Christmas Miscellany

When I was a child I lived on a farm in the heart of Ireland. There wasn't much air traffic then and whenever an airplane flew overhead in early December my mother called us children to the front steps. Standing on tip toe we'd shout our greetings as loudly as possible to Santa. We believed that the pilot of the plane was sent by Santa b to make sure we were still living at the farm.Our excitement was so immense and overwhelming that we kept shouting long after the plane with it's vital information disappeared among the clouds.

Santa brought my younger brother Andy a carpentry set when he was about three. Daddy carried him into the kitchen so that he could show it to Bob our older brother. He was busy trying to put a wooden puzzle together on the table and refused to look up. Suddenly he felt a sharp knock on the top of his head, he shouted before dramatically pretending to fall to the floor. On his descent he hit his head off the edge of the dresser and was knocked out!

My older brother and I began to wonder if Santa was real. Some of our school friends had been talking and not all of them believed in him anymore. It was very worrying. Bob decided that we should set a trap. Our presents from Santa were always left at the bottom of each bed. If Santa was real we'd soon find out.
There was a roll of strong twine in the shed and we took the kitchen scissors and went out there to cut a long piece of it.
'What are you two doing.?'
Daddy was standing there in the doorway. I had the piece of twine wrapped around my hand the way adults do it and Tom was holding the scissors.
'Well?' Daddy asked 'What are you doing?'
'We're going to set a trap for Santa,' I told him. 'It's all Bob's idea.'
'No, it's not, it's you too,' my brother protested.
'Tell me about the trap and maybe I can help you,' said Daddy.
'We're going to tie this piece of twine onto the inside knob of my bedroom door Bob explained. We'll tie the other end to the back of the chair inside the door. When Santa comes he won't see the twine and when he opens the bedroom door the chair will move with the door -- and I'll hear it.
'And if Santa is there what will you say to him?' Daddy asked.
We hadn't thought about this.
'Well if I was Santa I'd be very disappointed to be found out,' Daddy said 'and I'd take all the presents to some poor child who doesn't have a lovely Christmas like you do. But if you are dead keen to set a trap I'll help you, what do you think?'
'It's alright Bob,' spoke ruefully.' I don't want to see Santa after all.'
'I don't either,' I said as I began to cry.
'That's good Daddy,' said 'and I know that Santa will bring you lovely presents if you really believe in him.'


That Christmas Santa brought me a doll's pram because I believed in him. Months later when the March winds blew and the smoke curled over the roof of the house I dressed my gorgeous cat Minnie the Moucher in a pink baby's dress. She was delighted and purred loudly when I put her in the pram and covered her with a soft blanket. I placed the pram near to the little stool which I sat on beside the fire. Children's Hour was on the radio and a lady was telling a story about a potato called Sammy Spudd. Our elderly neighbour, Paddy Hogan, who came to visit us during the winter evenings arrived just as the story finished.
'Have you got a baby in that little pram?' He asked
'Oh yes,' I told him 'and the baby's asleep. She's teething and it was hard enough to get her down.'
 'A difficult baby,' Mammy laughed as she handed Paddy a cup of tea and some apple tart.
Daddy, with the cold of the evening clinging to him soon joined us beside the fire. He had tea and apple tart too.
Paddy always had great stories to tell.That particular night he had a tale about a a haunted house. 'Every night in April', he said mysteriously,' near to the time of the full moon, a knock came to the door of that old house. The owners had been warned not to open the door under any circumstances. But there's always a stubborn man to be found you know. And one Christmas Eve a loud the knock was heard -- like this' -- said Paddy as he banged and banged his walking stick on the flagstone floor. There was commotion within the pram and a creature with four legs, a furry face and dressed in pink leaped over Paddy's chair
'Well holy God,' Paddy gasped, 'It's alive!'

A Christmas liturgy is special wherever it occurs. Long ago in our small country church a parishioner came to worship well fortified in mind and body against the cold. The choir had been practicing carols for weeks and when organ music filled the air and 'Hark the Herald Angels Sing' echoed around everyone listened in admiration. But the fortified Angel got carried away and kept singing 'Gloria in Excellencies Deo' when the choir had long since fallen silent.The embarrassed celebrant clapped his hands and said kindly, 'thank you, thank you very much.'
'Father O'Brien -- that's my Aunty, ' a child called out loudly. 'Let her sing us another song before you start talking.'

Names have been changed to save embarrassment!

Happy Christmas Everyone and all good things in the New Year.

Children's Stories

                                                                 Children's Stories

   I'm always looking for a special treat at Christmas time -- for myself of course! Invariably I choose a book I've heard about which has a not too demanding story, maybe based on an historical figure or something unique from the imagination of the author. Often during my search through bookshelves, I'v been drawn more than once to the latest children's stories displayed invitingly on tables.Christmas is a time for such indulgence. It's the season to re-live memories of being read to at bedtime. And memories too of being older and hiding under the blankets to read a good story by torchlight!

   I'm thinking about this because I've just downloaded Linda Talbot's latest tale for kids which is published free with Smashwords.

   In A HAZARDOUS HIKE TO PARADISE
   the author writes about FIFI AND THE SWIFTIFOOTS and
   how they found THE FLOWERS OF PARADISE.

She describes mushroom people, a lost fairy and the creatures they collect on a house hunting trek through time. Apart from being mesmerized by the fantastical and colourful nature of Linda's writing, I'm sure you will particularly enjoy the wonderful illustrations by Swedish Artist Diana Munz.. Her work is captivating and awe inspiring. Where would you find such a combination of talent available for all ages who love the world of fantasy? Take some time this Christmas to download, enjoy and share some rare,intriguing and captivating make believe.

Cretan Gold

We've had bad storms here in western Crete during the past two weeks. The winds wrapped around the house. At first we thought these were from the north but the winds of Crete are all embracing, come from the four corners of the island and manage to penetrate all areas. The rain was torrential, like straight rods of cold liquid which bounced, and spat and lashed against the paved pathways, the streets and lanes. Local olive farmers were unable to work while at the olive mill the operatives had an opportunity to catch up with a backlog.

But it was not the end of the harvest for this year. The sun shone again two days ago and it has become warm and dry outside. Once again we can see the pickup trucks loaded with bags, slowly making their way to the mill. There are cars too, whose boots are packed with hessian bags of olives balanced precariously over the edge. On top of a load of bags a dog or two often stand guard looking even more satisfied than the owner of another bountiful crop.

Cretan olive oil is golden green, fragrant and delicious. It is a precious product which has been for centuries the source of good health and longevity among the inhabitants of Crete. It is said that greener oil will have a stronger aroma and a richer taste. However, if you empty a little olive oil into a glass container and hold this up to the light you will see a range of colours -- maybe dark green, pale green, and even a luminous golden shade.

Like wine, there is a wide range in the quality and taste. Flavour in olive oil is natural and unique. Connoisseurs may describe different samples as mild, delicate, light, buttery, fruity, peppery, and fragrant. The expert is able to distinguish subtleties of taste and can tell from which region the olive oil has come. The climate, the soil, the area where the olive grove is situated and the means by which the olives are harvested play a role in the final flavour.

Olive oil can be expensive because it is difficult to produce. Harvesting is back breaking and labour intensive. This work continues throughout December January and into February according to weather conditions. Cretan olive oil which is bought by other countries around the Mediterranean is often sold under the name of the country which imported it. This is an accepted practice because the Cretan oil has been mixed with the local product. But the market for the export of Pure Cretan Virgin Olive Oil, shipped directly from the island, is now being expanded. In our modern world, the names and locations of olive farms, oil producers and how to obtain olive oil products directly from Crete can be found on line. But no matter how the olives have been harvested and processed -- picked by hand or machine, processed in the old fashioned way by cooperatives or in factories using the latest technology, olive oil will retain its health giving, and legendary reputation.

I No Like

I'm back. This computer had to have an update so that I could connect with Santa.

Recently we traveled to do some Christmas shopping in Rethymnon, a city between Chania and Iraklion. It was a lovely dry day, good for walking by the port and along the streets of the old town. The atmosphere was friendly and inviting with shops decked out for Christmas.

When a slim and trim window mannequin stared unflinchingly at me I stared back. She was wearing a top in the exact shade of blue I wanted.
 'I've found it', I shouted to my husband, before rushing into the shop. He declined to follow. Instead  he crossed the street to look at antique fob watches.

I explained what I wanted to a smiling assistant in the blouse department. 'This is the  size for you,' she said. 'Why not try it on?'

I stood in the changing room which was narrow and didn't have a mirror. I don't like changing rooms without mirrors. It obliges the customer to go out to the main body of the store looking for one. What usually follows is advice from every other person around.

Within the tiny dressing space which was without a chair there were two hooks side by side on a wall. As I hung my jacket on one of these, it promptly detached itself taking my garment to the floor with it.Where was I to leave my jumper, my bag, shopping bags and my glasses? I hung up the blue top before creating a little pile -- jacket on the floor,glasses into a pocket, shopping bags balanced over this and finally my woolly jumper.Beneath this lot my handbag was hidden.

With space in which to maneuver gravely reduced, I took the chosen top into my hands. It shimmered and glowed in the semi darkness. Such a simple and roomy piece of elegance was a delight. But I hadn't  noticed earlier that there was an inner vest with narrow straps attached to the outer blouse. Well, I was getting two pieces for the price of one!

The fabric felt very soft and comfortable and the cuff on each sleeve was decorated with little jewel like buttons --  so sweet. Placing the garment over my head I gently pulled it downwards. Nothing happened until I began to feel a tightening around my neck. Attempting once more to move the fabric towards my waist line I failed. It was stuck. I'd put my head through the straps of the inner piece and these had wound tightly around my throat. I struggled and I have no idea how I finally managed to release my head from this strangle hold.

I should have given up, walked out and forgotten my dream outfit. But this was the exact top I wanted. I'd looked everywhere for something like it. I couldn't give up, could I?

Round two, I put my arms into the sleeves which caressed like finest silk.The tiny jewels twinkled at the cuffs as I rolled each sleeve above the elbow. Meanwhile I'd put my head through the designated neck opening which like the cuffs had twinkling jewels around the collar. Something caught in my eyebrow. Blood trickled into my eye. Oh no, I mustn't  get blood on this garment. Quickly I tried to roll the sleeves back towards my wrists, they wouldn't budge. Instead they tightened at the top of my arms. My right elbow became immobilized. My left elbow stuck out at an angle and I became convinced that I'd dislocated my shoulder.The inner vest had wrapped itself around my neck again. I couldn't move my arms up or down.

My breath had become laboured, perspiration rolled down between my shoulder blades, my left eye was blood shot, a neckband of artificial jewels gagged me and a voice from outside asked if I needed help. 'I'm fine,' I croaked.

Where was my husband? I considered running through the shop and out the main door with my jacket around my shoulders.  Maybe nobody would notice? Or I could try to find to my husband in the antique watch shop. But he'd probably laugh, and ask if I was auditioning for a Pantomime!

Her suspicions aroused the sales assistant couldn't resist peeping in, 'Oh, Oh' she gasped. 'You have big problem, here let me help.'
She pulled and she tugged. I wriggled and I squirmed. She called loudly for 'Catherina' who rushed to our aid. The inner vest and the outer blouse were pulled and twisted and reluctantly but firmly pressed into place, the bejeweled collar was adjusted and the cuffs positioned. The girls beamed with satisfaction before ushering me, red faced and breathless, onto the shop floor.There were cries of araios (beautiful).But my eyes refused to function properly, everything looked blue with an edge of sparkle. Then I became aware of body bulges where there had never been such obvious bulges before.I'd always been an expert bulge diminish er. I felt faint, my hair was damp and blood trickled from the tip of my nose.

'You are a beautiful woman,' Catherina, smiled, 'and this is perfect for you.'
'Yes, it is very beautiful colour,' the first assistant added. 'You like?
'I no like,' I almost cried. 'Look, this blouse makes me look so fat, it's far too tight.'
'No, no that's not fat, that is you, and you are beautiful woman.'
'You no like, but it is very nice and very good price,' said the first assistant.'
'I no like,' I cried, as I turned and ran as fast as I could to the dressing room.

Catherina and her assistant followed. Will they have to cut me out of this I wondered anxiously? And what will I do if they ask me to pay for it afterwards?
I needn't have worried. They peeled the garment off with an expertise known only to them.
Thanking them I gathered myself together and ran outside to lean my head against the cool window.  The mannequin stared at me with absolute disgust.

When my husband saw me he crossed over to where I was.
'He tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around.
'Are you alright? Are you feeling tired? Did you get what you wanted?' he asked.
'No, yes and you've no idea what I've been through,' I said.
'Probably not,' he smiled. 'But you can tell me all about it over lunch, you would like that wouldn't you?'

'I no like,' I laughed.

'to be sure to be sure'

Who doesn't like licking the wooden spoon when a cake has been mixed? When we were children this activity signalled the beginning of Christmas. My mother was a wonderful baker of a very special Christmas cake. It was filled with fruit, red and green cherries, candied peel, raisins, currants, sultanas, apple, spices and a far from wise helping of sherry, brandy and whatever you're having yourself. She put at least two inches of  homemade almond paste, duly seasoned on the waiting cake as Christmas drew closer. This glowing, sugary, yellow cape was covered with white icing and decorated with non edible reindeer and fir trees saved from year to year.

When mother made the family Christmas cake she made another for Granny Jane. Our paternal grandmother lived 'down the country' on a farm with two adult sons known as, the boys -- the two of her ten children who, like my father, were not in a far away land. Mother let us make marzipan decorations for Granny's cake. We worked seriously to create suspect looking cows, bow legged horses and jaundiced pigs. The cake was then transported courtesy of the Laundry Van driver along country roads and through sleepy towns to her farmhouse.

One year when Granny took the biscuit tin containing the cake from its hiding place it seemed lighter  than usual. The boys sat quietly as Granny, who told the story to my father, cut a substantial slice.
There was a splintering sound, the icing cracked, the cake buckled as pellets of it scattered onto her embroidered tablecloth. She'd cut through a shell, there was nothing inside except a film of cake and an empty space. Granny chased the boys into the farmyard holding the knife aloft, shouting 'Happy Christmas indeed' before threatening to kill them. But they hadn't eaten it all -- they wouldn't dare. No, they'd had saved a generous portion for Granny.

When I lived in Dublin with my mother's friend Veronica, she made her Christmas cake in early October. Her motto was that, to be sure to be sure, the first edition must be sampled almost straight from the oven. She couldn't possibly wait for it to cool -- it would be a terrible waste of good whiskey! Even when I'd moved on and had a place of my own I'd wait for that phone call and her invitation to come over for the usual sampling of hot Christmas cake. We called this ritual 'drinking the cake'. I've had a longing for hot Christmas cake ever since but I'm afraid the consequent indigestion has become a deterrent.

The years passed and my mother continued to make her special cake. Each New Year she'd invite a few neighbours for a glass of sherry and a slice of cake. Gradually there were hints. 'Mrs.Lannigan's daughter Maisie had made a magnificent cake, the flavour was out of this world. Mrs. Byrne's Angela decorated their cake and you wouldn't believe it was done by human hand. Was it like the cake we used to decorate for Granny Jane, I asked pretending innocence? 'It was not!' I was told, with the addendum that it was about time I took responsibility for the family cake. 'Oh yes.' said Mrs. Madigan, 'sure you must be an expert, you've been watching your mammy for years.'

My husband and I discussed this cake making dilemma when another Christmas beckoned. I blame him entirely for what happened. We bought a weighty Christmas cake in a well known store. Having carefully studied the ingredients listed on the label I was happy that it more or less resembled those my mother used. But to be sure to be sure we inserted a metal skewer here and there on the surface of the bought cake and generously poured in some extra spirits. We made the almond paste and it was perfect. The white icing caused some difficulty though because overnight there was an avalanche and Santa was buried in snow.

We rescued the situation and set off for 'home' with our cake. My mother was delighted and said she'd reserve it for New Year. 'This will open their eyes,' she smiled. The phone rang on New Year's Day and it was my mother sounding slightly tipsy. 'That cake' she said 'was de del delicious. absolutely de del delicious, everybody agreed that they'd never tasted anything like it.' They want the recipe. You'll send it to me as soon as you can won't you? You see Mrs. Lannigan is making Maisies's wedding cake -- three tiers if you don't mind, and she thinks your recipe will be just perfect.'

Oh no, why hadn't we kept the label?

My ever resourceful husband had -- just to be sure to be sure

Good luck if you are icing a cake. I'll be back in a couple of days!

A true gentleman

Once upon a time I managed to buy a second hand Ford car which had belonged to a chicken farmer in County Roscommon. Often while  driving I'd see brown and white feathers floating from the back seats. There's something strangely comforting about chicken feathers.

I drove my car to the accompanying sounds of an out of tune orchestra. Bangs, twangs, gulps and wheezes became so familiar that I sang along -- equally out of tune. Whenever a new sound intruded I knew that something which shouldn't be happening was happening. Luckily my local friendly mechanic knew my car better than I did.

LEARNER DRIVER
I signed up for compulsory driving lessons before taking my burgundy beauty around the roads of Ireland. The instructor James Aloysius Kelly, always a true gentleman, was soon puzzled. I just couldn't manage the gears. I simply had to look down at the gear box and count 1--2--3--4 as I manoeuvred the car.

'You mustn't look down,' James Aloysius warned. 'You've to watch the road. See and be seen!

The following afternoon, instead of having a driving lesson he took me to a garage. There I was introduced to an actual out of car gear box so that I could understand how it worked. I saw how the plates came together when the vehicle was put into gear -- a car couldn't be driven when the gears were not engaged.
 'You'll have more confidence after this -- knowing how things work is half the battle.' said James Aloysius.                   

He had a bright idea for the next lesson. We'd try a new location. His reasoning was that I'd be so occupied driving on different roads that I'd shift gears automatically. I drove as directed to a wide road beside a park. There was a slight hill to climb.
 'Step on the gas a bit,' my instructor suggested. 'Now put her into second and don't look down!'
I obeyed.
 'Good on ye Marie,' James Aloysius chuckled. 'Thanks' I smiled, very pleased with myself.
'Right, now foot on the pedal a bit more, and put her into third. Don't look down!

 Doing as he said, I reached out and deftly put the right knee of James Aloysius Kelly into third gear!

Mortified, I apologised profusely. 'Anytime, anytime,' James Aloysius laughed.
A true gentleman indeed.

 

The Olive Tree

 

 

While on holiday in the Peloponnese we came upon a wonderful expanse of old olive trees.It was impossible to pass by without taking some photographs.The tree pictured above is a monument to time.Was it planted to commemorate some great event in the family, a wedding or a birth or some other important achievement?

     Did this tree suffer barren years and winters when snow feel heavily upon its branches.

     Did its enduring presence calm and restore a troubled soul?

    The wood of the olive is strong and can be carved or turned into beautifully crafted bowls, urns and vases. A well kept olive grove implies good husbandry and ownership. It can be inherited, sold or exchanged.

    The olive tree is long lived and a wild olive branch has long been associated with heroism. It was the prize given to runners who completed the course in ancient Olympia. An olive wreath confers honour on the recipient.



          Thannis Paraskevaidis says that:

          Trees can tell a friend from an enemy. Olive trees are not without feelings. Their living fibres

          nourished with the sweat of the labourer on the land, feel his joy and his sorrow. Olive trees     

          are the people who have brought them up. In their flesh you will find human toil. Their root

          smell of human sweat. Man pruned them. He trimmed them.

          Trees are not indifferent to the sufferings of mankind.

          Every misfortune of mankind means a wrinkle on the trunk of the trees.

                                            
           

                                                                                    

                                                                                   

 

The Olive in Crete

   Yesterday we drove past the local olive mill and saw bags of newly harvested olives stacked up outside. This will be a good year in the olive groves. In our area of western Crete the olive is precious and the trees are passed on and cared for from one generation to the next.
   I've been reading about the history of the olive. My source is a book called The Olive in Greece. (Topia Publications) I've read that there is no absolute answer as to when and how the olive reached the shores of the Mediterranean. But in ages past the deliberate destruction of an olive tree became a symbol of total violence.
   The leaves of the olive are green on one side and appear grey on the other. When the wind blows one sees a canopy of silver. The leaves are elongated and are unlike those on any other tree. The fruit of the tree can be green or black or with a reddish hue. The small olive is used in oil production the larger Kalamata olive is a table olive.
   We planted two olive groves on our land. The first planting was twelve years ago. These trees have each grown into individual shapes, spiralling and twisted in places. The younger trees are shining green and glossy following torrential rain storms. Today their juvenile branches sway in a light breeze from the sea. This rain is welcomed by the olive farmers because it helps to swell the fruit.
   There are times when the olive harvest is sparse. Last year we had what looked like a promising crop from our older tress. However, there were very strong gales which blew the fruit onto the ground. This year we won't have a harvest because the trees rest on alternate years. An olive tree which is respected, cared for, pruned and nourished will repay a hundredfold over the years.
   In the local Tavernas Olive oil is always on the table. There's nothing nicer than a plate on which olive oil has been drizzled. Sprinkle pepper on this and dip you hot bread in for a most satisfying appetiser.

To be continued. 

Aunt Rosie

     Known to us all as Aunt Rosie, she ruled the household and our town from her feather bed. Through her bedroom window she watched the comings and goings on each side of the street. She could see the church across the road too and she kept tabs on those who did or did not attend to their religious duties. She knew that Maisie O'Brien would marry Henry Daly before Maisie knew this herself. She also revealed to her daughter that Maisie was pregnant!

     When Aunt Rosie saw Peter O'Brien topple from his bicycle and the neighbours running to help him she knew that he'd never rise again. She told my Mother this and she also told her that the guards had taken Mikey Finnerty away because he'd been drinking and singing in the street. 'They should have left the poor creature alone,' she said, 'he's a great singer.'

     Sometimes I went into the house to talk to Aunt Rosie. 'You won't believe this,' she laughed 'but I watched Maggie O'Rourke's dog chasing the new curate up the driveway this morning. The young man was terrified.' When the curate came to our house to introduce himself, I told him that next time he was chased by a dog, he mustn't run. He should face the dog and if it jumped up he must give it a good knee right into it's doodle. The curate's face turned bright red.' It's her word for stomach' Mammy explained, before asking him if he was beginning go to feel at home yet.

   Small children and big ones too were very careful to behave when passing Aunt Rosie's house. When Jimmy Riley, who should have been at home studying for his exams, got carried away and kissed Irene Martin in Dooley's doorway, she saw them. From her vantage point she shone her torch (for emergency use only) in their direction. Jimmy waved towards the window and Aunt Rosie surprised his puzzled mother by saying that she found Jimmy to be 'quite the little Romeo!'

   Aunt Rosie had a little brass bell on her bedside table. Whenever she needed her pillows fixed or a cup of tea or a chat she'd ring the bell. Her daughter Bridie would do her bidding unless a visiting neighbour, knowing how hard Bridie worked said, 'here let me see to her.'

   'She'll be the death of me yet,' I overheard Bridie saying to Mammy. 'I know she's my mother and all that but my God you should see what she drops under the bed. I have to get down on my knees every night to retrieve her rosary beads and God only knows what else.'

I wrote a poem about this:

Feathers, fluff, crab apple core,
a sagging spring, wooden floor
One shiny penny, soft leather purse,
bits of lace, hair comb and worse--
A long lost hankie, crusts of bread,
underneath Aunt Rosie's bed.
And there she sits atop all that--
wearing feather boa and Grandpa's hat


.





  

when it's time to chime

   We took our antique wall clock from the auction room and thought deeply about where to hang this beautiful specimen. He has since looked down upon us from a vantage point above the stairs.

   I'm calling the clock he because of the lordly and obstinate way he  manages to conduct his time keeping assignments. He has no regard for our sleep patterns, daily appointments, visitors or  television programmes.

   Because our clock was displaying these traits we took him to an horologist /clock psychologist. 'He's very self willed' the expert said. 'You'll have to leave him with me for some timely behavioural therapy. I charge by the hour.' Although his stay in rehab cost a fortune, a more polished looking body and bright face returned to his wall space.

    For a couple of days his behaviour was impeccable. There were no missed hair appointments, we didn't arrive two hours late for a dinner party or get up at some ungodly hour in the night. At last our clock knew when it was time to chime.

   But old habits die hard and our delight turned to disbelief when we heard sixteen chimes when it was four in the afternoon and three when it was ten in the morning. At midnight there was a single chime followed by three and four alternately on the half hour.
  
   Our clock could be stopped forever and become an ornament, a bit like a dog whose been to the taxidermist -- a dead dog of course. But we don't have the heart to do this because this clock is no slacker, just a bit confused. It's now the forty seventh day of the month and the time has yet to be determined.

 

Services of Remembrance

My father's first cousin Patrick went to war in 1914. The theatre of desperation that was Gallipoli destroyed his mind. He was returned to a small town in Ireland to be cared for by his devoted sister. I'd go to see him with my father when I was a small child. Patrick would smile and call out, 'Sadie make tea for Marie,' She'd do so and bring a little tray for me with a mug of milky tea and fairy cakes she'd made. Pat would have his tray too and we'd sit there looking at each other, smiling and chattering, neither knowing what the other was saying. Before Sadie and my father went into the parlour for their tea she'd look in at us and say to him, 'you know that child is a caution. I'd swear she knows what he's saying.

Pat's room had a long window overlooking the back garden. He always sat in a wing back chair with a plaid rug covering his knees. Sadie had a fire lighting for Pat from the time she got him downstairs each afternoon. Rubbing his hands together he'd hold them close to the heat. Sometimes he'd count and I'd join in --1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9, and on reaching 10 we'd stand, clap our hands, and shout ZERO!  I've no idea what all this meant and I didn't know what he spoke to me about either. When I told him stories about my dolls he'd smile. When I asked him why he dribbled like a baby he also smiled. I loved Pat when I was little and now I love him for the sacrifice he made.

I wrote a poem once where I ask him what he saw as he looked through the window into the garden or when he watched the flickering flames. I remembered Sadie too. In the poem she represents all wives, mothers fiancés, sisters -- all women and families whose menfolk were broken in mind and body in the enormous tragedies of war.


                                                   
                                            Upon A Pure White Horse


          Looking beyond that misted pane of glass
          Along the garden path, to low and broken walls,
          Where stones stumble onto withered grass.
          What do you see?

          Sloe hedges, clumped with berries blackish blue.
          And fallow fields of clay, which cling to tortured trees,
          now rooted deep, where clotted poppies grow.
          What do you see?

          Searching, your limpid fingers claw for heat,
          Around metallic grate,
          Where logs asunder burst, recoil, seared, scorched and dreaded war drums beat! 
          What do you feel?

          Flames, rushing into skies, convulsing low,
          To rot in fetid fumes, the bones of splintered men.
          Who cradled softly, lie beneath white crosses, row on row!
          What do you feel?
         
          She strokes your head, the hair all silvered -- thin.
          Hopes fled, your star extinct.
          As mirthless laughter ebbs, decanting warm dribble into hollow chin?
          What do you know?

          Gone! You ride upon a snow white horse.
          And yet, lone vigil she defends.
          Life's metronome upset, you are her symphony unfinished.
          Lest we forget.
          Lest we forget.

What Happens now?

That's a good question. I don't want to bore you by always talking about my writing. This will be the last posting about this for a while.

Many readers have been asking me about a sequel to A Place in the Choir. I've taken a look at the chapters I've already written for this and I've done some rewrites.

Rewriting passages didn't feature as much as it should have done in  A Place in the Choir. That's why there's a revised version of the paperback on Amazon Kindle. I just wrote and wrote without thinking very much about details. I didn't think clearly enough about the relevance of certain scenes. Nor did I always consider the importance of their sequels. I just wrote -- and wrote and wrote!!Even small matters such as being consistent with names and dates escaped my notice. Sometimes Rev. O'Hara metamorphosed into Rev. O'Rourke and Uncle William was interchanged more than once for Uncle Matthew.

My friend Maria discovered some omissions and inconsistencies when we read through parts of the novel. Like Ellie arriving in America a week before she had left Ireland and Tom appearing in England out of nowhere. Acting out a scene was really constructive and frequently made us laugh --how could Ellie open a door while her cut and bloodied hand was being held up in the air by Sister Angel and the other clasped firmly by Miss Prissy?

It will be exciting to watch how Ellie's life unfolds from now on. I'm a little frightened for her because she's been sheltered for so long. She's remained for years almost at a standstill emotionally and psychologically. But she knows this herself -- I think. I hope she will catch up quickly whatever her decision.

Many have hinted that Ellie deserves something lovely to happen to her. I would like this to be the case. Many obstacles lie ahead, let's hope she's stronger now. We know she is resilient but will she be resolute. I don't know. I just hope that in the next book I will be able to recapture the spirit of Ellie and her sense of humour. Above all, I hope that whenever the sequel is published that the reader will be satisfied. 

Rain

   It's rained here on and off in north west Crete for the past ten days. The night skies were frequently on fire with electricity created by spears of fork or layers of sheet lightening. The wind howled while leaves and broken branches from the trees swirled around the place. We're happy to have rain at last because we'd begun to long for it as the final dry and hot days of summer drew to a close.
   Outside in the garden there are pools of water to be seen everywhere. And the trees look glorious, green and refreshed. The olive farmers are rejoicing because the rain is good for plumping up the fruit. Bougainvillaea still blooms along our lane and the sheep in surrounding fields munch wet lush grass and herbs.
   Our youngest cat, who was born in the dry season came home this morning drenched and crying loudly. She'd never encountered rain before. When our other cats saw her being dried with an old towel, they lined up to be dried too -- even though they hadn't been outside at all! We called this tiny kitten --( rescued from a thorny ditch) Mini. She was so sweet and so small that it was obvious she was a girl. When the vet told us that Mini is in fact a boy we laughed, she couldn't be, could she? She was and she is. Her revised name is Mini Haw Haw.

My Kindle Book Cover

   An odd thing happened when I first thought about the kind of cover I'd like for my book. I had taken its title,  A Place in the Choir, from the song, 'All God's Creatures Have a Place in The Choir' which I'd heard performed by The Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem.

   I imagined a telephone wire and birds sitting on this. But one bird was hovering -- looking for a place. But for the paperback copy a more Irish Countryside cover seemed appropriate. This picture encapsulated Ellie's carefree life until she made her decision to enter the convent.

   I had to find a new cover for the ebook. With the help of my friends *Carol and Susan we found the perfect answer -- my original birds on a wire -- a musical chord of sorts. In the picture a bird is hovering just as I saw it in my mind. Like this bird Ellie wants to belong.

Meaning for the word Choir:

Within the text of the novel Ellie asks questions about Choir Nuns and their one time superiority in the convent. There were Lay Sisters many years ago who took on the responsibility for household management within the cloister while those professionally trained worked in schools and hospitals. The choir also forms part of a church building or one can belong to a choir of persons who sing together.

A link to the ebook cover happens when Ellie tells us that:

         Winter became spring. Little buds were appearing on the bushes and the birds
         were busily building nests. Mammy was watching for the first swallows which
         came to nest in the eaves of the house and the barn. They wouldn't arrive for many
         weeks but she didn't want to miss them.

Swallows come here to Crete in the Summer. They have gone now and I wonder if some of them are
on their way to Ellie's childhood home in Monabeg.


*Carol's company is called VA Online.
  She can be reached at www.vaonline.co.uk




 

Hello again to those muse with Mawsiemaw

                                      
                                 I must apologise for a long absence but I've been much busier than I expected to be. I was working on the revision of my book A Place in the Choir. This occupied almost eighteen months -- not full time but it was there in my head when I wasn't actually working on it. This sort of project is rather like renovating an old house. One knocks a particular wall only to discover that the roof had partially collapsed. I sat for days studying fragments of my book wondering if I'd ever put it together again. I eventually did this and my work is now available on Amazon Kindle.

I know that many have read the original paperback edition of A Place in the Choir with the beautiful cover painted by the artist Balsam Wood. For the moment this is unavailable although it can still be viewed on the Amazon web site.(with reviews) There is a rather sad history attached to this edition of my book. The publisher was unable to continue providing copies for sale and the book went out of print. Perhaps in the future a discerning publisher will read the Kindle version and become duly smitten by my brilliance and want to publish a new edition!

The Kindle edition of my book features a completely revised chapter 10. This is a pivotal chapter in the story of Ellie Dardis and I always felt it was a little weak and didn't move the story forward. The story of Ellie has puzzled some readers who just wish she would stop dithering and take control of her life.

Ellie represents many young girls who grew up in Ireland in the 1950s and 1960s. She loved the family farm and her memories of the place become a source of inspiration and comfort. Her choice as a young woman to enter a convent raises many questions -- why did she do this and why does she continue to live such a restricted and contradictory life?

In later musings I'll tell you more about Ellie's dilemma and show how in certain instances her sense of humour saves her. I may even mention the sequel to A Place in the Choir and my very interesting new book which is set in Crete and which I plan to have on the shelves in about a year.