Yes, I'm Thankful

 17th January 2021.

Yes, I'm Thankful

This morning, while wasting time looking at Facebook, I came  across, Astrid's Ten Things of Thankful, which she had difficulty posting on the link. Reading it brought to mind that, although I haven't recently expressed it, I am, myself,  thankful for many things. Yes, there are many blessings in my life. So, here are some.

1. For life itself,  every breath that I take, reminding me that my death will come soon enough, but just now I have some more living to do and I'd better get on with it.  I thank God that for bringing more life into the world through me. I'm thankful that my dear husband was part of that. All those beautiful souls who are our children and grandchildren. 

2. My birthday this week, even in Lockdown was a lovely celebration. I'm thankful for family and friends that made me feel special. A family zoom party with my grandchildren reading favourite poems and bringing news, one even baking a cake, but eating it herself because she can't visit, all brought tears to my eyes - in a good way. A friend who dropped in flowers, another who delivered a bottle of Baileys, a daughter who brought plants and a bottle of Riocca, a son who got me a bar of chocolate,  multiple phone messages, singing in the Writers Hour zoom session and again at Open Mic- so much love out there for me. Incredible.

3. I'm thankful that I've written so much of the memoir. Editing now. It'll take a while but, most things are on the page. I never thought I'd get this far. Hopefully , it will actually get finished. 

4. And for finding and working with The London Writers Salon I am hugely thankful. Writing with the group everyday has given me purpose during this time of Pandemic. Doing the Artists Way with some fellow writes from the Writers Hour has been life changing in many ways, giving me especially the courage to own, use and be proud of my own words. It's been a brilliant journey and I've made wonderful friendships, that I hope to keep. 

5. For the wonderful privilege of living by the coast, with chances to listen to the sound of waves, rhythmically performing their work hour after hour, day after day, never the same, creating stories , pictures, building dreams . Listening, you will hear of distant shores, every drop in the ocean with it's tale to tale as it makes it's way around the earth.  Coming away, behind the coastguard hut, the sudden silence embraces you. Silence has many shapes . Sometimes, it's rocky and hard and You might try to avoid it, another time it's soft, comfortable and you want to hug it. But the silence behind the shed is surprising in it's empty vastness.

6. I'm thankful  for my new pile of books. Not easy to spend the money on me, courage was needed and called on and came . I now have seven books waiting . Better than having no books to look forward to. At any time now, I'll be able to find something to keep me occupied. Love my books. Maybe I am a booky  type after all.

7. I'm thankful for my fountain pen, which I love and which I have found a new cartridge convertor for. Are you thinking what is a cartridge convertor? I had the same thought. But it's quite magical. Instead of buying cartridges, now I will have a bottle of ink and fill up the convertor. Much more efficient - apparently. I'll let you know on that one.

8. And for feeling that there is hope. Yes, I am thankful that I can see hope for a different future. But hope is of the moment and I don't look to far ahead. Each hour, each day brings it's own dose of hope and I grab it ride with it.

9. This week I cleaned the bathrooms. They are both shiny and clean, which makes me happy. And when the bathrooms are clean it means I'm avoiding some other work I need to get on with. It's good to be under pressure sometimes. At least the housework gets done.

10. And have I said it already , that words can't contain the thankfulness I have for my hubby and all my family. A gift indeed, a blessing.

Well I didn't think I'd get to ten things, but there you go.  

    

Jan /Nan

25th June 2020

Death Resurrects old Memories 

8.40 pm 22nd June 2020. 

I didn't want to believe what I read. For a moment the words, there in black and white, somersaulted in my brain. It can't be. We were only told around midday that she was improving, that they were discussing how they'd rearrange the house for when she came home, make things

 easier for her.

Then, like a wild animal I let out, I don't know how, it wasn't me, but the most piercing scream. I couldn't help it . It came from some deep place that I didn't know was within me.

"What's up?"  Peter asked, concerned.

He came rushing over. I handed him my phone. It took him a few seconds to understand..By this time my whole body was shaking and tears were flowing. He drew me close, held on tight and added his own sobs to the river of sadness .

She'd died at 6.40 pm Mandy informed us. It was a shock to everyone she went on.

Poor Mandy, I thought, best friends for many years. If it affected us , how was she doing.

All of us from the writer's group she belonged to are devastated. There's something about sharing your writing that is so intimate, nothing compares to it, where you are exposed for who you are like nowhere else. 

Jan's death and the Mediterranean weather we're having just now, sent me back to last year and our trip to Ireland. Jan had a keen interest in all things Irish -  culture, spirituality, music. We had planned to have gatherings at her home to share our favourite Irsih / Celtic songs. Apart form all her other talents, too numerous to mention, she was an accomplished musician.

May 31st 2019 From an entry in my journal.

We leave Portumna after evening Mass, which celebrated the important  Feast of the Visitation of the Blessed Virgin, recollecting  the time when  Mary, after being told by the Angel that not only was she herself going to have a child but that her cousin Elizabeth also had conceived and was now in her sixth month.
It's late evening when we drive into Thurles, past images which run like a grainy film through my mind, backwards and forwards, into each other. Silently, concentrating,  I scan  for familiar landmarks.

 As we pass through the square, how busy, I think, I see the tower of the Cathedral on the other side. A good  clue. I could walk to nan's house from here, a familiar route that she and I took a along the River Suir from the bottom of nan's road. Her short round body held up by little stick legs, an old brown shopping bag over her arm, we'd chat about the issues of the day, or the weather,especially if it was either extremely hot or cold, or  members of the family and what they were up to. Every day her and I would walk to early mass -  her routine. Now, in 2020, it's mine too, though not in Pandemic time.

We drive  round the square twice, park in the busy car park . What shall we do now? 
We make a cup of coffee, while I try to find  my bearings.  It's great travelling in the camper, being able to stop anywhere and make ourselves drinks or lunch or dinner. Staring out into the crowded square I don't  recognise the shops. I search for the window of Walter Maloney's . This is where nan came, or sent me, every day to get the messages. At Walter's you'd find bacon, bread, brickets, and all manner of items for everyday use. He seemed to have everything. A mini, mini, precursor to the modern day supermarket. There's a shop that looks as if it could be the place - Theresa's Tanning Palour. Whether it is or it isn't , it looks as if Walter is no longer around.

 There are  more roads leading off the square than I remember.
I see one I do know. I've walked it many , many times.
I turn to Peter. All this time he's left me with my own thoughts. I'm grateful for that.
"I need to go find the house, you know, just to look," I try to  persuade him? "And we might find somewhere better to stay than this car park, more quiet."  He's been driving for hours and is more than happy to stay put. But I also know that he'd prefer a more secluded spot.
"Fine," he says. We put the kettle in it's place in the cupboard and the cups in the sink.  I feel a bit guilty asking, as he's so tired, but I can't wait till morning.

We drive down the Mall in silence, my stomach churning, I'm so emotional, I cannot speak, what am I expecting? As we get near Kavanagh Place, the houses become familiar. It's on the left just a little way down. There is a huge Dunnes Store on the corner now, a prominent feature that slightly  puts me off. But now I see the Guards Barracks. Ah here we are. I point left. We turn .

Signs everywhere tell us, "Residents Parking only" What happened to this quiet road a couple of  miles outside the town?  So many thoughts run through my mind. We pass Mrs Peter's house, a wealthy neighbour, good to nan, bringing her groceries and other essentials in difficult times. And there are the gates of Lyons' scrap yard. This family had twelve children and I spent many a summer in and out of their house. I had a crush on Conor, two years older than me. He taught me Irish rebel songs. I loved it, got quite keen on "the cause". He joined the IRA later.

We stop where Casey's used to be, beside nan's house. Although their signs are still up, and there is a tin lean to which they'd attached to nan's cottage, there is nothing else but an empty yard. I glimpse the house, now, is some one trying to do it up? It's hard to hold back the tears - yet why should I cry?

There's the window, on the left as I look up,  of the bedroom where I slept. When my mother and her six brothers and sister were children , this was their room, a double bed for the girls at one end and another for the boys at the other. Mum told me stories of her sisters wetting the bed and waking up in a pool of water. She sighted this as one of the reasons she fled home, never to return except to visit her mother.

On the right the two small windows of nan's bedroom. Here, when I was much younger, I would often sleep with her, unaware then of the impact that closeness would have on my life. Here, in the dark, I learned to pray, as nan would recite her rosary or other prayers. A whiff  of diesel will always brings me back there, back to the sound of Casey's lorries outside those windows.

Downstairs, on the left, the teeney sitting room, only enough space  here for a tv, a coffee table and two arm chairs. This, the best room, was rarely entered. On the right the window of my favourite ,  the kitchen. Here, kept warm and welcoming by the range, all generations, all classes of people would gather, tell stories, drink tea, eat Marie biscuits, the key always left in the door - an open invite. Above the farmhouse table, set into the wall space next to the window, a picture of the Sacred Heart.
Lots of images pile into my mind, as I stand and stare. My feet rooted to this spot where the mist of my ancestors dwells.  No one lives here now. A hole in the roof the size of a football goal has let the rain in for a good many months.

"Shall we take some pictures?" His words bring me suddenly back to the present.
"Yes, good idea," He's been patient, bless him.

"Let's go and find somewhere to park up," we are reluctant to stay in Kavanagh Place with the lines in the road and the signs , added to that the Guarda at the top of the road.

But after we drive around and around and don't find anywhere we come back,  and chancing our arm, spend the night next to Casey's yard with a good view of the cottage. It feels good to be here. Shame about the house, I suppose it will have to be pulled down.

No More Mourning

8th March 2019

Story for Friday Fictioneers





Thank you to CEAyer for the photo.

No More Mourning

Staring out of the hotel window, Grace noticed the motorbike, almost hidden in the side street, waiting.  She'd seen it the morning before, when she'd watched as a handsome, middle aged, Italian man strode up to it purposefully and rode it away. She'd watched  him throw his head up against the wind as it blew through his dark hair and billowed through his open shirt, exposing his tanned body.

 Now she waited by the window. Three minutes, four minutes.. She was rewarded with a repeat of the day before, but this time he lingered, turned around,  as if looking for someone. Catching sight of his face made her shiver, her skin tingling, yearning. Her eyes followed him as he drove away and hung there after the noise of the engine faded. 

Guilt welled up within her. She shouldn't be feeling like this, she told herself. Surely it wasn't right.

 Grace thought of her husband who'd died just two months before. She'd nursed him during a long illness. She'd spent herself, put her own life on hold. Maybe it is only weeks since his death, but I'm done with  mourning, she decided, she'd done plenty of that over the last year as her dear Frank slowly disappeared.
They'd promised themselves that when they retired they'd spend some time in Florence. They'd looked forward to it, dreamed about it for years. She never expected to be here on her own, certainly didn't think she was brave enough, yet here she was. She knew her husband would understand, would even be happy for her. 

Maybe she would practice her Italian.

Maybe tomorrow she would speak to the mysterious stranger.

Three Years Ago

4th Mar 2019

Three Years Ago


This time three year's ago ( wow! is it really that long)  my Mother had been gone for just four weeks and I was trying to get life back on some sort of even keel. I'd decided to see dad as regularly as I could which, for me, meant more than before. And, although Dad was struggling without mum, he'd got plans to see people and had contacted some of the grandchildren to that end.
I could see a future where we could have precious times together .
These were very hopeful weeks which were to be cut short by his sudden death, just seven weeks after Mum's.
I am sorry we didn't get time .
I am sorry I didn't get all the stories.
I am sorry I didn't know him as well as I might have done.
I am sorry I didn't realise what a good man he was until he was no longer here. And the older I get the more admiration I have for him.
Miss you always Dad .
I have a lot to thank you for.
The best thing of all being my faith, which you passed on to me , probably without even knowing.
I remember being quite small, you banging the table and saying, that what moved you to the Catholic Faith were those words in the Gospel when Jesus says to Peter:
 "Thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my Church". That was enough for you for many years. And I always think of it .
It's helped my own prayer many times over the years.
I pray that you and I will get to talk about this again when time, for me, is no more.

Lost In Autumn

18th Dec 2017

Lost In Autumn

Born in springtime,

 mama tree pushed you out 

a brand new bud.

delicate baby on bare branch,

 you unfurled - sweet, sacred promise. 

Life water and nutrients absorbed

 from the blood of ancestors fed you

 roots reached down  into times unknown 

you, in turn, produced sugar sap

 nourishment for your tree.

In the rays of the sun,

you opened up,

 danced and dallied

 through the summer 

of your life, 

strong veins forming

 your  particular self  shape -

 you.

Happiness and hope you  gifted 

 to those who wandered  your wood

  fruitful, filled, days, 

some, satiated by your colour, your light 

went away refreshed, replenished

you, only being yourself,

 unaware how  your warmth 

 touched those souls.

It was  your time, your season - 

with others you wove

  a soft web of wonder,

waving from your branch ,

 bestowing  magic on all

 who wanted to  see.

So,  when the cold came

 and your green grew dim

Your sparkle diminished 

 it was hard to take.

Signs of yellowing

 took us by surprise,

 halted us in our tracks.

With  shortening days,

 orange specks appeared 

 and the  weakening began

 your edges getting brittle , 

 other leaves falling

dropping  to the ground 

all around . 

Suddenly

 it was your turn,

reluctantly

 you let go ,

 fluttered to the earth,

you died in the autumn 

as it was right that you should,

 but it was hard.

Day 10- Ponderings

Ponderings

At Christmas time we often think of those not with us, whether through death or geographic distance  and looking at this poem about my Nan seems so appropriate.
The post also refers to the accolade of being poet of the day with my poem " Go This Way" which you can find back on the 3rd April.
But there is also lots of looking forward...
I look forward to seeing my new grandaughter who is one week old today..Little Molly . That brings the number up to twenty. This is my treasure .... And with a beautiful great grandchild as well,  I feel well blessed.
I look forward to a course that I want to do in January that will help with my work .
I look forward to 2016, the year my husband and I will travel ( not sure what manifestation this will take)
I look forward to my friend moving to my town and us getting to know each other better.
I look forward to lots of family get - togethers where all the generations grow to love the others more.
I look forward to hearing all the stories my children and grandchildren will bring to me to share their ups and downs...
I look forward in hope.... for all of this and more....
I look forward.....




10th April

So happy to have been chosen as the poet of the day yesterday by napowrimo.net


Day 10:  10th April, 10th poem

Yesterday I was thinking about old age, as you do. And what came to mind vividly was my relationship with my grandmother. An inspiration to me all my life. She died twenty four years ago but I am the person I am because of her. She had a huge influence on my life.




Nan

My pillar, strong, constant
There in my uncertainty
In the chaos of my wanderings
Unshakable in my instability.
With you the colour of being
Was not elusive or fleeting
With the blustery winds
Of breathing.
With you  unrest of spirit
Was calmed with the powerful
warmth of intimate confidence
With  you I learnt to savour
Those moments of
moving forward
Towards changeless
Substance.

Mid Morning Walk With Uncle

This poem was inspired by a couple of hours spent with my Uncle going for a walk in North London.


Mid Morning Walk With Uncle

To the right or to the left,
New steps to take.
This way or that -go left.
A robin, friendly reminder, joins us,
Going before with joyous song.
We stop, admire the rich beauty -
A Japanese Red Dragon Plant,
Exotic,  glorious in Autumn sun .
But don't interrupt the story.

We walk on, uphill,  breathless
Slow our pace,
Enjoy sky - blue, clear
In still air,
words struggling to escape
And  reaching  the top, stop
Only for a moment,
To quiet the pulse,
But don't interrupt the story.

How far shall we go?
We'll see now, just keep going,
Maybe we'll reach the village.
All topics keep the
Conversation - the tale-  fresh:
The house with the huge gated driveway
Double fronted and double garage -
Double your money.
But don't interrupt the story.

The ruin of a Church left forlorn,
In the graveyard,
Seems right somehow.
Centuries of ordinary life
Witnessed by these stones-
We imagine ancestors.
The chap who bought four burial plots -
Just to make sure.
But don't interrupt the story.

At last we reach our goal-
The village high street.
Let's stop for a bit before we head back.
The pub or a cafe.
No, not Costa, not Costa...
Ahhh,  There, a sweet little place,
Hidden from view,
Cappucino £1,20.
Yes, that'll  do,
But Don't interrupt the story.

Today revised

18th May 2017

Since then, after a struggle of more than 730 days, you must be seven,

In your mid forties in time, in living only a small child with lots still to learn

But you are eager to build - to be a father, a son, a brother, a friend

And you put in the pot too the work that you do and you give it all a churn 

So, you may be seven, but your growing fast, is the best yet to be ?

Will the bud that you are, unfold some more reaching its fullest bloom?

Though the flower be the unusual sort , one that's not easy to train

Or will it be of the hardier kind, a delightful gift to brighten the room

16th May 2015

TODAY Today is special, Today is your birthday, Today you are Five, and Today , you celebrate , You celebrate by, Taking your daughter Swimming - something You both enjoy. Today, you, her father Are both older and younger Than her. She doesn't know, It's your Birthday, That , Today you are five. It's enough that you know. You were born , Out of the Death, Of your niece . You, rose up Out of her ashes. Her, a babe, Your own sweet angel, Drew you back To the womb, Gave you new life. And today , you can look back, To that other form, To that person who drank, Who was terminal, Still part of Your ancestry, But not you, No, Today you are five .

Happy Birthday.

Poem and Story

Day 28:  28th April, 28th Poem

For the prompt:

In The Shade

Cold, 

Like marble,

Having hot bath

And also for today, a story:

                                Birthday

             My grandmother would much rather be running the London Marathon, especially as this was to be it's final year. Having already taken part seven times before, it was one of the things she most looked forward to.
             But, instead,  today being her birthday and also the last time we would see her, she is having a party.
             "Grams , what about this one?" Bright pink lipstick in hand,  hair dyed purple and gathered on top of her head,she looks away from the mirror as I hold up her  red dress decorated with tiny gold butterflies around the top.
             "OK, yes, that's fine. Get me a cuppa please, would you,  dear?"
             "In a minute, I just want to help find shoes to match your dress"
              The truth is I want to spend as much time as I can with her before she leaves for good.
Before I can bring the tea back to the bedroom she is standing beside me in the kitchen.
              "Wow, you look great. Well, you always do, but today..." I turn,  fiddle with the cups and quietly wipe away tears  that I can't hold back.
              "I never told you how I met your grandfather, did I?" she sips her tea, enjoying a moment of wistfulness. I try to compose myself as I answer,
               "No, but you better do it now or I'll never know." So she did.
               A tale of young love enfolds and we are both surprised when an hour later the doorbell rings. Mum and dad have come to take us to the venue.
               As we walk into the Sianuthe Hotel, balloons, music and about one hundred and fifty people give us  a cheery greeting. Grandmother smiles warmly as she is escorted through the adoring crowd, to her table, where she sees her close family gathered.
             "Happy birthday, Mum and huge commiserations. I wish it could be different" Auntie Rathuna  throws her  arms around her mother sobbing, as the others mutter their agreement with her heartfelt words. Two more daughters, one son and  five grandchildren take their turn in similar fashion. I try to sit next to my grandmother, but that place has been taken, on one side by my father, the eldest and on the other by Nick, my cousin and the eldest grandchild.
             We enjoy the most wonderful meal , with excellent service and even better food.
             "I think that salmon was the best I've ever tasted" Grandmother says pushing  her empty plate to the side and carrying on her conversation with my cousin Nick. She is always interested in hearing about his research into the  new  drugs programme. She has been closer to Nick since his Dad went three years ago after they found out that he had cancer of the bowel.
             It didn't used to be this way. In 2015 when grandmother was forty, dad told me that people were looked after when they had  these sort of illnesses and nursed till they died a natural death . He also said that people often lived till they were eighty or ninety or even a hundred. I couldn't imagine what that was like, what kind of world it was then . I mean who would look after all those people.
              My grandmother has been lucky. Today is her seventy fifth birthday. The age people are allowed to live to if they are fit and healthy.  If they didn't interfere she would probably live many more years. Maybe she'd be one of those who lived to be a hundred. No, that's too weird.
            The meal  over we hit the dance floor where my  grandmother, who loves dancing, doesn't sit down  till it's over.
The end of the evening comes much too soon  for my liking. But it's the way it is. The way it has to be.     We say our goodbyes, waving at the car as dad drives his mother to the Gryndiomo Centre where they will give her an injection and she will die.

Notes:
Hotel name - Sianuthe - anagram of euthanasia
Gryndiomo - anagram of Dying Room

The above piece is a response to the news that the government want GP's to ask any older person, healthy or not, to sign a  "Do not resuscitate" form. We could be headed for a bleak world indeed.