbled by the elegance of time.

I’ll be spending Christmas at “home”… with Dixie and his family and all our friends here. Then many trips in the new year for all of us to experience our various “homes”.

Merry Christmas to you and your “home” in all its forms.

Buying, Selling and Keeping

I’m back in Ireland. I’ve been going back and forth quite a bit since the summer. My mother in Roswell is slowly declining and I’ve wanted to spend time with her. Then I spent two weeks in St Pete alone just to finish clearing everything out. I should set up a shrine to Facebook Marketplace, because it made selling so easy. I met some nice people who promised to pamper my beloved antiques and put other odds and ends to good use.

St Marys, Youghal

I took out dozens of bags of stuff I sadly conceded was trash. I never realized it was trash until I had to decide what to do with it. Who really needs pots with broken handles and cheap prints in cracked frames? Two heaping truck loads of stuff went to the Salvation Army, and the coup de grace was a mournful visit from the Junk R Us guys. Everything gone... except the things in boxes that I can't bear to part with and Leah is holding for me. I do have some semblance of sentimentality about me.

My second day in town a guy came over to buy a couple of armoires. When he realized I was selling the house… he bought that too! It was that simple. Closing next week.

So back in Ireland we continue the project of fixing up this house. Having sold so much on Marketplace in St Pete, I decided to start shopping there for the things we “need” here. Dixie and I have a new “date day” tradition. We find something on Marketplace we can’t live without (okay, that I can't live without), drive across the county (or farther) to collect it, explore places we’ve never been before, have lunch at some quirky cafe that the seller recommends, and come home with full bellies and partially full wallets, feeling proud of the money we saved shopping second hand.

Can you see the people on the beach?

My favorite excursion so far was to the coastal town of Youghal (pronounced "ya’ll" appropriately enough). Quaint and historic, we found a graveyard walk around a 13th century Protestant church (although I guess it wouldn’t have been called Protestant in the 13th century). Stunning, the views from the cemetery and inside the church. The oak rafters are original and believed to be the oldest in Ireland. Who knew you could see all this and come home with a handmade side table that belonged to someone’s great aunt? Like me, the seller was glad he found a good home for a family treasure. Youghal come.

Table from Youghal

But my favorite gem so far is the fireplace. We had a nice contemporary fireplace already in place, but I have fallen in love with the traditional old cast iron inserts that have ornate canopies and tiles on either side. The surrounds can be cast iron, wood or resin, really doesn’t matter. 

Gotta love the river ladies

They are very common here and dismissed as just out-of-date by many. So you can get one cheap. I cunningly stalked Marketplace and Done Deal (like Craig’s List) until just the right one sprang up. Then I pounced and nabbed it. I paid for it (and the installation) with what I made selling the other one. OMG!  I’m sounding like my mother, the original wheeler dealer who used to embarrass me to death with her haggling! She would have loved shopping social media.

Of course, having an Edwardian style fireplace, I also jumped on an antique coal scuttle (it's the one Bob Cratchit used in Scrooge’s office, I’m positive) and solid brass fireside set. And since that look reminded me of a local pub, I also grabbed a fabulous old Guinness mirror to hang in the kitchen. Where will it end?

Sláinte

I continue to feel an affinity with the past, whether through ancient monuments of stone or small, interesting relics from the last generation. Something about that chain chain chain (not the chain of fools!) but of precious links that connect us all from Adam to Atom. Across time, across the miles, I imagine we are all the same. I know it’s a cliche but it’s true.

And for some reason I find great comfort and inspiration in contemplating the journeys and struggles of those who have gone before. In Roswell, it's my parents and grandparents, going through the great depression, the war and the often bittersweet days that followed. In Ireland, it’s LONG before. My ancient ancestors… here. 

Stuff gets bought and sold, comes and goes. But we cannot negotiate deals to swap our paths with others because they did not originate with us. We can only say "thank you" and hope to make them safer and more meaningful as we continue to carve them out for our descendants. It's deep but you get it, right?

Cleaning Out

I might be dead. One day last week my two children and a niece and nephew gathered at my house in St Pete to survey all the dusty contents and reminisce. They slowly made the circuit from room to room, fingering trinkets from their past… smiling, shaking their heads, remembering all the good times.

Each laid claim to what they wanted, Leah labelling furniture with sticky notes and Thomas hoisting the colossal bag of legos over his shoulder. In the garage he dug out the electric train that made Christmas past extra special… hoping his modest suitcase would accommodate the miles and miles of shiny track (it seemed like that much when he was five).

This is what children do when you’re dead, right? Remember The Bridges of Madison County and a whole host of other movies that begin the same way? It felt odd and eerie to be standing there witnessing this ritual in the flesh. 

I had told them a few weeks earlier I had decided to sell the house. Now I was watching in horror as they dismissed my most prized possessions as stuff they could live without. Since I can’t take it with me (to Ireland, that is) that relegates it to Craig’s List or The Salvation Army. I’m coming back again in September to get it all sorted. I may have an estate sale, just haven’t decided.

Thomas, who has read about the Marie Whats-Her-Name philosophy, encouraged me to take pictures of my beloved treasures, thank them for their companionship and faithful service, then kiss them goodbye. I picture myself calling out to them as they ride off into the sunset… “Come back, Shane… er, Round Oak Table!”

It’s really happening and I’m determined to follow through. You’d think after just moving back to St Pete from Dade City eight years ago I wouldn’t have too much excess to wade through. Wrong! As soon as you stop paying attention, it starts growing again… like toenail fungus. There’s so much STUFF!

My antique bed and dresser were bought by my mother and put in my bedroom when I was nine. Yes, I’ve changed the sheets and mattress but the rest is original. The kitchen table has little indentations from baby spoons pounding it in the early ‘80s. And I searched forever before finding those North Wind pressed back chairs. It’s all going.

Where did all these musical instruments come from? They've been snoozing under beds, slouched against walls, and lying comatose in closets. You know the type. Still, I hated to disturb them. “Wake up, Gang! Time to face the music. You’re all about to be sold!” They don’t deserve this but they’re getting it anyway. Wanna buy a bass?

Don’t think for a second I have been suddenly enlightened and become an environmentally conscious minimalist. Back here in Ireland I’ve already been to salvage yards, antique shops, thrift stores and a big flea market. It’s just so much fun replenishing the stuff supply. This new Irish house will soon be full. Go ahead and shake your head. I know I'm hopeless.

Back To The Fam

My mother has outlived herself. She was doing just fine until one day over a year ago, at age 91, when she lost her balance and tumbled to the floor and into a wonderland of frustration, pain and dementia. She will never walk, cut up her own food or think straight again (but she still insists on doing her own makeup every day. That’s my mom!)

Though she’s in a first rate memory care facility, my brother and his wife visit almost daily and try to help her slog through the muddy mire that harbors her new reality. I am realizing more and more just how heroic they are.

As I take my turn at bat next week, I feel the weight of the game on my shoulders and wonder just how long the nine innings will last. It’s hard to stay positive when you know this is one game you are not going to win.

 I’ll be temporarily leaving my new house and my new Irish life behind. I’m so happy Dixie can come with me this time. The routine has been set for the last couple of years: Fly into Tampa, visit with friends and family for a few days then drive the grueling 500 miles to my brother’s house in Georgia, just a few miles from my mother. He and his family will, ironically, be in Florida for a family vacation. We’ll spend a day or two with them at the beach before the long drive.

I never know exactly what to expect when I walk into my mother’s room at the “home”. She is well tended physically, having saved her pennies most of her adult life anticipating the need for quality geriatric care, which doesn’t come cheap. She always said she didn't want to be a burden to us and she never has been. It's one of the best gifts she ever gave us... Thank you, Mama.

Her own mother, my Gram, was not so shrewd nor thoughtful. She spent ten years in a public nursing home that was the essence of the proverbial hell hole. My mother and aunt took turns visiting, trying to track down stolen goods and clean up the messes they found Gram in. It was a nightmare for my mother and I think that oppressive, urine scented room was the Bible she swore on when she declared that would never happen to her. That’s when she started saving.

Mostly she greets me with cheer when I arrive but doesn’t seem too excited to see me. It’s as if I go there every day. Some days she sleeps almost all day and other days she’s awake and lucid the whole afternoon.

The last visit, when Dixie wasn’t with me, I encountered the tooth fairy situation. Suddenly my mother started denying that her dentures fit in her mouth, and she was certain there was a nurse stealing teeth and replacing them with…. I guess we could call them changeling teeth, like when the fairies steal a human baby and leave a changeling in its place. She begged me to call the police.

After days of trying to reason with her (“yes, Mama, these ARE your teeth!”) and trying to cram them in her mouth (gently, okay?) and even having staff members assist to no avail, I finally admitted defeat and asked the head nurse for help. To my utter shock, she confirmed that the teeth we had in hand (eww) were indeed NOT my mother’s. What? 

Much to everyone’s relief, we found my mother’s teeth in a dish stuck way back under the bathroom sink. My mother was vindicated and I was just puzzled. There should be more TV mysteries set against the backdrop of nursing homes. The wonders never cease.

Vermeer Reunion in June

So for the next two weeks I’ll be catching up with my American life. My son is flying in to Florida from Dallas, we’ll all be at the beach together, then in Georgia I’ll see, not just my mother, but other family and friends. I missed a reunion with the Vermeers and my children last week, and the photos they all posted made me homesick. Can’t imagine how I’ll feel come October when I become a granny for the first time.

I know I can’t have it all, living in two places. I wish I could be there every time the family gathers. I wish I could be there through the coming years to teach my grands how to read and annoy their parents with Irish jigs and reels. I wish I could be there to escort my mother through these final, often dramatic days of her life. We have to make peace with our choices, especially it seems, in later life. And we also have to make peace with the struggle to make peace. It’s just the way it is.

For the record, I’m spending my money like mad, because I know my children will support me in style in my old age, teeth or no teeth. Right? LOL