celtic_writer

Rules of the Road

Discovered that a heavy-duty tow truck operator in Idaho bills as much an hour as a programmer who lives, well, everywhere.

We were minding our own business, driving the new RV up through the mountains of Idaho, on our way north to Wyoming. Heard a funny sound. Pulled off into a park in a small town called Soda Springs. We stopped. Upon inspection, found the back axle of the new RV (with less than 2000 miles on it) ready to break.

We are now on the outskirts of Salt Lake City. Roadside assistance sent a fellah named Sean and his big commercial flatbed truck up from Pocatello to schlepp the RV down to a Utah dealership that does warranty repair.

The new axle has been ordered. It will be delivered in a few days. And I am happy to say that we are still here. Got me thinking that this could have been a real disaster, one skirting the realm of "It's been nice knowing you, folks."

So today it is sunny and hot here, and I have been thinking about how things happen, about the rules of the road.

1) It usually takes three times longer to get to a place than expected.

2) A long, steady hike up a hill can promise a different view.

3) Sometimes you have to lose direction in order to find your way.

4) Most days there are no maps.

5) Driving the unpaved road teaches you when to slow down, when to speed up.

6) We all still have our learner's permit.

7) When you can, take the back roads to avoid the nonsense.

8) There is always some new place to go.

9) The destination is where you are right now.

10) Everything is as it should be.

Revisit: Chaunce, Paddy the Slasher and Miss Rheingold

Note: This post was originally published on 6/18/06. Have received so many emails from folks about it, have decided to publish it again. Happy Father's Day, Dad. You are missed.

Father's Day.

It is terribly ironic that, in 1972, Richard Nixon established the third Sunday of June as the permanent national observance of Father's Day.

My father hated Richard Nixon.

Frank J. would yell at the TV whenever Tricky Dick's big face appeared. Funny. I find myself doing the same when I see Dubya.

Some say life is a numbers game. You do your own math with what you've been given. My father had one working eye, two degrees, an all-his-life wife, four kids, 62 years of living, and a laugh that was 100% Irish bar room.

His nickname was "Chaunce", given to him by his grandfather, a tall Irish character named Michael Jeremiah Sullivan, who talked his way through Ellis Island without papers, dragging along two Italian barbers he'd met on the dock who didn't speak a syllable of English. Those three remained friends 'till their dying day.

My father loved the story. One he told me was about the time he and his grandfather were persuading the cows towards the barn for the evening milking when a man with a scythe walked towards them through the field. "My grandfather threw down his stick, ran and embraced the man," Dad said. "It was his brother, Paddy, from Ireland."

Paddy the Slasher.

Seems Paddy was passing through, having heard that gold was available in every field in American, and was on his way west. His worldly belongings were strapped to his back, his livelihood contained in a long, curved single-edged blade. "My grandfather needed a field hayed," my father told me. "Paddy's power was astounding. He was a berserker with that blade." Seems he could clear a field faster than you could think about it.

But Paddy understood the need to get paid, and the instinct to move on. He did. No member of his family ever saw him again.

And then there was the Miss Rheingold incident.

Seems Frank J., with friends and relatives in tow, was out at a New York bar one evening in the late 1940s. When the bill came, everyone turned pockets inside out to discover there was not enough dough to pay the tab.

So my father, in his Irishness, got the attention of the bar owner and told him, "Do you know that you have Miss Rheingold here in your bar this very evening?" Rheingold was a popular beer in those parts at the time, and the competition to be chosen as Miss Rheingold was a coveted nugget. In this case, "Miss Rheingold" was really my father's younger sister, our beloved Aunt Cookie, who was hauled up on the bar's stage, passing the test with her Irish cuteness, and who was goodnatured enough to endure the wolf whistles so the bill could be covered by management, in full.

There isn't a day that goes by that I don't miss my father's story. As a human, he was not without his foibles. He wandered from my mother, drank himself to death, and receded from most of humanity by the time he left this world.

After his death, I found a small flint tin in the box upon his dresser. It held a small curl of my blond baby hair. I have it to this day. It reminds me of the last advice he ever gave me, "to accept what the world hands you. And deal. Just deal."

I am told that I write about him a lot. Others so much "wiser" than I, with raised eyebrows, tell me that I only seek the father figure.

Well, on this very humid Virginia night, I say to hell with them, their theories and all the ships at sea.

The reality is I really liked him. And I don't want him to be forgotten.

Zen Messages Are Everywhere

Adults Say the Darndest Things

Now that the New Zealand trip is complete, thoughts turn to Art Linkletter.

For those of you too young to know, too old to remember, or have no earthly idea who I am talking about, Art Linkletter hosted a very popular afternoon TV show in the USA called House Party, which ran from 1952-1969.

One of the most popular sections of the show was a segment called "Kids Say the Darndest Things" where Art Linkletter asked kids simple questions, and got, as children always deliver, candid answers.

Here's an example of Art Linkletter conversing with a young girl named Karen:

Art: "Who do you think would make a perfect husband, Karen?"

Karen: "A man that provides a lot of money, loves horses, and will let you have 22 kids, and doesn't put up a fight."

Art: "And what do you think you'll be when you grow up?"

Karen: "A nun."

Art Linkletter always responded to answers like this with what I call the "Owl Look" - big eyes and circle mouth:

Adults say the darndest things too. A few favorites come to mind:

1. The Lovely Older Lady

My friend Doug Darby told this story about a neighbor of his, an older lady who, over the years, didn't say much, but always seemed as sweet as Tweety Bird's mother. One day Doug was walking along the neighborhood sidewalk and saw the lady sitting on her porch. He smiled and waved at her. The following conversation ensued:

Doug: "Good morning."

Older Lady: "Don't smile at me, you idiot."

2. Tony Curtis in Medieval Times

The American actor Tony Curtis was from the Bronx, and had the accent to prove it. In the movie The Black Shield of Falworth Tony plays one Myles Falworth, a young squire hell bent on becoming a knight during medieval times. Urban legend has it that Tony recited a famous line in the film while gazing upon his parental home:

Tony: "Yon-dah lies the castle of my fod-dah."

3. No Cutting in Line

As some of you know, I teach technology courses, and am on the road quite a bit. A few years ago, before the invention of online bill pay, I returned home from a training jaunt to discover that my cable bill was due the next day. The following morning I motored, in the pouring rain, to the cable company customer service outlet located in a nearby mall, ready to settle this fiscal affair.

The place was jammed with people. As I walked toward the table in the main waiting area where I could take a number from a small red machine, I slipped on the wet marble floor, went down on my butt and slid to the front of the line. I made a complete stop next to a man who was next to be waited on. He looked down at me and said, disdainfully,:

"I'm next."

And meant it.

Caricature of Art Linkletter: Sam Berman

Snapshots of Art Linkletter and Karen: YouTube

Pineapple Lumps, The Troubadour and Two Internet Ladies

New Zealand is a land of interesting sights, sounds and connections.

As you motor along, you discover things like this:

And also like this:

To this day, I do not know why I am so fascinated by this product, which is a very popular confection with NZ children, and available in most stores. Believe you me, it doesn't taste like any pineapples died for the manufacturing of this candy. It's just that the name is so strange: "Pineapple Lumps." One must make special emphasis on the "L" in "Lumps" when its title is pronounced. It makes even a Yank feel terribly British. On my death bed, my last words will probably be "pineapple lumps."

On the day I found the Pineapple Lumps, we also discovered The Troubadour. We stopped at the equivalent of a state park, and, alongside a beautiful lake, joined many others who were taking advantage of the nice day by picnicing at a group of tables near the water's edge. This gathering included a young man who, sitting on the hood of his car, seemed quite smitten by a pretty young woman who sat quietly reading a book a couple of tables away, ignoring him completely.

So this fellah decided he had the perfect weapon available to win this lovely girl's affection: a guitar. He pulled it out of the back seat of his auto, hopped back up on the hood, and made a big deal out of tuning each guitar string. Then he started to play.

As Shakespeare wrote, "The course of true love never did run smooth." The only singer in this guy's family is the sewing machine.

He proceeded to caterwaul some song I did not recognize. I think it was "Killing Me Softly" by Roberta Flack, but I am not sure. He should have be arrested for disturbing the peace.

The young woman closed her book, stood up, gathered her belongings, walked calmly to her car, got in, closed the door, turned the key, and gunned it out of the parking lot, gravel spewing in all directions in her wake.

"Guess we're not going to that wedding," Doug said, as we quickly finished our sandwiches and left The Troubadour to entertain everyone else.

Near the end of This Day to Remember, we arrived at the hotel where a reserved room and hot showers awaited us. This establishment was run by two older ladies. The registration office was filled with crocheted cats, a myriad of them, multi-colored, in all sorts of feline poses, pinned to the walls, sitting on tables, meowing silently, craftily, and all for sale.

"Weird" is not the word that describes these two, nor does the word "daffy." "Dotty" is the right word. These two women were absolutely dotty.

Doug took one look at our hostesses, and smartly volunteered to take the luggage up to the room while I finished the registration. I nudged a crocheted cat head (which I think was fitted around a roll of toilet paper as a base) out of the way so I could complete the paperwork. Part of our reservation included Internet connection, which usually required the receipt of a username and password at check-in. I inquired about the setup.

"We have Internet connection in the room, is that correct?" I asked.

Dotty 1, whose real name was Shirley, turned to Dotty 2 and announced, "Yes, of course, dear. Margaret will take care of that for you." Poor Margaret looked at me like I had just asked her to go jump off the roof. She didn't want that hot potato. "I've only set one of these up through the computer, so I know Shirley will help me."

Shirley: "Now don't be ridiculous, Margaret, you have done this a thousand times."

Margaret, pouting, looking like an old Shirley Temple: "No I haven't."

So the two of them pushed keyboard buttons and fussed and carried on with each other until the computer spit out the Internet login information for the room. Margaret wrote it on a small piece of paper and proudly handed it to me.

"Is this a wireless connection?" I asked.

"Why, yes it is," said Shirley, as she handed me a plastic pouch that held an Ethernet cable.

"You simply plug this wireless connection into the clock in your room, and you should be connected straight away to the Internet."

I could not make this up.

Crocheted Cat Image: poshlittle.com

The Blue Pearl of a Place

Eastern philosophers believe there is a small blue light that lives inside each of us.

Some say it exists in the head; others, the heart. Through this little orb there is a gateway to something so much bigger than we can ever imagine. Nature, God, spirit...whatever you want to call it. That if we close our eyes and wait patiently, sometimes for many years, it may appear. It is known as the "blue pearl." It is where our soul lives, the place of our essence. And it is said that experiencing the blue pearl reaps the greatest reward, that of coming face-to-face with ourselves.

On this earth, you can also experience the blue pearl of a place. Very near the southern-most tip of the South Island of New Zealand, it appeared unexpectantly, during a stop on the side of the road at a place called McCracken's Rest on Te Waewae Bay.

A sunny day that simply was, along the shore of an ancient water highway used by the Maori as a greenstone route.

It is a place where the wind blows its swirling blanket about you. You sit on the sand and that comfort of air reminds you of your beloved human pack who wish you, as Annie Lamott writes, "traveling mercies." It means, "Be safe, notice beauty, enjoy the journey, God is with you." And it brings tears to your eyes because you believe, deep inside, that you might never understand any of this. But in this blue pearl of place you realize that you have been shown, on this day, a small spark of grace.

Eugene O'Neill wrote, "Man is born broken. He lives by mending. The grace of God is glue."

Graceland, New Zealand

In 2005, while motoring through Texas, I stopped to use a restroom located in the city hall of a small town.

Upon entering the vestibule of the building, I noticed a long display case with a glass front, similar to one found in a candy shop. This, I discovered, was the town's museum. This historical exhibit was supervised by a lady with a terrible perm who was knitting something yellow that looked like it would fit some small person who had three legs. As I walked up to ask her where I could powder my nose, I noticed there were about 25 sets of false teeth on the display case's top shelf.

I was intrigued.

"What's this?" I asked, pointing to the displayed dentures.

"Those are the false teeth of our famous townspeople," she replied, not dropping a stitch.

I was hoping you could wind the teeth up and see them all chatter away together, nudging each other like bumper cars as they trembled around the case. The knitting lady thought that was a rather gauche suggestion, as these teeth had already been separated from their engines, if you catch my drift. And, Lord a goshen and here's hoping the creek don't rise, if you live in that town, you better stipulate to your heirs that your choppers, true or false, are going with you when you leave this mortal coil.

Graceland is everywhere. Even in New Zealand.

Seems the late Fred and Myrtle Flutey, formerly of Bluff, New Zealand, had a Graceland of their own.

It is called the Paua Shell House. It holds the largest display of paua shells in New Zealand, lining the walls of their "Paua Lounge."

A paua is a large edible sea snail. Seems Fred got into the habit of shining up paua shells that he found on the local beach. But his hobby proved detrimental to Myrtle's housekeeping, as he would leave the shells on the floor, making it impossible for Myrtle to vacuum efficiently. So Fred started nailing the shells to the wall of the living room, or "lounge" as it is called in NZ, and the rest is history.

Over one million people visited the Fluteys and the 4000 paua shells that Fred collected. The Fluteys never charged an admission fee. When they passed away, Fred & Myrtle’s Paua Shell House collection was donated to The Canterbury Museum in Christchurch, where you can still see the famous paua shell lounge of Fred and Myrtle Flutey on display.

We did visit the Paua Lounge at the museum in Christchurch, and what a treat. When you enter the room, all aesthetic sense you own melts away, and you stand there, with all the other visitors, dumbfounded at the possibility of the place.

I swear I heard some teeth chattering.

Fred and Myrtle photo: The Canterbury Museum False Teeth Photo: John French, Oxfam

New Zealand Easter Sunday 2009

Quote from New Zealand poet James Keir Baxter (June 29, 1926—October 22, 1972), etched on stone and placed in the water of Wellington Harbor.

Happy Easter, everyone.

Wellington, NZ: Pizza from Hell, Andrew's Life, and Fidel's on Cuba Street

Journal Entry -- 25 March 2009:

"Arrived in Wellington late this afternoon. At the bus station, we found a cab driver from the Czech Republic who transported us to the i-Site Tourist center, complaining that the locals, and the Brits, don't tip him. There is a rule in New Zealand: you do not have to tip anyone, at any time. The sense is that everyone has a job, and are paid a decent wage.

At the i-Site center, the tired young woman who helped us find a hotel was near the end of her shift, and acted as if she certainly wanted to be rid of the likes of us. I don't blame her. She sent us up the hill to a newly-refurbished hotel on Cuba Street. Enormous room, new carpet, huge windows, lots of light. Determined there was no electricity in the room. Then discovered that one must put one's room card key in the slot by the door to activate the room's lighting and power. Saves a ton of energy a year for the hotel. Makes sense.

This is a land of balance. The food is bright, clean and beautiful. The water you drink from the tap tastes like the expensive bottled water one purchases in the States. The egg yokes of this morning's breakfast were a beautiful orange, pure under the fork. People are calm. There is little crime. Children are rosy-cheeked and behaved. The closest I have seen to a brat tantrum was delivered by a small blonde girl standing with her mother at a street corner. The little one stamped a sneakered foot and simply stated, 'No, Mummy, I do not care to do that.' The mother took hold of the little girl's hand, said, 'Straighten up now,' and the two crossed the street.

Doug has gone off in search of takeaway pizza, wine, coffee and dessert. The Internet connection is not wireless, but hard-wired broadband in this room, so I asked him to stop at the front desk on his way out to shop to request that a wireless router be borrowed for our stay.

Soon there was a soft knock on the door, and Andrew, the hotel manager, requested permission to enter so he could install the router. Once it was plugged in, he used the room phone to call his IT folks to activate the connection. While he was on hold, he and I got to chatting about tech stuff, New Zealand weather, and cricket. He told me it had been a tough day. 'My wife is home sick, and I am supposed to be there right now, cooking supper,' he told me. 'I may be getting divorced by the time I get home.' He wasn't looking simply to dump his personal troubles on any available ear, or to have someone feel sorry for him. He was simply stating facts. In New Zealand, everyone has a job to do, and that includes, for some, marriage.

Doug came back with a pizza from Hell. That is the name of the pizza shop down the street, and the pie was great. He also found a bottle of wonderful Australian Shiraz at "the bottle shop" around the corner, plus lattes and apple dessert at a wonderful cafe a block away called Fidel's. Yes, as in Castro.

Walking up Cuba Street today, I noticed a street artist's stencil of Tolstoy's face on a wall, accompanied with the quote, 'In the name of God, stop a moment, cease your work, look around you.'"

PHOTO: Coffee cup illustration on wall of Fidel's Cafe, Wellington, NZ

See more New Zealand photos

New Zealand: Taking the Bus

Seems to me when you visit a place, the more money you spend, the further away you place yourself from the folks who live there.

That means it is time to take the bus to your next destination.

When I think of taking the bus, I am reminded of pre-Christmas childhood travel trips I took from NJ to New York City with my mother Dottie M. to go holiday gift shopping at Macy's. That usually meant having to wear a stupid dress, white gloves and Sunday hat while experiencing a crushing ride in a stinky mobile cannister filled with rude people.

New Zealand has a national bus system called InterCity. It is very slick. You purchase a deal called a Flexi-pass, a set number of hours you use to fly down the left-hand-side of New Zealand's roads in a motorcoach. Yes, that's right, it is not a bus, but a motorcoach. As the vehicle's name suggests, your ride is spotlessly clean and it makes scheduled stops for tea-time along the way. One lump or two?

What I like best are the bus drivers on the system. They switch off every four hours or so. The first one we experienced was named Stan. He was a short, wiry, very strong fellow who wore knee socks with his Bermuda shorts, and could pick up my suitcase (affectionately known as "The Dead Body Bag") with one hand tied behind his back. And Stan gave us a nature tour as we motored along ("If you look to your left, you will notice a myriad of trees that were planted during the Great Depression.")

I have to say my favorite bus driver so far has been Paul. He reminded me of Monty Python's John Cleese imitating a New Zealand motor coach driver, informative about the scenery in a refined presentation, yet at times, slightly indignant. ("Now, I want a moment of silence on this bus to remember all those who died keeping China British.")

The adventure continues...

PHOTO: UK Mirror The Best Overloaded Transport Pictures

Auckland: Illegal Boots, Plato's Phone, Ambassador Jason and Hillary's Axe

On late May 1953, at the age of 33, Edmund Percival Hillary and Sherpa mountaineer Tenzing Norgay became the first climbers known to have reached the summit of Mount Everest.

These days, Sir Edmund would have trouble bringing back boots to New Zealand dirty with some foreign soil.

When traveling to New Zealand, please leave your aquatic pests at home. New Zealand doesn't want them. When coming through customs, we had to declare the fact that we were both carrying hiking boots in our luggage. Upon inspection by a customs agent, it was determined that:

1) Doug's boot were clean, but, of course,
2) my boots, which had some spots of U.S. mud on their soles from the last time I walked Walt, could cause a national incident if they were not shined up, straight away.

Seems the NZ government is serious about biosecurity, as they want to keep their waterways clean. All hiking boots, called "tramping shoes," are checked for clumps of algae and other debris, then cleaned with a decontamination solution. After treatment, items are rinsed with water that comes from the local town's water supply.

So, at 5:30 a.m., we were directed to our very own Agriculture/Quarantine officer, a cheerful lady who was gloved as if ready for a plunge through plutonium. She took my boots and disappeared behind a screen for a few minutes. Heard lots of splashing water, and I suspect a few zaps from some special ray gun. She returned with my trampers, cleaned and wrapped in plastic.

On to Auckland City, Hillary's hometown.

We checked into our hotel, took a nap, then ventured out to get a glimpse of the city.

Found a public phone set for philosophy...

and a wonderful Auckland Ambassador named Jason Greenwood, an accomplished writer and actor, who will also answer any questions you have about the city, and direct you to the best steakhouse in town.

And we took the bus across town ($1.60 NZD one way) to see Hillary's Axe, the one he used on Everest, the same tool his widow donated to the Auckland Museum.

PHOTO CREDITS:
Sir Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay, Hillary's Axe -- Photo Gallery, Hillary's Axe, Auckland Museum
Hillary's Axe made by Claudius Simond from Chamonix in France and purchased before the 1951 New Zealand Himalayan expedition. Hillary’s ice axe has a European Ash wood handle and a forged steel head and spike.
All other photos: Mary Gillen

New Zealand: Getting There, British Broiled Tomatoes and Civil Engineers

Way back in June 2006, I wrote about a proposed quest to New Zealand.

Now, almost three years later, am there.

Had to leave Walt in Canyon Lake, Texas at a place where the lady Jane grooms dogs and allows the Lab the run of the place, so I know he is schmoozing with other canines and galumphing around the backyard, raising up that dry Texas dirt.

Doug and I left for New Zealand via Los Angeles. It took one Southwest flight, and the hitching of rides with three cab drivers of differing nationalities (Sudanese, Russian and Irani) who all held the same educational degree (civil engineering) from their old countries and who contributed to getting us to LAX in time for the flight Down Under.

The 12-hour, 40 minute flight from CA to Auckland left at 8:30 p.m. We lucked out and had a row of four seats to ourselves. The voice of our pilot, Captain Buttery, came across the loudspeaker, letting us know that all should go splendidly as we zoomed across the Pacific. The plane had a collection of entertainment films and cable shows, all viewable on a screen located on the back of the seat in front of you. Doug watched an interview with Steven Hawkins, and then one about CERN and the search for Higgs Boson. The excitement of that caused him to conk out, a Lone Ranger with a Qantas sleeping mask over his eyes, ear plugs and a couple of Benadryl helping him to slumber land, pardner.

Ms. Tonto stayed up and read for a while. Soon I was surrounded by three stewards, nervously inquiring about my health ("Madam, are you OK?") Confused, I replied, "Yes, I'm fine." Seems my elbow was leaning against the attendent call button on my arm rest, an action that caused multiple silent SOS signals to be hurled unceasingly to the back of the plane, as well as all automatic garage doors to open and close wildly on the island of Micronesia, I am sure.

People lined up like children preparing for bed, toothbrushes and towels in hand, waiting patiently to use the restroom. Across the aisle, a child named Tyler started to fuss. His pop would have none of it. The plane's cabin darkened.

I slept for nine hours across three seats. There was much turbulence as we flew over islands called Papeete and Noumea.

Three hours away from Auckland, the lights came on, and passengers were handed hot towels to wipe face and hands. Breakfast tray food included the British broiled tomato.

Next: Auckland.

IMAGE: New Zealand Company Flag, 1839
Maker unknown, made on board "The Tory"
Wool bunting, linen / 1295 x 1880 mm
Te Papa Museum, Wellington, New Zealand

Tubkin Tendencies and Gillen's Irish Dinner

As many of you know, the Gillen Coat of Arms is the Knife and Fork.

When glancing through a Gillen family photo album, one sees images of Gillens captured in their middle -age, dancing and schmoozing at family gatherings. After viewing such a sight, one cannot help but notice the tubkin tendencies of this group. Let's face it: we are a clan who loves to eat, drink and laugh until the cows come home. Whatever that means.

So, as the National Holiday -- St. Patrick Day, March 17 -- approaches, it is time to share the wealth, and offer education that contributes to the extension of human girth throughout the land.

I present you with the recipes for Gillen's Irish Dinner, should you have appetite enough, and courage to confront the calories.

It consists of corned beef, colcannon, Irish soda bread and Irish apple cake.

Some History

I was 16 before I realized that beef brisket did not have to taste like shoe leather in honor of St. Patrick. Boiled until it was really dead. What cruelty.

Hope

My friend Barb Binder gave me a great idea about cooking corned beef. The secret: boil the corned beef as you normally would, but an hour before it is due to be done, take it out of the water, dry it, coat it with peanut oil, mustard, and brown sugar. Then put it on the BBQ grill for 60 minutes. Nectah from the Celtic gawds.

Carb-Loading

You must also include colcannon as part of Gillen's Irish Dinner. It is a food made from mashed potatoes, kale or cabbage, butter, salt, and pepper. There is a trick I have discovered to making these potatoes incredibly flavorful. Like much in life, cooking the potatoes for colcannon is all about timing, and what you put in the pot.

Next, Irish soda bread. There is a way of making it so you don't need a gallon of tea to wash it down because its typical dryness will leech every bit of moisture from your throat. The secret: double the butter.

Finally, Irish apple cake. The trick to any apple dessert is to fry the apples in butter first, before adding the rest of the ingredients.

So here are instructions and timing for the entire dinner.

Hope you enjoy.

And Happy St. Patrick's Day everyone. May the road rise to meet you...

===

Get, and prep these ingredients:

Corned beef:
1 (5 1/2 pound) corned beef brisket
2 large onions
10 carrots, cut into 1 inch pieces
1 head cabbage, cored and finely shredded

Colcannon:
3 pounds potatoes
2 sticks butter
1 1/4 cups hot milk
Freshly ground black pepper
4 scallions or green onions, finely chopped
Chopped parsley leaves, for garnish

Soda Bread:
4 cups flour
4 teaspoons baking powder
1 cup sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon caraway seeds
1 cup raisins
1/2 cup currants or golden raisins
2 eggs
1 cup milk
1 cup butter

Apple Cake
1/4 cup (1/2 stick) butter plus 1 tbsp butter
1 cup sugar
1 egg, beaten
4 Granny Smith apples, cored, peeled, and diced (2 cups)
1/4 cup chopped walnuts
1 teaspoon vanilla
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon nutmeg
1 cup all-purpose flour

Let the games begin

Rinse the beef brisket under cold water, and place in a large pot. Add enough water to cover the roast by 6 inches. Peel the onions, and place them in the pot with the roast. Bring to a boil, and cook for about 30 minutes at a rolling boil. Reduce heat to medium-low so that the water is at a gentle boil, cover, and cook for 1-1/2 hours.

At the 1-1/2 hour mark, add the 3 lbs. of colcannon potatoes to the pot. Let the meat and potatoes cook together for 30 more minutes. This is where the potatoes gain incredible flavor. Once 30 minutes goes by, remove the potatoes, cabbage and corned beef from the pot.

Also remove the onions, and cut into wedges. Return them to the pot. Add carrots to the pot. Place the lid back on the pot, and cook for another 30 minutes. Remove the vegetables from the pot, and place in a separate serving bowl.

Corned beef: dry it, coat it with peanut oil, mustard, and brown sugar. Then put it on the BBQ grill for 60 minutes. Let stand for 10 minutes, then slice. Place on serving platter surrounded by the cooked carrots and onions.

Colcannon

Peel the potatoes you removed from the pot using a knife and fork. Chop with a knife before mashing. Mash thoroughly to remove all the lumps. Add 1 stick of butter in pieces. Gradually add hot milk, stirring all the time. Season with a few grinds of black pepper.

Chop the cabbage you removed from the pot into small pieces. Add cabbage and scallions to the mashed potatoes, stirring them in gently. Serve sprinkled with parsley.

Irish Soda Bread

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Combine dry ingredients and raisins. Cut in butter. Beat eggs, add them to mixture, then add milk. Round into loaf.

Bake at 350 degrees for 1 hour.

Irish Apple Cake

Preheat oven to 350°F. Generously grease an 8-inch square cake pan.

Heat 1 tbsp butter in frying pan. Gently brown the apples.

In a large bowl, cream butter and sugar together until light and fluffy. Add the egg, browned apples, nuts, and vanilla and stir well. Sift in dry ingredients and mix well.

Pour batter into the prepared pan and bake until cake is lightly browned and a skewer inserted into the center comes out clean, about 45 minutes. Let cool in the pan for 5 minutes, then unmold and serve hot or cold with whipped cream or vanilla ice cream. Serves 10 to 12.

Hank, Stan and The Language Lab

Having spent a bit of time in Texas now, one can't help but notice that many people speak Spanish here.

Good for them.

Wish I could.

Learning a foreign language. Not one of my accomplishments in life.

It was a prerequisite, way back when in the late 70s, that any human being studying to get an English degree at a Massachusetts university, must have two years of foreign language study under one's belt.

Go figure.

So, I chose Spanish.

My entire Spanish vocabulary still consists of two sentences. The first ("Hello, I am a wide-mouth frog.") leaves people wondering about my sanity, and the second ("You are a good-looking pig.") does not enable me to make new friends anywhere, especially near the Mexican border.

My friend Hank was also in the same Spanish class. He would suggest that we meet at the university's language lab, being very solicitous with his invite: "You are an idiot when it comes to this language. You need practice. Meet me there, or you are dead."

Spoken like a true friend.

This particular laboratorio de lengua was located on the second floor of a concrete university building designed by Modernist architect Paul Rudolph, and managed by a guy named Stan.

I do not know if Stan spoke Spanish, but he had a comb-over that made Donald Trump look like a piker. And he ran that language lab with a steel fist, complete with hidden bald spot.

If one was to make efficient use of such a lab, one entered quietly, sat at a desk, picked up the nearest headset, placed said earphones over hearing sense organs, dialed a number on the very phone-like circular indicator that represented the tape one wanted to hear, and soon heard the lilting sounds of Spanish translating over the wires.

Nope. Not for me.

I dialed the number.

Nada.

I dialed it again.

No way, Jose.

I dialed it a third time.

The silence was deafening.

Time to call in The Marines.

I raised my hand.

"Excuse me, Stan?" I inquired.

Stan and his Comb-o-vah, who were sitting at the front desk, snapped to attention.

"Yes?" they said.

"I dial the tape number, and hear nothing." I responded.

Stan leaped from his chair, and, accompanied by his hair, ran to the back room of the lab. For about fifteen minutes, one heard sounds as if he was picking up pots and pans and throwing them about the room. Soon he emerged.

"Try it again," he, and his hair (which, by this time, was really a mess) suggested.

I did. I dialed. Silence. I shook my head. No luck.

Again Stan disappeared to the back room. More clanging of metal was heard.

When no one was looking, Stan or Hank, I discovered that I had the wrong headset placed upon my ears. I was dialing at my desk, but was wearing the headset from the desk to the left from where I was sitting.

There is a saying, "Stupidity is not a crime. You are free to go."

"Stan, Stan," I called, in English. "It is working!"

Bueno, buddy, bueno!

Stan appeared from the back room, his coiffure a sight, but happy to have found a solution.

But you can't fool Hank.

"Usted es un idiota más allá de límites," he said.

I had to look it up.

ART: Carrying Water
Roberto de la Selve (Nicaraguan)
Apizaco, Mexico

Girl with Blue Eyes

Some of my pals on Facebook (also known as "Crackbook...you cannot stop!")...Quinn, Kent, Kath...have been tagging me lately.

"Tell us 25 random things about yourself so we can get to know you better."

I immediately shut the computer down, took Walt for a walk, then came to the conclusion that if one wants to be reminded of his/her character, then one should immerse oneself in art, as recognition that there is so much more than you on this earth. So I shined myself up, and accompanied by the equally-gussied-up Doug, ventured off to The McNay Art Museum here in San Antonio.

After paying our eight-buck-each-entrance-fee, and patiently listening to the docent-description-of-the-environs, we were free to zoom about on our own. Georgia O'Keefe is there, as is Monet and Chagall and Arthur Dove and so many other greats. Rounding a corner, I came upon...

Modigliani...

and...

Girl with Blue Eyes.

So if you want to know, here it is:

1) I love this painting. Skinny red/brown hair, awkward, clumsy, softened, lovable in an odd, warm way. And not afraid to look into the eyes of the creator...or anyone else.

2) I wanted so much to be a painter. Yet I was born with eye/hand coordination that is not spot-on. Does not quite connect. Meaning I can see it, but cannot reproduce it on canvas or paper. So I have learned to use words and the camera to try to convey what is out there.

3) To be humorous, you must be smart. I use humor to entertain, and sketch myself, yet also to shield myself from those who are shallow, who do not understand the possiblity of uniqueness.

4) I have tremendous appetite for life. I have been known to win many contests that involve consuming food, which is one of the great joys of life. When I was around seven, the family attended a neighborhood block party/cookout in New Jersey. One of the neighbors was grilling hot dogs. Another neighbor, incredibly innebriated, continually tried to get a rise out of me by calling me "Marcia" and proclaiming for all to hear that a skinny kid like me could not eat a single hot dog. I double-dog-dared him (very serious stuff) to a hot-dawg-eating contest. I consumed nine before I witnessed him running to the bushes to barf after eating four of the devil dogs. This debaucle was witnessed by my dear mother, who sent me home from the bar-b-que in punishment for making a pig out of myself in public.

5) When I was a child, I thought vegetables hurt. Could not stand to see a stalk of celery go under the knife.

6) I like dogs better than most people. And the people I really like love dogs, cats, horses, and the other wonderful creatures of this planet.

7) I never wanted to be a mother. Ever. I knew I did not have the patience to do the job right.

8) I like the exactness of programming. Numbers don't lie, unless you work on Wall Street these days.

9) I look for people's art. What they contribute to this life.

10) I love my sister. She means more to me than anyone I know.

11) My two brothers were the first friends I ever had in this life.

12) I was lucky to have the parents I had. They gave up some of their dreams to give us ours. And there isn't a day that goes by that I do not miss them both.

13) I play guitar.

14) I miss smoking cigarettes. I will start smoking again when I am 80. That is a promise. And don't try and stop me.

15) I always need new. Especially places. It keeps my mind active, thinking.

16) I want to see New Zealand, Greece, Italy, Sweden, Russia, Patagonia and so many other places before I die.

17) I want to be like my Aunt Peg when I grow up. She is 81, and still so vibrant.

18) I have had friends for over 30 years: Cuz, Hank, K, G, Terry, Phyll, Gail. How incredibly lucky I am.

19) Doug makes me laugh more than anyone I have ever known.

20) Please erase the following from the face of the earth: beets, miniature golf, chocolate-covered marshmallows, and idiocracy.

21) Silence is good for the soul. Shut off the radio, TV, the Internet at least once a day for twenty minutes. Listen to your breathing...and relax.

22) Emma is my pal. Pete is my buddy.

23) Everyone has a story...if you give the gift of listening.

24) No one can help how they feel.

25) Everything is as it should be.

Amedeo Modigliani (Italian, 1884-1920)
Girl with Blue Eyes, 1918
Oil on Canvas, 24 x 18 1/4 in.
The Marion Koogler McNay Art Museum, San Antonio, Texas

The Well

In Celtic belief, wells are sacred places, thresholds between the inner world of spirit, and the outer world of people.

These deep holes that cradle water are special apertures through which divinity flows. Those who seek belief walk around a well several times in a clockwise direction, hoping to awaken in the mind the flow of wisdom and promise. At the well, petitioners also leave token strings of clothing, usually hung on a bush or tied to a tree, so that the healing power of the well can act upon these small fragments of garment, and hopefully, the people who wore them.

In every life a child takes the spiritual walk around the well towards adulthood. A few weeks ago we attended a circular coming-of-age through the bar mitzvah of one Matthew Nathan Milner, son of friends Gail Rigler and Mike Milner.

Matthew

To become a Bar Mitzvah, or "Son of the Commandments," Matthew promised responsibility for keeping the commandments of The Torah, and for being responsible for his actions and moral behavior. This young man practiced his part for months before this day, and lead the service with poise and intent evident beyond his years.

He also shared it with another child, someone from the well of memory.

Chana Matuson

His great aunt, Chana Matuson, his maternal grandmother Hannah's only sister. Chana was never given the opportunity to celebrate her own Bat Mitzvah. She perished, due to Nazi command, in Europe in the mid-1940s.

Matthew's grandmother Hannah was there. A 16-year-old in 1945, Hannah was part of a group of 1200 women from the Stutthof concentration camp who were being marched to their death along the Baltic coast. Her sister, Chana, and her mother, Gita were also part of the suffering. "We were staggering in the snow, dressed in rags, with only wooden clogs on our feet, with no food and under the heavy blows of the SS guards," Hannah said. "My mother pleaded with me to try and escape. It was a painful decision to leave my mother, but finally I decided to try and find some food for them."

Hannah did leave that road, and found safety in a nearby barn, where she collapsed, starving and exhausted. She was discovered by a group of British prisoners of war who were working on the farm. "They smuggled me into their POW camp – Stalag 20B in Gross-Golmkau, where they hid me in a hayloft, and nursed me back to health," Hannah said. Danger encircled them. A police station was nearby. The horses used by the police were kept in the barn where Hannah was hidden.

Eventually Hannah's British benefactors were evacuated from that place. Before they left, they negotiated Hannah's continued care with a local woman who provided safety for the young woman until the Red Army arrived. Hannah did settle in the United States, the only survivor of her family.

Yes, in this world of made-up memoirs of million little pieces and apples being thrown by fictitious angels at fences, Hannah's story is true. It seems to me that someone who has really been through that kind of pain has no reason to lie, as every lie you tell gives someone else power over you, something that Hannah will never let happen again.

Yes, Hannah was there. Sitting with her husband Bill in the well of the synagogue community of family and friends on that bright Saturday morning, immersed with all of us in the Shabbat Service, prayers of creation, revelation and redemption. Witnessing daughter Gail tell Matthew the importance of giving, that "to one who has been given much, much is expected in return." Advice from Matthew's father Mike, spoken in a soft voice: "never, never give up." And the child listened and heard. You can tell from his eyes he has been given the structure so many children need, and the love that backs that up.

Gail, Matthew and Hannah

The well continues to thrive, holding mystical waters. The Torah was removed from the Ark, and walked around the congregation clockwise. Congregants moved to touch the scrolls with prayer books or the corner of a tallit, the fringed shawl worn by adults during prayer. 613 strings of promise that what is important in life has not been forgotten.

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You may also like to read another celtic_writer blog posting: The Wall

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G, The Prune-Lipped Sewing Class and a Dangerous Hefty Bag

I have a good friend in New Hampshire named Garrie, forever known to me as G. We used to warble tunes together, me singing lead and playing the old geetar, and she contributing pure natural harmony that could shake a room with its beauty. This was back in the 70s when pubs and coffeehouses opened their doors to the likes of us. Then disco became the rage, and everyone started boogeying to a different tune, moves that hustled most folk singers right out of business. Ah, we were so young and foolish. G and I met up again the last time I was in New England, and am happy to report we are now middle-aged and foolish. And that is a good thing.

I hadn't seen Garrie in over 30 years. Her spirit and warmth has not changed a bit. She is now known as Momma G, and is writing about the things she knows best. She has raised three children who sparkle in spirit. She is also a seamstress of great talent. She would wear the most wonderful outfits, all made by hand, of her own design.

I have a confession to make, dear G.

I was kicked out of sewing class when I was 15.

I coulda been a condend-ah, but alas, it was my mother Dottie M.'s idea.

"You need to learn how to sew," she announced to me at breakfast one morning during my teenage years.

Huh? Where did that come from?

I continued to eat my cereal in silence, wondering if the aliens had come during the night and stolen my mother, leaving a replacement who had no earthly idea who I was.

"Why do I need to learn how to sew?" I asked.

"Because it will be good for you," she replied.

My father Frank J. put down the newspaper he held in front of his face and gave me a look like, "Don't go there." My younger sister Kathy looked at me and shrugged her shoulders, a physical expression of the phrase, "Suck-ah!"

Shoot.

"OK," I said, amazing the gathered crowd. I was thinking the experience could possibly be good short story material.

The next day my mother marched me off to the fabric store, list in hand of demands made as to the goods I would need at this once-a-week sewing camp to learn how to sew a jumper. How perfectly Catholic is that! A jump-ah. Perhaps to be worn with a blouse that had a Peter Pan collar. I didn't have enough of those in my closet. We gathered fabric and needles and thread, a sundry of notions that would enable me to, finally, as my mother hoped, piece it all together.

As class time drew near, a discussion ensued as to the appropriate container to transport said sewing supplies to the place of instruction.

"How 'bout a brown paper shopping bag?" I suggested.

I thought Dottie M. would have a stroke.

"You are not going out of this house with sewing goods in a brown paper bag," she said to me with much disgust, wondering if, in fact, I had been the one abducted by aliens. Her response echoed the old Irish saying, "Don't bring shame to this table."

"OK, how about a garbage bag?" I retorted.

My mother's face turned red.

"You are not my daughter."

OK, Ma, now you are killing me.

"Yes, I am, and I am not going to class carrying stuff in some girly bag!" I said.

I crossed my arms across my chest.

A Hefty bag it was.

I am surprised the dear woman didn't drop me off two blocks away from the sewing class on the first day so she wouldn't be seen with me and my garbage bag. True to form, she drove me right up to the door, and gave me a parting look as if to say, "May the force be with you."

Thanks, Ma. This was your big idea.

I entered the building, then the classroom, which was filled with helmet-haired, pruned- face, pruned-lipped-looking women. They were discussing current events that, I believe, were fostered by the latest headlines from The National Enquirer.

These ladies had their fabric all spread out on the sewing tables, boxes of pins open, ready to stab fabric-to-pattern. A cruel group.

I made the mistake of whipping my garbage bag up on the nearest flat surface, which was really one of those temporary sewing boards that sat upon a smaller space, yet gave more dainty individuals space to cut their patterns.

As physic majors will tell you, "Not a good idea."

The weight of the garbage bag flipped the sewing board up as if it was competing to be in the NASA Space program. Fabric went flying. Even more dangerous, pins from open boxes were detonated. The people screamed. When the dust settled, there were a myriad of pins stuck in the hair-sprayed coiffures of my classmates.

I called Dottie M. from a pay phone a couple of blocks from class.

"Please come get me. I have been kicked out of class."

I heard my mother sigh, in a foiled-once-again tone.

"OK."

So, dear G, I leave the hum of the sewing machine to you. And I am happy you are back in my life.

Big Mountain and the Exorcist Steps

A few years ago, on a typically-humid sunny summer day in Washington DC, I motored my way over to Georgetown University to be interviewed for a teaching gig. The meeting occurred in a building on M Street called The Car Barn, a locale where the city's trolley cars were once stored that now hosts university folks delivering education.

When the chat was done, I walked out of the building on to M Street, only to realize that The Mighty Bug was parked in a lot on Prospect Street above the Car Barn. The closest access: the infamous Exorcist Stairs, made famous by William Peter Blatty in that 1973 horror film. There are 75 stairs and enough landings to make its height equivalent to a five-story building.

So I started to climb...and climb...and climb, pulling my large business-suited body and panty-hosed legs stuffed in big high-heeled lady shoes up those stairs. I was passed, about a hundred times, by three very athletic twenty-year-olds, running up and down the stairs for exercise, giggling and gossiping as I was gasping for breath. I finally made it to the top and had to lay down on one of the park benches nearby so someone would hopefully notice my newly-expired personage and call the police. I was not alone. I looked across to another set of benches. There sat a middle-aged fellow who had climbed the stairs as well. He had his business suit jacket off and he was wiping the sweat from his brow. His comment, "If I had a gun, I would shoot those kids."

Isn't it ironic that hiking has now become part of my life.

I come from a long line of people who love to eat. The Gillen coat of arms is the knife and fork. I was also spawned from two people who believed that camping meant making a reservation at the nearest Holiday Inn, and hiking involved pressing the Up button on the elevator.

Doug and I have been hiking a lot on our journey, and it has helped me lose some weight, which is good.

But this past summer, I met my hiking nemesis in northern Montana.

Big Mountain.

It is, pardner.

A ski resort, it is a place to hike along beautiful mountain trails and pick huckleberries in the off-season. And if you make it to the top, you can ride the chairlift down for free.

The top means you trot from the base of 4464 feet up trails to the summit of 6817 feet, a hike of 3.7 miles or so.

Doug has hiked Big Mountain many times. "Piece 'o cake," he told me when we got to the trailhead.

At first, it was easy. Like something out of the Sound of Music. The pretty little Alpine flowers were blooming, and around every bend you expected to see a young Julie Andrews twirling and singing about how alive the hills are.

Then, slowly, the height of the mountain turned evil. Each corner held terrain of increasing vertical horror that required so much effort that all I wanted to do was lay down on the path on my stomach, kick my arms and legs, and hold my breaf till I turned brew.

Doug tried to encourage me. "We only have to go one more mile vertical and then it levels out some."

So I simply did what every overweight middle-aged Celtic writer would do: I pouted as I trudged up that wall of hell, keeping my arms at my sides, and my head down, convinced that if I met someone as cheerful as Julie Andrews coming the other way on this path, she would get such a shove.

At that point, Doug told me later that he didn't have the heart to tell me about..."Heartbreak Hill."

"You would have turned around and run down the path so fast that it would have seemed like something out of a Three Stooges movie." he told me later.

Wooo wooo wooo wooo wooo.

Heartbreak Hill is the last 1/2 mile climb to the summit. I somehow clawed my way to its top, where Doug was waiting for me, all congratulatory and happy that I had made it. I was too busy leaning my face against a corner of a "Don't Feed the Bears" sign to answer him.

He pointed up a slight incline to a building about 100 feet away. "C'mon, Mare, let's go in there and get a cold drink."

It was like I was looking up at Mount Everest.

"No," I replied. "You will have to carry me."

"I am not going to carry you," Doug said.

"OK, then go up there and tell that building to come here," I replied, uncooperatively.

I did climb that little hill, as I realized that I really did need to go to the bathroom, a call of nature I could not ignore. I also discovered that inside that building, the restrooms were located down two flights of stairs, another height that would have to eventually be climbed once again. I went into the Ladies Room, took off my shirt, wrung it out, and looked at myself in the mirror. My hair was standing straight up. Mad woman loose on top of the mountain.

A little while later, Doug came into the ladies room to check up on me. As it was off season, there were no other ladies in there to go "eeek." He coaxed me out of that haven to again, make another climb to where a cold refreshing drink was waiting.

Yes, it was worth it. 'Cause later, we got this:

Exorcist Steps Photo: Wikimedia Commons

In Search of the Fish in a Fur Coat

In Whitefish, Montana, they have a museum called The Stumptown. It is one that holds special things. Like a story and picture about a fish in a fur coat.

One originally dreamed up by a marketer and a taxidermist, meant to attract "city-slickers" to the wilds of Montana, to spend money in search of the fish in a fur coat.

Doug is still ribbing me about this one. About how I found the furry vertebrate displayed in that Whitefish mausoleum, was fascinated, and called him over to have a look. My naivete made him laugh. And, in retrospect, that's OK, as I have come to realize that's what most people like about me. My ability to discover new things and try to explain them, even if I am wrong.

As a writer, I want that fish in a fur coat to be true. When I write about it, I want to successfully combine opposites, so that it can be a great story. And I also want that fish to wear a fur coat, to keep itself warm. And I have realized a most important thing: that the embarrassing experiences we write about can reveal ourselves to us, and perhaps be the most interesting. And that it is OK not to know everything, and to admit it.

Varmint Report

The Dow was down 504 points today.

But mice are up!

As one travels along in a 25 ft. RV across the U.S., one may pick up one of nature's hitchhikers.

Mice are great climbers, aerialists extraordinaire. Plug an electrical cord into an outside outlet at an RV park, and it's Rodent Cirque de Soleil. They scamble up the onramp to Cheerios and fresh vegetables and paper and whatever else is available.

I discovered one of these when I was sitting at the kitchen table, writing at a late hour one evening last week. There is a set of aluminum venetian blinds on the window by the kitchen table. Was writing away when two of the blind blades separated, and the face of a brown Stuart Little emerged, as if to say, "OK, Mugsie, who is in charge here?"

OK, I love animals, but no mice are allowed here, as they poop worse than a goose, and chew through wires and spaghetti and, heaven forbid, everything else.

"Shoo," I said.

It disappeared, only to return around 2 a.m. when, sleepily, I heard it chewing on one of the fresh ears of corn we had purchased at a local farmers market. CORN ON THE COB! Don't these varmints know about ethanol? I'm surprised I did not hear a typewriter's end of line DING when the mousie got to the end of a corn row.

Seems to me, centuries ago in the wayback machine, I had a family of relatives who were having trouble with an infestation of mice.

The philosophy of recourse was absolutely fascinating. Please do the following to re-create the experience:

1) Sit talking to the host of the house. In the middle of the conversation, one hears the sound of scurrying behind the walls of the room where one sits. Definitely mice behind the walls. Witness the host abruptly stand up, run to the desk in the room, grab an air horn one would use to express an esprit de corps at a football game, rush to hold it against the wall, and press the button to create an extremely loud noise.

Host says: "Now the mice are scared."
You reply: "No, now the mice are deaf."

2) Decide to use sticky paper traps to catch the mice in the house. When you come home from work, find 5-6 mice still alive, struggling to release themselves from the sticky paper trap. Feel sorry for the mice. Pick up the sticky paper and the mice and put them in a paper bag. Place them on the street. Run them, and the sticky paper, over with the car.

Not wanting to be so loud or dramatic, we went to Home Depot to review the series of traps available to coax the varmints to another world...in this one, or not.

Doug held up a mousetrap, one with the image of a mouse on it, one with Xs in its eyes. I think it was called MouseBeGone. "This will do the trick," he said. He is a kind man, but very pragmatic.

Nope.

I held up a safe trap, one that will catch the buggers so you can let them go, in a land far, far away.

Sold.

Deviously, I set the trap with freshly cut corn from the cob, and a smear of peanut butter. At around 2 a.m., I heard the little steel door slam shut, and knew from the sound of frantic scratching that we had a winner.

Next a.m., I made coffee, and fed Walt, then gathered the trap and took it out to the woods. I opened the trap's door, and the brown mouse, and a little grey one, took off for Costa Rica.

Two for the price of one.

I hope the weather is warm.