An early morning review of blog entries... and Mrs O

I was looking through past blog entries searching for stories about Mrs O'Reilly, who died a couple of months ago at age 90. I went to the wake at the nursing home with my neighbor Dermot. We had been sharing a good few stories with Noreen, Mrs O'Reilly's daughter, while we sat by Mrs O'Reilly's bed, where she was laid out. She looked so peaceful and so frail--she had gotten a lot smaller over the past couple of years. As we were driving back, I was thinking it was a shame that all the great stories and incidents involving Mrs O'Reilly in the neighborhood would be lost over time. And Noreen had enjoyed hearing the ones we did tell her. So I suggested to Dermott that I could get a small notebook or pad in Italy (where I was headed the next morning), and all the neighbors who wanted to could write about Mrs O'Reilly in it. Dermott thought it was a good idea.

While I was in Venice and wandering around, I went to a beautiful church and lit a candle for Mrs O'Reilly and my Uncle Hugh, who died last year. I am no longer Catholic, but I do appreciate the rites, especially for funerals. For me, lighting the candles was simply taking a moment to remember those who are gone.

So I visited a few paper stores in Venice. I had originally envisaged getting a decorative, hard-covered notebook. Everything I found though was too thick. Eventually I found a set of three slim notebooks in different colors, each with a sketch on the front cover and a relevant poem in English on the back. The one with a sketch of a person bent over and pecking at the bread crumbs among the pigeons who were doing likewise had Mrs O'Reilly's name all over it. The pigeons she fed every morning without fail for decades were the bane of the neighborhood, especially for those residents who parked the cars near her house. I think she bought loaves of bread just for the pigeons. Neighbors may have grumbled about the damn birds--and especially the bird shit--but nobody  ever considered giving out to Mrs O'Reilly.

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I read a good few blog entries this morning. As a wordsmith, I was appalled at how many errors there are. I blame my mediocre typing skills--and obviously insufficient proofreading. I intend to go throw and fix everything... but not today.

Rules for the neighborhood kids

I have always been friendly with the kids in my neighborhood, but ever since I got the kitten, Indigo, I am super popular.
I was home early one evening last week, lying in bed reading. There was a knock at the door; I answered and looked out at my own height. Not seeing anyone then I looked down. Niambh was standing there. "Do you have a kitten?" she asked.
"Yes, I have had her for two weeks."
"I thought so. I saw her yesterday sitting in the window. I called over last night but you weren't home, " she said looking at me accusingly.
"Yeah, I was out last night."
"Can I come in and see her?" Niambh asked.
"You can but she is hiding. She gets scared pretty easily and isn't used to people."
Niambh entered the front room and started looking around. "Where is she?"
"Dunno. Try looking behind the sofa or in the kitchen." Niambh started exploring and I went to sit in the open doorway with my cigs and water.
I can't find her," she said coming back out to me.
"Well, give it time. Once she gets used to you, she might come out. She gets livelier in later in the evenings."
"Can we do art?" Niambh asked.
"Sure, let me get the stuff." I pulled out paper for her and went into the spare room to collect the art supplies. "Are you going to make pictures for the street party?" I asked.
Niambh nodded. She set herself up at the table in the front room. "Do you not have any paints?" she asked after searching the plastic bag of supplies.
"Look again, I thought I had paints in that bag."
"I can't find any."
"Hmm, I don't know where they are then." She settled for the pastel crayons.
It was a warm evening so I sat in the doorway and watched the neighborhood. After a while, Niambh brought her artwork and supplies over. I decided to do a drawing, too. We both were drawing kittens. I used the museum garden where I found Indigo as the scene. Niambh and I compared our work periodically. "At least yours looks like a cat," I said to her at one point. "Mine looks more like a fox." She giggled and nodded.
More neighborhood kids arrived. It was Sean, Niambh's brother, Carlos, and Mick. "I came to see the kitten," said Niambh to them.
"Can we go see the kitten too?" they all chorused. "Please, please, please."
"Alright but don't make too much noise, you'll scare her." I shook my head; three boys between the ages of 6 and 10. Quiet was not really an option.
"OK," said Sean. "Yeah!" said Carlos and Mick as they climbed over Niambh and her painting. The three boys charged around my little house. They moved all the things that Indigo could be hiding under.
"I saw her!" yelled Mick. The other two boys pushed him out of the way to get their turn.
After a bit, the boys got bored and started roughhousing in the front room. Niambh looked over at them. "Boys are a lot of trouble," she said. I agreed, thinking that most don't get any better when they are older either.
Eventually the noise the boys were making reached a level I could not stand. "Enough!" I roared, surprising myself at how loud I could yell (not to mention surprising them). They looked at me in shock but then started to wrestle again. "You're barred. Out!" Again, hesitation. "Now!" They hustled out.
"How long are we barred for?" asked Sean as he left. "How come she gets to stay?" asked Carlos.
I sighed. "Oh, you can visit another night later in the week." Then to Carlos, "she wasn't annoying me."
I decided to make up rules for the boys' next visit. The overlying guideline was that they were to behave or I wouldn't let them in. As that was too general, the explicit rules were #1, no burping; #2, no farting (the contests for #1 and #2 were unbearable); #3, roughhousing is okay, but no wrecking the joint; and finally #4, listen to me, and if I say stop or no, do what I say.
The rules were semi-successful on their next visit. They stayed longer and mostly behaved. On their third visit, they tested the rules and got barred again. It ended in tears.
Editor's note: Indigo turned out to be male.  I hadn't checked.

Wonder kids

Six-year old Fintan rang my doorbell the other evening to ask if he could play on my friend's abandoned car, which has been in front of my house for a couple of years. The kids in the neighborhood know that this car is the only one they are allowed to play on, and Fintan's mum wants him to ask my permission each time.
So I answered the door and Fintan took one look at me and said "why is your hair red?" (It isn't.) I replied that I had got my hair cut that day. "Oh... it looks almost like mine" (it doesn't). I smiled and said "almost, we could be twins." A smile of wonder spread across his face. "Almost" he said and climbed up on the car.
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Shopping at the outdoor market in Temple Bar yesterday, I went over to a cheese stall. I was looking at the cheeses when a little voice piped up "would you like to try this goat cheese? It is very good." I looked up. A cute little Chinese girl was standing on a crate behind the cheeses, helping her dad on the stall.
The cheese was good. It started to rain again. "Oh no," she said. I got soaked a while ago." Big smiles. "Me too." I decided on another cheese, pointing to it. "You can buy it in one of those (prepared wrapped wedges), but the other is fresher.
"Those are too small. I think I'll get that big wedge there."
She wrapped it up carefully and said "I can give it to you for 4.50." "Great" I said. I handed her the coins and she carefully counted them. Twice.
Her excitement at working the stall and efforts to say all the right things won me over. A dote.

Trivia and Cohen

The table quiz Friday night, which was in aid of charity work in Haiti Glenda the Good Witch is going to do, was well worth attending. Our team was Pops, Corkman, Galway Girl, and myself. Galway Girl's brother came along to observe the proceedings and help with the collection of answer sheets.
We were doing well throughout the well-organized quiz, in the top three out of ten tables. By the end, however, we had slipped to fourth. Pops won a box of chocolates as a raffle prize, but he complained that those weren't the ones he liked. He looked greedily at the huge boxes of Cadbury's Milk Trays that went to other lucky contestants. The big child. I mollified him by saying we could swap out the sweets we had put in my godson's (Diddum's) as yet unposted present; it is becoming his xmas present at this stage. I got a bag full of bath goodies.
After Glenda the Good Witch had distributed the prizes for the winners, there were some prizes left over. She asked all those who hadn't won anything to stand up. People from three tables stood, including Corkman and Galway Girl. Each table was instructed to send one representative to the front of the room. We nominated Corkman. Glenda picked a topic for each of the three people. One guy got Literature, another got Science, and Corkman got Music.
Corkman was the last of the three to get his question. In his case, however, Glenda decided that he had to perform. She said to win a prize, Corkman had to sing Leonard Cohen's "Passing Through" song. The place erupted in laughter, and Pops turned to me in consternation. "Oh, poor Corkman, she is putting him on the spot terribly," he worried. I shook my head, still laughing at Glenda's stunt. "Are you kidding?" I replied. "We won't be able to get him to stop."

Sure enough, he took off his glasses and launched into song, complete with his generous arm gestures. Some of the audience joined in the chorus. After the second verse, Glenda and others tried to get him to stop. Everyone's cheering and applauding finally convinced him.

Corkman and Galway Girl took the brother and Pops back home before heading to our local. I headed off into town, having made alternative arrangements. Great night.

Annual street party

The day was sunny and warm. We could have been in Barcelona. I woke feeling less than 100%... it had been another late night and I was getting a cold. The system of putting Pops in a taxi home at a reasonable hour, giving the driver instructions, and heading off to my late night winebar is a good one. Except for the smoking outside in the chilly air and getting a cold.
The kids were excited from an early hour. They wandered around, waiting for the party to start, doing some last-minute artwork, or practicing their drama performance. The adults were more blase although still cheerful.
By the time I had had my shower, I was feeling better. I helped with setup and then made a large potato salad, which contained olives and pumpkin seeds among other ingredients. Pops brought a chair into the kitchen and supervised the making of the salad. I just thought he came to chat but he got concerned when he saw what went into the salad. "Whose recipe is this?" he asked subtly. "No one's," I replied. "I just make it up as I go along... don't you remember? My younger siblings used to hate my experimental approach to cooking." Vague head nods.
As it was warm, I held off putting the salad out to share just yet. Neighbors and their friends had started to gather around. Pops pulled out a chair and was almost immediately offered a glass of white wine. But it was the homemade scones he was eyeing up... I think he ate 5.

Mrs O'Reilly and Mrs Sullivan stayed seated in their doorways even though people were grouped almost immediately in front of them. They had front-row seats and were loth to give them up. The boyfriend of my friend, Mad One, turned up with Mad One's half sister and daughter, along with their son. He dropped off the daughter, Daisy, saying he had to take his baby son home to change and put to down for a nap. The sister went with him, and somehow I got Daisy for the afternoon. She is a good kid despite her crazy dress sense (she is only 6). Pops did not expect her to show up in a tutu and boots.
As per tradition, a Johnny Cash song was played to kick the party off. Then the music changed, and face painting started, which I did not have to do this year. The kids were in their element. At that stage they had already dug into the sweets and orangeade.
A great time was had by all. There was a performance by the children (only one weird topic chosen by the slightly scary drama neighbor), art show of the children's paintings, raffles prizes, dancing, a film shown on the side of a house for the kids--complete with blankets and popcorn, just like old-fashioned drive-ins--more dancing, and lots of music. Oh yes, a bit of wine was consumed.
Mad One eventually showed up to collect her child; the boyfriend had got an earful earlier, I believe. Daisy had been left with no sunscreen on and no lunch eaten. She had to go home after some dancing but before the raffle prizes. She instructed me to hold onto any prizes that she won and notify her mother asap. Which I did.
Oh yeah, and it turns out that Mrs O'Reilly was a roquette in her day... the slightly scary drama neighbor had Mrs O'Reilly up out of her chair dancing and holding onto the telephone post for balance. Apparently, O'Reilly cut some shapes. I only caught part of it.

The cat that got away

I swore to myself early on that I wouldn't write about pets. Of course, it was an easy decision since I didn't have any at the time. I also have no desire to become one of those people who have pets instead of having children and then treat the pets like their precious children. My independent, selfish streak is too wide.
Then I decided to try getting a cat again. I had had one about 20 years ago but then I moved from the suburbs back into Paris and my flatmate gave me an ultimatum within days. The cat went back to its original owner fairly sharpish.
I thought I would surprise Pops and have the new cat before he arrived. That didn't work out. Next I decided I would torment him by telling he was getting a surprise on Friday. Since I told him at the beginning of that week and he hates not knowing what surprises are, it was torture for him (when he remembered or I reminded him).
Friday afternoon a friend of mine dropped off a cat. She has four and this was number four, adopted temporarily; however, her husband had put his foot down and said four was too many. Said cat (who still does not have a name) went to the vet to be fixed before arriving chez moi.
Apparently, I found a cat that has an even bigger independent streak than I have. It was in a state, my friend let it out of its cage. It took off toward the back off the house... At the same time I was outside putting my cigarette out, turning to go back in and close the front door. Then I heard "Columbo" and grasped at the blur of white and gray that flew by. No joy. I then headed off at an oblique angle trying to cut off the cat from the street/walls leading to the busier street. The cat shot from car to car.

Herding cats does not work, I can assure you. Perhaps it was my military style red coat and boots... Whatever the reason, he skirted me and when something else came into the road, he raced right up the corner wall--and over.
My friend and I explored the neighborhood behind mine. A nice man let me check his back garden. Another lady that I know told me to get the key to the laneway behind the houses. We walked down there as well.
Columbo and Pops were out that night. The blurry, freaked out boy cat made an appearance but we were not back home. The next morning the ugly dog from across the road chased the poor cat out of the neighborhood. The Saturday night the dog's pal, the ugly cat, picked a fight with the freaked out boy cat. One of my neighbors came running down at midnight to tell me. We raced back to where they were fighting, but the boy cat was long gone. It moves like lightening. And I do not.

Autumn boot camp

Columbo has been having a mini holiday of sorts these part few weeks. Working part-time, walking a lot around Dublin, meeting new people, trying to be sensible and sometimes failing… It all ends tomorrow.
Pops arrives in the early am and five or so weeks of responsibility starts immediately. Not that there won’t be enjoyable moments and slagging galore. However, Columbo’s late night adventures shall be curtailed. Work, straight home most evenings to make sure the bungalow is still standing (there will be war if Pops reads this), cocktail hour, supervision of the fire lighting, and then the cooking of proper food.
Columbo hasn’t had potatoes in the house for months. One large shopping delivery, check. Stockup of a few days’ worth of briquettes and wood from the kind coalman, Joseph, check. Warning the barman in the local that he is not to serve whiskey to Pops, check. He knows to inform Pops that “Columbo says we are out of whiskey.” G&Ts are permitted.
Columbo flagged the coalman down one day last week, and he inquired about the father. The two men chat regularly, given the amount of briquettes/coal Pops goes through during stays in Dublin. Essentially, most of the neighbors have been notified of Pops’s impending visit. A good few have met him over the years and like him.
One neighbor, Glenda the Good Witch, kidnapped Columbo yesterday evening on Columbo’s return home and poured quantities of wine in Columbo’s glass. It magically never emptied. When a strong G&T was presented despite repeated warnings that Columbo a) does not like G&T; b) was completely wrecked tired; and c) would not drink it, Columbo made good her escape after promising the Good Witch that she would send Pops down to drink G&Ts with her instead. (God help him. It was a desperate measure but one Columbo felt obliged to take… Sauve-qui-peut.)

Neighborhood watch

I have joined the neighborhood brigade that sits outside their front doors (or in the doorway if it is cold) and surveys all. Ok, the other two people who do this on a daily basis are Mrs O'Reilly and Mrs Sullivan, and they are in their 80s or perhaps 90s. They have gotten more frail over the years. Mrs O'Reilly is now hard of hearing and requires one of the neighbors to walk her ugly dog daily. Up until two years ago she walked over to Phoenix Park at least once a day with pet in tow.
Poor Mrs Sullivan has been poorly for years now. More heavyset than Mrs O'Reilly, she has problems with her hips and hasn't ventured on foot more than 10 steps from her front door in years. Both ladies have great tans despite Ireland's climate though. Some days they sit together and chat; others they stay in their respective doorways.
Mostly I just wave to them or call out hello since they are directly across the street. If they are looking particularly lonely, I sometimes chat for a moment. As I set off around the corner to a friend's house on our way to the same wedding last Saturday, I stopped by to let them know why I was all dolled up. They told me to enjoy myself, and as I walked away I heard one saying to the other "she's a good girl."

A couple of years ago, I got extensive work done on the house. It desperately needed heating for starters. I ended up living at Rugby Girl's house longer than expected. One day I got a text from another friend who lives on the road, checking on how I was and letting me know that the two ladies were worried about me. They wanted to know if I had moved (as if I would without telling them!), and if not when would I be back.
Once I had moved in, unpacked, and tidied up, Mrs O'Reilly called over to check out the changes one evening. She approved. I offered her tea but she refused because she had already had soup for her dinner.
Mrs O'Reilly and Mrs Sullivan were the first people I met on the road when I moved in nine years ago. Both born and raised in the neighborhood, they set the tone for the community I joined. It wouldn't be the same without them.

Do you want to be my neighbor?

I had a slow start the other morning (i.e, I was running late). I legged it over to the friendly neighborhood bus stop, and luckily there were three buses there. Unluckily, all three bus drivers were taking their tea break.
As I got closer to the waiting area, which they redid recently at great expense and inconvenience--and neglected to replace the bench which the old biddies aren't happy about--I noticed the rubbish bin.

What you cannot see is the smoke that was billowing out of it. I just shook my head at the sight and smell of the bin (it reminded me of camping fires, not that I am an expert), then took a photo.
When one of the bus drivers finished his break and let the waiting passengers on the bus, he was laughing at me. The others had chosen to wait more upwind of the bin, while I was under the new shelter since it was raining and I was also trying to keep an eye out for a taxi.
The bus took me about halfway to my final destination so I started walking and trying to flag down a taxi at the same time. I shook my little fists at one driver who drove by in an empty taxi when he dismissively waved me off. I had almost made it to the hospital by the time I finally got a taxi.
Then I made the mistake of talking to the old dear volunteering at the reception desk since she was free. I should have waited for the more efficient looking receptionist. Old dear directed me to the wrong waiting room, later walked by me while I was sitting there and just smiled sweetly at me. Eventually, I ended up in the correct place where they had apparently called my name seven times looking for me. Or so I was told.
After my minor outpatient stitches, I toddled off to the hospital canteen. The coffee there was horrible so I headed back on foot toward my friendly Italian restaurant. No more joe maxis for me. On principle.