Random thoughts from an older perspective, writing, politics, spirituality, climate change, movies,knitting, writing, books, refinishing furniture, getting off the grid, writing, plotting and planning an organic garden, writing.
I MUST STAY DRUNK ON WRITING SO REALITY DOES NOT DESTROY ME.
Us elders don't write enough about the exhaustion we feel. We put on brave and stoic faces. Well some of us do. Tasks seem to stretch out into infinity. Decisions are made about dishes vs bed-making. How many stops can I make today, library, bank, pharmacy, shop, coffee meet-up. Mentally I know I can only manage 2. Where's my wife, shouldn't she be doing the rest of the stops? Oh, I forget. It's only me. Note I didn't say husband. He'd be busy getting the oil changed (I have to do that too) but he might make dinner and shop the insurance rates. Oh yeah, I do all that too. I know there are exceptions to these hide bound female/male categories, not that I see any around me. Solo maintenance takes a hell of a lot of energy.
In case you're thinking this is all a whinge and whine, well, you'd be right.
Overwhelm is a weird condition. I don't want it. It seems to be a choice. Either ignore the list (and watch your world fold in on itself) or succumb and start ticking those boxes.
We did an hour this morning on the CBC call-in show. Talking, talking, listening, engaging, being nice. Mein Gott, it is exhausting. We were geared up then about the next communique going out to media across Canada but when we left the studio, didn't we sort of collapse in exhaustion. Unexpected then but truly no surprise when you think about it. Having headphones and engaging with listeners is tiring. Very tiring.
Though we looked right perky as we did it. Afterwards, I fell on my bed fully clothed and slept like a drunk after a bender.
When I awoke, I quickly got enraged at someone's assumption I was pushing close to 80 (it is 4 years away STILL) and that basically (she said) it was a huge stretch for me to even be web literate and then commented "God love her" as if I was some pitiable basket case drooling over my keyboard trying to find the enter button.
Easily irritated by assumptions, that's me. Old habits die hard. I don't suffer fools gladly and never have. But she did me a favour. Rage imbues me with unhealthy energy.
I thought you might like these pics on Sunday Smatterings today. They were both taken by Cliff Doran who is a lightkeeper around these parts and I'm telling you, his pics are something to behold. Wild life, sunsets, his lighthouse, you name it. Stunning.
The first one is in St. Shott's, you get the sense of the power of the Atlantic, whipped up by Dorian. I do wonder about all those shipwrecks underneath those churning combers not allowed to rest yet again.
The second one is where Daughter lives. She's high on a hill overlooking the sea there and we had spoken today about the fierceness of the ocean at her feet and those huge waves. This spot is where all the humpbacks come in - they left only a few weeks ago and she spotted a minke only a couple of days ago.
Having a wonderful time with friends from Ontario who are staying in St. John's for a few days.
We were out at Cape Spear yesterday - the furthest easterly point in North America - and they took the shot below among many others. They are entranced on this, their first trip to the Edge of the Atlantic, and are already planning another one!
A whale bounced up to greet them. And they were in awe.
The weather is magnificent but the big but is Dorian heading our way with some high winds. Nothing like the Bahamas and - ahem - Alabama, but still slightly worrisome.
In other news:
I see the people of Ireland held a magnificent parade for Mike Pence's visit to his great-grandmother's home.
We never predicted anything like this. Seriously. The whole movement has taken on a life of its own and we are planning for a type of town hall meeting in a few weeks where politicians will be invited to answer questions from seniors.
We have a federal election coming up so this is all very timely.
I have been exhausted from the interviews and talks and planning and responding and dealing with those who want instant answers and telling me how to run the group in no uncertain terms and quite aggressively.
I am learning so much and was let down quite badly by one interviewer (radio) who distorted my words. He wanted me back to the studio with a few more seniors to interview but I am x-naying that due to lack of trust. Lesson learned: Tape my own audio along with theirs.
I've booked beach time with family tomorrow, it would be good to see little ones with buckets and spades and sand-castles and I will knit, as I always do, on the beach. And we will picnic.
I ordered a pink cardigan on line, on sale. Do you ever do spontaneous shopping like that? It's effortless and immediate. i thought the cardie looked lonely and realized before I pushed buttons that I didn't have a pinkish scarf (I'm a mad one for the scarves, alright) out of this enormous collection of scarves I have, so ordered another sale item: a black floaty scarf with large pink flowers. Then those charcoal grey socks looked comfy and then there was a grey bra, I'v never owned a grey bra and it matched those socks - I know irrelevant so there you have it. The basket. On its way.
I've never been a pink girlie person, never, so this should be interesting. I loved the lines of the cardie and every other colour had sold out. (Ha!). But I remember, of all things, my sister=in-law's mother wearing a lovely pink cardie over a grey turtleneck with matching grey linen pants and I thought she looked stunning.
This is inside the mind of a person completely bowled over by all that is happening around her who wants to run for the hills. But grips her computer and credit card tightly and clicks on silly things.
So the media coverage on this has been phenomenal and we will be featured in a TV programme airing tonight.
We are prepping for the official launch tomorrow and more elders in poverty are coming forward with their stories.
So I'm keeping you all in the loop, my dear blog buds.
I completely forgot to take pics of the camera crew and set up of the 2 hour interview yesterday. Swept up in all the attention and trying to remember how to speak my words. This has been bigger than we ever hoped to achieve.
Today we rehearse and gather our props (more on that later) and gear and handouts and organize the presentation in both a humourous and heart plucking way. Difficult. More on that when it is behind us.
But meanwhile, here are the two piles of dishes that were bathed in my loving suds this morning.
We launch our Support our Seniors activist group this Thursday. The preparation has been exhausting and exhilarating all at once. I curse my mobility issues at times. I want to be bouncing around as in the olden days, plastering up posters and engaging citizens on this crisis of seniors (mainly women) living below the poverty line.
I launched the Facebook page. I prepared posters both large and small. My partner in crime secured all the links for our data, oh the statistical data. Binders and binders of it. She did the running around to community centres and grocery stores slapping them up. A younger media savvy friend gave me every single media contact she had in her precious index.
Grandgirl designed the logo. Isn't it smashing? Sinking below the wave of poverty with a lifebelt hovering above out of reach.
Do you think T-shirts are called for?
Some of the seniors in my building are energized with this, like they've come to life outside of the cliquey, gossipy circles in the gardens and community rooms. This can only be a good thing. We've deliberately held some of our meetings, including a rehearsal, in the building and I can see them lurking and listening from the balcony. (We truly have a gorgeous building and gardens, I must take photos)
So fingers crossed, I won't be webbing much in the next few days apart from wrangling new members for our FB group, but I'll get around to reading y'all soon.
I found this meme on the web and it speaks to my heart.
Along with a photo of a trail which River herself has walked.
George, I'm getting fed up with Mother. You know how that is. She keeps reliving the glory days of the one time she completed the 100 metre dash in the Olympics for France. She didn't even place, but it made her an expert on all things running, hiking, walking and marathoning.
Let's face it, George, I was a disappointment to her. I was the type of athlete that fell over her own shoelaces. I tried, of course, in my teenage years, but I'm more the intellectual type as you know. The fact that I'm a physicist Mother finds so amusing. She's always apologizing for the way I've turned out.
Now that she's in the wheelchair, I guess you could say she's sure in a permanent state of furious immobility. She always dresses in her favourite coral tracksuits and I have to wheel her out every day onto the rocky trail near the home. But not before she demands her "perils". Mother has never mastered the English language even though she moved to the UK long before I was born. So I fetch her pearls for her and place them around her neck. Incongruous really with the track suit. Then I have to make sure she wears that ridiculous lampshade of a hat, that huge purple beast, so that the sun won't damage her perfect skin. You could at least take your turn doing all this, George. Stop avoiding her. And me.
Honestly, George, it's a miracle I don't upend that wheelchair and let it slide down the cliff.
I put all names in the hat to receive my cards and bonus, added another card so extracted 6 names rather than 5.
So here they are:
Cup on the Bus
River
Gigi from Hawaii
Twilight
Tom (Sightings)
DKZ
I am also sending one to Elephant's Child in thanks for her mailing a beautiful Monet bookmark and card to me ( I have your address EC).
So please, send me your snail mail addies ASAP to wisewebwomanatgmaildotcom. You know what to do with those ats and dots.
In other news the show was a roaring success, sold out both shows. I can't tell you how thrilled I was to be back on stage again but more so it was around the special type of energy that only a theatre crew can produce, it is highly intimate and gratifying.
My birthday was wonderful in every way. I do wish I had more energy, I know this seems like a constant bleat from me but hell, aging, winding down, you know. One of my siblings sent me the most wonderful email and I will treasure it. As some of my family of origin need some massive healing this meant more than I can say. It's never too late to "do the work" as a wonderful shaman once told me. And it is good and rewarding work to throw out the old patterns and embrace the joy.
A dear friend treated me to the most wonderful gift, a writers' festival weekend in Cape Breton. The brochure above has a painting done of her thirty years ago. This painting will be auctioned off at the end of the festival. The painter has dementia now, a beautiful talented woman with that wonderful long flowing white hair many of us desire in elderhood but are rarely gifted with.
I decided to fly. I've been adverse to flying for a few years now. I don't truly know why. Grandgirl convinced me as did my generous friend. One of those elder "notions". I can get assistance, and it's not about that, truly. It's the airport and cramped seats and overall discomfort and herding cattle atmosphere. Anyone else feel like that or is it just moi? I mean I'd fly at the drop of a hat before but now it's with a feeling of dread.
So onward as I embrace the new year for me ahead. We just never know, do we, what lies ahead and that's a very good thing, I would think.
This week's words are hosted by River. Go visit her and see what others are up to.
Here are the words:
1. "then I was going to bed, where I planned to stay until Christmas"
2. "I'm always careful," I said calmly, stepping straight into a puddle.
And here is the picture:
I'd suspected he hadn't been paying attention to me for quite a while. When we travelled to Lucezia, his idea, backpacks, keeping it simple, hostel staying, his ignoring of me got worse. He was preoccupied. But not in an attractive, intellectual way. More like his face wore a permanent 'I'm not with her' grimace walking way ahead or way behind me. I thought he might be going deaf. I began to test the waters, so to speak.
Like walking along Gallery Lane, I started talking away to him.
"I think I might be six months pregnant," I announced.
"If you insist," he responded, in this dead flat voice, and stopped in front of the ice-cream booth, not looking at me as usual.
"I'm always careful" I said calmly, stepping straight into a puddle, deliberately splashing mud and petrol all over his fine khaki pants. He didn't even notice.
He bought himself a gelati and started licking it absently as he walked away from me. Like I wasn't there. Like I never had been there.
"Stop!" I screamed after his retreating back, his muddy pants. He ignored me. As always.
I ran to catch up, it wasn't hard, slightly uphill.
I wasn't through with him yet. Not by a long shot. For now, I would try once more to connect with him, then I was going to bed, where I planned to stay until Christmas.
My attention here will be sporadic as I have two performances coming up. Yay! - we sold out the first show but the toll on this old body will be what it is.
Along with that there is a Lughnasadh party on Friday which will be attended by my local coven including Daughter. Co-incidentally it's on my birthday, which will mark 76 turns around the sun completed.
On top of that we have the ongoing preparation for our Seniors' Activism Group and then the grand media announcement/press release, with a number of demands on government to ease the plight of so very many senior women living well below the poverty line. That is all geared towards August 29th. It was supposed to be at City Hall but hey, no parking, no access for disabilities and unbelievable liability insurance for a 2 hour gathering, no assistance with put up and tear down of tables, chairs and mikes. Our tax dollars at work. We were furious but will expose all that at a later date. For the moment we concentrate on rallying senior anarchists. We are now looking towards hosting this at a kindly nearby church.
Plans are afoot for September, a trip out here by a couple of dear friends, we should be able to spend 4 days together before they tour the rest of the province, a weekend away on a knitting retreat on Bell Island with my niece - another avid knitter - and then a week away in Cape Breton Island with another friend whom I stayed with last year. I'm beginning to haunt her, I'll have to watch that.
So all in all some lovely plans. I am learning to pace myself. I turned down a studio TV interview tomorrow morning as I knew I would be zapped for the rest of the day and my performance would suffer.
This month's W4W are being hosted by River. Thank you River! You can find her here. Please visit and see what others are doing with the words and maybe join in yourself. It's a lot of fun cranking up the writerly wheels.
He left the building and discovered his legs couldn't quite hold him up. The day had been so full of promise and expectation and now this crushing disappointment. So he sat down abruptly on the bench outside, throwing his portfolio underneath and fishing a used drink-cup out of the garbage can next to him so he would look like he was busy and not seething and shaking internally. He glanced upwards again at the fourth floor of the publishing house and found the peppermint coloured ornamental blind he had sat next to as the two editors sliced and diced his work.
Maybe the publisher was unfamiliar with his type of manuscript? Surely Gothic-Crime-Romance-Anime was a recognized style? But to be met by derision and a plethora of vaguely hostile narrow-eyed expressions? What was all that about?
His head was spinning. He was grateful to his uncle for setting up the interview with his college friend the publisher. But he hadn't anticipated such mendacious behaviour.
He sighed deeply and collected his portfolio from under the bench.
"Grant? Your name's Grant?" Her voice was low and gentle. Ah, the pretty receptionist from the lobby. He nodded.
She looked around her carefully and then sat down next to him.
"I was the first reader of your work cos I'm training to be an editor," she whispered in a rush, "And I believe you have terrific talent. These guys you met today? They steal a lot of ideas from young writers like you and pass them on to TV studios for production and compensation. But," and here she stopped and handed him a business card, "Here's the contact info for my sister, who's a literary agent. You call her and tell her I sent you. You need to be published and stop this thievery!"
Two words I don't see anymore and I am sure the two generations in my life don't know their meanings.
I remember a counterpane on my grandparents' bed.
What a wonderful word.
coun·ter·pane
/ˈkoun(t)ərˌpān/
Learn to pronounce
nounDATED
a bedspread.
synonyms: bedspread, cover, coverlet, throw-over, blanket, afghan, quilt; More
++++++++
There was crockery in their simple homemade cupboard beside the open range.
crock·er·y
/ˈkräk(ə)rē/
Learn to pronounce
noun
plates, dishes, cups, and other similar items, especially ones made of earthenware or china.
synonyms: dishes, pots, crocks, plates, bowls, cups, saucers; More
+++++++++
My daughter's cat Mango. He has a full time job catching mice and shrews for his bosses, the local crows, who scream and yell at him if they are not happy with his overnight haul. He crashes out during the day, exhausted. The odd time, he talks back at them in a strange chirpy language they seem to understand and they shut up. We like to imagine what he says.
+++++++++
The last time I was in Paris I took this picture from the wee balcony of our tiny hotel. Some pictures bring back a flood of memories. This one does it for me.
I've never fit the mold, always chafed against the grain, railed against the "rules" of male and female behaviour, the so-called gender wars, that artificial societal construct which keeps us all firmly in pink and blue, dresses and lumberjack outfits, pearls and guns, advanced mathematics or home economics. (whatever do they call that now?). And effing well knowing our places in a civilized society. I am still looking for mine. Maybe it's because I'm not civilized in the traditional sense. No time for small talk, even less for braggadocios of whom many exist in my family of origin. Mainly of the male persuasion.
It was such a relief to be with one of my Sheilas last week as we share a lot of giggles over the behaviours of our family when we get together. The men never cease bragging loudly and long. If an emotion escapes in the room it is quickly stamped out. The men can swiftly round on us, the single spinstery women, with pitying glances. We can't afford the multiple cruises, or the wealthy clubs, or the endless travel hither and yon, hotels compared knowingly for the quality of spas and steaks. We live in poverty. But, and here's the codicil, it's all our own fault. We should have been nicer to the fellahs who would have taken proper care of us. We're not nice, you see. We don't tumble into that gender slot where the demure wee elderly attached "girls" peep out now and again to approve of the above mentioned luxurious life styles and vote as their fellahs do. "Sure he does all the thinking for us, it's grand." We are expected to admire the expensive dresses, the costly tans, the talking fridges, the marble floors.
I may sound bitter, I am far from it. Sheila and I laughed until we were sick. How we put in what we called "purgatory time" under the harsh glare of our families, she more than me as they live closer and drop in and judge her or broadcast of German river runs, Greek islands and Amazon tours. We exchanged tips on how to respond to the bragging when addressed directly. "Nice", "Interesting," were the favourites.
We also make excellent targets if we bring up the Family Dysfunction. We are immediately shouted down, told never to open those particularly doors even though most in the room could use massive therapy and unwittingly display it with endless loud hostilities towards the One Who Dared mention it.
It's such a comfort when you know you're not alone in a baffling universe not of your own making. Where everything is so superficial and Trump's not a bad fellah and climate change is for stupid arseholes who believe anything. If you believed in God you'd know that He wouldn't let anything bad happen to his creation. QED.
A "normal" male cousin, who's had the therapy and whose heart is open, sent me a long email during the week and enclosed a picture taken when I was around 7. Our two mothers (sisters) are at the back. And our families side by side in age as we were then. I had forgotten I wore corrective lenses for a few years.
This meme was started by Delores a long time ago. Computer issues led her to bow out for a while. The meme was too much fun to let go, and now Words for Wednesday is provided by a number of people and has become a movable feast.
Essentially the aim is to encourage us to write. Each week we are given a choice of prompts: which can be words, phrases, music or an image. What we do with those prompts is up to us: a short story, prose, a song, a poem, what have you. We can use some or all of the prompts.
Some of us put our creations in comments on the post, and others post on their own blog - please provide the link to your blog in the comments. I would really like it if as many people as possible joined in this fun meme, which includes cheering on the other participants. If you are posting on your own blog - let me know so that I, and other participants, can come along and applaud.
Huge thanks to everyone who joins in the fun and/or comments.
First of all, a clip from one of the greatest Irish fiddlers.
And then two lists of 4 words each.
Subway*
Question*
Library*
Bench*
Voice*
Organize*
Fishmonger*
Horizon*
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Before I read anyone's story I post my own:
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THE DUET
Her head was down, already full of the pressures of the day as she stepped off the subway train. He stopped her in her tracks, what time was it, seven in the morning. And there he was, no question, playing the fiddle on the platform, sitting on the fancy wooden bench with the dedication plaque to some long dead commuter, his worn leather hat turned upside down to catch the coins.
She rooted in her purse, stirred by the melody, the voices of her grandparents coming back in such a rush that tears sprang to her eyes. On a sunny day, when business died down in mid afternoon at the fishmonger’s in Ballydehob, Granda would sit outside on his chair tuning up his old violin, his eyes fixed on the distant horizon in the harbour in front of the shop. Playing for all the emigrants in Americay, he’s say, all the ones that were starved out of here in The Great Hunger.
The fiddler stopped and smiled and thanked her for the couple of toonies she threw in the hat. Can I ask you a question, she said. He nodded. I’m organizing my ancient music portfolio for publication, she said, I have quite a library of these old Irish melodies, can you tell me the name of what you just played, I don’t think I have it in the collection.
Lord Mayo’s Lament, he said, it’s been in my family for generations. Do you play?
Oh yes, she said, I’m in the Toronto Symphony Orchestra, we’ve got five hours of rehearsals starting early this morning. She hesitated. But..... and she stopped again and gulped and looked at him as he started to play. Carbery’s Reel
Without thinking, she laid her violin case on the bench beside him and withdrew her beautiful violin.
Carbery’s Reel tingled in her fingers. And she tuned up and played alongside him as her grandfather had taught her, the wild music of West Cork coming alive in her very bones.
The tiny voice, enticing, pulling me towards the source, a source of what? I need to find out.
I ignore the old voices telling me all the downsides clicking like rosary beads, so many beads. Sorrowful mysteries. Click click. Lie down, be quiet. Not for you. Never for you.
I answer with why not, so many times I lose track.
It's the why nots that set me on fire, answering the call willingly when it comes.
Then I say yes, like Molly in Ulysses. Many yeses, cancelling all those nos, all those fears, all those hesitations. Yes, Yes and then Yes some more.
In spite of. Because of. YOLO coming late to me.
They say you're funny and amazing and one of a kind.
This pen and ink drawing hangs in my bedroom where I see it every morning.
In between stuff like a corporate tax return and rehearsals and the book launch of a friend and social gatherings and working on SOS, the Support Our Seniors mandate we are putting together (fact checking is a job unto itself), I am trying to find time to work on my new card. And design a new afghan (sofa blanket) for a niece who's getting married.
It's all quite wonderful, I feel confident in the stage work and we are having our first cast party tonight so we get to know each other a little better. I try and pay attention to the spoon theory which I wrote about before. When I do, I find my life balances out a lot better. Exceeding my spoons makes me cranky and exhausted and well, useless to myself and others.
I wish I'd arrived at the stage sooner where I didn't give a rat's what anyone thought of me. What causes these insecurities do you think?
I remember being enormously self conscious starting at about 13. I was way taller than my parents and the comments of extended family would crush me. "Where did you get her?" "What are you feeding her?" "She'll be patting your heads soon!" And on. Then the breasts. Men would leer at me, a child, on the streets, so much so I would bind my breasts as these men frightened me in ways I couldn't articulate. I remember being singled out at rehearsal for a school play when I was 14 (I had a great voice and good articulation) when the director shouted at me in front of everyone "Stop walking around as if you're ashamed of your very existence!" My father said to me when I was about 16, with a heartbroken look on his face: "Your brains have been wasted on a girl."
Those words stick and damage and hurt and shame forever. I felt terribly lost, ugly, too intelligent, too introverted, too out of place, too everything.
I hit the age of 19 and suddenly I found the solution to all these insecurities. Alcohol. With a few drinks I could charm the pants off anyone, sing at the drop of a hat, pack up the guitar and throw down the self-consciousness, hang with intellectual friends, not be ashamed of all my reading, my questioning, my stage-work and not feel out of place anywhere.
Alcohol saved my life for about 10 years.
Then it slowly began to turn on me and for the next ten years it owned me, body and soul.
This meme was started by Delores a long time ago. Computer issues led her to bow out for a while. The meme was too much fun to let go, and now Words for Wednesday is provided by a number of people and has become a movable feast.
Essentially the aim is to encourage us to write. Each week we are given a choice of prompts: which can be words, phrases, music or an image. What we do with those prompts is up to us: a short story, prose, a song, a poem, what have you. We can use some or all of the prompts.
Some of us put our creations in comments on the post, and others post on their own blog - please provide the link to your blog in the comments. I would really like it if as many people as possible joined in this fun meme, which includes cheering on the other participants. If you are posting on your own blog - let me know so that I, and other participants, can come along and applaud.
Huge thanks to everyone who joins in the fun and/or comments.
I've stuck to the picture and eight words prompt format. I used a word generator for the second list and I think the results are pretty challenging, but have at it. It should be fun!!
(1)
Mountain
Scrabble
Traffic Lights
Insane
(2)
Arrival
Lasso
Wonder
Gadget
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Posted Later - my story.
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It was good to leave the traffic and lights and noise of the city behind. How long had it been since he had seen the clear night sky? Light pollution was everywhere.
He had his life packed into one over-sized duffel-bag. It had taken him a week of brooding. Stella had been insane with rage, her eyes blazing, her mouth spewing language he hadn’t heard since his stint in the marines. She demanded he leave. She shouted his PTSD was his problem and not hers and he needed help, why wasn’t he getting help? She couldn’t live with him anymore. She had packed his bags and tossed them onto the driveway.
He knew if he opened his mouth she would be in danger as he could feel the burning in his fists. He loved her. He would not hurt her. He turned and left, picking up his belongings from the driveway, throwing them in the jeep, screeching off, pounding his angry fists off the wheel.
He checked into a Super 8 after 100 miles of savage driving and phoned his employer and said he needed time off as he wasn’t well and he hung up before Jim could respond. He lay on the bed for a prepaid week, getting up to use the bathroom and eating rubbish purchased in two bags from the 7-11 next door following his arrival.
On day seven, he remembered Scott, his buddy from Afghanistan. Scott and his cabin up in the mountain. They would play Scrabble every chance they got in the safety of their tent in the desert. He smiled for the first time in what seemed liked years. He needed to lasso the remnants of his former life. Scott had extended an open invitation last month when he called from a payphone in his local village up in the Appalachians.
“The wonder of my mountain,” he said, “Is all yours, buddy. Come and be still. But leave the gadgets and devices. You need to spend time with my pet fox, Maggie.”
All were invited back to the house where Lorca had arranged for caterers to provide a light lunch and a river of booze. George stayed very much in the background, surprisingly unmoved by his new status of widower, wandering around the grounds with his two orphaned teenagers and his own stray, now a sullen young man riddled with facial hardware and tattoos.
The rest of us partied long and hard, the tide-pool of her friends sharing more deeply as the night descended and the garden lights came on. The talk always circling back to the monks. Speculation and conjecture running rampant across our conversation, dipping and swooping and catching and holding. She never. I wouldn't put it past her. Remember how, well, sexual, her solos were? Those old hymns given a new husky spin? The monks were lapping it up. Yes, they were. And to bury her. Brazen. In their very own cemetery. What kind of statement was that? I mean another fifty years and more monks would be interred. Poppy surrounded by over a hundred monks.
And that was when we all fell apart. George and Liam, together, coming in to Poppy's vast living room, stopping, thunderstruck, finding all of us heaped in various positions on the furniture and floor, loosened by countless glasses, howling in helpless laughter.
