I Go To A Funeral

 It was the first funeral of the year, Aunt Maud in her 91st year. Bert said,

You must be running low on aunts by now. Have you any left at all?

I had to think,

There's just the one left in Australia but I don't know her at all.

In my younger days, I had heaps of Aunts.

On my mother's side, Aunt Kathleen, Aunt Josephine, Aunt Sadie, Aunt Bernadette and Aunt Clare.

And on my father's side, Aunt Roisin and  Aunt Mary

Then there were the aunts by marriage, all on dad's side, Mary, Bernie, May, Marian, Maud, Peggy, Maureen and Eileen.

Maureen is, as far as I know, the only one still living.

Maud was the last of the Irish aunts and we buried her today. 

This was the beautiful young woman that Uncle Brendan met and fell in love with. 

Brendan was murdered when she was in her early forties and today, almost half a century later, she was laid beside him in St Comgall's burying ground.

Maud never had children of her own yet the gathering today was full of children she had cared for and helped look after, the oldest of them in the mid-sixties, the youngest about five years old. 

She was a feisty woman, widowed twice, adored children, was incredibly kind, had a sharp tongue, loved hard, held grudges, was easily hurt, a grafter, sensitive, and fiercely loyal. The thing that I've been thinking about the most these past few days is the terrible grief, the despair she suffered in the days after Brendan's death. He was everything to her.

Maud and two of her godchildren, my brother Joe and my daughter Zoe.

Zoe was born three months after Shaun and Brendan were shot during the 1974 UWC strike In my naivety I thought that asking Maud to be her godmother would cheer her. Wrong reasons, the right choice. She spent the following Christmas with us which is when the picture was taken. When I look at it now I see her brave spirit. Even with a broken heart she still could raise a smile for little children.

 

The Old and the Young

 

Spot the odd one out

It seems such a short time since Judy and the pigs were new. All of them reach their teens this summer, which is old for dogs and pigs. Jess is coming eleven so she's not so far behind them while Fred, the oldest of all will soon be fifteen.  Nellybert are feeling a bit creaky too but at least we have Pippin, young and lively and doing well despite her awful accident.

Now, it might be a crazy idea but Pippin won't be the baba of the house for much longer as Nellybert are getting a PUPPY! The pigs won't care, Judy will be stoical, Fred will be mildly put out, Jess will hate it and Pippin? Pippin will be thrilled. Somebody new to play with.

I Go To The Zoo With Jazzer

Jazzer and I have been friends for around thirty years. The first time we met was at Ghillies Bar near Cullybackey where her husband (Banjo Man) had a regular Thursday night gig as part of a Folk/Americana duo called Rustic Reality.  The guys had been to a couple of parties at our house and Jazzer has since told me that they had made so much of Nellybert that she was already prepared to dislike us - especially me. That first meeting happened and I wasn't what she expected, any more than she was what I expected. I was nearly forty, she was mid-twenties and we clicked, we clicked fast. Friends now for thirty years. Sometimes she annoys me, and sometimes I annoy her but the friendship is fast. We love each other. 

I said to her today,

When we first met, if someone had said to you, in thirty years' time when I'm almost 70 and we have eight grandchildren between us, that we'd go to the zoo on our own, with no one to hinder us and we'd have the best time. What would you have thought?

And she said,

I'd have thought that was crazy.

And I would have thought that too.

As always, the gorillas were my favourite place to be but no photographs. The place they live does not lend itself to pictures. I don't mind that.

Feeding the Family

 

Zoe got back on the plot today. There wasn't that much to do in the polytunnel so she started planting native trees on the cleared areas where Bert was cutting down the larch. 

Then it was six o'clock and time for supper. I made cottage pie with sponge and custard to follow. The girls refused kale. The adults chewed it purposefully (it was a tad tough) whilst commenting on all the health benefits we expected. Whatever it is those girls are eating, or not eating they are both half a head taller than me. And only half as wide.

I'm probably cancelling out all the goodness of the kale as I sit here drinking a Portuguese red.  But - I'm home alone, Bert is off gipsy jazzing with Les. Don't judge us.

Spring is well on its way. The witch hazel is almost over, the croci are beginning and tomorrow Jazzer and I are going to the zoo. Probably for the last time in my life. I need to say goodbye to the gorillas.

Ten Years Ago

 

A Weekend In Fanad

I went to the Fanad peninsula in Donegal over the weekend with Miss Martha, Miss Evie, their parents and Judy. We stayed in a caravan just beside Ballyhiernan Bay. It is next to a big beautiful beach which the girls loved.

I was very agitated and worried before I went but returned in a far calmer frame of mind. The only snag was the usual one, Martha will wake up at around 6 a.m. and will be very loud and noisy. Judy was not impressed. I had to tell Martha stories. My favourite was the story of a girl who lives in an empty house and each morning there is a box outside her door with something she needs. At first, Martha was sensible. The girl had some basic clothing, a dog basket, a blanket and porridge.

So all the girl had to eat was porridge and every night she had to sleep in a dog basket with a really thin blanket but when she woke up in the morning there was a box outside her door. What do you think was in it?

A beautiful yellow dress.

So the next night the girl had to sleep in a dog basket with a really thin blanket and she had nothing to eat all day but porridge. The next morning she woke up cold and hungry and outside her door was a box. What do you think was in it?

A lovely pink skirt.

 A fashionista in the making for sure.

Amsterdam - A Bat and a Box of Wool

 

A few years back I went to the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam and took photographs of some of the exhibits. There is one of a stuffed bat that I've yet to investigate and then there is this one, a Chinese lacquered box containing a paltry collection of woollen yarn - not even enough to knit an infant's bonnet.

Apparently, Van Gogh used coloured yarn to experiment with colour matching which he then brought to his painting. Recently, whilst at the Van Gogh exhibit in Belfast I learned that some art historians have a theory that the artist suffered from a form of colour vision deficiency*  where there is a predominance of yellow in vision. Before I had my cataracts removed I had become accustomed to yellow tones in my vision but not quite as yellow as looking through the Lucozade cellophane wrapping**. After my procedure blues were clearer. It was like seeing through the eyes of a child, the colours were wonderful.

Now I've realised that what I have always loved best about knitting stripey jumpers is using different colours and what will do first when beginning a new project is decide what colours I will not be using. The last one (I finished it yesterday and still have a little bit of sewing to do) was to have no green, yellow, white or orange. The one I started today will definitely exclude pinks and bright reds. 

Which gives me a problem. Sometime before Leitrim Sister's special birthday, I promised I would make her a jumper or cardigan with sixty colours. I must have been on the wine. If you are reading this LS, could you please let me know which colours to leave out?

Research completed, too easy with Google. Stuffed bat, maybe this one, was painted by the  artist.

*Xanthopsia

**Only Boomers will know about the yellow cellophane

Knitting For Anarchists

 

198 stitches were cast on 4mm circular needles at the beginning of this month.. I prefer to knit in the round as I dislike and am not good at sewing my work together. The Rules dictate that pieces should be blocked and pinned; I've never obeyed. Knitting in the round means that the amount of sewing is drastically reduced. 

Knitting for Anarchists. I'd been intrigued by this book for a while now and eventually found it selling for the right price on eBay. Anarchy, derived from Greek, means 'having no ruler' and I've often been irritated by the Knitting Rules. 

They are being broken here. I'm using odds and ends of yarn sourced from everywhere. That grey was found in a charity shop and cost pence.

Having recently knit several baby sweaters I find I get stuck at the neck. The usual ribbed style leaves me wondering if it will fit over the baby's head and I cannot be bothered with the faff of buttonholes.  And as my babies are all very far away, living in Dublin and Dingle and Walsall, I cannot measure their not-so-little heads. So I experimented with rolly necks. Just kept knitting stocking stitch, so easy in the round and after a loose casting off the neckline just curls into a sweet little collar. I still don't know if it keeps its shape after washing. 

I really hate knitting rib so I thought I'd go for the rolly option there too. The only snag is that there has to be a few rows in garter stitch or rib or else the hem might roll up to the armpits!

The body of the sweater and one sleeve are completed. I always find knitting the second sleeve relaxing as I don't have to worry about shaping or colourways - just copy the first one. Knitting without patterns is satisfying but sometimes it's stressful. I always tell myself that my projects are purely experimental so that if they don't totally please me, I will at least have learned something.

The work starts to get heavy when the sleeves and body are all on the needle. I decrease every second row to produce a raglan. The beads keep me in mind about where I begin and what decrease I'm on. 

Coming close to the finish. That picture was taken this morning and I hope to complete it tomorrow. Picture of the rolly neck to follow.

The Knitting For Anarchists book. It's OK. Full of rules. I prefer this one.

Sixteen Years Ago

 

I came across this post from February 2007, back in the day when Z & D had just the one child, wee Gracie. Sadly Gracie is no more, although I do still have that scarf. 

Dos And Don'ts

Nellybert has been entrusted with the task of looking after (for one week only) the most precious dog in Ballymena.

Gracie’s owners are off to Mexico for a fortnight. I picked the whole lot of them up this afternoon and took them to Belfast to catch the bus to Dublin Airport.

D says,

I expect Zoë went over the dos and don’ts for Gracie’s stay?

Not really. I know not to feed her from the table. What’s the rule on beds?

No more than two consecutive nights.

Z chips in from the back seat,

She gets fed at 7.30pm. No treats unless she does a trick. Get her to play dead or something like that. Oh and she’s been doing this choking thing recently. She usually sorts it herself but if she can’t dislodge it just put your finger down her throat. If that doesn’t work grab her by the back legs and turn her upside down whilst patting her firmly on the back.

Righty oh. Any issues with comfy chairs?

Oh no. Comfy chairs are fine.

D interjects,

Unless you’re already eating there yourself. She’s not allowed to be on the sofa if you’re eating a sandwich. She knows that.

Z says,

If she should, God forbid, make a run towards the road you mustn’t run after her. I know it would be your first instinct but she’ll think it’s a game and run harder. What you must do is run in the opposite direction and shout “Ball!” She should run after you then.

Okey dokey.

And one other thing. She hates joggers. If you’re out for a walk be careful with joggers for she’ll go after them. And watch out for Willie Drennan. She hates him.

In Which We End Up in Asia Supermarket

 

We said goodbye to dearest Lulu on Tuesday morning. Her people, Leitrim Sister and Dmitri returned from Lisbon on Monday evening and we spent a pleasant evening watching Happy Valley, eating Pastel de Nata and drinking wine. Whilst in Cullybackey, Dmitri was as mild-mannered as one could wish but apparently spent the following evening fighting Fascism on the streets of Sligo and got his big Glaswegian dish all over Twitter the morning after. We were all very proud of him.

Wednesday was Evie's Year 7 Revue in which she played a stroppy pre-teen. Obviously, she excelled in the role. I was lucky enough to be given a precious ticket and enjoyed it very much.

On Thursday Bert was invited to go to the Sunflower in Belfast by Les, who was playing there. He declined.  I'm afraid that Bert is becoming reclusive and have decided I must encourage him to venture further afield. I know it won't be easy. Whilst not at the Sunflower, we had a visit from Young Rooney whose current take on the political situation in the North was agreeable to me - not so much his firmly-held belief in the flatness of the earth. 

So today, in a spirit of adventure, we went to Belfast via Doagh (scenic route) and ended up in Asia Supermarket on the Ormeau Embankment. I knew Bert would like it there. What I didn't realise was just how much. I don't believe there was a single item that he didn't study intently. I thought I'd never get him out. We bought roti and kimchi, mangoes and salted sunflower seeds, pickles and tapioca, prawns and mackerel, halva and six kinds of tea. And a lot more besides. We did not buy butter even though it was 25 pence cheaper than Tesco's best price. 

And tonight Bert was invited by Rodders to go to the Brian Jonestown Massacre gig in the Limelight, with a lift from door to door. He declined. Said it would be 'too much' and that he'd already been to Belfast today. There is much work still to be done if I am to get that man out from under my feet.

Bert Gets Cooking

 

The kitchen is full of wonderful smells. Spicy smells. Bert is making curry. And I am knitting.

There is other news about Bert - a good thing that came from a not-so-good thing. About a month ago we both had the coronavirus, Bert was much sicker than me, possibly because he neglected to take a booster jab in the Autumn. He threw up for days and was unable to eat, losing ten pounds.  During this time he didn't smoke. When he started to feel a little better I tentatively suggested that as he had been without nicotine for more than a week it might be a good thing if he took the opportunity to break the habit. He said, 

We'll see.

And I thought, let it be his decision. I won't push it.

A month later and he has still not smoked. He is starting to think of himself as someone who has given up. which is very positive. 

Of course, by now, that ten pounds has rolled back on - a good thing as he's on the slim side already. His appetite has improved and he is taking a great interest in baking and cooking. He is very self-critical of the results - the other night his fairy cakes didn't rise but his shortbread was delicious. He is devoted to Mary Berry and wonders why I use butter when Mary is all about margarine and I tell him to wise up, that was then and this is now and that's a really old book and I bet she never shouted for marge on the Great British Bake Off.

An Interlude

He shouted that dinner is served and it was delish and then we watched Happy Valley which was great and I am looking forward to watching it again tomorrow with Deirdre and Dmitri, fresh back from Lisbon, reunited with Lulu and cannot get iPlayer in lovely Leitrim.

Re the photo. I'm taking a picture of the current project every morning. It is not a giant hat, it is the bottom part of a multi-coloured stripey jumper.

Dogs and Knitting

Life cannot always be about exciting day trips to European cities. Most of the time I just stay home where it can be quiet. But not when the dogs come for, as I have mentioned before, Nellybert provides complimentary dog-sitting services to friends and family and for the past seven days, we have been busy.

The first to arrive was Elvis, a beautiful whippet/collie cross, just under a year old. This was his first-ever sleepover. He met a lot of new dogs and was sweet and good-tempered with them all. I hope his people go on more trips as we would be delighted to have him back again. The only crime he committed was getting hold of a ball of purple wool and tangling it into juggins. And because Bert is a stranger to socials, and had not the wit to take a picture of Elvis all bound up in the purple wool, instead making haste to free the little dog and lessen its distress. Silly Bert. Imagine thinking that helping a pup is more important than getting a cool photo for my blog.

Ozzie

Tuesday evening brought Rex and Ozzie. Rex has stayed here many times but Ozzie was a first-timer. Rex did no bad things except be terribly jealous of all the attention Ozzie was getting. It would have been difficult not to be fond of poor one-eyed Ozzie, a rescue dog from Ukraine who nowadays spends his time between London and Portballintrae. Ozzie’s only bad action was starting a fight with Phoenix, a long-time visitor to this yard.

Lulu from Leitrim was the next dog along. Her people are off to Portugal for a long weekend, which is about a month in dog years. We see quite a bit of Lulu and she is generally a very good girl. However, she blotted her copybook this afternoon. I was sitting right here and was aware that she was playing some scrabbling game under my feet. Maybe a piece of pizza crust? So engrossed was I in my knitting that I did not look down. When I did glance at the floor there was my ball of crimson wool in rallops. Brand new the previous day and the band only off it. At least she didn’t do such a thorough job as Elvis did with the purple. Probably because Bert got involved in that siege. The crimson was untangled in fifteen minutes while the purple took me two and a bit episodes of Fortunes of War to save.

Wasn't me.

On Reading Books Revisited

A post from 8 years ago. I never did get around to explaining my liking for dusty old books. 

One great disadvantage of a rural childhood was not having access to the public library. There was a library of sorts at our primary school but one large cardboard box would have held all that it contained. Our teacher Cassie was horrible and we only got to read occasionally. I don't remember being allowed to choose the books either. She'd just give one to us and that was that. The only book I remember from school was The Wind In The Willows and I recall being really confused at the part where Pan appears to Mole and Ratty and feeling much easier when the story returned to the adventures of Toad.

At home there never seemed to be enough books because we all read them so fast. I usually got first go at fresh books because I was the oldest. Our mother must have noticed this. She returned one day from shopping in Ballymena with a book for my younger sister, also a voracious reader. The book Matty brought for Anne was My Friend Flicka by Mary O'Hara. She informed us that Anne would get to read it first, then it would be her turn and, after that, the book was up for grabs. I could hardly bear having to wait but wait I did. Matty stood firm. My Friend Flicka was the first book in a trilogy and Matty also bought the next two, Thunderhead and The Green Grass of Wyoming. Anne got first dibs on those as well. They were a terrific read and well worth waiting for.

Christmas time brought great reading opportunities. Everyone got one or two books at Christmas, usually Puffin or Armada paperbacks and these would be hidden away with the other presents. I'd search the house until I found the stash of books, usually hidden on the high shelf in her wardrobe. For several days every chance I got, I'd be up there, standing beside the wardrobe in our parent's bedroom reading hungrily, nervous, praying not to be discovered. And I never was.

Of course, when Christmas Day arrived I hadn't a thing to read and I used to look jealously at Anne as she sat there enjoying her new books. Much later when I confessed all to Matty she said it explained a lot for she could never understand why I showed so little interest in the Christmas books.

It's often a thankless task being a parent. Imagine my poor mother carefully picking out my books only to see me ignore them. I hadn't even the sense to pretend to read them. I wonder would she have preferred to know then that she had reared a sneak without a notion of how to defer gratification despite the lesson with the Mary O'Hara trilogy.

Sometime soon I shall explain why it is that I particularly love dusty old books.