Immortality

Completed afghan (sofa blanket) spread to show detail.

Do we all strive for some form of immortality I wonder. Maybe not.

I've known some who scurry around inconspicuously, making time in quiet civil service type pensionable jobs, dreaming of days in future senior years of endless travel, mainly effortless cruises with none of that strange local food, thank you very much. Abroad with very little interest, if at all, in immersing themselves in local culture and peoples. There to merely group-shop and possibly summoning up enough energy to haggle with the local vendors, then scurrying back to the safety of the ship clutching shell laden gew-gaws to strew on those loved ones back home. Safe. Detached.

Then again, us more creative types or perhaps with less monetary choices, struggle on in our garrets: blogging, writing, painting, photographing, weaving, knitting, lace-making. I suppose it is an unconscious yearning for immortality. Who shall stumble upon my written ramblings and discourses, my now vast repertoire of knitted pieces, my photo-cards? Or not.

I have mementoes from my friends on my walls. Needlepoint, photos, paintings. Pottery. A wooden bowl. Not many. But it is in these I catch their spirits as I walk by. A comfort. Even when they are dead, as many are. They are immortal in the work they produced out of their very spirits.

"Here," they proclaim,"is a piece of me. Forever. Know I live on through you by these works."

Detail of lighthouse, ferry and my house from afghan.

Detail of reading, music and love of coffee.

Unfinished Business

A friend and I touched briefly on this today. Our loved ones are leaving us in droves it seems and there's a stark reminder in there of unfinished business left everywhere the moment we leave.

People plan to finish up tidily, don't they? At least my circle does. We joke about paying for the funeral in advance, putting all the papers in a neatly marked file with the label "Upon my Death" typed neatly upon it. And final blog posts logged under the same heading. Last will and testament neatly signed and witnessed, last piece of knitting finished, tax returns filed, bank accounts notated, all passwords in the death file.

I was struck by what surrounded my dearest friend Helen as she lay for the last time in her house. Her half-read book was particularly poignant. Her day planner full of bridge meets and book club gatherings and dinners and baby sitting preplans and vacations that would never be taken. For most of us are taken unawares. unprepared.

In the final weeks of lives, energies are often consumed with treatments and hospitals and surgeries and decisions and just trying to hang on.

In D....'s case, she had talked to me of her lists, her many bequests to friends, her gifts to the daughter taken from her. She worked so hard for her wealth, very hard, at one time her trusted manager had defrauded her and she had to rebuild it all. She wanted everyone who loved her to have something when she died. The list was extensive. Her lawyer was coming in to the hospital the following day to witness this will formally and legalize it. And she died 8 hours before the appointment. So now the lawyers have taken over and who knows if the courts will approve this list even though it was clearly her wish and witnessed, verbally, by her friends, me included.

I do have a death file, I do have a will, I do have DNR instructions, but I look around me here and think: mein gott, this office is, well, unreal. I know where everything is but will anyone else?

Dis & Dat

Grandgirl at 2 - her personality and joie de vivre haven't changed one bit.

We saw a great production of "Rock of Ages" last night. A trip into the Big City for us rural rubes, with a before show treat of an exotic dinner of Indian lamb curry with all the trimmings. A lovely night out. An advance Mother's Day gift to me as Daughter will be working on the real one in May.

We had some great weather, record high temperatures but outside right now? Wind, rain, all day. Fire going. Cosy indoors. Wretched outdoors.

Real moment of ohmygawd the years - where have they flown? - when Grandgirl forwards her university graduation photos to me yesterday. A burst into tears moment: pride in her, but a sense of loss and gratitude all mixed up. That I'm alive to experience this when so many don't make it. That she has grown up in a blink. Her world is her oyster now as she is considering grad school in Europe.

I've got a procrastination list as long as my arm. I'm living like some spoiled diva, knitting and reading and doing a bit of writing and living off the benefits of previous labour, i.e. frozen meals, bread and soups in my freezer. Recommend. Also ideas. I think I'd go mad without my brain generating ideas all the time. Some small, some large, some executed, some stored in one of 10,000 notebooks. Do I burn them all before I die?

But reality beckons, a few tax returns, some writing commitments and a completely deferred editing job. My brain just wasn't there. It's coming back. I need to straighten up and fly right.

So there I am. For now.

My Life Can Be Measured in.......

Well definitely: my life can be measured in knitting needles. Since I was 7. My father taught me to knit. He had five older sisters and observed them. He never touched the knitting needles as he taught me, he sat behind my chair and put my hands on the needles and directed them into casting on and plain and purling. I made messy scarves and doll clothes for a few years and at the age of 11 my mother brought me to Skibbereen (we stayed in Sherkin in the summer), took me to a wool-shop and allowed me to choose any colour of wool but only from the big basket that had the big "Sale" sign on it. It was either orange, white or this outrageous shade of green in the basket. I chose the green.

On the strand I worked hard at this jumper sweater pattern in DK wool. At the end of the summer I had this ginormous sweater. This was a good thing, my mother said, as it would warm up anyone coming out of the water from swimming. The freezing Atlantic made one's extremities a horrible mix of white and purple, and this mad jumper would fit anyone no matter the size. And it did. The warmup jumper, they called it. I have a picture somewhere and must find it. You could sit inside it on the sand and it covered you from forehead to toes, like a tent as you shivered your way back to pink only to plunge back into the water again.

I moved on. To making my own patterns and knitting up cardigans, jumpers, even a coat, in intricate aran patterns. In those days I didn't photograph my work, it wasn't considered an art form then but a necessity.

I knit many, many sofa blankets (afghans) as gifts.

One of my greatest joys for a while has been designing one specifically for a loved one, incorporating their lives into it.

This is one I'm working on at the moment for my Grandgirl. You can already see our story in it.

The tree of life with intermingled branches, the diamond for health and happiness linked to the cables for her mother and me, my house, the ferry, a lighthouse, the sea, and the last block I am working on has her love of books and music and coffee.

I have ripped the project out twice previously as I wasn't happy with the framing and gauge of each scene. Now I am thrilled with it.

These are her favourite colours.

Joy. A Commoner's Perspective. 1.

For DS

Sorting
Cards
From last year.
And there you
Are

Once again
You fly me glitter
From your
Soul
Across

Three
Thousand
Signposts
Of our
Friendship

Blue-green
Yellow-red
Brush
Strokes
Caressing

My eyes
Bringing
An eternal
Second of
Bliss

Safety

I ran into an old friend yesterday. I hadn't seen him in a while and he asked me how I was doing. I said it had been a rough time and he asked me why and I gave him the briefest of versions of the past year in my life and it was the oddest thing. Without a pause or reflective comment or even sympathy, he launched into this long narrative of how he was so much worse off. Ten minutes later I broke away from him. I felt like I'd been slapped.

I had a session with my counsellor an hour later - previously scheduled - and told him what had happened. I recognised that I needed to be even more careful with whom I share anything with for I can feel far worse afterwards. That crying in the wilderness thing.

My counsellor had me focus on the gifts that have sprung from my losses. And there were many. Not least of which is reevaluating my life now in light of these. He also had me talk about Missing Daughter and revisit that with the heart numbing thought that I am "dead" to her and may remain so. It's a fresh way of looking at this and I am grateful for that.

Healing is the underlying scaffolding of all of this. I keep thinking I'm ready to brace myself against the real world and then find I'm not. I'm unable to live superficially, it's a gift given to many but alas, I didn't make that particular cut. Many, many times I wished I was light and fluffy and could fiddle-dee-dee life's trials, both yours and mine. Or stay mum and wait for them to pass or even bury them.

The last few days have been rough, that Black Dog thing. I know there's an end in sight, I wish I knew when. Change is always nerve-wracking and emotional, even the changes wrought by intensive counselling sessions with the healing acceptance of the losses of former confidantes combined with the rejection of those I hold most dear.

No one gets a free pass, particularly as we age. It comes down to the tools we have to just deal.

I am grateful for those.

Ostara

I've never seen this written about.

How do you mentally visualize the calendar year?

In a long straight line with little flags for the season and/or birthdays and/or festivals?

Like a circle ending at New Year's?

I see it as an ovoid.

Something like this:

But unfortunately (for me)backwards as my Imbolc is on the left and down around to Samhain on the upper right before the year ends.

Today is the vernal equinox where day and night times are exactly the same length.

And Ostara - upon which the tradition of Easter is based - orginated with the goddesses. Like most festivals on the religious calendars, prominent female personae were erased or placed in secondary roles.

I remember seeing fertility goddesses in the stone carvings of ancient Irish churches. I imagine they were carved to appease the goddess worshipping "pagans" in an attempt to convert them to Christianity.

What an enormous body of knowledge and rituals and healing we have lost.

Mother Earth is not pleased.

Ostara

A Story

I must say I was glad of the distraction yesterday. The Old Black Dog is pacing. I say old as I feel he ages along beside me. Damned unpredictable though. I never know whether he and I are due for a long vacation together or a picnic or a weekend. He's almost a physical presence.

The distraction came in the form of a death notice. A life lived for 90 years. Memories came rushing back. They were an odd couple, Violet (call me Vi)and Richard. She was about 10 years older than him and fought it every day. A lot of energy into hair dying and styling and the shortest of skirts and the heaviest of makeup, the woiks, even first thing in the morning. I remember her startling eye-shadow which leaped from her face and the makeup caked in the wrinkles around her mouth. A chain smoker.

That era, we were all in our twenties, early thirties, Vi must have been in her forties, was full of weekends away, balls, heavy duty drinking in officers' messes, Scottish dancing, tartans and fun too. One word comes to mind when I think of Richard. Dignity. He was one of the most dignified men I've ever met. Ramrod straight, the removed look of an intellectual, and beautifully dressed, everything seemed to match. He was partial to bowties. I shared the odd in depth conversation with him. Vi was one of those women who swooped everywhere with a remarkable insensitivity to private conversations. Her voice was loud, her laughter raucous and she loved showing off her wild knickers in the ladies' room.

I'd wonder whatever they saw in each other.

My marriage broke up and I was very surprised when Vi and Richard kept in touch with me. Very few couples of that period in my life did as their loyalty was leaning more towards my now exed husband as it was his military affiliation and not mine.

On visits to their home with my younger daughter, while Vi cooked Richard would take YD and me to his den. He had a huge collection of model soldiers, laid out for the Battle of Waterloo on a vast model battlefield. Nearby, on an easel was a nearly finished rendition of an English cottage in beautiful needlepoint. I had assumed it was Vi's but was soon enlightened that in fact it was Richard's. When I expressed interest, he showed me some cushions and fire-screens he had completed, all meticulously executed in stunning colours.

Richard had been in the RAF in London, he told me, Vi was a telephone operator at HQ when they met. Vi was originally from Malta, had raised her brothers and sisters when her mother died in childbirth and her father took off. When she emigrated to England she had abandoned her Maltese origins and anglicised her name.

Richard was a voracious reader and could converse on any topic. Vi had to knock before entering his den, his one quiet space she told me, rolling her eyes and assuring me "she could be quiet too, but life was too short." Whatever that meant.

I've never forgotten their kindness to me when it seemed like many had turned their backs. It was a very difficult time in my life and their friendship was a comfort.

There were certainly sparks between Richard and me, no denying that. But I've never betrayed a friendship by poaching a partner. One of my rules of self-conduct.

Vi died about 10 years ago and Richard moved to his daughter's in Florida.

On reflection, I understand them a lot more now. Vi was haunted by her age and had her own battles every day. Richard was allowed his quiet space of reflection, mock battles, books and needlepoint.

And I rather think that crazy underwear tells another side of the story.

Change

Once the initial excitement is over, change, even planned change, exhausts me. My brain doesn't function properly, you should see me struggling with a knitting pattern I'm designing, or trying to make a municipal decision today.

I filled out the application for my new life, pretty please. It helps, the instructions said, if I can lay claim to a veteran in the family. I decided against hauling out my grandfather's (old)IRA fight for Irish freedom. Instead I focussed on his estranged son's (still alive - 90++) long international career in the RAF and my occasional participation and partying at local Canadian legions.

My resident friend called and said it was the best time to apply as residents were dropping like flies in the last few days, old age, transfers to extended care homes and one marriage.

Much as I hate jumping on another's misfortune, I had to laugh at the droll way she said it.

So I got my act together and signed and mailed off. Thank you for your service to the enemy, Uncle Michael.

First Step

I met with a dear friend for lunch yesterday to discuss all these crossroad changes I've been mulling. We're roughly the same age and have each other's backs from time to time as needed.

If I needed validation, I had to look no further. Her face lit up, she got completely excited and she burst out: "Oh my gawd, I can just see you here, oh my gawd, your wings can spread so wide here!"

It was flattering, sure. But she was also very down-to-earth in sharing her knowledge and expertise in the building she's in. I've been to her place for dinner but never "did the 5 star tour" and that's on the agenda soon. Meanwhile she's got the inside scoop on applications and references. It's an absolutely ideal spot for aging in place with support, minimum as it is, for tasks like twice weekly grocery shopping in a mini-van around the city for those who don't drive or have surrendered their licences. Free laundry facilities, a communal garden for planting, a covered patio area with BBQs and other etceteras to make life interesting. Many of the residents still work (she does) and community involvement is left with the individual tenant.

I am quite excited about this which tells me a lot. It may take months and months to activate the second step as there may be a waiting list, she's very well connected with the board of directors so private information will be delivered to me also.

I'll track the whole process here as I know a lot of my readers are on cusps of transition too, whether internal only or ready to make a bigger leap.

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.