The Helpers

I hate drama. But sometimes I can't avoid it. And boy did I have drama last week with smoke pouring from every orifice in my stove and chimney. I shut 'er all down and jacked up house heat - well as jacked up as I can afford it as it costs a fortune out here on the Edge. Sweaters and thick socks are a blessing.

I had paid a guy, the guy who handled my chimney liner post chimney fire last year, a regular chimney contractor, to clean out the works the week before as it was all behaving rather badly, but everything to do with the fire was twice as bad after he left along with a fresh bonus of soot pouring down the freshly painted walls.

I texted him and he ignored me for a day and then said he might be in the neighbourhood in a few days and he'd check...

At that point my instincts kicked in and I just knew I could never have him back into my house again.

I posted my dilemma on Facebook, raising my SOS flag which always works out here and the following day Leo and his brother showed up with a borrowed ladder and long sticks. To cut to the chase after they had finished, this is the letter I sent off to the contractor:

Lxxxxxxxxxxxx:

I've had the work you did for me both in installing the chimney and in your recent “cleaning” of it checked out.

I have ascertained:

You failed to measure and install the chimney properly in that the stove pipe is far too short to meet the chimney or the top of the stove safely.

You used the wrong size screws on the chimney cap which needed replacing.

You failed to seat the lower stove pipe on the stove properly.

You failed to screw in the lower pipe to the stove itself.

You failed to fit the upper part of the stove-pipe into the chimney.

The stove had to be put on lifts to raise it as your measurements were 2” off.

In your so-called “cleaning” of a few weeks ago, you failed to re-install the cap of the chimney properly.

You also did not clean the chimney properly, there was a huge wedge of creosote still stuck in the lower part of the chimney which blocked it and smoke poured all through my house.

And underneath the top of the stove you had failed to remove any of the creosote lodged there.

In fact there was another whole bag of creosote taken out of the chimney and stove-pipes today.

I was told that you were criminally negligent in the work you had performed for me because of the smoke leaks coming into the house in which I could have died from carbon monoxide poisoning.

My walls and furniture are blackened and need repainting/cleaning because of your shoddy and appalling workmanship.

My power bills doubled while the stove was unusable.

Being an elderly senior on a fixed income I am shocked at your misrepresentation of yourself as a “professional” while taking such advantage of me.

I request that you refund me the total of $520 I have paid you for the original shoddy and incompetent installation ($400) and the subsequent non-cleaning ($120).

I heard back from him immediately wherein he apologised, agreed to his incompetence and shoddy workmanship and stated he would return all my money once he had been paid for a job he was currently on.

I'm not holding my breath. As I very nearly lost it forever.

But my Helpers?

They wouldn't take a penny for all the work they did and their assessment and correction of the problems.

And that's what I'm thinking about as I write this.

The Helpers.

Crossroads

Many questions.

Few answers.

Processing thoughts, some conflicting or rubbing off each other in sparks.

Questions:

How do you make major decisions in your life?

Intuition?

Evaluation - pro and contra columns?

Talk to loved ones that you trust?

Throw it out there to the universe (something like I'm doing right now!)

Yeah, I am at a crossroads.

Sometimes we just run into ourselves head on.

Time is far more precious to me than it ever was.

And there's not enough of the tempus thing. It fugits through my fingers.

All week I was running, 5 days of it. Meetings, training, seminars. Non-stop it seemed.

This old house has lost its magic, it needs too much attention from me along with Elder Dog, Ansa. I need most of my attention for me now.

And I'm fresh out, overnight it seems, of the magic-steam of helping others.

Nervously, I ran the insides of my brain under Daughter's gaze yesterday. And she validated everything I was saying. She'd been reluctant to broach Crossroads with me. Relief was enormous. For both of us.

There is no one else, apart from My Dear Dead Ones, that I would trust with offering me support or advice or compassion or wisdom.

Like I said: Crossroads.

Major.

Thoughts?

Gifts

"What a gift it is," he says, "When all that is required is a shift in lifestyle, paying more attention to the details of day to day life with the promise being that life will get better."

I explained to my counsellor about my specialist's findings. How alarming. How demolishing.

I reflected on my three dear, dead friends. I feel he knows them intimately now. Along with my family of origin.

What an opportunity it would have been for them to change direction, make some slight adjustments to the sails and tack into a different direction on the great ocean of life. But alas their deaths had no such advance warning.

My gift indeed.

"Who do you talk to? Intimately I mean?" he asks me.

"You," I said after a minute, "Only you, there is no one else. Truly."

"But there is room for others, is there not?"

"I suppose. But shared history, depth, no way that can be replaced."

"I agree. But your spirit needs nurturing and maybe this freedom is giving you another gift in that you honour the memories of these beloved friends by opening up the space left inside you and use your last few precious years to explore your own creativity further."

Deep Thoughts

I'm avoiding deep thoughts.

I'm in the land of specialist care which can be very alarming as more pills are added to my daily stash of ingestion.

It's best not to think about it all, yeah?

This latest fellah, lawd so thorough, serious of demeanour, so strict, so no-nonsense. Laid out my life for me just so. Pleasantries were cast out like he was on a diet and was offering me crumbs. Ireland. Israel. Accountancy. Lifestyle, was, is and future as prescribed by Himself. Strict, abstemious, measurements taken 4 times a day. Exercise de rigeur. And see him, again, with my daily journal on June 1st.

One of those times when Daughter said to me a few days before this meet-up: I think I should go with you, Mum. No, sez I, it will be just a consult. I don't need anyone with me for a consult.

Egg on the face time. More than a consult, there were liquids taken from every part of me. Measurements, files read on the computer, tapes dictated in front of me. "Patient presented......". No place to run, no place to hide.

Apart from a good cry in my car, alone, I processed it all over a few days, and I came to the conclusion: Yes, I have to restrict my diet, add the meds I fought for so long, knuckle down. Grow up. Fly right. And pay attention to Bob Newhart. I can do this.

My Vanishing History

Who validates one's personal history? As long as there are some co-conspirators in the world there is an affirmation of some kind. But suddenly whoof and they vanish. Even though you mightn't have seen them in years and years, there is a fresh hole in life's tapestry.

I worked for a man yonks (35+ years) ago. He was self-made and proud of it. Started out as a shipper and bought the company and then expanded it into a diversified multi-billion dollar enterprise, still ongoing and successful.

I learned a lot from him. We were roughly the same age, in our thirties at the time. Did a lot of drinking together. He was a fierce womanizer. But not with me. I could put on an "off limits" thing quite well and he wasn't the type to harass to get his jollies. More the opposite. Women would throw themselves at him as he was quite attractive. Movie stars even. He was involved in the entertainment business among many others. Many was the time after work we would have dinner together. I got to know him like a brother. He always wore a shirt with two pockets. In one was a list of his assets, in the other was a list of his liabilities and over dinner we'd talk about the financial statements and he'd make minute adjustments to these index cards. And I'd talk for him at meetings with our financiers as I didn't think it a good idea for him to extract these cards from his pockets and have the important bankers sneer at him. Later on of course he didn't give a damn what anyone thought.

He was the most intelligent person I've ever worked for even though he never, to my knowledge, cut a book open. A grade 10 education. His hobby was his business. He told me it came before anything else, family, love, relationships of any kind. And it did. He was driven. His friends (male) were all driven. At the time, being treated like a "friend" by him made me realize I was probably the only close female in his life he wasn't sleeping with. He would freely talk to me about his women and the problems he encountered when they found out about each other. Which was frequently.

He was generous to a fault and rarely got mad except when his business associates betrayed him.

I could write loads more, it would make you shake your head in disbelief as his life was truly stranger than fiction.

He died yesterday. Liver cancer. A multi-billionaire living in the safety of Nassau.

I dreamed of him last night which was odd, I hadn't thought about him in forever. We were having dinner in the lobby of some hotel and he was wearing Armani. And I was in jeans and a sweatshirt and we were talking intensely as we always did. About yachts. He owned quite a few.

An extraordinary man. An extraordinary life.

The Sea, oh the Sea

I can't tell you how breathtaking it is here at the moment. Crystal skies, matched by the ice crust on the edge of the ocean which has its own private language for me alone as Ansa and I walk along beside it. It whispers and nudges and squeaks and squeals and shoves. Quietly. Ansa's back end keeps needing a rest. And that's fine by me. Ambling and pausing is delightful. And sea gifts. I picked up a pine shelf on the shore. I thought it would fit a window culvert in my house but no.

I've worked my library stint. Socialized with a few. Drank another coffee and then embraced the day outside.

I can forgive winter a lot at the moment. This magnificence can't be captured by any camera, it is so very perfect. All our snow has been gone for a while. And spring beckons. I sense it. I can weather another winter storm with this promise in the air.

Renewal. Redemption. Reinvention.

And yeah, I'm reminded of this songs, nailed by the Dubliners.

The Power of Nuance

I was at a birthday party today and I'd been thinking about nuance and how it's all in the observation of others that we pick up on the small things, the little examples of bravery or surprise. And how memories are triggered. It was a surprise party and the "surprisee", my BFF here in Newfoundland, was genuinely surprised, shocked really, when the whole community came out and offered up food and presents and cards and love. It was a very big deal to organize it, all done on FB with her name not included in the closed list.

There was an old mate there who was back on the bottle. He passed behind me five times and each time said: "I love your hair, I have to touch your hair!" I am badly in need of a haircut (damn winter!) so it's gone a bit flowy down the back. I thought, knowing drunks as well as I do, just keep thanking him, get irritated and he'll go all shirty and debate your hair and/or your attitude with you, so that's what I did. World War 3 avoided, all dignity preserved.

There's this priest I'm quite fond of. He's out of Donegal and pushing 80. And he sang this song about a 60 year old lap dancer: "Who had to do it for a living, husband dead you see, and with money shoved down her pants, a happy gal was she." And many more verses in that vein. Off key, if there ever was one to begin with. I've given you the most printable verse. I watched my fellow partiers as he sang it. 50-50 between the thigh slappers and the utterly appalled.

Joan couldn't sing today, she's normally on keyboard and has a great voice and huge repertoire. Her husband who plays guitar and accordion with her sang with two others, one a blind from birth woman. Joan's had terrible surgery and I sat with her for a while and she lifted up her top and showed me her bags which were tied to her body. She explained how they were applied with glue and tapes and caused terrible allergies, a rash all around them. I surprised myself by not feeling nauseous. All I felt was enormous compassion and I was so very glad she felt she could show me. It must be an overwhelming urge for some to share the degradation and horror of one's cancer. I hugged her and told her about D**** my close friend who died this past August of the same thing. Joan said she wanted to hang on till March when her first grandchild is expected. I do hope she makes it.

There was some dancing, some more singing. I harmonized for a while with "Sloop John B" which brought me back in time when I taught my mother the words and melody to it as we sat in the ferry going to Cape Clear for the day and we sang it in counterpoint, laughing for the perfect sunshiny day that was in it, the slap of the ocean on the sides of the ferry, the water sparkling around us. No, not the Beach Boys' version but The Weavers. Mum and I loved The Weavers.

Fusion Cookin'

I amuse myself greatly at times. I was whiny tonight, didn't want to cook my dinner. But I pretended I was on teevee, and I've always loved it when I catch one of those chef shows. You know the ones with sparkling marble counters and spotless glass bowls. And all the ingredients laid out just so.

So I got out the glass bowls and chopped up the veggies all separately and put them into the bowls. Onions, sliced like a fingernail carrots and celery, perogies out of the freezer, sun-dried tomatoes, gluten free tiny pasta and a good stock (I always save my veggie and fish water).

And I played some music and talked to the imaginary camera as I cooked. A nifty soup and crisp on the outside cheesy on the inside perogies bathed in a sour-cream and Irish chili sauce mix. Nothing like anyone else would make. Ever.

I forgot to take a picture as I fell on it when it was ready as it was so late. Oh my. To die.

I'm ready for my close-up Mr. DeMille. I think the name of our show should be:

"Things you never thought you'd eat together."

I'm an expert.

Bed Socks & Bottles

It was bitter last night. That's how my father would describe a cold day in Cork when it hovered around 1 degree Celsius. Last night here? It was -5C but that "RealFeels" sticker, because of the high winds, had it at -17C.

Electricity costs a fortune here so alternative energy supplementation ranges from propane to wood. I have wood in conjunction with electricity in the upper reaches of the house. To use electricity exclusively would see me in the poorhouse or not eating. Ever. The plight of many senior women living on their own doing an eke. My ongoing gig as writing instructor sees the fees I collect weekly from that paying for another load of wood next week. Local economy at its finest. Black economy too. It has to be. The guy who is presently lumbering my wood and is cutting and cleaving it, was laid off from his iron ore job in Labrador and is eking too. He had to return here, at the age of 50, to live with his mother and subsist on a union pittance when his EI ran out.

When one gets cash out here on the Edge, it is socked away and never sees a bank. We all do it. Chatting with a banker in town, I discovered that he does it too - on the QT. Collect cash for banking advice on the side, disburse cash to handyman for new bathroom. We all live under the table to a huge degree. And none of us live extravagantly. I hated myself when I had to go to online Walmart for free shopping deliveries but I had no choice. Funny how we can preach for years but when the wallet is thinned right out we have to bow at the altar of the corporate enemy. But I do shop local too. I love my wee local grocery store.

But to these elder arms, nothing beats coffee and dog-food and flour and sugar and paper products in bulk delivered free right to my door.

Which brings me back to the title of the post.

My mother would send me off to bed on cold nights or with a tough period, warm, with a hot water bottle, especially knitted bed socks and a crocheted bed jacket when I was a teenager.

So last night? Under the duvet, I reverted to these comforting items.

Toasty, warm and safe from the howling blizzard outside.

When many aren't.

Creative Non-Fiction

Annie Moore (January 1, 1877 - 1923) was the first immigrant to the United States to pass through the Ellis Island facility in New York Harbor. She departed from Cobh, County Cork, accompanied by her brothers Phillip and Anthony, aboard the steamship Nevada on January 1, 1892, her fifteenth birthday.

I decided to enter another competition. One of the promises to myself this year was to keep 'er at it. I find competitions sharpen the writing, making the reading and editing eyes more focussed and the ears more attentive (I always read my own work out loud).

This is a new genre for me. Creative non-fiction. I'm at the age where mulling is a skill I've resurrected to an art form. Now that I've lived long enough to have the time to think and savour and relive some memories. So this piece of my life's memoir is about my emigration from Ireland, the reality of all of that, the multiple layers to the story as I boarded one of the last emigrant liners out of Ireland way back in the late sixties, a time of the Beatles and the Rolling Stones and folk music. I travelled with my guitar and entertained on board, informally. My hit piece was "The Butcher Boy" I'd have everyone join with me in the last chorus:

Oh, make my grave large, wide and deep
Put a marble stone at my head and feet
And in the middle, a turtle dove
That the world may know, that I died of love.

A jolly young folksinger was I.

Life in my Village - a snapshot.

I never need a tracking device because people find me. All.The.Time.

Case in point was today where I was conducting a writers' workshop. In the middle of it, Roger, our old postmaster (he had a rather stupid tussle with a Big Gun at the main post office in town and lost the service) called me out of it with one of those secret agent beckoning fingers along with a shhh on the lips. As he is also the honorary fire chief, I thought it to be an emergency of some kind.

"Drove all the way up here, couldn't find your car anywhere near your house (story of my life out here) and then I had to hunt you down," sez he, "I had a courier delivery for you, huge box - come down and get it, I can't lift it."

Ah yes, when a snowstorm hits, I order groceries by mail, free delivery over $50. Great service.

Assuring him, yes, I'd be down later not now, I resume the class.

On wrapping up the class an hour later, and locking up the building, I notice a jeep with one of our elders in it, obviously waiting for me.

"Ah yes," sez Mr. Francis through his lowered window, "Finally! I've been waiting for over half an hour. I had to track you down!"

"What?" sez I, "Another delivery?"

He looks at me baffled. "Ah no, no, girl,(it's always lovely to be called a girl when you're an elder yourself and he or she is 16 years older) I've been worried about the ice dams on your house, I took the liberty of checking the outside and I'd sleep easier if you could have an engineer look at it, to make sure there's no structural damage after the melt, know what I mean?"

It has taken me quite a while to get used to these invasions at all times, no matter where I am. Coming from cities (Cork, Toronto)it's all part of my adjustment to rural living. Everyone knows where you are and what boxes lie in wait for you and what's happened to your house, your family or your dog.

I wouldn't go back for anything.

Calm

I give terrific dream analysis though often I find it impossible to decipher my own. This one I did and it still resonates with me days later.

In the dream I was in a room - they're always interesting these rooms, bear no relation to any dwelling I've ever lived in or been in, though sometimes there's a faint familiarity.

At the outset I tell you I don't believe in any form of afterlife and have written extensively about my god-free life so I don't attach any kind of hereafter messages to any dreams I have about dead people.

So this dream: I was housekeeping in this large white room, surrounded by cleaning utensils. I don't housekeep in real life. I keep things sanitary and hygienic but heavy cleaning is Emma's job. So here I am sitting on the floor in this room staring at a vacuum cleaner, wondering about nozzles and power cords when I hear a cough. And I look up and at the doorway is my mother and she has a doll, infant sized, over her shoulder and she's patting it and pointing at it with her other hand. She's silent but insistent I look at it. I get up off the floor, away from the furniture polish and bottles of cleaner and start to walk over to her very slowly, puzzled, saying "Mum, Mum?" over and over. She's smiling but her hands keep moving in the same pattern.

And I wake up suddenly and I'm crying so hard in my loss and grief that it takes me about five minutes to stop and I, the dream expert, breathe in some calm and analyze.

Everyone appearing in a dream is just another aspect of ourselves. And for once, this one's clear as a bell

I can fooster my way round, distracted by the baubles of life and neglect my doll, my creative spirit which needs stroking and care and attention.

And all the promises I made to myself a few months ago about entering more competitions, writing new material, were sucked away by other distractions, some major like the writing workshops I'm giving, others minor like projects in my town and, lawd, editing, editing and editing an anthology (don't ask, unpaid work more's the pity, I was sucked in, my own fault).

So yeah, time to clean house for sure and concentrate on, well, my bliss.

Care

I was cared for through my last catastrophe. Living alone means self-care takes precedence over other-care. I've always believed that. Well, ever since I got a little more mentally healthy back in the day. Once I'm taken care of I can march around and take care of others.

But I couldn't take care of my past challenge. So the fire department of my beautiful town came and took care of me. Fire ladder planked against the house, three of them came and salted my roof and shoveled snow and ice off it. Took pictures even to show me what was happening up there. Made sure I was OK. Then took off in the big red fire truck leaving me oh so relieved. So the waterfall of ice is now gone.

And then my car got stuck in a snowbank, so badly stuck (I was rocking it back and forth which has nearly always worked, but it only ground it in deeper to the snow) so fellahs couldn't push me out. CAA came and winched poor baby on to the road and then, kindness itself, he reversed my car back up the driveway so it would be easier to "take 'er out".

Then my friend came over in his 4X4 and took me over to his house for this fabulous dinner (roast turkey, baked cheesy broccoli, stuffing to die, mounds of roast potatoes, home-made date squares and coconut cream pie). A bunch of us talked late into the night and he then drove me home.

All this transpired in a day. How feelings of hopelessness and questioning of self-coping abilities can be completely turned around by such care and attention. And the knowing of this for the future is priceless.

I passed it on today in very small measure at a farewell lunch for one of our town volunteers who's off to Florida for a while. I made my to-die carrot cake with to-die frosting and put a shrimp ring together from scratch together with my homemade cocktail sauce.

It's good to show care for others.

And it's so good to be cared for.

Coping

'Twas a weird week. Weather. How vulnerable I can be. This is one nasty winter. And my fall from last year is haunting me. Making me afraid. Making out of me a right wimp. Fearful of the ice under the snow. Horrified at the idea of walking down my drive from the garage to the house.

Feeling massively foolish and more than a little old-lady-ish. Disliking myself for not being more fearless, striding out, unworried about breaking bones and subsequently wheelchairing it around alone in my house with the deaf and blind elderdog for company and a port-a-potty in the living room.

All sorts of thoughts intrude: like am I mad to live out in this community. Should I listen to my city friends and move to a senior-friendly apartment by the side of a downtown glorious lake overlooking the ocean and have transit and accessible medical care and OMG a clean and ice-free parking lot to anchor my car and just a few small rooms and theatre nearby and movies and....all I need is for poor old Ansa to die as NO PETS ALLOWED.

See the temporary insanity that overtakes me?

Meanwhile, there are leaks intruding into my house from this massive icejam. You might think you're having a bad day until you look at the back of my house. This frozen waterfall extends all the way from the roofline to the ground. No one has ever seen anything worse out here. And no one has suggestions as to how to manage it. So that's my day. How's yours?

Deserving to be Happy

I've always struggled with this, even as a child. Being happy I mean. I think much of it had to do with the inculcated "vale of tears" philosophy of my Irish RC upbringing. The suspicious questions if I did look happy, given by all around me, teachers, priests, relatives: "And what are you looking so happy about?" as if it were a bad thing, as if I was up to no good. So yeah, happy became a burden, not to be flaunted, hidden away secretly, not talked about - I mean with all that suffering going on in the world, why would you be the one showing off there with your silly smile? Think of the starving orphans, those "Black Babies" in Africa, now wipe that grin off your face.

Shouldn't happiness be our default position in life? Allowing for the timeouts of grief and sadness and disappointment you'd think 90% of our lives should be filled with joy, bliss even. But no. I fight it at times. That old guilt thing again. Life would be better if.....only my knees didn't hurt....I had more money.....my health was better.

I was preparing a workshop today, #3 in a series I'm giving. I love this work. It is gratifying to see the large class, to be the encourager, the catalyst, the igniter at times. And I was reviewing and notating last week's homework and I realized how truly happy I was doing this work, loving this work. Not over the moon stuff, but a contentment that this is exactly the kind of life I'm meant to be living. A life that's making me happy.

I was on my occasional library shift yesterday and again, I got swept up in that feeling without being conscious of it then, as I stamped books and chatted with patrons about reading. That yes, this, this is exactly what I should be doing.

And hell, how happy is that?

Oh Death, We Know Thy Sting

Many blogs are topicking on death. Alan Rickman, David Bowie, Brian Bedford. It brings it all home, I suppose.

I remember my father when his mother died. He came down for breakfast. He'd had a long night with his mother. He was her favourite, the youngest of six and the only boy.

"My mother died last night," he told us at the table in this dispassionate voice and carried on eating his toast and drinking his tea.

"What are we going to do?" I remember asking him. I felt nothing. She was an odd woman, my paternal granny, though very good to me materially. My mother couldn't stand her, with reason, but that's another story.

"Nothing," he said coldly, "Just go on about your normal business."

I was 14. This was completely at odds with how my mother reacted to her father's death. We children didn't go to the funeral or attend any memorial masses.

It was only years later, when Dad and I would travel together that he would allude to his mother's birthday as it coincided with the times of our vacations.

"My mother would be 110 today," he'd say, offhandedly over the coffee, but I'd catch the tremor in his voice.

And later, if we were walking along or playing our nightly Scrabble game, or he off in the shower I'd hear him singing this song from beginning to end, note perfect, word perfect:



We never talked about it.

The Books of 2015

GOODREADS WWW REVIEWS

Previous Book Lists. Scroll down.


(1)The Woman Who Stole My Life - Marian Keyes(gift)****

(2)Rage Against the Dying - Becky Masterson*****

(3)Fallen - Karin Slaughter not rated, dropped, could not invest myself

(4)Eat, Pray, Love - Elizabeth Gilbert

(5)Maxine - Claire Wilkshire {BC}****

(6)Boundless - Kathleen Winter*****

(7)Walt - Russell Wangersky***

(8)Lost - Joy Fielding 0

(9)August - Gerard Woodward 0

(10)The Dwelling - Susie Moloney 0

(11)Natasha - David Bezmozgis****

(12)A Place Between the Tides - Harry Thurston**

(13)Sweetland - Michael Crummey*****

(14)Open House - Elizabeth Berg****

(15)The Son of a Certain Woman - Wayne Johnston*****

(16)The Time Between - Karen White*

(17)Home Safe - Elizabeth Berg**1/2

(18)A Confederacy of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole*

(19)The Post Mistress - Sarah Blake 0

(20)A Man Called OVE - Fredrik Backman*****

(21)House Rules - Jodi Picoult*

(22)The Cuckoo's Calling - Robert Galbraith (JK Rowling)*

(23)Lila - Marilynne Robinson****

(24)The Freedom in American Songs - Kathleen Winter****

(25)The Rules of Engagement - Anita Brookner*****

(26)The Bulgarian Connection - Fay Weldon 0

(27)Ordinary Mayhem - Victoria Brownworth*

(28)Life Before Man - Margaret Atwood*****

(29)Necessary Lies - Diane Chamberlain**{BC}

(30)The Ship of Brides - JoJo Moyes***

(31)The Devil You Know - Elisabeth de Mariaffi****

(32)So Beautiful - Ramona Dearing****

(33)Death Comes for the Archbishop - Willa Cather(re-read)****

(34)Surfacing - Margaret Attwood (re-read)****

(35)Frances & Bernard - Carlene Bauer*****

(36)Once Upon a Time There was You - Elizabeth Berg***

(37Sweetness in the Belly - Camilla Gibb***

(38)Pearl - Mary Gordon*****

(39)Life with Three Dogs - Abigail Thomas***

(40)The Divine Ryans - Wayne Johnston***

(41)The Daring Ladies of Lowell - Kate Alcott***

(42)The Friday Night Knitting Club - Kate Jacobs**

(43)First Frost - Sarah Addison Allen****

(44)The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt**

(45)The Girl on the Train - Paula Hawkins***

(46The Year of Fog - Michelle Richmond***

(47)The Invisible Wall - Harry Bernstein****

(48)The Smart One - Jennifer Close****

(49( All is Vanity - Christine Schwartz***

(50)Lost Lake - Sarah Addison Allen**

(51)Our Souls at Night - Kent Haruf*****

(52)A God In Ruins - Kate Atkinson*****

(53)Life after Life - Kate Atkinson*****

(54)You May Know Them - Ray Guy***

(55)Somewhere in France{BC} - Jennifer Robson*

(56)The Green Road - Anne Enright*****

(57)The Elegance of the Hedgehog{BC}***** (reread)

(58)The Love Song of Miss Queenie Hennessy - Rachel Joyce (companion book to The Pilgrimage of Harold Fry)***

(59)The Summer We Came to Life - Deborah Cloyed 0

(60)Don't Tell the Newfoundlanders - Greg Malone*****

(61)Snow Falling on Cedars - David Guterson****

(62)Rise & Shine - Anna Quindlen***** (I'm biased)

(63)Nora Webster - Colm Toibin - could not get passed the first 40 pages, tossed. 0

(64)The Time of Crystal Water - Katherine Gosier

(65)The Boy in the Trees - Mary Swan****

(66)The House at Riverton - Kate Morton****

(67)A Paperboy's Story - Kevin Lewis** Oddly clinical for such an emotional memoir.

(68)The Cure for Death by Lightening - Gail Anderson Daugatz**

(69)The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry - Gabrielle Zavin{BC}*****

(70)Saint Maybe - Ann Tyler**** (I think this is a re-read, familiar)

(71)Home - Marilynne Robinson - dropped could not engage

(72)An Imperfect Librarian - Elizabeth Murphy*

(73)Plain Song - Kent Haruf*****

(74)When Will There Be Good News - Kate Atkinson****

The very best, for me ~ unputdownables, with brief comments.

(1)Boundless - Kathleen Winter. A wonderfully written account of her journey to the Northwest Passage and her inner journey to herself. Not to be missed.

(2)Sweetland - Michael Crummey. An amazing novel of one man remaining on a resettled island outport off the coast and refusing to leave. Incredibly constructed. It deserved all the awards and accolades.

(3)Frances and Bernard - Carlene Bauer- wonderfully surprising read. For example: P152: "I am now beginning to see why people marry. It's necessary to have a bulwark against family - to have someone who is not imprisoned in the insanity and yet is close enough to it that his or her observations on the inmate population have the ring of objectivity."

(4)Pearl - Mary Gordon. Beautiful descriptive book that takes place mainly in Dublin. P161: "the demanding grammar of the Irish language." Yes.

(5)Our Souls at Night - Kent Haruf. I adore Kent Haruf so definitely prejudiced. Brilliant thoughtful writer.

(6) A God in Ruins - Kate Atkinson. P 71 "Teddy wondered if everyone had done well out of the war except for those who fought in it." Brilliant description of deadly warfare in WW2 from the air.

(7)Life after Life - Kate Atkinson. Brilliant.

(8)The Green Road - Anne Enright. P300: "The next morning she wondered what it was she had wanted before she wanted a drink." Beautiful story of a distant mother.

(9)The Elegance of the Hedgehog" - Muriel Banbury. Re-read for book club. Loved it all over again.

(10)The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry - Gabrielle Zevin. Adored.

(11)A Man Called Ove - Fredrik Backman. Charming, funny, emotional.

(12)Plain Song - Kent Haruf. Beautiful writing.


Biggest disappointments: "The Girl on the Train" and "Goldfinch" and "Nora Webster"

Also I tend to use books as pure and utter escapism so a non-fiction has to be really engaging before I consider it. Case in point for last year was "Boundless" and also "Don't Tell the Newfoundlanders." I read squadrons of "self-improvement" tomes for years until I came to the realization that every journey is unique and we self-improve (or not) as we toddle along. We all write our own stories.

The Wild East

There are many charms to living out here on the Edge of the Atlantic.

A week can't go by without fish or meat or a pot of stew or some baking being dropped off. And you try not to mention some lack or a problem in your life because it will be fixed, stat. And I'd be beholden, you know?

For instance, I whined about my old office chair a month or so ago, it was literally falling apart, I had replaced it with a $200+ new one a couple of years ago which crunched its own wheels out - much like an alligator chewing its own tail off - within 6 months of purchase. I had put the old beat up one in my shed, like you never know, and I was glad when I hauled it out again, though my sad arse was painful every time I rose up off its hard uneven seat and dicey uncertain back. Anyways, a friend picked up a spectacular government disposed beauty in St. John's for $20. I can assure you our politician's butts are well taken care of if they are getting rid of such fine pieces before their time. I'd say originally $400 or thereabouts of our precious tax dollars. Beautiful upholstery. That's what I mean. Newfoundland people are the best on the earth.

A well placed whine can work wonders out here on the Edge.

So here I am upstairs a few days ago folding laundry (one of my more peculiar habits, I fold every dang bit of laundry down to face cloths) when I hear gunshots. Many gunshots. Around my house.

I lurk behind my windows and spot four or five young people in camouflage across the road and down a bit firing into the hills behind my house.

I go out with my arms up. I'm more angry than afraid as Elder Dog has hidden herself, shaking, in a corner with her paws over her eyes.

"Hey, I say, stop it, stop it!"

I know, script fail.

"Wha', wha'?"

They turn as one to look at me.

"You're not supposed to be here," says the leader, shouldering his rifle.

"It's my house,"

"I know, I know that, but your car's not there!"

This all makes sense to Outeasters in a peculiar way, see here, and isn't the first time I've been challenged for not having my car in my very own driveway.

"You frightened the hell out of me!" I say with an edge.

"Oh we're real sorry, miss, real sorry, but it's the only place where we can target practise, we can't go into the woods or over the water or we'll be arrested!"

"But you can fire across a main road and shoot at private property?"

"The only place allowed, miss, sorry we'll pack up now, but where's your car?

"In the garage."

"Funny place to keep a car."

They're serious.

Bless Da Webz and All Who Sail on her.

Thank you Irish Examiner for this photo of a cillini

I was commenting on a friend's FB page, you know how that is. The chat was about all those nameless unbaptized babies buried in remote, separate burial plots all over Ireland. Tossed out like so much rubbish. There are thousands and thousands of such little babies. Read all about it here.

Can you imagine the grief of the parents? The RC church again and its superstitions and exclusions. When anyone says "Oh, it was the times" I always respond with "where was human compassion and charity - or are they just recent evolutionary traits in the human race?"

So well. I mentioned a cillini - a burial plot (if you could call it that) on an island off West Cork, where the unbaptized babies were. A large walled area without a stone or a cross or a sign. Rumour had it there were hundreds of such babies, stillborn, preemies etc. interred there. And some said those born severely handicapped were quietly done away with too. A haunted place for us children who explored it time and time again. These wee innocents were consigned to Limbo for all eternity, punished forever for something they had nothing to do with. Never to be seen by their parents even in the next world, whether heaven or hell. The cruelty of it all still has the power to take my breath away.

One of her other friends, not a friend of mine, came on board in the comments and asked me how he, a life long aficionado and visitor to Baltimore and Sherkin, had never known about this paricular cillini so I drew him a little map showing (roughly) where it was.

Then we got into this lively private conversation about Sherkin and our memories and the old people there and a small boat I would surreptitiously "borrow" and he in his turn did the same thing and the cranky lightkeeper who would chase us away from the lighthouse as he liked to go skinny dipping in Horseshoe Bay, and did I know about the island in WW2. It turns out he's over 80 and still climbing mountains. His age explains how our memories alight around the same people and places (and oh, what characters!) but he was that much older than me that our paths didn't intersect back then.

This webz business, great, yah?

And educational, if you have the fortitude and interest to click on all the links above.

A Story

Apart from this blog, I haven't been up to much original writing for I don't know how long.

And the other day I made a note when listening to someone talk about a white dress. The note said "white dress wispies." And a long ago day, when I was thirteen, flooded back into my mind as vividly as yesterday. I'll let the story speak for itself, though it probably needs a bit of editing.

A White Dress and Wispies

I was mad with excitement. A distant relative had sent a dress all the way from New York, white with a tiny gold belt. Mummy broke down and let me buy the gold ballet style shoes, known as “Wispies” - they came in fifty colours. My best friend Nuala had ten pairs in every colour under the sun and beyond. I was lucky to get this one magical pair.

A garden party. A final garden party in a huge old country house that was being turned over to the government as some kind of centre. And Daddy, representing local government, was taking me. It was ten miles away and no buses went out there but we were going on our bikes as we didn't own a car yet. We were used to long cycles to the seaside on Sundays when the weather was warm like today. I loved escaping from the house, from Mummy and all the younger ones and the crying baby. It was only afterward, when I was grown and gone, that I reflected on how unfair that was, Daddy escaping, Mummy stuck endlessly with four boys under ten with no relief.

I borrowed Mummy's pale blue angora cardigan with the pearl buttons and wore a pair of white gloves that I'd worn at my confirmation a couple of years ago.
“Pull that hair off your face,” Daddy said irritably before we set off. My long hair was an endless source of annoyance to him. Maybe because he was balding, I couldn't figure it out. So I ran upstairs and took a ribbon out of Mummy's old biscuit tin that housed her treasures. I took a minute to pull my thick hair up and back in a ponytail.

“You'll have a lovely time,” said Mummy at the door, waving us off, the baby on her hip, “Remember your manners!”

After we discreetly parked the bikes outside the main gate and went in, Daddy introduced me to Important People. I had been instructed to say “pleased to meet you,” and shut up. That was easy as I was very busy looking around at all the women in hats. All kinds of hats. And everything matched beautifully. There was champagne and Tanora and four people in a little pavilion playing classical music.

Getting bored very quickly while Daddy made conversation with strangers, I wandered off. I thought I might be the youngest there, for I saw no children. Waiters wandered around with trays, I followed one until he noticed me and handed me a linen napkin and then held out the tray. It was piled with all kinds of tiny delicacies. Hors d'oeuvres they were called - I'd read about them in a book but hadn't a clue how to pronounce it. I loaded down my napkin with morsels and proceeded to pop them one at a time into my mouth. The waiter rolled his eyes at me, I thought it quite rude, and marched off.

I sat down in front of the musicians and polished off the rest of the food. Laughter rolled in waves all about me, the polite meaningless kind. I applauded the musicians when they finished a piece but I was the only one and they ignored me. There was a sudden silence followed by the ringing of a bell and I got up and followed the sound to a dais where there were many officials, all well dressed men, Daddy amongst them.

Keys were being formally handed over to Daddy's boss whom I'd met earlier and then an old book was signed by two of them and a curtain at the back of the dais was pulled aside and the name of the new entity was emblazoned on a huge granite stone, and photographers were flashing bulbs and there was thunderous applause all around. An excitement I didn't feel. Not one bit. I looked around for more trays and spotted one at the back of the crowd with multi-coloured pastries and I charged off and smoothed out my crumpled napkin and helped myself to more than a few of the fresh delicacies.

I was still munching them when I was tapped none too gently on my shoulder.
“Go on! Leave! I'll follow you! Hurry up!” Daddy was very angry.
'You're a disgrace!” he said through tight lips, fastening his bicycle clips to his trousers, “I should never bring you anywhere!”
“What did I do?” I was bewildered, frightened.
“You'd think your mother would take care of you!” he was hissing now, I could tell he was disgusted.
“What's wrong, Daddy?”
“What's right would be more like it,” he climbed on his bike, “The embarrassment, the shame of this!”
“Ride in front of me, for God's sake!” he said as we pulled out on the bikes.

I was shaking but thought to not anger him further. The ride home was the longest I'd ever experienced. His displeasure shot holes in my back.

As soon as we got home he confronted Mummy, shepherding the three of us into the Front Room and slamming the door.

“She's a disgrace, she's a let down, in front of everyone. I'm telling you woman, that's the last time I'll ever be seen with her. I don't know how I can walk back into my office tomorrow. I'll be the talk of the town. And it's all your fault!”

Mummy was white, she was down to stuttering his name, like she always did when he turned on her.

“Turn around!” he said to me, grabbing my arm as if I wouldn't do it fast enough to please him.

“Oh my God!” said Mummy from behind me.

A white dress and my first period.