The Bekvam Step Stool

It is possible to become jaded with Ikea. Even so, one of the best things I ever bought in my life I bought from Ikea and that is the Bekvam step stool. I could never become jaded with that.

I am a small person (5' 2") and small people need some assistance in accessing the higher cupboards in the home. I also have some even smaller people I like to spend time with and the Bekvam is very necessary to their lives too. Evie, ever possessive, will say "Where's my stool?" and when located she will drag it to whatever surface she needs to get to.

I love it that Evie is possessive. I love it that she owns Nellybert. Zoe told me she refers to us as 'My Granny' and 'My Bert'. I want to be owned by an adorable two-year-old.

So Jazzer and I went to Ikea today. I don't know what she spent but it all fitted in to her handbag. She said, "I don't think Ikea is as good as it used to be." It probably is. It's just that we've already bought all the truly good stuff like the Bekvam step stool. My own Bekvam is nothing like the ones with which  I have illustrated this post. Mine is grubby and extensively chewed by pups Judy and Jess.

I spent £45. I bought a new rug for the top of the stairs and some glasses. We ate there. I do not recommend the salmon and spinach thing. I'm sure I could make something far better with salmon, spinach and cheese.

So, I am slightly jaded with Ikea but I still love my step stool. I also love Ikea 100% cotton bed sets. Four pillow slips! Of course. Why doesn't every one do that? Their velour stuffed rats are delicious and no home should be without a Bekvam step stool.

I Discover Morrissey

I finished the Morrissey autobiography which I bought despite not being a Morrissey fan. Why did I buy it? Firstly, because it was was hugely reduced in Tescos and secondly because I opened it at random and read a scurrilous character assassination of a humble (fat) benefits adviser. I was immediately enthralled. Morrissey was in his teens when he encountered this unfortunate woman. I am very glad that I no longer carry the many humiliations that I experienced in my teens. Or do I still? Maybe that is what is wrong with me.

I could not put this book down. It fascinated me that one man could bear so many grudges, for so long and carry them with him all his days to add grist to his genius. Thankfully I never encountered Morrissey for it would be painful to read this book and find a sentence or two of barbed commentary had I inadvertently caused him offence. Curmudgeon he might be but from this account I found myself liking him a lot. Now I must get back to his music. Better late than never.

Supper and the Turner Prize

I decide to begin to like new things. With this in mind I cook fish pie for supper using Vietnamese river cobbler. I use smoked and unsmoked as it was on offer in Tescos. Previous to this sighting in Tescos I had never heard of river cobbler. I am aware that it is a disgrace bringing fish from Vietnam to Ballymena when we have a lake full of eels just a few miles away. Yet I never see eels in Tescos. I expect they are all going to Vietnam.

The fish pie was good. I cooked it in a cheese sauce with added chilli cheese and topped it with thinly sliced potatoes. I imagine it was very calorific. There was a side of plain broccoli which, for health reasons, I did not butter. For afters we had bread and butter pudding made with cream, eggs and butter, I went easy on the sugar. Bert made custard as he is the King of Custard. He tried to wriggle out of it but I was insistent.

(Had to take a break there to find out who won the 2013 Turner Prize)

All in all we had a very nice Monday evening tea and it was good to have the Misses Evie and Martha join us with their primary carers.

On Friday I think I will go to Derry to check out the Turner Prize exhibition.

There Is No Kimchi In Cullybackey

I notice that my old housemate Ganching set herself the task of blogging daily throughout the month of November. Inspired by her example I intend to blog daily throughout December. After all there should be plenty to blog about considering the stresses and strain of Christmas preparation, the extra gadding about I shall be doing thanks to my brand new SmartPass and the inspiration provided by Morrissey's autobiography. And so it shall begin.

On the 30th November I took my SmartPass on its first outing. Naturally I was concerned that the issuers might have sent me a pretend card just for a prank but it appears to be the genuine article. I got off the train at Botanic in order to distance myself from the LLP (Loyalist Peaceful Protesters) parade but hearing and seeing the police helicopter hovering got me all excited and I headed briskly for City Hall. I mingled with the crowd, took a few photographs, then retreated with some haste down a side street when a big parading lady in a pink scarf started giving me unpeaceful dirty looks. Apparently the parade was peacable enough at the start but trouble did break out later in the day.

But by that time I was browsing the second hand book shops on Botanic Avenue. It was time to eat so I headed for Cafe Arirang which is a fusion of Northern Ireland scones and sandwiches and Korean dishes. I had spicy noodle soup (delicious) and a side of kimchi. I've been dying to try kimchi for ages ever since my blogmate Hails fell in love with it while she was living and working in South Korea. I've got a recipe and some Chinese cabbage (thanks Zoe) and I'm going to try it myself.

So there you go. Day 1 of blogging every day straight to New Year's Eve. Wish me luck.

Flegging Or Culture?

Here is a thing I have noticed. It is this - if something good happens about which I am pleased and excited then, soon afterwards, I start to feel the opposite. For example - yesterday I received my SmartPass which means I now travel free on all bus and train networks within Northern Ireland. I put the paperwork in six days ago and was told it would take three weeks. It was six days. So I was feeling pretty good. Now I had the freedom to go wherever I chose. It certainly fitted in with my intentions of Getting Out A Bit More.

Then, the very next day, this thought entered my head. "You are sixty years old and what have you achieved? You're never going to amount to much now. Thought you were going to write something decent. That's never going to happen now! You haven't even made a start on that patchwork quilt you were saving fabric for!"  Of course I put this negativity far from my mind. Sort of.

Ach well. What is the point of beating up on myself? I had a lovely day with my girls today and I made some wine and cleaned out a couple of cupboards. I created a good dinner. Tomorrow I shall make plans to use my SmartPass. I'm thinking of maybe going to Belfast to observe the protest. Or perhaps I could go visit the City of Culture. I wonder which would make me feel more positive about life?

Do You Remember Where...?

When I was ten I could never have imagined being fifty years older. To my young self it seemed an unimaginable, unbearable thing to be old. I was sure that I'd never see it. Nor did I care, because back then, even being twice ten, seemed aeons into the future.

My father would have been 44, my mother 37, John F. Kennedy was 46 and his wife Jacqueline 34. Irish Catholics were, at that time, tremendously proud of President Kennedy. It seemed a great thing to my parents' generation that an Irish-American Catholic was the 35^th President of the United States of America. We Catholics might be getting treated as second-class citizens in Northern Ireland but, at least, one of our own was the leader of the free world.

It was dark when the news came. Daddy was feeding cattle in the byre and Mammy sent me out to tell him. I knew it was serious news but was still surprised at Daddy's reaction.

President Kennedy has been shot.

His poor face crumpled with dismay.

After the assassination Kennedy's portrait was hung in many an Irish home. Our neighbours even had a portrait of Pope John the 23^rd, JFK and Bobby Kennedy, all in profile, hung in their kitchen. As the younger Kennedy died 5 years later I must have been 15 or 16 and I remember thinking it was terribly kitsch.

Time passed and the Kennedy lustre faded. As rumours and scandal emerged the Kennedy icons were quietly removed from kitchen walls. I was far too young to revere the family so experienced none of the disappointment that the older folk felt.

It used to be said, do you remember where you were when you heard the news that Kennedy was shot? I surely do. It takes me right back to the Murphystown Road, on a cold dark November evening when the warmth and light of our Irish-American dream began to evaporate. A strange time for a child. Two evenings later and we were visiting the McAuleys and the grown ups were full of the news. The television was switched on to see the latest and it was then that I saw that Kennedy's alleged assassin had himself been shot and killed whilst in police custody.  

Christmas Is Coming

Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat

Please put a penny in the old man's hat

If you haven't got a penny, a ha'penny will do

If you haven't got a ha'penny, then God bless you!

Miss Martha is getting very excited about Christmas and at nursery school they are planning to put on a Nativity play. I believe she heard the story of Jesus' birth for the first time today. It can't have been that convincing.

Granny, the Baby Jesus isn't real.

Oh?

He's not real. It's only a story,

On the way home I taught her the Christmas Is Coming rhyme. She liked it. Kept getting me to repeat it.

Say it again, Granny.

There were lots of questions.

Why is the goose getting fat?

So that people can eat it at Christmas. Who wants a thin goose? It needs to be fat and juicy.

What's a ha'penny?

Old money that we don't use any more.

What's 'God bless you'?

Something nice that people say to each other.

Later, when painting, she was creating a Nativity scene. The stable was pink.

Granny, what colour is a camel?

Sort of orangey brown.

Martha loves mixing colours. She knows how to make pink. Lots of red and lots of white. Her palette is enormous amounts of pink and little daubs of the other colours. We tried to make orangey brown with pink, yellow and black. It didn't look right. I cried off claiming I needed 5 minutes alone with my coffee and no interruptions. Martha declared that orangey brown needed green to make it work. So she finished off with a pink stable, an orangey browny greeny camelly creature and some clouds. No Baby Jesus for he's not real.

However Santa Claus is very real indeed.

Getting Out A Bit More

I'm off on my travels again tomorrow. This time going to Hanna's Close in Kilkeel with the grandchildren and their parents. I'm getting out a bit more these days. The reason is, when I was in Vancouver I realised that putting poor old Pearlie into respite for eight weeks a year was not the best way of getting respite from our situation. She had started to hate the disruption. To tell the truth, she was not fit for the upheaval neither physically or emotionally. When I told her, back in August, that we would not be sending her to respite care any more she beamed. I said,

We think you are getting too old for it.

Her look seemed to say, You have noticed. You have caught on at last!

Since then she has been noticeably happier and she has a much sweeter disposition.

And Nellybert? We're getting out a bit more and it is great. Pearlie stays home all the time and now and again we clear off. Sometimes we even get to go together.

Wine To Five

In the past three weeks I have bottled 5 gallons of wine (30 bottles), racked 21 gallons, poured one gallon down the toilet and started one gallon. It is almost like having a job. I also drank some and gave some away to delighted and grateful  recipients.

In other news I am going to Leitrim tomorrow and will be accompanied by Miss Martha. My packing is nearly completed and hers is done. No doubt her mother will send some stuff too but I've got the important things taken care of - a choice of car seats, games, paints, books and a Snoopy dog. She spoke of her dressing up box but I don't think there will be time to dress up. I have packed The Tailor of Gloucester. I only read it for the first time yesterday and must admit that I found it very heartening. I think Martha will like it.

Happy Birthday, Two Today

birthday girl, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

Evie is two years old today. Happy birthday adorable one!

Prayer

I have great faith in the prayer the Memorare ever since it was taught to me by Mrs Magee at Tannaghmore  Primary School just before I went in to sit my 11+. Which exam I passed not that it ever did me much good. So that makes it around half a century I've been saying the prayer in my anxious times.

I've been saying it a lot this week for I have a special person who needs to find a bit of strength to keep her going. As always, my prayer is for the best possible outcome even if that outcome is not the most obvious one. Our Lady knows best.

Then it occurred to me that there might be another mother praying for her child and that she might be hoping for an outcome very different from mine. Still. Not to fret. Our Lady knows best.

Late Onset Allergies

I spent the greatest part of my life without allergies. Then in July 2011 I was stung by a honeybee and took a severe reaction to it. And that was that. Ever since I have taken the greatest care to avoid stings and I always know where my EpiPen is. Two years later and I never had another allergic reaction to anything. Until I went to Vancouver.

At first I didn't realise I was reacting to allergens but after a few days a pattern emerged. It seemed to be triggered by exposure to trees. It wasn't a severe reaction - just itchy hives all over any exposed skin. They faded within twenty minutes of getting indoors or into a vehicle.  I consulted a pharmacist and bought antihistamine tablets and all seemed to be well. I expected it all to go away on my return home.

Except it didn't. Any exposure to trees, wind or rain and I'm all blotchy and itchy with hives. My recent trip to Fanad really brought it to a head. I got wet a few times and any skin that came in contact with damp clothes was itchy and covered in hives. My face was a sight and so were my hands. Guess it is time to visit the GP.

Fidgety Faith Toy

Happy birthday London Sister!

The Simple Things

Today was a good day. And when I'm cooking on a good day it seems that everything turns out well. We had toad-in-the-hole and roasted squash with apple crumble and custard for afters. Simple and delicious. I made the batter using a recipe from Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall. Lots of eggs and 1 part water to two parts milk. It is much lighter batter than one made with all milk. The only problem was I didn't have enough room in the oven for everything but Zoe came up with the idea of separating the squash into three loaf tins so we sort of jigsaw-ed everything in.

And nothing got burned.

I enjoy cooking for the family but sometimes I try to go all gourmet and get stressed and have disasters so my new plan is (a) to have a plan; (b) keep it simple.

And when it is simple there is more time for cuddles, fun and giggles with the grandchildren. What could be nicer?

A Cave Near Marseille

It is coming close to Halloween so perhaps this is a good time to share a scary tale that also happens to be true.

It was sometime in the early eighties and Bert was coming to the end of a long, leisurely trip around Europe. His funds were running low and his plan was that he would wend his way homewards but, before doing that, he wanted to meet up with an old friend from Ballymena who was teaching English in Marseille. But when he called at her apartment he was told that she was away for a few days. He had around three days to kill before Rosie would return and rather than leave without seeing her he decided to wait it out. Because of his cash shortage he couldn't afford to stay in the city. Being an adaptable sort of chap he decided to travel just outside Marseille. He caught a bus to a likely looking area and on exploring found himself a nice dry cave. It was wide enough to accommodate him lying down, deep enough to give some protection from inclement weather but not high enough to stand up in. It was ideal. He tramped back down to civilisation, bought bread, cheese, fruit and wine and settled down for the night.

The wine did its work and Bert was soon fast asleep until he was startled awake at some pre-dawn hour. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end and he felt quite alarmed. There was something tugging at his sleeping bag. He shone his torch around the cave but there was nothing to be seen. He decided it must be the wind catching it or a animal tugging on it. He settled down and went back to sleep. But not before checking his watch. It was nearly 4 am.

The next day he put the experience out of his mind. It was probably a dream. He spent the day exploring the countryside before going into town for more supplies. That night the wine did its customary work and he fell asleep easily. Until he wakened, hair prickling on his scalp and neck. There was that tugging at his sleeping bag, more insistent this time. Terrified he pulled the sleeping bag over his face and lay shivering until dawn. He decided that this would definitely be his last night in the cave.

The third day brought torrential rain. He mooched around all day telling himself that this nightly disturbance was all in his mind. He decided to give it one more night. After all, he'd see Rosie the next day. There was the prospect of company, a bed and a hot meal and just one more night to get through. What harm would a little ruffling or tugging at his sleeping bag do?

At the usual time, the hour before the dawn, Bert felt the familiar prickling at the back of his neck. He drew the sleeping bag right over his head. Then, horrified, felt himself being picked up as if two sets of strong arms had each taken a corner of his sleeping bag . He felt himself being flung into the far reaches of the cave. And there he cowered, trembling and sweating until the first glimmer of light entered the cave. He gathered up his belongings and left. An hour later he was sitting in a café on the outskirts of town surrounded by people on their way to work. He drank coffee and smoked. And thought, did that really happen?

All was forgotten when he met up with Rosie later. That night he slept on a comfortable couch in a warm apartment, all terrors behind him. But not entirely forgotten, for this strange experience has stayed with Bert all his life. It was one of the first stories he ever shared with me. And now and again it is spoken of, whenever the subject of ghosts, ghouls or hauntings comes up in conversation.

Hair Story

Miss Evie comes to me with her hair in bows and clips and looking quite the young lady. As the day progresses her pretty hair ornaments are yanked out and she looks rather dishevelled. This does not trouble her overmuch as she is not as concerned about her appearance as her big sister is.

Sometimes Granny tries to remedy matters but she is not as nifty at fixing hair as Evie's parents. I don't think Evie cares much for my efforts either!

Catch Yourself On

I was happy there for a long time, the longest time ever since those long ago summer holidays of my primary school days. I put it down to the contentment that comes with increasing maturity and some needful adjustments to my thinking.

Then my mood started to flag. I was tired all the time. My legs hurt a lot. Reckon I've got a lurgy. I googled all my symptoms and it turns out I've got Blogger's Block. I blame American TV.

Because when one has Breaking Bad, Boardwalk Empire and Homeland to watch it does rather eat into one's leisure time.

Then there is micro-managing the household chores and caring too much about how the towels are folded. That is a very foolish way to spend those precious moments.

What I need to do is micro-manage my daily schedule. Any advice would be greatly appreciated and I may need to make a spreadsheet. Now I must go because there is another episode of Homeland to watch where Carrie must deal with the aftermath of having being shafted by Saul once more. She had already been shafted on her stairs but at least he ( a Brodie lookalike lite) had the common decency not to stay the night.

Gin O'Clock!

It was my chance to get away last week so now it is Bert's turn. He left this afternoon, on a grey, miserable Autumn day for Fanad, armed with two buckets of woodstain and a selection of brushes to tackle the decking at the caravan. His accomplices are, two social workers, brothers who love nothing better than a bit of banter and some nice relaxing manual work to do. The weather in Donegal was bright and sunny and perfect for the task in hand.

Meanwhile I had my own social work stuff going on as it was time for Pearlie's six-monthly review. We are so lucky right now. Pearlie's care team are first-class, her social worker is excellent and the nursing team so very conscientious. I don't take any of it for granted. I know that we are fortunate to live in a society where all this elder care is available and, even better, free.

Even so, it can be tough when Bert isn't here. Especially when his time away coincides with grandchild day. I have the girls tomorrow and have no one to help me out.

So when Tracey phoned me up, knowing I was husbandless and carless, to ask me if there was anything I needed I at first said,

No. I think I have all that I need. Oh! Wait. I know. Bring gin!

When my darlings go home and Pearlie has her supper and the pigs, dogs and chickens are sorted out, I'll be pouring a stiff one, putting my feet up and will watch yet another episode of Boardwalk Empire. Roll on Thursday and gin o'clock!

Solitude and Company

I am sitting here tapping on the keyboard, door open. Across the landing in a darkened room, door also open, sleep Martha and Evie. I had to go out tonight for a few hours so Bert was the one responsible for putting them to bed. He did OK. One out of two isn't bad. When I got home Martha was asleep but Miss Evie was wide awake. One yogurt, a nappy change, brush teeth and a story and she was sleeping too. She'll still be up at six am tomorrow.

On Monday I went to Eelburn, just me and the brown dog. When I was in Vancouver I decided that there would be no more respite for Pearlie. She was becoming thoroughly fed up with it and the thought of going into residential care for two weeks at a time was spoiling her life. From now on we go on respite, she stays at home. That was what my three days in Donegal was about. I thought I'd be lonely but was not. It was so relaxing to have nothing to do. I spent a deal of time just staring into space. How come I never realised how great that is? Just staring into space. Wonderful. Judy and I did lots of walking and clambering over rocks which was fun but sadly I appear to have overused my knees which became apparent this evening.

For this evening there was lots of kneeling and up and downing at the chapel for it was Cousin Joe's anniversary Mass. One year since he died. The service was beautiful with astounding music. While he was ill last September, too ill to receive visitors any more, I passed some time picking blackberries. Tonight when I got back Bert had opened a bottle of blackberry wine made from last year's picking. It was pretty fine. I wish I could have given Joe a share of it.

Seven Years Now

Today would have been Shirley Finlay's 32nd birthday. Gone seven years now.

Blackberry-Picking 2013

Seamus Heaney's grave, Bellaghy

We were in Portglenone yesterday collecting vegetables for the kune kunes and decided to drive over to Bellaghy to visit Seamus Heaney's grave. It is just over a fortnight since he was laid to rest in that quiet cemetery and, it appears, that there is not a daylight hour passes that his grave is without visitors. It is a beautiful spot, Heaney's last resting place. Homely. I found myself thinking, as I've often thought at graves -  Taken far too soon. There was still so much to do.

And that is the way it is. We live and we die.

Last year when I picked blackberries I filled my ears with Sebastian Faulks' Birdsong and Nelson Mandela's Long Walk To Freedom. This year, no iPod so I just did thinking. Last year I thought about blackberry wine and jam and crumbles. Last year my audiobook blocked out anxious thoughts about my cousin Joe who was dying from a brain tumour. This year I thought of the very first Heaney poem I ever read. The blackberry one. I must have been in my early teens, the poet in his late twenties. It was the first piece of poetry I'd ever come across that spoke of the life I knew. I recognised that lust for picking.

So I picked blackberries and I got scratched and stung, my fingers stained purple and I thought about how fleeting and ephemeral life can be. We live, we die. We wither, we rot. No matter how much we love people, no matter how much we need them - they might leave us. Or we leave them.

Morbid? No. It is just life. Which is for living. The very best we can.

And that is why I will be making wine from my blackberries.

Happy Birthday Dear Granny

This has been my birthday weekend. Big special birthday, sixty years old. Guess this means I'm old now but being a glass half-full sort of person, I like to think I'm still on the young side of old.

We started with a children's party on Saturday. It had been a good enough week weather-wise but Saturday brought downpours. Children don't care about rain. They just need sausages, balloons, Haribo, puppies, each other's company and bouncy castles. They got all that plus Young Loveheart's three man catapult, a treasure hunt (got to work for those party bags) and a lot of muddy puddles to jump in. Next children's party I throw maybe I'll not bother with a bouncy castle and just get Clint up with his digger and he can create lots more muddy puddles which he can fill in afterwards. Clint loves playing with his digger.

Bouncing

Catapulting

Watching the catapulters

Some of  our guests

There were dramas. The original bouncy castle people let us down. Bad Fred! Fortunately we were able to get another one at an hour's notice. Good Mutley! And then Zoe's dog Gracie went missing. There were so many children and so many dogs that no one noticed for more than an hour. As I have mentioned many times before we live far too close to a busy B road where far too many people drive far too fast. In fact when Miss Mel and I were searching the verges we saw two cars racing each other. Would that I could have made a citizen's arrest of the idiots. There was a happy outcome for Gracie. She had got on the road, a quarter of a mile down it, but she was picked up by a young couple who immediately phoned the number on her collar disk. Unfortunately it was Zoe's house phone so no one got the message at the time. The young couple took charge of her until her owners raced home to see if there were messages. These good people delivered her back to Cully. Big sighs of relief from everyone.

The next stage of the party was in the BT club in Ballymena. Music and catering was all arranged so all we had to do was turn up. What can I say? It was a great night, wonderful music, great food, marvellous company. All the musicians were good friends, one was actually Bert playing his first ever gig. He was very nervous but he did well. The young brother did a few songs, Kerry Sister did a few more and Zoe sang too. I was so proud of them all. There were a few missing faces, some people on holiday, some not up to it, some, God forgive me, that we forgot to invite. It was that thing where Nelly thought Bert had asked them and Bert thought Nelly had.

Anyway – there wasn't a friend or sibling that didn't or couldn't make it that I didn't miss. And I realised this thing again. I am a tremendously fortunate woman. I have a good and loving family and Bert and I have great friends.

Sunday I spent with all the family at home. London Sister and Vancouver Brother sorely missed. We all went to Cemetery Sunday at St Comgalls in Antrim. I don't remember there being Cemetery Sundays when I was a child. It is a cunning ruse by the Catholic Church to shame the faithful and the faithless into keeping our ancestor's graves clean and tidy. Being closer to faithless I prefer to be advised by Blind Lemon Jefferson. It was a lovely thing to do as it felt like including Mammy and Daddy in the birthday celebrations. I also had the opportunity to say hello to aunts, cousins and neighbours.

Today was my actual birthday, the day I turned 60 although still haven't organised that bus pass! It was gardening day so had Martha, Evie and their minders for supper. We had mince pie, beans and birthday cake. In a three day period of fun, festivity and ancestor worship it had to be a best bit when the girls sang, Happy Birthday dear Granny, Happy Birthday to you.

Handy Toe Trinity!

Happy birthday Zoe! Time sure does fly past for here us a picture taken a few years back showing Bonnie and Paddy in the finest of fettle. They are spent and gone now yet Zoe looks as fresh as ever.

Rings to Vancouver

Many years ago, when she was more at herself , Matty made a trip to Vancouver to see her son and his family. The entire time she was away Daddy fretted and would barely leave the house 'in case your mother might ring'. Kerry Sister kept house for him during this time and she had imagined taking him out on lots of visits and expeditions but he was having none of it. "Your mother might ring." I remember that Matty's youngest sister loaned her their mother's wedding ring to wear during the trip so that Matty might be watched over from heaven. Even so, while Matty was going through Heathrow Airport she experienced a panic attack. Then she remembered her mother's ring, had a sense of her mother's presence and recovered, carried on and completed her journey with no further drama.

She had a great time in British Columbia with the brother and his Canadian family. That little house at the top is where she stayed. While I was there Vancouver Brother took me on a little tour of all the houses he has lived in. That house was the first. There was a huge pear tree in the back yard and two of his children were born there.

I fretted a bit myself before I left for my trip. Worried I would miss a plane connection, worried that the brother and I would get fed up with each other. After all, we would never have spent so much time in each other's company before. But mainly I worried about the journey. I'm not afraid of flying – just of missing planes.

Like Matty before me I was wearing my mother's wedding ring. I consoled myself that if Matty could make this trip without mishap, then so could I. It wasn't as if it was the ring's first visit for it had been there before me. My trip went well. I got there in one piece. One poignant moment – on first seeing each other at the airport Eamon saw our mother in my face and I saw our father in his.

And the return journey? I missed a connection. The world didn't end. Nobody died. And Aer Lingus didn't charge me an extra cent.

Summer in West Ireland

Villy, Crunch It Up Real Good

Regular readers will have noticed that I haven't been on here for a while. I am away from yonder Garden visiting with Vancouver Brother in Beautiful British Columbia and tonight is the first opportunity I've had to catch up with blogging.

What a city this is! I love it and thanks to Vancouver Brother's willingness to squire me around town I've seen a lot of it. I've travelled in work van and car, on bendy bus and sky train, on boat and ferry, in cab and gondola and, best of all, ski lift up Blackcomb on a hot and still summer afternoon. My only disappointment was that I did not see a bear. But I did see lots of bears at Vancouver Pride last Sunday.

The Brother likes to get out and about so I've been to Whistler, Squamish, Hope, Fort Langley, New Westminster (full of bridal shops and stevedores), Burnaby and Vancouver Island. Around Vancouver I've been to lots of interesting places including Canada Tire, Bert's Automative on Kingsway, the city dump, Value Village, most of the sites he's worked on in the last twenty years, every street he's ever lived on and the Dundas Cafe, of which more later. We've done some other stuff like the Museum of Anthropology and a night on the tiles over in Gastown drinking beer and shots until three in the morning.

I've eaten Vietnamese, Indian, Canadian salmon, blueberries, Cuban and fish and chips (at the Dundas Cafe, of which more later). I've caught up with lots of extended family and met a lot of new people too. Did I forget to mention that the folk around here are so polite and friendly?

There will be more about this when I get back to Cully and get my photos sorted out. The Brother has very primitive computing facilities here.

And if you're wondering about the post's title - it's a long story from the Brother's past, very silly and hardly fit to print but every time we say it to each other we just crack up laughing.

Remembering Matty

Matty would have been 87 years old today. I would have been visiting her with my card and present. Still miss her every day.

This is one of my favourite pictures of her, cradling her great-grandchild and namesake, Martha. She loved that child with all her heart. I wish she could have met Martha's sister, Evie, for she would have been just as adored.

Sweet Baby Chickens

Poor Bert has had a tough few days for the dreaded digger man has been here. Digger men are terrible people to have about a place for they need attended from morning to night and they also need massive quantities of stones to fill their drains.This has been a desperate place this last wee while for if it is not Robinson's Quarry lorries roaring into the yard at sparrow's first fart, it is The Silage Boys driving massive plant up the back lane and the minute they have the fields shaved there is Hector the Farmer in straight after them with his slurry spreader totally stinking the place up. Then, if they can find a space to park, we have Pearlie's carers in four times a day. And they say country living is peaceful. It is not. I thought we had the place to ourselves this evening and went outside to shift my baby chickens to their dormitory and of course I was singing them a very silly song that went something like this,

Sweet baby chickens

Have to go to sleep

Sweet little hen babies

Going cheep, cheep, cheep.*

Next thing I spotted Stephen the Farmer lurking in some bushes. I brazened it out and bade him a good evening. If a woman can't sing a silly song in her own yard where can she sing one? To tell the truth I'll be glad to get away from this madhouse and escape to the relative peace and tranquillity of Vancouver.

Four more sleeps and, with a bit of luck, another one on the plane. And, according to my friend Bilrus, I am to keep my eyes peeled for a glimpse of Sasquatch.

Sung to the music from the chorus The Toreador Song, Carmen

Summer Branch Drop

On the 12th of July, unexpectedly and without warning, a huge branch fell from one of our mature beech trees. It was on a very hot and calm afternoon. Less than an hour earlier two children had been playing on the swing underneath the trees. The branch that fell brought another with it. Altogether they must have weighed at least a ton. I'd never heard of this phenomenon until it happened here at Springhill.


We were having a barbecue and there were a good few people around. When we heard the noise, a loud sharp crack, followed by a creaking and a loud crash as the branches hit the ground, I thought at first that the tree house had come down. Almost everyone made a dash for the trees because no one was sure where Ben was. He had been playing up there for most of the day with another child. It was a big relief when we saw that he was fine. In fact, he had seen the branch drop and was the first on the scene. He whooped, "Bert is going to be so happy! Look at all that firewood!"


One of our guests had heard of this happening. He had worked in a government department that dealt with tree preservation orders. He told us that sudden branch falls in hot, still weather is something that can happen to old trees.


I checked it out later.



Ed Perry, Farm Advisor Stanislaus County
University of California, U.S. Department of Agriculture and Stanislaus County


Over the last couple of weeks a phenomenon known as “summer branch drop” has been apparent throughout the area. Also called “sudden limb failure,” the phenomenon occurs during periods of very hot weather when apparently sound, relatively large limbs break out of large, mature shade trees. Since most people think that branches only break during windy conditions, a large branch crashing to the ground on a hot and calm day causes some excitement.


Branches that fail due to summer branch drop are usually long and horizontal, rather than more upright. Oddly enough, many times the break occurs along the length of the branch somewhere, rather than at its point of attachment to the trunk. While some broken branches may have wounds or areas of wood decay, many that drop are free of any obvious defects and appear sound. Therefore, summer branch drop is very difficult to predict.


There is still no generally accepted explanation for the phenomenon. However, most tree experts believe lack of adequate soil moisture, or drought stress, is to blame. This is a bit difficult to explain, since branches actually become lighter during hot weather as they lose more water from leaves than they gain from the root system. Studies have shown that branches actually shrink and rise during summer afternoons. Another theory is that water stress causes the concentration of ethylene, a plant hormone, to increase. Ethylene is a gas produced by all plants that effects all stages of plant growth and development, including processes involved in cell aging. There is a possibility that increases in ethylene could dissolve the cementation of cell walls in the wood, causing the branch to break. Others suggest that internal cracks in large branches, caused by wounds or improper pruning, eventually spread outward, causing the branch to fracture.






The phenomenon is less common in the British Isles but it does happen. The Arboricultural Association said it was aware of a number of reports of branches dropping off trees, an event it says is associated with prolonged hot spells.


Paul Smith, a technical officer with the organisation, said: “Certainly there’s a clear relationship between the weather conditions and the frequency of summer branch drop.

The indications are that it’s to do with water stresses within very large, often overextended or elongated limbs.












That is how close the biggest branch was to the swing. Had anyone been using the swing when the branch came down, they would have been very fortunate to escape serious or mortal injury.







There was no obvious sign of rot or decay. The part of the branch where it broke from the trunk was very wet beneath the bark.












I have always thought that our mature beech trees were the very best thing about this property. I feel differently now. A little more anxious. Some experts say that when sudden branch drop occurs in a tree, there is an increased chance that it will happen again. The branch that collapsed was not the only large, extended branch on that tree. The swing is on another. With great trees come great responsibilities. Perhaps it is time to call in the experts.

Scorchio

The morning after. Oldest to youngest in chronological order.

Summer came back! We spent the weekend in Leitrim at a family party, It is rare these days that we have a gathering and this one was particularly enjoyable as it did not involve a burying. The weather was kind, the company was wonderful, the party legendary, the music first class. The only snag was the hordes of hungry midges and, perhaps, that all of our vehicles got layered  in a soggy, rushy field.

Miss Martha was of the opinion that this was the best bit of the party. 

Freshly watered vegetables.

 But we were so tired on the drive home. It was a long hot drive. Bert drove the first 50 miles, I drove the next 30 and after that we were changing every 20 or so miles. I wasn't looking forward to having to drive Jazzer back to Antrim after we got home nor was I relishing the thought of the watering we'd have to do in the polytunnel.

And when we drove on to the yard there was Marty! No drive to Antrim. Bliss! It got better. She had made a roast chicken dinner. She had even cooked a vegetable course. Pearlie was happy and content. The animals were fed. The house was shiny clean and, best of all, she'd even watered the polytunnel.

A rare photograph of Bert outdoors without a boiler suit. That is how hot it is!

Too Many Dogs And Too Much Noise

This morning I am in Cullybackey surrounded by Banjos, chewed up crayons and dog poo. Tonight I hope to be in Lovely Leitrim to celebrate my youngest sister's birthday. Last night I decided on early bed as I have been very tired. I managed to get there just after midnight. At one a.m. I was woken by the sound of the Banjos going to bed. Mother and son were in high spirits and giggled and squealed at the amusing antics of the dog pack. I considered screaming at them to shut (the fuck) up but decided against it for two reasons, the first being that I hadn't the energy and the second that it would be churlish. Four hours and ten minutes later (5:10 am) the two youngest dogs were gambolling and frolicking in the attic, up and down the stairs and along the landing. I swear a couple of bull stirks could hardly have been louder. I was churlish.

I am the Princess and the Pea of noise. Why can everyone else sleep through din? Why am I not a hermit living on a lonely island?

Still. Party time. Who knows - I might even enjoy it.

P.S. As I finish off I can hear Benjamin Banjo playing ball with the two youngest dogs in the room next to me. Bert is trying to squeeze a few moments more shut-eye in that same room. This pleases me. I hope he is suffering as I suffered.

Chompy Dog Is No Good, Chop Her Up For Firewood

It has been a funny old week. It was six days ago that we realised that Bonnie was going to die. There has been a lot to get used to. Her favourite hobby was barking and I don't know if I miss that. It is strange her not being there in the morning but rather a relief not to have to watch her struggle out of comfortable sleep to go stiffly out to the yard for pees and poos. She never went far, no doubt the result of spending her early years chained. There was a lot of poop picking. I won't miss that.

The pup has taken up barking in Bonnie's stead. We have a shooting range close by and Jess does not like that. I'd rather listen to gun fire than the pup's shrill barking. Perhaps she will get used to it. I do hope she doesn't take against the sound of Lambeg drums for marching season is upon us. I had to get used to that too.

I was thinking today about how expensive she is. We were out on a run to a local dog shelter donating Bonnie's left over medication. Bert had re-upped just a few days before she died and it would have been wrong to waste it. I left Judy and Jess in the van for ten minutes and when I returned Judy was sitting there like a perfect brown angel while the pup lay on the floor on the driver's side chewing the floor to pieces.

So - a list. Since we have had Jess she has eaten,

Two leather sofas
Half a dozen cushions
Several electrical leads
A mobile phone
Miss Evie's new shoes
Bert's spectacles
My spare spectacles
Miss Martha's uncooked scones
Several pairs of wellington boots
Many soft toys
Miss Evie's favourite Eric Carle books
A Be Good Tanyas CD
A Peugeot van

And that is only what I can remember!

Bonzerooni Poopy Poo Poo, Friend of Heart.

Bonnie lived with us  for six years and eight months. I picked her up straying on the Dreen Road and she ended up staying with us. I contacted the local dog warden but no one was looking for a German Shepherd dog. I never did find out who her original keepers were despite putting posters all over the village. This man telephoned, said he preferred to remain anonymous. He said he knew where the dog had been living, said her owner was seriously ill in hospital and unlikely to recover. He said that this man had two dogs, a collie and the German Shepherd, that they were neglected and chained up all the time. He said that the German shepherd had escaped because she was starving and that he had fed her but she had got away from him. He asked me to try and get the dog a good home because she had a gentle, sweet nature. Then a woman called to the house. She knew something too. She pointed out how underweight Bonnie was and noticed that there was no hair under the chin from where her collar had chafed and rubbed her. She told me that she had a friend who worked as a postman, he knew the house where the dogs were kept and how he would have loved to rescue both of them.

So it was down to us. A week after I reported finding her I bought a dog licence for £10 and under the laws of this country she became my dog. We called her Bonnie. By this time we had bathed her for she had come to us reeking and matted with filth. She found that strange. What puzzled her more was being carefully dried and wrapped in a blanket and placed at the foot of my bed. She looked at me as if she could hardly believe it. Funny though, how quickly she got used to it.

She slept at the foot of my bed until about six months ago when she stopped being able to get down the stairs in the morning. A few times she had slipped and fallen the last few steps and it frightened her. She seemed happy enough to sleep on a sofa as long as she got her night time dog biscuit. On Sunday last as I prepared to go to bed she followed me. She was determined to go upstairs and climbed the steps, slowly, stiffly and went straight to my room. I lifted her on to the bed, gave her a bedtime treat, scratched her ears and cuddled her and we both fell happily to sleep. The next morning I helped her off the bed and she lost her footing. She managed to steady herself and I walked backwards in front of her as she descended the stairs.  I helped her down the last few steps and she didn't fall. We had the usual Monday. Zoe and family came to work in their vegetable garden and Bonnie followed us around. Later  that evening Rod and Tracey came by. Rod was bearing dog treats as always and Bonnie was well to the front of the queue for her share. That night she was happy to sleep downstairs.

The next morning I left the house early as I had planned to take Miss Evie to the seaside. I left Bonnie on the sofa with the door to the outside open so she could go to the toilet when it suited her. Something happened to her between Monday night and Tuesday evening. At supper time she couldn't stand and her breathing was laboured. She didn't want to eat. Throughout the night she became weaker and her breathing was getting more difficult. We called our vet first thing this morning and requested a home visit. We knew we were having her put to sleep. The vet came at half eleven and Bonnie was placed to rest in the garden just before midday.

My big fear for Bonnie was that her hindquarters would give up while she still had some zest for life. That didn't happen. We were blessed that her final illness was swift and that her suffering was short. Going to miss her. Bonzerooni. My pet.

And that crazy title? That was my pet name for her. I know it's completely loony but if you are like me, a fool for dogs, you'll forgive me.


And I still wonder what became of the collie from all those years ago.

Plant A Seed

I read this somewhere - 'Forget dusting, go outside, plant a seed.'




I took it to heart. The forgetting to dust was the easy part. I don't even feel bad about that any more, Instead I feel guilty if I don't get round to planting that seed. This month I should have sown, according to the following handy list,

Amaranth
Beetroot
Chinese cabbage
Calabrese
Carrots, early varieties
Carrots, maincrop varieties
Cauliflower
Chicory
Courgettes, marrows and pumpkins
Fenugreek
Florence fennel
French beans
Runner beans
Kohl rabi
Lettuce
Salad onions
Pak choi
Peas
Pumpkin
Radish, mooli
Sweet corn
Swede
Turnip

And so far, with just one week of June left, I've only managed to sow fennel, radishes, cabbage, lettuce, turnips and peas. At least, with dusting, there are no time restrictions. And I don't even know what amaranth is!

Night Time Hypochondriac

In the dark of the night when the cramping in my right leg keeps me awake I find myself imagining all kind of terrible outcomes. I'm an optimistic old stick when the sun shines but the wee small hours are quite  a different matter. The best I can wish for is a blood clot, hope I can get to the hospital before I take a stroke. The worst is, of course, cancer. Morning comes, I hop out of bed, gingerly put my foot to the floor and all is well. I can practically hop, skip and dance. The day wears on, the knee starts to ache, I start to limp and by evening it's the hip and by bedtime shin, ankle  and thigh muscles are gowpin.* Paracetamol (and sometimes wine) takes care of the pain but the cramps do not ease.

Eventually, more than six weeks after the initial injury, I saw the doctor. She examined it thoroughly and pronounced it tendonitis. Says she suffers from it herself because she likes to run. Said I ought to rest more, said she ought to rest a bit more herself. We agreed it wasn't easy. I got Ibufren, a stomach pill to help me take Ibufren and a lotion. The latter two are medicines that Pearlie takes. Now we are practically twins! Twin crocks.

But I'm happier now. No more night time hypochondria. I just have to take a bit more care of myself to be able to get into this tree house. It's not quite finished yet but that isn't stopping us from picking the furniture.

A photo taken last Sunday by Hannah Banana.

And just to prove that I am actually aware of what goes on outside Cully here is a photograph of President Obama leaving Northern Ireland, taken today by my friend Brian.

* gowpin - adjective, from Ulster-Scots - throbbing with pain.

Father's Day

 Bert's Dad, Johnny with Prince. Johnny's anniversary was on 2nd June. He died in 1997. Sixteen years gone. He was the kindest, sweetest man and I wish we could have had him for longer.

My father, Seamus, was a couple of months older than Johnny. They were born in 1919. Daddy got eight more years. He died on the 3rd June, 2005 making his anniversary the day after Bert's father's. They were two fine men and we miss them every day.

Nelly's Scones

Music night at Nellybert's and scones were served again. And once again Brendan asked for the recipe. The first time I wrote it down for him. Then I sent it in an an email. This time I'm going to blog it and link it to Facebook.

It's a cross between my mother's recipe and  a Nigella Lawson recipe. This is it. I don't know if soda bread flour is sold outside of Ireland. Probably not. Sorry about that.

Ingredients

• 500g soda bread flour
• 1 tsp salt
• 50g butter
• 25g lard or more butter
• 1 egg beaten
• enough buttermilk to make up to 300 ml when added to beaten egg

Method 

1. Preheat oven to 220°. 
2. Sift the dry ingredients together and rub in the butter thoroughly. 
3. Add the milk and stir very briefly. 
4. Knead lightly together on a floured surface.
5. Roll and cut approx. 12 scones
6. Bake for 10-15 minutes. 
   
   
   
   

Eight Years

Daddy in his Sunday best. He had probably called to my house to bring the girls and I to Mass. For sure I'd never have gone if he hadn't made the effort to pick us up. Afterwards we would usually go out to Drumkeeran for Sunday lunch.

I'd say, in the photograph, that he was probably only a little bit older than I am now.

I still have that old map but I don't have him. He is eight years gone today.

Still missed. Still remembered.

Seamus.

The Tree House Progresses

 The four beech trees

 Erecting supports

Laying the platform

It is kind of awesome. I have always wanted a tree house but lacked the trees. Then we got this place with mature beeches galore. Then we got ourselves a new friend who loves tree houses, who has the skills, the enthusiasm, the tools and the encouragement to make this dream a reality. So what if I'm nearly sixty! I'm beginning to realise that the good things that happen when we are older are what we appreciate the most. This knee, this hip is getting better for I am going to spend some time in the trees. Lucky, lucky me.