One From 21 Years Ago

Twenty-one years ago, I was working in Mill House, Harryville, which at that time was a hostel for women temporarily without homes. We were in the process of selling number 61 and renovating the house we're living in now.. I still have those shabby paperbacks from 35 years ago, although they have now been cluttering up my bookshelves for 56 years. That is far too long, especially as they would probably fall to pieces in my hands if I were to attempt a re-read.

Those Happy, Happy Days

I’m doing an extra shift this weekend, which I didn’t even have to be persuaded to take on. First I thought – well what else would I be doing? Then I thought – I could catch up on blogging. Finally I thought – extra money! Good oh!

I spend a huge amount of time on my computer. Since it’s been sick I have spent that time house cleaning, packing away, reading and watching Celebrity Big Brother. As this house must be valued, I thought it might be nice for the estate agent to be able to see past all the stuff. So I have been sorting, packing and throwing out. What a ball of crap I’ve gathered up over the years. I still own ancient paperbacks that I bought in Smithfield Market 35 years ago. Looking at those ancient Orwells, Steinbecks, Drabbles and Murdochs reminded me of some of the happiest days of my life, my school days – the days that I was not in attendance.

When school* was dreary I used to play truant, or mitch. One of the dreariest of the dreary classes was Anatomy and Physiology. This class was taken by a local GP called Dr R. It always took place last two periods. Dr R. never bothered to call a roll so our class got into the habit of deciding among ourselves who’d be cutting it that afternoon. There had to be at least half a dozen of us stay for the class or Dr R. would report us to the head.

In good weather we’d head for the Castle grounds, which were much wilder and much more fun than they are today. In damper weather it would be O’Neill’s café if we could scrape up the price of a coffee to be lingered over for hours. How my heart did race when we were joined by some handsome Stanley or Eugene.**

Mitching on my own I started off by going to Belfast Airport and watching the planes take off and land. Then when I got braver I’d hitch to Belfast town. I’d often get a lift with Dan the Coalman and he’d take me round the docks. I think he bought his coal straight off the boats. Another guy who used to give me lifts was Johnny the Gallaher Man. Imagine getting a lift on a wagon carrying (at today’s prices) millions of pounds worth of cigarettes. Nowadays Gallaher's sends Dublin’s cigarettes via Liverpool rather than run the risk of hijacking at the border.

My favourite places in Belfast then were Fresh Garbage (still going) and Smithfield Market (not what it was.) That is where I bought all those second hand books.

And what of Anatomy and Physiology at ‘O’ level? A big fat fail was my deserved reward. But I still know the names of nearly all the bones in the human body and I can tell you the places where you’ll find squamous epithelium. Some of them are a bit rude.

*Antrim Technical College – Pre-Nursing Class 1968-1970
** Any reader familiar with this era or place please note that I do not refer to the publican Mr M. who would have been a child and unknown to me at that time. 

The Robin

It snowed heavily over the weekend, and outdoors became a veritable winter wonderland. For the cats, it was a great hunting opportunity, as the garden birds were both easily visible and stupefied by the cold.

It probably wasn’t a good idea for Bert to scatter breadcrumbs right outside the glass double doors. It’s charming to see the robin come so close to the door for its feast, but it was also close enough to make the cats acutely aware of the birds’ presence, or availability.

So, when I spotted Woody carrying a limp body in his mouth, my first fear was for the robin. But there appeared to be a long, dark dangler hanging from his jaw. A young rat. That would be all right, better than killing one of Bert’s robins.

Then Hannah’s wee dog Chico spotted it. Chico likes to bullyWoody and steal his kills. He got outside and took the little dead thing. I pulled wellies on and went out into the snowy garden to take the creature off him. It wasn’t easy persuading him to give it up. And when I did, I saw that the dangly thing wasn’t a rat’s tail. It was a long, limp bird’s leg. A robin. All bedraggled, yet unbloodied. Did Woody kill it? Or did he find it after it had perished? It might have died from the cold. I decided not to mention it to Bert and put it in the bin.

Bert was away when all this occurred, driving Hannah to work. When he got home, he went straight to the cats, both standing to attention and looking for their breakfast. He petted and stroked them both. It is funny to think how he used to dislike cats. Harry de Cat changed his mind, then Holly. He adored Holly. Big Fat Fred was another favourite. All those cats are gone now, but Bert still has a lot of time for Pippin and Woody, especially Pippin.

I was wondering why I feel less uneasy when cats kill rats rather than robins. Surely rats have as much right to existence as robins. But rats have such a bad reputation, disease, dirt and all that. That’s not entirely fair, for the wee birdies are pretty disease-ridden too, and when our cats eat them, they can pick up parasitic pests. Despite their worms and mites, I still prefer robins, wrens and goldfinches to rodents. Apart from shrew mice*. It’s so sad when the cats get them, for they are so sweet and cute, with those little pointed snouts. Adorable. Yet it feels wrong to make the distinction. Who knows where that might lead one?

Woody and Chico

Happy to report that the robin Bert was feeding by the door has survived another day. The feeding station has been moved further away.

*Not rodents, although cats don't make a distinction. They are one of the most common mammals in the British Isles.

Last Post Of The Year

Bert has been reminiscing today about parties long past and about what we might have been doing on New Year’s Eve twenty or more years ago. But time moves on far too quickly. We all, those of us who once partied together, have moved on and grown old. Some of us have even died.

He asked me,

Do you miss those days?

I had to think a bit about that, then I told him,

Not really. But I'm glad we had them.

Our plans for tonight don’t involve drink, drugs or rock’n’roll. Well, maybe a little of that last one for me - I might watch Jools, and Bert might even have a Guinness. We’ll see.

Wishing all who read this a good New Year. May you live long and prosper.

The Legend, Jonny Steingold

 Earlier this evening, I knew exactly what all four of my sisters were doing, because I was doing the same thing. We were all listening to one of Jonny’s Christmas shows on Mad Wasp Radio. Maybe we were all doing other things as we listened. I was doing a bit of tidying, since Leitrim Sister is calling with us tomorrow.

That show was one he recorded some time ago. It must have been from quite a while back, because at one point he talked about Hogmanay, for he was Scottish, and how London Sister and he would take the Parkland Walk on the way to Alexandra Palace, where they could enjoy a fine view of the London skyline and watch the New Year’s Eve fireworks. That walk would have been far too difficult for him in recent years.

It’s poignant listening to his show, knowing that he’s no longer with us. It must be even more poignant for London Sister. Yet I know, because she has told me, that it comforts her to hear his voice again and to listen to the music they both loved.

Jonny had excellent taste in music and a deep knowledge of it. His preferred genre was Americana, that broad church that includes rock, folk, bluegrass, country and the blues, all of which he loved for their shared roots and storytelling traditions. Even when it became hard for him he would still go to as many gigs as he could fit in and for many years he made an annual trip to the United States to go on the renowned Cayamo music cruise.

Cayamo is a week-long music festival at sea, bringing together artists and listeners who share a love of Americana and its many branches — folk, rock, bluegrass, country and the blues. It’s less a conventional cruise than a floating community, with intimate performances in small venues, spontaneous collaborations, late-night jams and the rare pleasure of musicians and fans mingling freely throughout the ship.

The Cayamo meant a lot to Jonny. He heard new music, found new friends and listeners and got to chat with many of the musicians he admired. Despite many setbacks and trials, he never missed a Cayamo - right up until March of last year. He knew that would have to be his last one for the Parkinsons was making everything too difficult. And that was going to be a hard thing to bear.

His sudden death in Norway meant that he didn’t have to face the prospect of a Cayamo he couldn’t make. But it is so sad to think that there will be new artists coming along that he’ll never hear, and new music that he won’t know about. We’ll just have to be glad that he did love the music, that he shared it with so many people and that he left a world of it behind for us to listen to.

These shows, years and years of them, will continue on Mad Wasp Radio for the foreseeable future. One of the legacies that Jonny has left us. Mad Wasp Radio hails him as The Legend, Jonny Steingold. We were lucky to have him as part of our family.

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.