The Trees We Put Up Early

Last night London Sister sent us a picture of her seven-foot tree. She’s early this year. It’s not even mid-December, yet there it was, beautifully decorated, tastefully lit, standing proud in her high-ceilinged living room. This will be a poignant Christmas for her, her first without Jonny.

It reminded me of last year when Elle put her big tree up in November. Robin was in the last days of his life then, although I’m not sure she fully realised it. Maybe, somewhere in her mind, she sensed that if she waited until December, he’d never see it. Or perhaps she felt that if she didn’t put it up right then, she’d never have the heart to do it at all.

I’ve been watching the weather forecast all day. Storm Bram is in full swing, and if it doesn’t blow the polytunnel away, I’ll bring our own tree in tomorrow. We used to wait until Christmas Eve, but storms and years and losses have made me a little more positive about celebrating the season. After all, who knows how many more there will be, or how long we’ll have with each other?

And truth be told, the tree helps, a lovely corner of brightness when the days are short and the nights too long. So I’ll wrestle ours indoors tomorrow, if Bram allows. I feel the need of its cheer.

At least until January, when it’s back to the polytunnel with it.

A picture from the olden days, maybe around 40 years ago. It was the first one I turned up when I searched for 'Christmas Tree' on my EHD. Just as well it did as it's Katy's birthday today. My best Christmas present back in 1978. Happy Birthday Katkin!

And We Never Went Near The Christmas Market

 It’s not that I dislike Christmas shopping - for what could be nicer than giving someone a gift that pleases them. No, that’s the part I love. What I struggle with is finding the right thing, because it’s awful to imagine the recipient opening a present that sparks little joy.

Then there’s the pressure. Every year, once Christmas is over, I resolve to start putting presents away from January onward. This rarely happens – and when it does, I find myself staring at the item I bought months before, that thing that has languished in a paper bag, in the depths of my wardrobe, wondering why on earth did I ever thought it would suit anyone, let alone the person I bought it for.

And then there are the crowds. Each year, as I brave the shops, I remember that Christmas Eve, so many years ago, when in a thronging Dunnes Store, I literally sat down and wept. On the floor of Dunnes Store. Thankfully, everyone passing by pretended not to notice.

So, when my eldest grandchild messaged to ask if we could go to Belfast together to shop for her Christmas gifts from Bert and me – just as we did last year, I was, at first, slightly dismayed. She must have enjoyed it to want to do it againbut it wasn’t as enjoyable for me. I remembered being exhausted and a little bit cranky. But then I thought about it. She’s sixteen now, and won’t always want to spend a day shopping with an ageing grandparent. And if she thinks I’m able for it, if she believes in me, then perhaps it’s time I started believing in myself, too.

I got myself into the right frame of mind. Laid down only one ground rule, which was lots of sit downs and coffee breaks for me. I actually found myself looking forward to the outing.

And it was worth looking forward to.

Despite the train being jam-packed full of eager shoppers. Martha got on at Ballymena and had to stand most of the way to Belfast. She was unable to make her way to my carriage so we met for the first time at Grand Central.

Despite me needing lots of loo breaks. For it was a cold day. Martha was very understanding.

Despite getting swarmed by eleven year old girls beside the cosmetics in Primark. I was standing in a dangerous place. The panic attack only lasted a few minutes after I dashed outside.

Despite Martha finding it impossible to decide between two cardis in Urban Outfitters. That was my favourite shop of all as I had a sofa to sit on and lots of interesting people to watch.

I was easily the oldest customer in OU that day. 

Afterwards, I was so pleased that I had managed to go shopping in Belfast, on a Saturday, braving all the crowded shops and managed to stay chilled. Except for when I was in Primark, of course. I’d say that as Christmas shopping experiences go it was actually enjoyable. I’m already looking forward to next year. If I’m spared.

Christmas Is Coming

 Are you feeling Christmassy yet? I can’t say I am. Not properly. But this year, instead of brushing the thought aside the way I usually do, I find myself letting it linger. After all, this will be my seventy-third Christmas on this earth. It has never been my favourite season, but there’s no point in pretending it isn’t going to happen. My stock of Christmases is not what it was. I might as well make peace with it all and enjoy what I can.

I’ve more or less chosen a tree - either a very small one or a medium-sized one. Maybe both if Zoë doesn’t want them. They are standing potted in the polytunnel, so I haven’t far to go. I’ve already bought a few presents, and I know where the wrapping paper is tucked away. Christmas dinner is sorted too: free-range turkey again. It might be the last one for a while as the local supplier is threatening to quit the turkey game.

There will be one change, though, and it’s a big one. This will be a teetotal Christmas. I don’t think I’ve written anything about it, but I stopped drinking alcohol at the tail end of January and simply never started again. So here I am, approaching December with a clear head, or as clear as it ever gets, wondering what the season will feel like without the whisky and wine. I think it will be good.

A Good Dog

 

Hannah asked me to go with her to the garden centre; she wanted to buy some houseplants. It’s the first time she’s shown any real interest in horticulture since she started a couple of bonsai projects a few years ago. She bonsaied the life out of an ash seedling and a hawthorn. The hawthorn still survives; the ash succumbed to dieback.

While we were there, I found myself tempted by tulip bulbs. I resisted, having only today managed to plant the tulip bulbs I bought more than six weeks ago. Thankfully, they’re all in the ground now, though I still have a good number of daffodils waiting to be planted.

My original idea had been to plant the bulbs on Judy’s grave, but the area has become rather grassy, and I was reluctant to start digging it over - and it’s far too wet to hoe. I don’t know why I worried, for Bert planted her deep.

Phoenix, Locky’s husky, lies not far behind her, with Dora, Jazzer’s dog, resting between them. Locky once talked about getting little plaques, but he hasn’t got round to it, and I rather hope he’s forgotten.

I had thought about painting stones for them instead. I even bought the paint, but, like so many things, I’ve not got around to it. Locky hasn’t been to visit since he buried Phoenix.

I miss Judy a lot. She died on the 5th of September, in the time between Jonny’s death and his funeral. That was very much on our minds then. People are more important than dogs, are they not? It felt wrong to make too much of Judy’s passing when we were mourning a dearly loved member of our family. But I do miss her. She was a good dog.

Judy and Dora

Judy and Phoenix

At the beach

Culture Vulture

I’m writing this while listening to the brilliant fiddler Colm Mac Con Iomaire, who I had the pleasure of hearing perform at Seamus Heaney HomePlace in Bellaghy a few weeks ago.

I went along with Bert and Zoe to hear Colum McCann in conversation with Rami Elhanan and Bassam Aramin — the two bereaved fathers whose friendship and shared loss inspired McCann’s acclaimed novel Apeirogon.

Which, I’m sorry to say, has been on my “to read” list since the last time I saw Colum McCann appear at the HomePlace, just over a year ago.

One of the most sobering things about growing older is realising how much I still haven’t read, and how much I still don’t know. For instance, I hadn’t realised that Colm Mac Con Iomaire was in The Frames with Glen Hansard, even though Glen Hansard also appeared in The Camino Voyage with Kerry Sister’s husband.

Nor did I know that it was Colm Mac Con Iomaire who accompanied the artist and poet Kae Tempest at Other Voices in Dingle - even though I watched a documentary about that venue and thought they were the best part of it. I’d love to see Kae Tempest perform live. It would be handy if he should ever come to Bellaghy.

Two From Twenty Years Ago

 Two little posts from October 2005. Mum was still around then, as was George.

Also, where have all the street drinkers gone? They must all have houses now, which is nice.

Belfast City Airport was officially renamed George Best Belfast City Airport on 22 May 2006, to honour the footballer shortly after his death in November 2005.

The cafe that Matty and I liked to frequent back then was Ditty's in Castledawson. Happily, it is still there and still serves delicious food.

Matty Misunderstands

Whilst sitting in a cafe in Dawson City today I picked up the Sun newspaper. The front page story was about George Best and I showed this to Matty. We both examined the accompanying picture which showed Bestie looking frail and wan. I said it was a sad thing that he had destroyed two livers with his drinking. Matty continued to peruse the photograph and said, "He's looking well."

Overheard

Overheard on the streets of Ballymena today

Street Drinker 1: Hows about ye mucker!

Street Drinker 2: Long time no see!

Street Drinker 1: I heared ye were murdered!

Street Drinker 2: Naw. I was in Coleraine.

Reading and Flying

 These days it seems I never have enough time to read. What keeps me from it? At night it is the need to sleep; during the day, everything distracts me. I always bring a book (or two) when travelling, even if it is just to pick up the grandchildren. I do not mind waiting if I have something to read, no matter how long I am kept waiting.

Train journeys are another good opportunity to catch up on my reading. When I was at university, I always carried something entertaining, never anything related to my studies as that would have been far too dry. I was not the only one. Almost everyone travelling alone would be reading something, even if it was only a newspaper or magazine. I would always try to sneak a look at the cover of whatever book a fellow traveller was reading, and of course I would judge them on it. Nowadays, readers on trains are rarer, as most people are glued to their smartphones. If I do see someone with a book, I am impressed, no matter what it is.

On my most recent trip to London, when Zoe and I were travelling for Jonny’s funeral, I brought TransAtlantic by Colum McCann. It was a ridiculously early flight and we had agreed not to chat on the plane journey - there would be time enough for that later. 

Instead, I read. The first part of the novel centred on the pioneering flight taken by Jack Alcock and Arthur Whitten Brown in 1919 when they flew from St Johns, Newfoundland to Clifden, Ireland. That year alone was enough to captivate me, as my father was born in September 1919.

Alcock and Brown’s was the first non-stop transatlantic flight ever completed. They flew in an adapted Vickers Vimy, a former First World War bomber chosen for its ability to carry heavy loads. The plane was flimsy by modern standards and freezing cold. Of course, I knew they were going to make it, but even so I was gripped. The final push towards Ireland, when they hit a fog bank and briefly lost control, was nerve-racking, and the bog landing, rough as it was, felt like a triumph.

It was only a few days later that I realised, as I had been reading this thrilling account of an earlier flight, that I was actually sitting in a plane myself. Although it was nowhere near as precarious and uncomfortable as Alcock and Brown’s Vickers Vimy, the seats weren’t that comfortable and I did have some concerns that my hip might start to cramp. Which it did, but the walk from plane to train soon loosened it up. Compared with Alcock and Brown, we modern folk are softies - most of us, anyway, and I certainly am.