celtic_writer

The Front

Off on another road trip tomorrow. The Mighty Bug and I will motor south, to dwell for a couple of weeks in a Marriott hotel in North Carolina, instructing folks at a health insurance company on how to program applications for the Web.

But I will miss this:

This is the view from my desk at home here in the office. I think it explains what makes up my life these days. A computer, Black Labs, light, music speakers, a calendar filled to the brim. I stop often, put my feet on the edge of the desk, lean back in the chair and watch those dear lads in that Winslow Homer print ("Breezing Up (A Fair Wind)"). There are white clouds all about, and they are flowing forward in a sailboat called Gloucester. They are barefoot, and peaceful as they make white spray on their journey.

Someone told me once our homes explain who we are. Funny. As I've grown older, the areas of my home most people visit are usually picked up, uncluttered, wiped down, straightened up.

It's a front.

I am very cluttered. Most creatives are. We need lots of silence and solitude to make sense of the chaos in our heads so what we create appears just the way it's supposed to...in computer code or through some story or a photo.

My office is a mess. It's mine, and I like it that way. Computer cords and small scraps of paper containing notes of new ideas seem to multiply every day. A Staples CD-R acts as a coaster for the always-filled coffee cup. 'Cause that's what creativity is. Chaos is a food group to those who think.

Road trips are good. They offer the supreme gift of privacy, the freedom of not knowing a soul, of being unreachable if you want to be. The gift of invisible movement through life so you have the chance to remember the meaning of it all.

Safety

This afternoon, as this Celt took a break from programming and walked the Labbies down a country asphalt road, I came upon a small creature astride a bike, hellbent on covering new territory. He was about six years old, helmeted, knees and elbows braced in protective gear. He was sweating, and crying.

"Whatsamatter?" I asked the little schnookum.

"It's too hot," he lamented. "And my mom makes me wear all this stuff. I just wanna ride my bike."

Ah. Safety.

There was a time, back in the old days, when we young folk congregated, sans babyseats and helmets and seatbelts, in the back of a red Ford Galaxy station wagon. The back window, if it closed of its own free will, would, sure as shootin', have taken your head off. We hung out the car's back window as a parent gave it the gas. It was amazing. We got to where we were going, and back. And all survived.

My favorite Uncle John says, "When you guys were kids, we put you on the floor and hoped no one stepped on you. How's that for safety?"

I remember a student telling me a similar story once. Seems she was one of eight kids in an Irish-Catholic New Joisey family. "My father would pile us in the car and cruise on down the road. One time he took a curve too fast, the door I was leaning against opened, and I fell out of the car, landing on my butt. He was half a mile down the road before one of my brothers said, 'Hey Dad. Maureen fell out of the car."

I have visions of the paternal figure doing a 180 and zooming up to the spot where poor Maureen sat dazed in the gravel. I'm wondering if he said, "You're all right. C'mon. Get in." and, having scooped her up, sailed on to some other destination.

That's right. She was OK. We all are. We humans are sturdier than ya think.

But safety back then didn't include drive-in movies. My mother insisted my father take us all to see "Tom Jones" (the movie, not the swarmy singer) as she had heard it had "historical value." My brothers and I were young, garbed in p.j.s, sucking down YooHoo chocolate drinks in the back of that Ford station wagon. Yes, history was made as we took great interest in the movie's first seduction scene. My mother, good Catholic that she was, had a holy cow. My father put the car in drive and ripped the big metal audio speaker that was hanging on the driver's door from its roots. Off we went to the chastity of home. We lost the audio speaker about three blocks from the drive-in yard. I remember watching out the back of the station wagon window, hearing it clang on the road and seeing it bounce a couple of times, only to stop forlornly in the middle of the street, waiting for some truck to run it over. I remember seeing that movie later on in college and saying, "Hey, what's the big deal?" But I had experienced men by then, so all was understood. But where the heck's the YooHoo when you need it?

None of us are safe, my friends. Just go to an airport, get on a train, drive on the DC Beltway. I wonder if we try too hard to feel secure these days, instead of opening our arms wide to the world.

Pockets

Back in the old days, when he had a day off from work, my father Frank J. sometimes wore white t-shirts with a left pocket, a little cloth pouch used for teaching words.

I have a vivid memory of him holding my then-toddler sister Kathy in his arms, pointing to the square on his shirt, and saying the word "pocket." Kathy thought this was great fun. She looked inside the empty pouch and laughed. Frank J. said it again. "Pocket." Kathy giggled. The third time, she put her chubby baby hand over my father's heart, looked him in the eye and said one of her first words: "Pock."

That was a start.

Pockets do hold treasures.

Historically, pockets were originally simple leather bags folks used to carry their stuff. They were not permanently attached to clothing. According to the BBC, "the Scottish sporran...that nifty purse worn at the front of the kilt in traditional wear...comes from the old Irish word sparán, which traces its roots back to the Latin word bursa, or 'purse'."

Today, at the grocery store, I overheard two contemporary women, of a very unfamiliar clan, talking about a purse.

Seems this handbag, fashioned in the hobo design, was purchased at Neiman Marcus. "It was only $1900 dollars," one woman said to the other.

Gewd Gawd.

Some people don't know the value of the jeans pocket.

The left pocket of my usually-worn black jeans is known as "The Vault", and acts as DayTimer, TurboTax, file cabinet and coin purse. It is a receptacle of reminders of what has happened during the day, what needs to be recorded, what I like to remember, and what still has to occur. My brother-in-law Dave gave this pocket its name. One time he asked to borrow a buck, and I reached inside and pulled out this rats-nest wad of receipts and bills and scraps of paper. The Vault was born. It has been known to hold scraps of paper with an email address of a student needing a snippet of code, half a Post-It note reminding me of a phone call needed to be made, or some phrase that appeared in this head as I was thinking about something else, the possibility of some pocketed poem.

Last night, when I returned from a very enjoyable southern road trip, I emptied the contents of the Vault on to the flat space of the kitchen island. I found $4.58 in change, which immediately got dumped into the plastic jug located on the floor of the kitchen pantry, destined to be donated for literacy donation at the end of the year. Gas receipts for a journey of 954.7 miles, an automotive decision made last Thursday when I was supposed to fly out of Dulles, but would have been turned away because of the shampoo in my carry-on bag. A flyer from a pub named Barley's, a place that used to be a hardware and feed store, but now boasts awfully good half 'n halfs, 27 taps serving American micro-brewed beer, way wicked pizza, and non-stop conversation with a smart, original mind.

I also found a couple of white hairs from a 16-year-old dog named Cassie, who, with arthritic hips and sore bones, climbed a long flight of stairs to a room where I sat writing at a wooden desk filled with candles and chocolate, checking to see what I was doing, and for her trouble, received a rub of the stomach and a kiss on the top of the head.

So this pocket replenishes. Just like the pots and bowls of the oldest stories, it can hold magic.

First Memory

The ancient Celts believed in a deity named Ogma, a god who represented learning.

The first Celtic "alphabet" was comprised of symbols called oghams, a system of strokes on or across a straight line. When The Others arrived and began to "civilize" those who followed natural ways, the Celts created a network of subliminal messages in order to communicate without saying a word. They carving ogmas on standing stones, door posts, and walking sticks. Ogmah communication evolved into actions, such as touching the nose, ear, elbow or knee to convey some secret. These signals live on today. Tune in to a baseball game and watch the pitcher "talk" to the catcher.

Life is quilted with mystery. Einstein said, "As we acquire more knowledge, things do not become more comprehensible, but more mysterious." So maybe it's best to simply start at the beginning. I have a theory that a human's first memory is a symbol chiseled into a wall somewhere in the mind. It leaves an important hint on how your life will turn out. What's to become of you.

My mother painted iridescent stars on the ceiling of my room. I was an infant. Must've been 6-8 months old. Remember these arms clothed in white business shirt (my father) picking me up. I rested my baby cheek against his warm face, and looked up at those shiny points of light, so luminous all on their own.

Dylan wrote about shooting stars, and I saw one tonight as I sat on the back porch steps. It flew fast. And I made a wish, in the company of a bright full moon that reflects as best it can.

Flying

Just got back from the South.

August seems to be the month of travel this year.

Trip home was interesting. Austin. 7 a.m. Myself (and fellow passengers) sat there for thirty more minutes after the plane was due to take off.

Arrived in St. Louis, walked off the plane to hear a statement over the terminal loud speaker: "Passenger Mary Gillen...please report to Gate C-1 for your flight to DC. The door is now closing." I was at Gate C-17. Shite, as the Irish would say! I turned to the American Airlines employee at the desk and inquired, "Could you please call down to Gate C-17 and tell them to hold the plane...that I am on my way?" She looked at me like I had seven heads.

Idiot.

I ran. Who am I kidding? I lumbered with all my might.

Made it there just as the lady airline personnel person was closing the door. "WAIT," I cried. She did, then acted like I was some kind of creature from another planet. Hold on. I paid good money for this ticket. What happened to customer service? She frowned, put my ticket through the computer, then let me through the Alice in Wonderland door to the plane where some fellow had already absconded with my seat. I asked him to move. He was reluctant, but did.

THEORY: Methinks the major airlines are double-booking their flights, leaving late on purpose from some destinations, letting stand-by passengers on, then telling their already-paid customers, "Oh I am sorry, you are late. We gave your seat away" for double the profit. And it is the customer's fault. I say "dirty dawgs," but that would be an insult to Margaret and Walter.

I am home. And am glad that there is a Labbie fast asleep under my desk as I write this to you, her sweet gub resting on the top of my right foot, so I won't get away.

It doesn't pay to transfer on an airline these days. Time = greed. And, c'mon, don't blame it on the cost of fuel.

But, while flying,  one good thing did appear. Two small boys, across the aisle on the plane. They were separated by a simple row of seats, and met through the small crack between chair and wall. They introduced themselves:

John: "What's your name?"

Toby: "My name is Toby."

John: "My name is John. Have you ever seen a tick?"

Toby: "Yes. Have you ever eaten Cheetos?"

John: "Yeah!"

And as we descended, getting closer and closer to the ground, Toby said,

"Look at the cars down there. Maybe the plane could land on a car's roof and we could all drive on down the highway."

Yeah.