Family Time

 Last week, Katy and her family came over from Norfolk for a short Easter break. was lovely to see them, even though the weather wasn’t great—wet and cold for the most part.

Still, we all managed to enjoy ourselves.

Unlike in previous years, I didn’t stock the freezer in advance. Instead, I kept things simple and cooked meals from scratch—which, in the end, turned out to be less of a faff.

This time they didn’t bother with a car so I drove them where they needed to go. The young ones were just as happy knocking around here as they would have been getting out and about.

Thursday was the only day with halfway decent weather, so they took the train to Belfast for a visit to the Ulster Museum in Botanic Gardens. James, however, couldn’t quite settle at either the gardens or the museum, so the outing ended up being a brief half-day trip. Still, he thoroughly enjoyed the train journey and even managed to inform his parents about the type of rolling stock they were travelling on. They were surprised to learn that, unlike the rest of the UK—England, Scotland, and Wales - Northern Ireland does not use standard gauge railway tracks. Instead, it operates on the wider Irish gauge, in line with the rest of the island. James does know a lot about trains.

Evie, James, Emily, and I managed to squeeze in a quick jaunt to Portglenone Forest. Unfortunately, we were without Martha’s company, as she was at home revising for her upcoming GCSEs. James, in a moment of curiosity, decided to test the depth of a puddle by stepping straight into it—and promptly got a very wet foot. I suggested that next time, he might consider using a stick.

Friday was the best day of all. I had the pleasure of spending most of it with all my daughters and all four grandchildren. The younger ones threw themselves into an art project, their main focus being the design and painting of a stone for Ziggy’s grave. When that was completed, the house erupted into a raucous game of hide and seek, with Zoe and Hannah joining in as well. It was loud, chaotic, and full of laughter. The best hiding spots were claimed by Evie, who disappeared into a cluttered corner of the attic, and Emily, who managed to curl up inside a storage box. Being small certainly offers advantages in a game like that - but Evie, despite her height, managed to baffle everyone for quite some time.

And that was our last night. Everyone (except Bert of course) was up really early the next day and off to the airport for eight o’clock. I was sad to see them all leave but glad that we’d had the time together. The house was so quiet when I got home but that was good too.

Until the next time! 

It's All Over Now

 

I feel a bit churlish for ranting in my previous post about my jury service - especially since, from that day forward, I was never called again.

Of course, there were several more days that I had to go online at 5pm to check but as time went on I became more relaxed about it. Then came the best 5pm call-in. 

You have completed your jury service.

And y'know the next thing I thought of?

This calls for a celebratory glass (or three) of wine.

Which was odd as I had been on the dry for over 10 weeks. See! I'm still counting.

Needless to say the urge for wine quickly passed and it has now been 11 weeks since I last had an alcoholic drink.

And I've lost 15 pounds because I'm off the sweeties too.  Losing weight in one's later years is not all it is cracked up to be. I have turkey neck!

 

Jury Service

Monday marks the beginning of my fourth week of tedious, dreary jury service. I don’t like it. I wish I had played the age card and got out of it. 

Why so?

Most of us aren’t needed. They call in about sixty people per group, but only around one in five might end up on a jury panel.

And – even if the panel is chosen and sworn in, a trial might not go ahead.

While we wait – for hours, sometimes – we’re in a grim room, sitting in rows on hard, unforgiving chairs. After about thirty minutes, I start getting cramps. We can be stuck there for three hours or more, doing nothing, waiting for something that may never take place.

Then in comes the Clerk of Court.

‘Thank you for your patience, everyone. You’re not needed today. Don’t forget to check the Juryline at 5 p.m.’

Ah yes, the other major inconvenience. We never know until 5 p.m. whether we’re required the next day, which means we can’t make plans – only tentative ones.

I use the dead time to catch up on my reading. I can’t be bothered chatting with my neighbours. I feel out of place. I’m fairly certain I’m the oldest person in the room – bound to be, really. Any sensible seventy-something would have played the age card and bowed out.

So why didn’t I? Bert says it’s fear of missing out. Maybe he’s right. But believe me, fellow oldies – it’s not worth it.

Remembering Matty on Mother's Day

Tyrone (written twenty years ago)

Getting Offside

The Kerry sister wanted to do a bit of decorating for Matty. Dutifully, I asked if she would like me to help her. Instead, she requested that I take Matty out for the day so she could get on with it.

So, we headed in the direction of Tyrone, stopping first for coffee in Draperstown. When I was a market trader, I visited Draperstown twice a month. I had always liked the town’s wide streets and the way it nestled among the foothills of the Sperrins. I loved the soft voices of the people. I also encountered my first transvestite in Draperstown—wearing a cheap wig and a dowdy cloth coat, far from glamorous, yet possessing a quiet dignity.

While we were there, Matty said she wanted to look at some shops. She led me into the most old-fashioned hardware store in the world. The only objects that could possibly have held the slightest interest for me were some Pyrex measuring jugs.

‘Can I help you?’ ventured the young assistant.

‘No, just looking,’ I replied. Looking at what? Coils of rope? Shovels? Galvanised buckets? Then Matty piped up, ‘But I thought this was a dress shop.’

Onwards to Tyrone—Land of My Ancestors

Gortin

Matty’s parents came from Tyrone. Granda’s family were from Moy, and Granny was born in Newtownstewart. While Granda’s people had migrated to Belfast in search of work, Granny spent her childhood in Plumbridge. There were cousins in Gortin, so to Gortin we went, as Matty reminisced about a wonderful holiday she and her sister had spent there in the summer of 1947 as guests of their mother’s cousin, Mamie. We found the road where Mamie had lived, but the lane was overgrown, and the cottage was long gone.

This is one of the joys of driving Matty around—she starts remembering and telling stories. As this journey was one she had taken many times with Daddy, some of the stories were particularly poignant. Once again, I listened to the tales of their meeting and courtship. She told me about the funny sayings and silly games they enjoyed as they traveled together. She recounted the wonderful holiday she had with Mamie. It had been her first time apart from Daddy since they had started going out, and she had written to him three times in two weeks.

‘Did he write back?’ I asked.

‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘Sure, he never wrote a letter in his life.’

Apparently, she had written to reassure him that she hadn’t run off with some Tyrone boy. For according to Matty—and I do not doubt her—she had been very popular with boys in her youth.

Hearing Matty’s stories, I sometimes feel envious of the times she lived in. That holiday in Gortin, a mere 60 miles from home, had been such a novelty for her. She told a story about how she and her sister, out on borrowed bikes and having gotten lost, met a group of young, kilted men, also on bicycles, returning from Twelfth of July celebrations. These fellows escorted them back to the right road, and she recalled how exotic it felt to be riding alongside a troop of Protestant boys in kilts—something that would have been unthinkable behavior at home.

Matty and I behaved very well in Tyrone. We waved at passers-by and were extremely courteous on the road. ‘After all,’ Matty said, ‘anyone here might be your cousin.’

On the way home, Matty asked me, ‘Do you ever look at the clouds and imagine you can see pictures in them?’

I replied, ‘Not while I’m driving.’

One From Nineteen Years Ago

 

Hannah has a new enemy although she remains at daggers drawn with her old enemy Evil Nat West. She declared war on Evil Northern Ireland Railway yesterday evening after one of their vile and smelly trains refused to let her off at Cullybackey. The door wouldn't open and she was whizzing off to Ballymoney before she knew it.

All that after a hard day at Nixt! and an evening session with the dentist. She had been so pleased to make the train as, ever the considerate daughter, she wanted to save me the trouble of picking her up in town.

But oh! The rage. Apparently, she gave the poor guard a right earful. And her with the frozen mouth and all. I bet he was scared. He refused to take any responsibility at all. All I could do as she raged all this down the phone to me was agree with her that NIR were evil and their employees all stupid. And of course, their trains are crap.

Bert the Wonderful volunteered to pick her up in Ballymoney. By the time he got her home, she had calmed down. A little.

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The above was posted in 2006 – a lifetime ago. Why, I was only a girl back then, rather than the decrepit old crone I am today.

We no longer think of NIR as evil; in fact, I took two train trips just this past week. The first was to Holywood, a town I had never visited before, and the second to Ballymoney, from where I continued on to Balnamore – a village I've never been to, despite it being a mere sixteen miles away.

I was going to see Leitrim Sister and her extended family and friends, who were staying in what was once Balnamore Hall – an intriguing house that I hope to visit again.

The main purpose of this visit was to meet the apple of Leitrim Sister's (and Dmitri's) eye a little fellow just two and a half. He was definitely the star of the show and well worth the journey.

Update

I was summoned to court for jury duty on Monday along with many others. I was not among the chosen few and did not need to attend in person for the rest of the week, which was just as well because Kerry Sister was Up North for the week.

On Tuesday we visited most of the local charity shops, with the one in Ahoghill being, by far the best.

On Wednesday, we visited Belfast, where we explored the Ulster Museum, the Tropical Ravine, the Palm House, the charity shops on Botanic Avenue, the Linen Hall Library, and An Cultúrlann on the Falls Road. We walked everywhere and had a thoroughly enjoyable day. 

Thursday, Friday - Kerry Sister made herself available to other family members, and I caught up on some house and garden chores. Thursday evening she called to my house and gave me a quick tutorial on the sewing machine that I've had for more than a decade but never used. Truth be told, I was scared of it. But not any more! Since that evening transformed a Monsoon dress into a skirt, a Laura Ashley one into a top and made myself some new PJ bottoms from an Ikea duvet cover. Looks like I've found a new hobby. 

Then yesterday, KS and I popped into the Factory Craft Shop, where I bought new scissors and a stitch unpicker. I'll definitely be needing that! 

What I thought would be a week filled with civic duties turned into a holiday instead - and I enjoyed every moment of it. More please!

Tomorrow is a bank holiday, St Patrick's Day so no court. Instead I'll go grocery shopping with Vee and I'll take a wee juke into the Factory Craft Shop. I need new blades for my rotary cutters. It seems if they are not used for five years (or more) they go blunt. Then I should be able to complete the patchwork quilt I started all those years ago.  

I will be in court again on Tuesday. Hope I'm not picked.

Hand-sewn quilt top made from Pearlie's aprons. I'll be finishing it on my not-so-scary-now electric sewing machine.

Gardening Time

 That’s my first day of jury service done, and as everyone should know, the first rule of jury service is – you do not talk about jury service. Today involved a lot of waiting around – and in the end, I wasn’t one of the chosen few. Phew!

I’m let off for tomorrow, too, which is just as well because Kerry Sister is Up North, and I will spend some time with her. I'm looking forward to it.

With her visit in mind, I had ventured out to the polytunnel on Sunday - my first proper working day there since Storm Eowyn ripped the cover off the middle bay. I wanted to tidy up my overwintered perennials in the hope that she’d take some off my hands.

Bert was working there too, and as usual was telling me about all the jobs I could be doing.

Those Sweet William could do with being planted out.

That honeysuckle needs cutting back. You could do that.

He always does this. I told him he was overwhelming me. He said I just don’t like being told what to do. I disagreed. However, after giving it some further thought, I realised we were both right - I did feel overwhelmed, and I definitely don’t like being told what to do.