celtic_writer

The Craft Lady, Mrs. Claus and a Celtic Poem

B. Last Saturday morning marked your time to go.

How it shocked us all.

You had pneumonia, but had waited too long to go to the hospital, and there was nothing that could be done to make you better.

You were The Craft Lady. You sold kits online that made people happy, as creative as they could possibly be. It helped so many forget their troubles. And it gave women and men alike something to do with children and grandkids. It is not easy growing up these days. And it is not easy growing older either.

Age is the amount of memories we have of each other. Otherwise, why does living count? I remember your laugh, how you loved to dress up at Christmas as Mrs. Claus. How Emma clapped her hands to see you ring the bell and walk down the main hallway as Santa's wife. You bought such joy to children.

There is a Celtic poem that has helped me in the past, and I hope, can bring a small amount of comfort to all of us who are feeling your loss.

Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.

I will miss you, my dear friend.

PHOTO OF BARBARA LA BRIE: Courtesy of Ms. Jo Soard. Thanks, Jo.

Ichabod Crane, McCarthy's Bar, and Life's Enduring Mysteries

When you wish, or need, to laugh these days, pick up Pete McCarthy's book McCarthy's Bar: A Journey of Discovery In Ireland.

He's a hoot and three-quarters. You know you are in for some fun while perusing the book's cover: McCarthy tipping his hat, an affable smart ass standing in the doorway of a pub, accompanied by a pug dog and a nun drinking Guinness.

What makes McCarthy a great storyteller is he writes about everyday inexplicable things, like two Americans he meets:

"They looked in reasonable shape; yet the blanket refusal of most Americans to walk anywhere that has a purpose, like a shop or a bar or a castle, remains one of life's enduring mysteries. Put them in expensive jogging clothes, though, with headphones on and silly little weights in their hands, and they are happy to strut up and down main roads in toxic fumes for hours without going anywhere, because it's Exercise. But walk to the shop? 'No way. Not me.'"

That got me thinking about the mysterious things one experiences in life, so I thought of some:

1) Why do people take stuffed animals for rides in their cars? You see them: hundreds of Beanie Babies and little tigers and curly poodles and fuzzy creatures, stuck on the shelf near the back window of a sedan whose driver is talking on a cellphone while driving his or her stuffed animals in his or her car in the fast lane going almost 30 miles an hour, backing up traffic to kingdom come. They should be pulled over and charged with DWI: Driving While Imbecilic.

2) Why do so many people who shop in health food stores look ill? My mother Dottie M. had a saying when she passed a person on the street who looked poorly: "That guy needs a good shot of vitamins." That phrase swims through my head when I shop at a local organic food store for vegetables. Half of the people look grey, washed up, worn out, unable to pick up a stalk of celery without calling for shopper assistance. It's probably because they haven't consumed a decent piece of protein since the Eisenhower Administration.

3) Why was the bow tie ever invented?

4) Why do people think spandex makes them look good? Ichabod Crane would look fat in spandex.

5) Why do people drink diet soda with their french fries? Ichabod Crane would drink a real Coke with his french fries.

And not wear a bow tie.

What's on your list of Life's Enduring Mysteries? Comment, please.

Not Yet in the Third Person

Earl.

I cannot yet speak of you in the third person, as if you are not here. When are any of us really ready to do that, with the people we love?

But I know I must. And I know you will understand.

You know what I liked about you? You, a writer, born in NYC, had the humor and storytelling gifts to prove it. And you married one of my best friends, Phyll, as you knew she would always keep you laughing.

You loved your wife, and your kids. And their kids. You also liked your work, and your dog. You had the courage and smarts to take on The New York Times Crossword Puzzle in INK.

I am not worthy.

You, a New Yawk-ah, were a man with a job that brought you status, but that is not who you were. I will remember you as song. There was a dinner at my apartment way back when, and, as usual, I bought out the guitar after we had all eaten, and you sat on a stark wooden piano bench next to me, and we sang:

"Does your mother know you're out, Cecilia?
And does she know that I'm about to steal ya ..."

I liked your simplicity. People with natural class don't need stuff or status or things that are unimportant.

You sat on that bench, and sang. I watched you, and knew you were happy in your life.

I think of your sons, Brian and Richard. I know they miss you terribly. And you know why they do? It is because they enjoyed your company. That is a fact. They liked their father, as well as loved him.

Good for you, Earl.

Genius in Pearls

Thanksgiving. It was an eight-dishwasher-load feast to clean up, a multitude of children running through the house, playing games in the stark attic, all reappearing to ask politely for glasses of milk to accompany third-desserts of pumpkin pie or brownies or something else totally sweet, and not normally allowed.

When you are at Aunt Mary's, you can have whatever you want. No parents are asked for permission. I am happy to report all went home fat, full and foolish.

My sister Kathy also brought a gift, clothed in a Hefty sandwich bag. Our mother's pearls, scooped from the cleansing of a now-retired safety deposit box. The ones our mother left to me.

I am not a pearl person. But I remember when my mother bought this necklace, soon after my father Frank J. passed. She loved this band of jewels. And I know she bought them with a bit of the money Frank J. bequeathed to her, the stash he put away to make sure she was protected.

And I know she bought them because she missed him. She had spent 3/4 of her life with the man.

"You should have pearls, Mary," she told me before she left, fully assured I would get the message.

I hold their roundness in my palm, and, gently closing my fingers upon them, think of her.

There is genius in pearls. They take a long time to form, and men dive to great depths to retrieve them. And you can hold them in your hand, or wear them around your neck, a talisman to remind you from where you have come, a place you realize was safe and good and fine.

Full moon tonight here in Mason Neck, and elsewhere. Dear Doug left this morning to drag the trailer down south, to attend to some business scheduled for Monday. Labbie Walt sleeps on Marg's bed in my office, and he is dreaming, paws moving in pursuit of bunnies and duckies, or children who gleefully toss the Kong for him across the yard.

Marg, the Marine and a Barbie Wading Pool

Ms. Marg.

You were a short-nosed Lab, one with deep-barrelled chest, spun to life on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, from a mother named Stella and a father called Gus.

You were the runt of the litter. You lived to be 13.

You hated thunderstorms. When one would arrive in Mason Neck, you would go to the bedroom closet, pull most of my clothes off the hangers to make a nest, and bury yourself in the smell of Mary, until the danger passed.

Today, there was no part of Mary that could comfort you. Despite medication, you were in pain. You visited the vet today...and went to sleep. I held you in my arms, as was always done when you needed it, and you sighed as your spirit flew away. And as I held you, your gub came to rest on the top of my foot as you went to sleep. Just like it did when you would lay under my desk while I was working, or playing scales on the guitar in the living room. You liked music.

You were smart, my dear Marg. Sweet. A happy dog. Your tail wagged, even in your sleep. I would be working in the office, and hear you slide off the couch in the living room, to walk down the hall to check on me. I would lay the side of my face on your soft black head and rub your stomach, and you would smile with your soft pink tongue.

A memory: Ken wanted water for you, so he, a big strong ex-Marine, went to the nearest Toys 'R Us and bought you a kiddie pool, one with a picture of Barbie on it, one that could be filled with water, which it was, in the corner of the yard. He was not embarrassed. At the counter he told the cashier, "This is for Margaret. She likes to swim."

And you loved it. A black pup, running across the yard, leaping into the pool's shallow depth. You would bite at the even more shallow depiction of the bottle-blond Barbie painted on the pool floor. You loved puddles and biting at water and burrowing your head against the leg of someone you loved.

So tomorrow morning Walt and I will walk to the Potomac. I will drop a Milkbone in the water. And the ripples of treat will spread in circles, a goodness to be shared with Shaman and Casey, baby Henry, and Barb, the lady who will gently scold you while fixing you something good to eat.

A Skate, A Fish, and Mr. G.

The state of North Carolina issued me a fishing license.

Seems you can spend 10 bucks and take your chances for ten days to try your luck at creating a great fish story.

Doug got a license to fish too, and we went halfsies on a long fishing pole, two hooks and a weight, purchased from a swarmy fellah at the local Ocracoke Island tackle shop. When asked what one should use for bait when fishing from the shore in ocean environs, the fish store chap said, "Squid." He reached into a nearby cooler and pulled out a frozen box that contained creatures that looked like the appetizer we had at dinner the night before: calamari.

So off we went, over the dunes and down to the shore, carrying our fold-up chairs, chilled bait and fishing pole, ready for action. As we positioned ourselves at the water's edge, I noticed a man in a yellow baseball cap fishing at a place not far away. You could tell he knew what he was doing. He stood stoicly in the water, casting his line way out into the waves, and patiently waiting.

The ocean is rough around Ocracoke Island. Doug strode down into the water and cast the line out. A few minutes later a wave came along and knocked him so hard that he almost lost his bathing costume. He recovered enough to maintain position while keeping his composure, but eventually the line came in empty.

Fish: 1. Us: 0.

My turn. With new squid on the line, I walked into the water, and with my softball-throwing arm, cast the line out as far as I could. Then a rogue wave hit me and I sat down hard on my butt, like babies do when they are learning how to walk. The fellow fishing nearby must've thought the Village Idiots Convention was meeting in town, and had given its members the afternoon off to fish.

Doug got the first bite. It was a skate, those beautiful flat black fish, round as an apple pie pan, with a thin whip tail. It had beautiful eyes. It blinked. It was nabbed, and looked scared. Doug unhooked it, and with the help of a piece of wood found of the beach, coaxed it back in the water. It skimmed happily back into the deep. I swear that fish smiled.

After a few more casts, I felt two sharp tugs on the line, and knew I had hooked something big. Hoping it wasn't an old boot, or a toilet seat that had been hanging around Davey Jones' Locker since WWII, the catch was the smallest, feistiest fish I had ever seen, clinging greedily to the calimari, which was bigger than it. This fish was white, and had a yellow head, and did not want to let go of the bait. Finally it was coaxed to release its treasure, and was soon back in the water, swimming with the skate, both probably slapping their fish knees in glee, laughing at us.

Have always thought fishing to be great fun, but have to say I am used to fishing in fresh, quiet waters. When I was a child, my father would take my brothers and I to numerous "fishing derby" events, usually hosted by the Boy Scouts, an organization that accepted my brothers as members. 'Cept I was the one who caught all the fish. I think that is because the fish knew I always throw them back.

When I was 16, I went with a high school friend, Zena, and her family, to a place called Six-Mile Lake, north of Toronto. You could only get there by boat. It was so remote you had to make noises when you walked to the outhouse in the middle of the night to scare the rattlers away. Zena's father (known as "Mr. G", 'cause "Grot-Zakzrewski" was a bit long on the tongue for most people) and I were great pals, and we would go fishing. He was originally from Poland, had been from a wealthy family in the old country, lost it all in the war, made it through the concentration camps, came here with nothing, dug potatoes in Maine to exist, even though he was a skilled metallurgist. He and his wife made their way in the U.S., did well, adopted my friend Zena and built a good life.

He and I were like Mutt and Jeff...my 5'10" to his 5' 2". "A-Mare-ica," he'd call. "Come. We go fish." Off we'd wander at 6 a.m., to sit on a smooth, rocked shoreline, catching bass after bass (throwing them all back) as we talked about life and Poland and America and school and his '57 Roadmaster Buick and music and Johnny Cash. He loved Johnny Cash. Eventually we'd sit side-by-side, our feet in the cold, cold water and just be quiet.

Campground

It takes almost eight hours via highway and ferry to reach the campground at Ocracoke Island, part of the Cape Hatteras National Seashore. Run by the National Park Service, it costs a pittance a day to rent a camping spot. This sum also gives one access to wooden rest rooms, potable aqua, stunning beach, the ever-present sound of water, and a parade of human characters served up fresh every day.

The campground is its own society. If you want electricity, bring it with you, but don't run that generator after 10 p.m. There is no shade here. Bring your own shadows. The beach has been voted one of the best in the U.S. and I am happy to tell you that you will not find miniature golf here. There is not even a washateria on the island. You have to get on the ferry with your dirty laundry and head north to Kitty Hawk to commercially clean your clothes. Ocracoke wants to keep the crowds away by not changing itself very much. A local artist, David Freed, writes about the island, "...one still senses that the area has been loaned to its residents and that anytime, nature can foreclose."

Doug pulled his trailer here, to camping spot B3, right along the dunes, so near the water. After living on the beach in Mexico for so many years, he knows the right of ways, the memories such a life can bring. I drive to the place in a rented van, and Walt yelps and fusses to be let out when he sees Doug's truck. Walt thinks Doug is the kind of person one should hang around. Marg presses her big soft head against Doug's leg when she greets him.

Just before sunrise, I walk Marg and Walt along the beach, and then the campground road. Walt is on Greenhead Patrol, trying to snap the flies that bite at him. There is a family camping at the other end of the compound that has seven Jack Russell Terriers in tow. They are all walked together morning and evening, and are a leashed, yappy mess of sound.

In the spot next to ours, there is a retired gent from New Jersey named Ed who is proud to tell you -- first thing -- that he has fathered 14 children, and raised them all on his electrician's salary. ("And my wife never had to work," he said.) Ed has brought along a Labradoodle named Doogie who swims with great strides in the ocean, and an African Grey Parrot that can imitate over 300 sounds, including the sound R2-D2 makes in the movie Star Wars. One of Ed's sons is an opera singer. Through cedar trees that separate one camp site from the next, one can hear a beautiful male voice singing scales, and a certain parrot whistling a perfect imitation of a phone ringing.

There's a woman in the spot across the way who is camping alone, and limping around on a broken foot. She chain smokes. There is a priesthood of young guys from New Jersey who hang around outside the restrooms, hoping to strike up conversations with young tattooed Dead Head women who camp in different spots along this circle of ground. One youthful lady dresses in black in the 95 degree heat, long hair and skirts flowing. She proclaims herself a witch. The Jersey Boys stay clear.

And around the corner, one sees a woman in the soft morning light, drinking a bottle of Bud at a picnic table just before 6:45 a.m., her husband visible through the screen door of their camper, brushing his shoulder-length hair, using long languid strokes.

PHOTO: Ocracoke Island Campground, Ocracoke NC. Filtered with Photoshop.

Ships

Off on another adventure tomorrow, with two Black Labbies along for the gallop. Destination: Ocracoke Island, a silent place on the Outer Banks of North Carolina, a place accessible only by ferry, where the pirate Blackbeard hid his ships in not-easy-to-navigate inlets so he could count his dough and figure out his next move. It is said that a visit to the island brings on the "OcraComa," a disease where one forgets the day and time.

It's been a busy few months. Lots of programming and consulting going on. I am looking forward to camping next to a dune of sand, a quiet place where one only has to walk a short way to be on the beach. Labbie Marg has recovered for now, and Walt is still Jerry Lewis in a Dog Suit, and they will swim in the Atlantic and bark at seagulls and sandpipers, and use their Labbie charms to weasel snacks from fellow campers.

My friend Phyll gave me a quote the other day:

"A ship is safe in harbor, but that's not what ships are for." - Shedd

It has been a time of not much travel and too little writing, a week where The Mighty Bug was rear-ended by a GMC Jimmy, and is soon to go to The Beetle Hospital for repairs. In the last few days I helped place the ashes of a dear friend in the Potomac River after her very long bout with cancer. A reminder comes through loud and clear: Adventures are life blood. You are still here. Don't wait.

So off we go tomorrow, the canines and I, to see what is south, and to remember what is real.

PHOTO: Wall Mural, Coffee Shop, Asheville, North Carolina

Dangers of Babysitting

Came across a statistic the other day concerning the average rate paid for a babysitter in the Year 2007 in this northern VA zip code: a cool $10.50 an hour for tracking one child.

Such numbers bring back memories of youth, when the most the market could spare was 50 cents an hour for being the temporary guardian of an unlimited number of kinder, hopefully a brood that wouldn't tie you up in a closet and steal your car keys, soon after their parents joyfully roared off to a few hours of freedom.

That is...unless you were raised Irish Catholic. Within family walls, childcare offered no compensation. And in terms of babysitting, it could be downright dangerous.

One Sunday morning, when I was around eight or so, the family conducted the normal holy ritual of attending 9 o'clock Mass, then returned home for the all- important Sunday Breakfast. My mother, Dottie M., gave my brother Kevin, age nine at the time, and I strict marching orders so the repast could be prepared.

"Watch your sister so I can finish making breakfast in peace," she commanded.

OK, Maw.

Our sister Kathy was about three years old when this story unfolded. We liked Kathy, but we would rather be reading the Sunday funnies than watching a toddler. So Kev and I came up with a plan. We would put Kathy in her crib, give her something to play with, and then we could pass the time catching up on the exploits of Prince Valiant, Mark Trail, Winnie Winkle and the other colorful comic characters in the New York Daily News.

The three of us went upstairs to the room Kathy and I shared. Kev swung the little one over the ribs of her crib. I found the Number 10 mayonnaise jar that had found a second career housing crayons for the creation of great art, and gave it to Kathy to play with. My brother and I then settled on our stomachs on the floor, with the unexplored wilderness of the funny papers expanded before us.

Kathy knew she was being ignored, and began jumping up and down in the crib, trying to get our attention. When this didn't work, she got busy dumping the crayons out of the jar and played with them for a while. Like many three-year-olds, she had the attention span of a gnat, and after about 30 seconds, she was looking for new adventure. If Kev or I had bothered to spend one second glancing in her direction to check on the welfare of our baby sister, we would have quickly ascertained that she had that boo-boo look on her face that always meant trouble.

So Kathy did what any attention-starved child would do. She turned to violence.

She picked up the crayon jar, and holding it like a depth charge over her head, chucked the monster at her unsuspecting siblings on the floor, cracking my brother on the head, knocking him out cold. The jar did not break, thanks to Kevin's head, but bounced on the rug a time or two, and rolled to rest against the room's far wall. Dottie M., despite the noise of sizzling bacon and the cracking of eggs far away in the kitchen, automatically knew something else was cooking.

"What's going on up there?" she called.

I looked at my brother. He had little stars and planets circling above his head. I glanced at my sister, who was laughing and jumping, and who thought this was so much fun that she would like to do it again.

I simply said,

"Kevin's sleeping."

Kevin did come to, just in time to share the parental reprimand. And he still, to this day, has the lump on his head to prove it.

Cuz's Needlepoint, Derek's Joke, The Best Way to Cook Corned Beef and More

Once again, it's the national holiday.

My cousin Maryann spent many long hours creating this needlepoint piece for me. Cead Mile Failte is Gaelic for "One Hundred Thousand Welcomes." Thanks, Cuz.

There is a corned beef cooking in this kitchen where I sit writing. I was 16 before I realized that beef brisket does not have to taste like shoe leather in honor of St. Patrick. Here's a 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.

There's an Irish fellow named Frankie Quinn singing right now on XM Radio. I think the only singer in his family is the sewing machine. Soda bread will soon be in the oven.

Friend Derek from Mason Neck also emailed this Irish joke:

Jacques Chirac, The French President, is sitting in his office when his telephone rings.

"Hallo, Mr. Chirac!" a heavily accented voice said. "This is Paddy down at the Harp Pub in County Clare, Ireland. I am ringing to inform you that we are officially declaring war on you!"

"Well, Paddy," Chirac replied, "This is indeed important news! How big is your army?"

"Right now," says Paddy, after a moment's calculation, "there is meself, me Cousin Sean, me next door neighbor Seamus, and the entire darts team from the pub. That makes eight!"

Chirac paused. "I must tell you, Paddy, that I have 100,000 men in my army waiting to move on my command."

"Begorra!" says Paddy. "I'll have to ring you back.

Sure enough, the next day, Paddy calls again. "Mr. Chirac, the war is still on. We have managed to get us some infantry equipment!"

"And what equipment would that be Paddy?" Chirac asks.

"Well, we have two combines, a bulldozer, and Murphy’s farm tractor."

Chirac sighs amused. "I must tell you, Paddy, that I have 6,000 tanks and 5,000 armored personnel carriers. Also, I have increased my army to 150,000 since we last spoke."

"Saints preserve us!" says Paddy. "I'll have to get back to you."

Sure enough, Paddy rings again the next day. "Mr. Chirac, the war is still on! We have managed to get ourselves airborne! We have modified Jackie McLaughlin's ultra-light with a couple of shotguns in the cockpit, and four boys from the Shamrock Bar have joined us as well!"

Chirac was silent for a minute and then cleared his throat. "I must tell you, Paddy, that I have 100 bombers and 200 fighter planes. My military bases are surrounded by laser-guided, surface-to-air missile sites and since we last spoke, I have increased my army to 200,000!"

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" says Paddy, "I will have to ring you back."

Sure enough, Paddy calls again the next day. "Top o' the mornin', Mr. Chirac! I am sorry to inform you that we have had to call off the war."

"Really? I am sorry to hear that," says Chirac. "Why the sudden change of heart?"

"Well," says Paddy, "we had a long chat over a few pints of Guinness and decided there is no fookin' way we can feed 200,000 French prisoners."

Happy St. Patrick's Day