Not So Wordless Wednesday VII

The first place I ever wanted to go was Ireland. I was very small, maybe three or four years old, and I saw a photo of the Irish countryside. I think it was a calendar. Maybe it was a magazine. I stared at it forfuckingever, and my mom asked me what I was doing. I looked up and said, “It’s so GREEN. It’s beautiful. Can we go there?” She told me that Ireland was very far away, but maybe someday.

Someday was November of 1994.

I’m part Irish via my mom’s father. If you go in order of bloodlines, my heritage is German, French, English, Irish, Welsh, and Cherokee. As far as the Irish goes, that would be Irish Catholic. When I was a child there was a small black and white obituary card of John F. Kennedy tucked into the mirror in what had been my Great-Grandmother’s bedroom before I moved into it when I was 11. I left it there, and when I moved out I took it with me. I grew up hearing about how Kennedy had been in danger of losing the election because he was Catholic and Everybody Loves to Hate a Catholic. Apparently folks figured he’d let the Vatican pull his strings.

My mom loved to rant about that.

When I was in elementary school she slapped some green on me one St. Patrick’s Day and sent me off to school. When I got home I told her one of my classmates had come to school dressed entirely in Orange, and she blew her stack. That was the first time I ever heard anyone rant about using their child to make a political statement. I had no idea what she was talking about, so she sat me down and taught me about The Troubles and let me know what was up with all of that.

If the Irish are anything, it’s opinionated and verbal.

Just how I like folks to be. Seriously. People who have no opinions on anything? Feh all over them. Even if I disagree, I’d rather you feel passionately about something than wander around without a thought in your head.

My mom always taught me that there are two types of Irish drinkers: The type who get all mouthy and loud, and the type who get all maudlin and depressed. I manage to pull off both. If you get enough beer in me I can end up standing on a table hollering about something or another, and you can’t shut me up. Whiskey though? If I drink enough whiskey (and it should ALWAYS be spelled with the “e” you freaks) I end up sitting with my head on the table, singing songs and sobbing into my napkin. I blame the French (plus, every time I hear “La Marseillaise” I immediately stand and start sobbing).

I love whiskey, but I prefer the Beer Drunk. I hate crying in public.

In 1994, after I did my money change in the airport I set foot on the actual ground of Ireland, and I almost burst into tears. We spent ten days there, and my lungs felt good, and my heart felt happy. I had waited for what seemed like forever to get there. Every year I look at the calendar in November and tally up how many years it’s been since I made that trip, and every year my heart falls a little. The need to go back is intense. Next time instead of a chartered bus trip I need to rent a car and wander to my heart’s content (Care to go out for a drink or three, Claire?). I want to pick up dirt and squeeze it in my hands. I want to run my fingers through grass and holler greetings to cows and sheep. I want to walk. A lot.

I want to spend more time talking to people, and I want to visit places I never got to see. I want to try to get to Ulster, because that’s where Grandpop’s family is from, and on the last trip I didn’t get to see the North.

Did I mention I want to walk? A lot?

I don’t know if it’ll ever happen. I’m afraid to fly, and so is Rich, and each time I’ve ever gotten on a plane it’s taken a great deal of gritting my teeth and a great bit of liquid fortification. Given what a pain in the ass it is to fly anywhere these days…

Oh fuck that. It’s worth it.

I’m going back. I’m taking the kids. Even though they’re mostly German and English thanks to Rich.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day, everyone. Stay well, and stay safe. And I swear to God if you drink green beer I will hunt you down and slap that fucking glass from your hands.

So. In keeping with Wednesday-

Our Internet connections are working now, thanks to a new (ridiculously expensive) router that makes me dizzy with the speed of it.

They’re opening a McDonald’s right on the highway near our grocery store, which means McMuffins on a whim.

I flew a kite.

The daily page hits on this blog have gone through the roof in the past week in comparison to what they had been. Awesome, but WTF?

It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood, and I’m getting our asses outside today.

The more exercise I get the better I feel. My pill consumption has gone down drastically. Therefore, I now hate winter just on principle.

I got a new washer. It’s cheap but serviceable.

I worked on my book last night for the first time in a couple weeks because I took a break to go back with fresh eyes. It worked. I napalmed quite a bit of crap last night and re-wrote almost 1/3 of what had been. Much happier now.

Therefore I am excited about it again. That helps.

I’m making beef stew in the crockpot today, and the smell will drive us insane.

Coyote’s dog’s mystery sores are getting better because she used her intuition and trusted her gut. Good job, Momma.

Two new people took the time to comment here, and that was nice to wake up to the other morning. Welcome, guys.

Ok, it’s your turn. Give me the goods, folks. And remember- “Other people have a nationality. The Irish and the Jews have a psychosis.”- Brendan Behan