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More than freshly mown grass

This morning, while emptying the dishwasher and cleaning the kitchen counter (yawn, yawn) I picked up and accidentally squeezed a bottle of wash-up liquid that I keep to hand for the occasional manual scrub. Out popped a few tiny bubbles and into the air they floated. Breathing in the scent automatically, for an instant I was transported back to happy, childhood times when ‘bubbles’ and a small, plastic ring meant so many things – fun, playtime… easy, innocent enjoyment outdoors with my pals. Even memories of walking behind my own two cherubs some 16 years ago while they happily blew rows of soft pink bubbles into the air rushed back in.

It made me think. I’m always amazed at how powerfully and speedily a smell or scent can bring back memories. Instantly we relive places, feelings, moods from years gone by.

For me there are some obvious and less obvious ones. The smell of freshly baked bread, ah yes, my mother and her wonderfully light, Irish soda bread. Fresh from the oven. Our bright, yellow kitchen. Melting butter on a hot slice with a large mug of tea. Strawberry jam. Joy.

Freshly brewed coffee beans? Easy peasy: Bewley’s café, a trademark brand in Ireland for many years. As an 18 year old I’d pass their Westmoreland Street shop in the early hours, en route to Bank of Ireland’s head office. My sleepy head, dulled from the long bus ride into town, would lift as the familiar, enticing aroma floated into the street and for a few seconds I’d mentally relax into the warm, cosy ambiance that is uniquely Bewley’s. Happy days.

Old fashioned Eau de cologne – a tough one to find nowadays outside France – my grandmother’s staple (and only) bottle of scent. Splashed on liberally every day, it’s fresh, zingy scent reminds me so easily of her lively presence. Amazing woman, twice married she raised two daughters independently, survived two world wars, ran her own ‘sweet shop’ for 30 years and never spent a day in hospital until the age of 92. Fabulous.

Freshly mown grass – here’s where I join Hermione Granger’s happy scent memories. My father on a Sunday afternoon, mowing the front lawn. Full of energy at the start he’d end up sweating buckets, cursing under his breath as the heavy, old mower got stuck in a clump of weeds and my mother, sister and I sniggered from behind the living room window. Mugs of tea and iced buns in our hands that same day as we all relaxed later on the freshly mown lawn. Neighbours stopping by for a quick chat as they passed by.

Of course there are a few less pleasant ones too – to this day I cannot abide the smell of cooked cabbage or cauliflower. Nor can my sister. Childhood visits to a scary and depressing old people’s hospital many moons ago is the association. I doubt this one will ever go away.

But on the whole it’s mostly happy places I’m brought back to. Maybe it’s time to make a new one, which brings me to that unopened bar of chocolate that’s lurking in the kitchen drawer.

Yum. Enough said.

Sunday afternoon
Full of energy at the start, he’d end up sweating buckets
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Christmas is over and the goose got very fat!

Oh boy. Oh boy. Oh boy. Did I/we/me and mine have a wonderful, joyous, celebratory Christmas and New Year celebration. Thankful I am. Grateful I am. Stuffed-to-the-gills I am. And oh-so-glad it comes just once a year!!

Truth be told, the month of December is utter madness in our home. Has been ever since my beautiful daughter decided to pop into the world two days before my birthday (Dec 5 – which also happens to be a national, Dutch Christmas Day of sorts as well). 22 years later we’re still trying to work out a way of making the month a little less… manic.

Of course it’s all good fun and there are huge globs of happiness thrown in, with both of us wallowing to our hearts’ content in what we’ve dubbed our ‘birth week’ (steadfastly refusing to acknowledge anything Christmassy until we’ve exhausted ourselves and everyone around us with birthday-making jollities). We decorate tables for early morning delights, hang up themed stringers and balloons, wrap gifts in glistening paper and do everything possible to make the days special. It’s a thrill (and hubby almost faints with relief when it’s over). But by then Christmas is gasping for a look in so I shift gears – fast – to catch up.

Lists I’ve compiled over the years with recipes (traditional, iced Christmas cake: check! Mince meat filling for pies: check!); addresses for REAL cards (I can’t stand e-ones – must get the ones for abroad into the post before 8 Dec!!) and gift ideas are yanked out of boxes covered in dust. Ribbons, gift wrap paper and pretty bows are hauled out of drawers. Candles (red of course!) – lots of them – bought in in BULK. Not to mention a thorough review of the table cloth, Christmas dinner service and glasses to see if anything’s missing or cracked and last year’s wreath for the door…

Geez. I’m even running out of breath writing this! And that’s before I started buying actual gifts – both for my own family and the extended one in Ireland. Plus surprise, small treats for those who’ll join our table over the holidays. A huge bone for the dog – wrapped tightly so he can join the merriment on Christmas Day and have his moment of ‘unwrapping’. Mulled wine and snacks for after Christmas Eve midnight mass (or was it before??!).

And exhale…

This year, because I was hugely thankful to be out of a wheelchair (knee problems a year ago), I kept reminding myself how lucky I was to be able to shop repeatedly in mega-filled streets and over-stuffed stores. Smiled as I hobbled slowly around the stores, mouthing “on my own two legs” to my mirrored reflection when my feet began to shriek in protest. I do believe I may have fooled myself quite well.

But it all came together in the end. The tree went up, glorious and golden. The turkey fitted into the oven, the ham baked divinely. We ate, we drank, we made very merry and revelled in the joy of doing so together.

Roll on next year. Who knows, maybe I’ll have grown wings by then…

Happy New Year, everyone.

image of woman with filled shopping trolley
Bread for the stuffing… where can I find goose fat… oh look the red wine’s on special offer…
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No, Scuba, no! (the finale)

(A wander over to the first part of this soggy tale  is probably a good idea, if you haven’t already been there).

By the time I’d flipper-flopped my way out of the pool, strapped on a weight belt and completed one more backwards-walk into the water, the group had become accustomed to sitting on the bottom. Hubby and I sank down beside them. An odd experience in itself, to be honest. Kneeling on the bottom of a pool beside complete strangers. My mouthpiece jammed securely between my teeth, every breath a loud, rasping sound in my ears.

I tried to orientate myself by focusing on the instructor, whose face was largely covered by her mask. She began making hand signs, pointing first to her mask then to each of us in turn. Suddenly, and to my horror, she lifted it slightly, allowing water to flood in! Given my lifelong fear of water covering my face (even in the shower) I could feel my heartbeat take on a rapid drum beat. As we watched, her mask slowly emptied out again. I then realised she wanted us to follow suit.

Holy crap. How, what… panic raced through me as I watched the guy beside me take a stab at it. Seemed to work for him. Jesus H, I was next! My hands shaking with fear I took in a huge gulp of air and gingerly lifted the edge of my mask a fraction, praying for magical deliverance. Instantly a rush of cold water raced in, blinding my eyes. All rational thought vanished. It felt like I was drowning. I kicked for the surface and wrenched off my mask, treading water furiously.

A minute later she was there beside me, irritation lacing her features. “You are supposed to breathe out through your nose” she barked, “then the air will be pushed back out”. I couldn’t speak. “Come back down, we’ll try again” she urged. Back down I went.

Two minutes later I was again pushing for the surface, and this time the tears came as soon as I tried to speak. “I can’t do it!” I squealed, “I can’t do it!”.

“I think you need extra time with Hans” she sighed, gesturing for a young, blonde, very tall Adonis-like instructor to join us in the water. Relief flooded through me but he wasted no time, “Come, we go stand there” he said, his lithe, tanned body cutting powerfully through the water.

Stand? yeah right. By the time I reached him I was way out of my depth and had to tread water to stay afloat. For the next ten minutes we practised the art of filling my mask and emptying it while my legs cycled frantically underwater. Before long we’d both had enough.

“I’ve had enough” I gurgled up at him, “I want to get out”.

“Ok” said Hans, “why don’t you snorkel back to the shallow end and take a rest?”

Ah, snorkelling… I can do that I thought, popping in my mouthpiece before (tiredly) flopping onto my back! Needless to say with my first breath I slurped in a huge mouthful of water, and began to choke. Hans watched me from afar as I flailed around, spluttering… his face a study in curiosity.

By the time I’d splashed my way to the shallow end and lay gasping on the tiles it was clear to all that scuba diving was not going to be ‘my thing’. Time I stopped trying to be a mermaid and went back to what suited me best – a sport-free life!

scuba diver at poolside
Clearly, scuba diving was never, ever going to be ‘my thing’!
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Scuba, anyone??

Ok, so we’ve already established that basically, I am rubbish at sports. Always was, no doubt always will be. My sad little attempt to master the art of horse-riding many moons ago left no illusions on that score.

But despite the humiliation of that hapless endeavour, I still wasn’t quite ready to give up and just a few months later had persuaded my partner-in-crime (a.k.a. long-suffering-hubby) to join me on one more ‘fun’ sporting adventure. Scuba diving. In the city of Amsterdam.

I know, I know, perhaps a tad unrealistic given my lifelong fear of water smothering my face – but somehow, it seemed vaguely achievable. For a while.

So where to get lessons… well in those days (we’re talking 20 years ago!) it was a case of browsing telephone books and ‘asking around’. No internet, no Google! Someone, somewhere recommended a ‘PADI’ diving course to me. It sounded good. Professional. Manageable. We hopped along to an introduction day, and by the time the woman-in-charge had assured me I could always buddy-up with hubby and would be allowed to go-slow in the early weeks, we’d signed on the dotted line for their 12-week course.

Five weeks later, we headed off to the first session: theory. By now my Dutch was reasonable if not fluent, so I struggled a bit but left feeling quietly confident, this time I would not be bested! Lesson two however, the start of the ‘practicals’ was a different kettle of fish. Entirely.

In the bright lights of the swimming pool’s changing room, I glanced around at the other women, noting the athleticism of their bodies. Hmm. Slightly intimidating. Skinny (then), with muscles that knew best how to drag me out of bed and into a car, I slithered into my bikini with no small amount of trepidation.

Reminding myself that I could start slowly, I headed towards the pool, my newly purchased goggles hanging around my neck, my flippers clutched in a nervous fist, my oxygen tank strapped to my back. The whole group was waiting for me in the water, standing in a circle. No one spoke. I sat down heavily on the edge of a small wall, and tried to put on my flippers.

For some reason, the damn things refused to fit onto my feet. Shoving my toes in got me nowhere and after five failed attempts I was in danger of becoming upended from the tank on my back and my feet seemed to be doubling in size even as I watched them. I heard a shout, ‘wet your flipper, then your foot slides in!’. The group was becoming impatient. Two minutes later I was all flippered up, feeling more frog-like than any woman ever should but – hey – I was on my feet! My rubber feet. God they were huge! how the hell was I to walk into the pool??!

With all eyes on me, I took a step forwards. The flipper swayed, I wobbled precariously, took a step backwards. Fervently wished for the tiled floor to swallow me whole, then tried again. No dice. Suddenly, hubby was beside me, ‘it’s ok, just turn around and walk backwards’ he whispered. Minutes later we were in the water. Glares of irritation floated my way, I ignored them and focused on the instructor,

“we’re all going to float to the bottom now” she said, expertly popping in her mouthpiece and vanishing into the water in one smooth action. The rest followed suit. I popped in my mouthpiece but when I tried to sink to the bottom of the pool, discovered that I couldn’t. My legs kept rising to the surface and my flippers looked like shark fins, floating wildly above the waves.

Hubby was struggling equally. We thrashed around for a full minute, legs going in all directions, and I could feel the giggles rising as a realisation of what we must look like to the waiting would-be divers down below, hit me.

Suddenly, the instructor resurfaced, her eyes flashing furiously, “what’s wrong now?” she gurgled, “did you two not put on your weight belts?”. Damn, no we hadn’t. I caught his eye, and laughter burst forth. It was more than she could take, “I hope you’re going to work very hard here” she barked, making me laugh all the more, “this is a serious sport!”.

Oh Gawd. Now I knew I was in trouble!

Scuba diving lessons
My flippers were floating above the water like shark fins
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In Sickness and In Health…

I love my husband. I do, I really do. Happily married to the dear man for 26 years. We still giggle at the same things. He is my best friend, the first person I share news with when something significant comes along… the only person who makes me feel ‘safe’ if the world comes too close or shouts in my face.

He still brings me a bunch of long stemmed red roses every year for my birthday. Not a lot to complain about there and I know it. Very well.

BUT…

The thing is… Let’s face it. All men have their flaws. And he, as many others before him, is just a little bit of an eejit with certain things. Especially when it comes to finding items in our house. Items that have been IN our house for generations. Or are lying right under his nose. Like the butter in the fridge.

Now for some reason, this one pops up with alarming regularity. Some heinous member of our household ‘moves’ the butter from its usual place to a different spot on the shelf. Maybe 10cm to the left or right – and what does he do? He panics. Instantly jumps to the wrong conclusion, every time again. Standing with the door open he’ll yell to me, “There is no butter!!”.

“Yes there is” I’ll say.

“No, I’ve looked. There’s none!” He’ll reply.

“Yes there is. Look again” say I.

“I’m telling you, there’s none here!”.

Me (slow exhale of breath): “Did you look beside the cheese?”.

He, after a pause, “Well … who put it there??!”

Same thing counts for milk, bread… tins of beans. All of which can be right there in front of him but he just won’t see them unless they’re placed EXACTLY where he expects them to be. Every single time.

Nor does he flourish well if put on the spot to make snap decisions, as I was reminded last month when he was given just ten minutes to prepare an overnight bag for my hospital admittance.

As we waited for the last test result, I suddenly thought of it and wondered how he’d coped. “You did pack some things for me, right love?” I queried. “Yes!” he replied, pride glowing on his face. “Did you grab my nightgown from the bed?” I wondered, with a little bit of hope, “No… ” he replied, his voice a little weaker. This is when I got worried. “So, what did you put in?” I ventured. “The nice black one, hanging on the door” (still proud, but definitely some doubt in there now). “Jesus Christ, not the black, transparent negligee??” I squeaked, my face aghast to think of what the hospital staff would say if they found me lolling in the bed in my ‘sexy bit’. White faced, he whispered, “was that not good?”.

Half an hour later (and one super speedy race back home by him to walk the dog AND pick up a cotton nightie), he was back, the missing nightgown and a toothbrush bundled into a large, garish plastic bag. Smothering my inner, “Mrs. Bouquet” streak – I let that one go.

Two days later, when he showed up with a set of four, seriously HUGE granny knickers – I’m talking deep enough to pull up to my chin – in response to my plea for some new, loose underwear, I let it go too.

Because you know what? once we’d made it past the blips and bloops of the whole process, it was his face (and only his) I wanted, needed to see coming around that door at visiting hour. And when you think about it, finding the butter is a highly overrated skill, after all.

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A paler shade of pyjamas!

My PJs have long ago decided to mix and match perfectly, for ever!

Since coming home from hospital last month, it’s the funniest thing really but I’ve totally become Queen of the Pyjamas. Every shape and colour I have in the house – with a few new ones thrown in for good measure – they’re all I want to wear right now.

And – slightly to my surprise – I find wearing them, lounging around in them a seriously enjoyable change from my normal routine! Slowly pulling a nice, soft, comfy (loose!!) top from the drawer and sliding it over my head before shrugging on a wide-banded pair of loose pants that won’t bother me in any way is so relaxing!

No fuss, no bothersome mix and match skills required… just one, happy and cosy little collection of pale pink, blue or grey cottons on offer, morning after morning. Fuzzy slippers. Fluffy socks. Maybe a bed jacket? or should I go all out and wrap myself into a bath robe? Decisions, decisions. Easy little ones without a hint of pressure butting in to spoil the mood.

Take today, for instance. I woke up wearing the loose, soft grey oversized T that I wore to bed (no surprises there, aint a lot of action going down these days, thank the lord!). After breakfast and a shower, I quietly and very slowly made my way back up two flights of stairs to ‘change’.

Now, under normal circumstances, i.e. when I’m working (which I’m not right now) and my health is good (which it aint right now), this routine would see me galloping at top speed back upstairs, my morning coffee threatening a reappearance as I raced to get into an outfit suitable for the office to make it out the door by 8am.

Sometimes – it all worked perfectly, because I’d more or less decided what to wear the evening before – and the vibe was good. But there have also been days when Mother Nature played tricks on me and the anticipated warm weather turned into wet, cold, rainy skies. That’s when my careful deliberation raced straight out the window into the damp mist. That’s when a mild panic would kick in. With 12 minutes left I’d be shovelling hangers back and forth, frantically pulling skirts and blouses from the closet in a rush for the bus but also to ‘look the part’.

Not so on the good ole PJ days! Lying quietly in wait for me, my PJs have long ago befriended each other and agreed to mix and match perfectly, for EVER. So the minute I’ve chosen just one piece, the rest of the gang join in like a happy little choir and I’m greeted by a humming, muted array of items, all perfectly amenable to being worn with my first choice.

What more can I say? Happy days. Pleasurable even, which is not what I expected at the start but just what I need right now.

So yay for PJs.

Yay for a calm and relaxed start to each day.

And yay to my on-going recovery, in the palest shades of grey.

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Let’s (not) go camping in Ireland?

Last week, my sister went camping. In Ireland. Took a gamble despite grey, cloudy skies breezing overhead (= Irish summer) because I encouraged her to do so. Me and my endless enthusiasm for life. ‘Give it a go’, said I, ‘what’s there to lose?’ I oozed through the Skype screen.

She may never forgive me.

The thing is… She’s not a camper. Never was, never will be. But because I’ve camped (en famille) with quite some success these past years, I encouraged her to give it a go. Forgetting (uh oh) that by now I’m ‘dutchified’ to the extent that our family’s summer camping trips resemble complete house relocations when compared to the Irish equivalent, i.e. buy a (bit of a) tent, a sleeping bag that maybe fits, a little stove and gas cylinder and Bob is your uncle.

Holy Jaysus. Well all I can say is it sounds like Uncle Bob stayed well and truly hidden on this trip. In fact, I suspect he took one glance at the setup and did a runner, and damn right he was too.

Apparently it started out reasonably well. She, and the rest of the clan, cheerily set up their individual little pop-up tents, defying the rising wind with gusto. They bravely fried up some sausages and bacon on the tiny stove – a feat in itself – before taking a walk on the nearby beach, their woolly cardies wrapped tightly around them. I’m sure at that point they felt like true campers.

It’s the sleeping part that burnt the most. Her daughters, having nipped to the local store to secure bags on ‘special offer’, unfortunately paid most attention to the pretty shades they came in (opting for pink, of course) only to discover when the time came to snuggle in that the glitzy, padded items were in fact, child-sized. Squeezing their legs in nevertheless, they covered their upper bodies with towels, good sports that they are (but oh, to have been a fly on those little walls!).

My sister, smiling as she pulled her adult-sized bag all the way up to her chin, felt proud of their endeavours. This camping lark aint half as bad as I imagined she may even have murmured as she drifted off to sleep.

Two hours later, the rain began to fall.

Now when I say ‘rain’, I’m talking torrential rain. This was no small spattering of drops, but a full fledged Irish downpour, as can only happen when you’re stuck on the side of a hill in a tiny tent, pretending to be a girl scout. Within minutes the roof of her tent began to leak, not in one place – several. Reaching up to test the wetness, she stuck her finger into the fabric, which immediately released a new, flowing stream onto her forehead. Spluttering to sit up, she realised to her horror that the floor had turned soggy and water was seeping quietly in via the side seams.

It was time to abandon ship. Scrambling out of her (now sodden) sleeping bag, she reached for her socks, to find them floating around the end of the blow up bed. Her bra was snagged on the canvas shoe she’d brought in an effort to look the part and her mobile phone was lying face down in a tiny puddle. Shit!! She shrieked, yanking at the tent’s zip on hands and knees.

Her eldest daughter’s voice from the next tent sounded equally frantic, ‘Mam!! Let’s run for the car!’. Hands over their heads, they slid and slithered towards it in the dark, tumbling into the front seats with rain running down their legs, slamming the doors shut as damp fumes began to form. It was 2.30am.

Yes, well… not quite the story I’d sold her on fresh air, total relaxation and peace of mind (based on French experiences). Something tells me her local recycle store is about to receive a mega donation of camping materials. And my next, helpful piece of advice might, just might, be taken with less than half a pinch of salt.

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Aer Lingus, more than just a logo

The thing is… I never really thought about it before, but just now it hit me – I’ve worked my way through so many emotional moments in Dublin airport since I began living abroad, that I can probably trace most of my significant ‘life changes’ back to small passages of time spent to-ing or fro-ing through it!

First were the early trips to Amsterdam (mid-80’s), my mother smilingly waving me off through held-back tears. Her large blue eyes unable to hide how much I would be missed. My father, silent, watchful, quietly pressing a sneaky roll of cash into my hand at the last moment “just in case”.

The dreadful 6am flights, leaping out of bed in the pitch dark, a race to the airport along the back roads of North Dublin, my sister careening the car along at a fast pace, her sleepy eyes barely open with the burden of two toddlers lying heavily across her shoulders. Never allowing me to take a taxi, this was ‘our thing’, she wanted to be the one to get me there and get me there she did. A last, huge hug before I wafted towards the security gate, invariably setting off the alarm before being hauled up for a body search. She’d giggle through the glass wall, watching until the last moment. I’d keep my eyes on her, imprinting her image into my memory to carry me through the next months.

Happy arrival scenes two years later when I showed up with an engagement ring. Joy, laughter, excitement. Partings less sad than usual because a return trip was already planned and celebrations were still to come.

A first visit with my baby son, then two years later, our daughter. Every bag filled to capacity, my mother ooh-ing and aah-ing at their tiny faces the minute we’d trundle into the Arrivals hall. Me, eager to show what a good mother I was with boiled water stored in a separate bottle, formula in a tiny bag, “look mam, she didn’t get any ear ache on the plane”.

Missed Christmases in Dublin, too complicated to manage with tiny children, work commitments, sickness bouts. Cherished memories of Dublin airport’s lavish festive decorations flitting in and out of my head, my mother wistfully wondering if this year they’d have the ‘Welcome Home’ sign up. She said it gave her a feeling of kinship with other mothers whose children had moved “away”.

Summer vacations, busy, bustling plans to travel around the South of Ireland. Aer Rianta’s trolleys with squeaky wheels barely containing the mega suitcases. My mother proudly telling how she’d filled the fridge with all that ‘healthy stuff’ I liked from Superquinn as we’d splash our way across the road to the parking garage, my sister trying to work out where she’d left the car.

Years later, sadder arrivals with a smaller welcome home party waiting at the rails to pick us up. My father no longer alive, my mother moving towards confusion. Heartache. Wanting to stay but knowing it wasn’t possible.

Making The Most Of It…

Duty free gifts, whether coming or going. Aer Lingus stewardesses, a chat and a smile. That first ‘touchdown’ moment or glimpse of Irish soil. Tea-bags, cheddar cheese and sausages, tucked carefully above my head. The passport checker, waving you carelessly by with a little joke. Home.

New set of cards to play with now, my children old enough to do the trip alone. My nieces/nephews already landing here every so often. The cycle of life. Dublin airport and the Aer Lingus logo will always touch a string in my heart. I wonder do they have any clue, the powers-that-be of these iconic institutions? It won’t be just me. The ‘diaspora’ they call us. A fancy name for Irish who moved abroad many moons ago, and prospered, shared their talents even but never let go of what we left behind.

Sure why would we?