Monthly Archives: September 2012

Lighthouses, Cows, Oranges and Bubbles….. Childhood memories of Dublin….

In recounting childhood memories I focus on the good times. This simply works for me. I like to revisit places from my remembered youth and recount the feelings, people and conversations that made these places special for me.

Every single time I travel to Ringsend in Dublin I feel my father close by me. It was one of his favourite places and it is one of mine too. We walked to that red lighthouse on the end of the Great South Wall so many times during my childhood. Sometimes on sunny days when we were left sweating by the walk, and other days when rain whipped our faces leaving them to tingle for ages afterwards. This prominent and popular landmark evokes so many happy memories for me and I have continuously visited this place throughout my life with my children, visitors, and my family.

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Dad loved Dublin. He was reared on a farm in Celbridge in County Kildare and later in Milltown, Dublin 6, but he always loved the buzz of Dublin’s city centre. He loved the pubs around Grafton Street. The Baily, Sheehan’s, Neary’s Peter’s and Bartley Dunne’s.

Dublin City was my playground when I was growing up. Almost every Sunday morning from the time I was about 7 years of age, my Dad took my siblings and I on magical mystery tours around Dublin exploring places of interest. We visited museums, churches, art galleries, parks, restaurants/cafes and the regular Dublin streets. Our finishing up point was usually feeding the ducks in Stephens Green before he went for a pint or two before driving us home for dinner no later than 2.30pm.

Our day started with breakfast at 7am and mass at 8am. The day was ours after that and we packed so many things into those few hours.

Sunday mornings in Dublin in the ‘70’s had a different feel to how things are today, particularly around the docks area. I remember the drivers running cows down the north quay towards the Isle of Man ferry that used to dock on the quayside where Jury’s hotel is now situated. The men used to tap the cattle with sticks to corral them in to the boat. Livestock and foot passengers shared the same vessel on their passage across the Irish Sea. I was witness to many departures.

The cattle mooed loudly not realising they were on their way to an abattoir, while the passengers were usually in great form, laughing and full of anticipation about their holliers to the Isle of Man. In later years I often wondered who got the short end of the straw?

The City Docks in Dublin in the 70’s was full of Stevedores and Dockers who were hard working men that unloaded boats, lifted crates, shifted livestock, and manually kept the port functioning. This was Dublin before the introduction of roll on roll off container trucks. All freight before this was held in cargo bays buried deep in the depths of the ships that docked alongside the quays and were emptied by cranes and dockers.

I clearly remember a day when my Dad drove down to Alexandra Quay where a cargo boat was unloading. (There was no security in those days and the quays were accessible to all). We kids hid ourselves as instructed, and kept out of sight behind a corner while we watched the crane operator drag nets of crates from the hold of a ship and drop them on the quayside. The dockers would then drag and stack the crates manually into neat piles. Fork Lift trucks whizzed around picking them up shifting them into adjacent warehouses.

I watched my Dad quietly and surreptitiously “have a word” with a crane operator as he slipped him a few bob, and a few moments later some crates fell apart as they were lowered onto the quay. He quickly prompted us to run and gather as many of the thousands of oranges that were rolling all over the place that we could. I absolutely remember the excitement and laughter as my older sister and I along with our younger brothers, bolting from behind our shelter and gathering as many of those ‘exotic’ fruits that we could…. The grey concrete quay was a pool of rolling oranges filled with colour as the fruit scattered in all directions. Our car smelt of sunshine for weeks afterwards.

Dublin city had a much more relaxed feel about it back then. Health and safety as a concept hadn’t even been invented.

On another Sunday morning I remember parking in Dame Street opposite The Bank of Ireland on College Green where my Dad cautioned us kids to ‘watch out’ for police men as we saw him dash to the “Angels Fountain”. He emptied a full box of powdered washing detergent into it and ran back to the car where we all hid with our heads down as we watched the suds gather and get bigger and bigger until they eventually poured outwards onto the street.

The Angels Fountain

We all giggled and laughed as the bubbles poured out all over Dame Street and the people who were out and about suddenly found themselves in a 1970’s version of a foam party…..

Dublin in the 70’s may have been an economically depressed place in comparison to what it is today, but it’s where my Dad fostered the absolute love that I have for my hometown wrapped up in the simplest childhood memories of time spent with him.

Was this his destiny or mine?

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Is this Destinydelivered…..

There is something deep inside of me that is loosened by alcohol. I am not sure if it is a feeling of inadequacy, shyness, or reluctance, but I recognise that if I have a glass or two of wine, and I am near my computer- I am compelled to write my thoughts down.

Since I began blogging last year (July 2011) I have wanted to record and write so many things… It started out as a kind of living diary for me and for my already grown up children… I wanted them to somehow ‘see’ the person that was inside their mother….

I wanted them to separate the familiar ‘mammy’ that they knew and grew up with, from the woman that I was before they were born and who also lived a parallel life while they were children.

My ramblings were not intended for them to scrutinise in the ‘here and now’- they were for after I was gone.

This was the shyness, or the reluctance that stopped me from publically posting my blog for such a long time. I was afraid of being questioned, afraid of being ridiculed, afraid of being judged.

Becoming a blogger in the past year, I have learnt that writing personal stories, thoughts and histories, and sharing them amongst friends and family has actually been one of the most liberating experiences of my life.

It can sometimes be difficult to articulate fears and inexperience, to flounder in the face of adversity, and in front of people who expect that you will always perform to your optimum.

Blogging has allowed me to share how unsteady I have felt in my past, and also how I recognise that my future is not mapped out and assured.

I began writing this blog as a life diary for my children so that they could somehow know me after I was gone, but in writing it, I am getting to know myself more so than I ever thought possible by simply recounting my life and recording it.

Is this Destinydelivered?

At the end of the day………

It’s such a commonly used expression –

Irish people use it all the time. We throw it around casually in conversations….. “At the end of the day she was acting the maggot and I will NEVER be friends with her again”… “At the end of the day the score was even and the ref was SOOOO right”. “At the end of the day he was such a fecker that I dumped him”.

“At the end of the day” is a colloquialism- a part of the popular Irish vernacular, and although a lot of people use it frequently in conversation, I don’t honestly believe that we think too much about what lies behind the words that we are saying.

Circumstances have a way of making you sit up and take notice of what was once ordinary become extraordinary…….

At the end of the day on Wednesday I learnt that my mother’s terminal cancer had spread to other organs in her body…

At the end of the day I realised that her treatment had not halted this terrible disease despite medical interventions and chemotherapy….

At the end of the day I was alone with her as we were told that the results of her recent scans did not herald good news…..

At the end of the day we were sitting together quietly in a hospital room hearing words that extinguished all hope….

At the end of the day I was sitting with my mother the moment that we realised that the actual end of the day was coming sooner than we thought….

 

I am currently confused about the meaning of Destiny…..

Modern Technology and sleeping naked with German Film Directors…..

While chatting via text with a dear pal in Connecticut recently I was struck by the advances in technology that allow us to communicate instantly by typing words into a little piece of plastic. Our words and actions are captured and transmitted in the blink of an eye, and people in deepest darkest Peru ( as in the case of another friend recently) can stay in touch with family and friends, and carry on conversations via text- email- Skype and Facebook.

We are currently living in a global village where so many people are connected through various technologies, and sometimes my conversations on particular topics with friends or family can go on over several days using different technological platforms.

I can take photos and share them instantly. I can upload videos and do the same. The advances in social networking can mean that we never have to feel alone, although physically we may be.

While all this communication can be viewed as a good thing, there are those who lament the passing of letter writing and telephone conversations that used to go on for hours. People of my age and older remember queuing up outside public telephone boxes waiting for their turn to call home at the weekend before the advent of personal mobile phones. I personally remember the need to have lots of coin change for the operator when making long distance calls on public phones or the dreaded ‘pips’ would sound the untimely end of the conversation if the money ran out.

Telephone conversations between families back in the day were usually restricted if the family members were scattered across the globe, and I clearly remember a time growing up when all families in my neighbourhood did not have a telephone. One lucky neighbour had a public phone box outside her house and random passers-by would regularly answer the ringing phone and be instructed by the caller to ‘knock on number 98 and get Margaret for me please’.

Personally I still like to write and although I rarely go out and buy a stamp to put on an envelope, I do write emails in the same way that I used to write letters. I try to keep them informative and newsy and I think about the person reading them and what they will think upon receiving news about particular things or people. I stay in touch online with friends and family, and although I may text them regularly I also like to sit down and write emails to keep them informed about stuff that I may not text them about. It’s good to fill in the colours of an outline that I may have hinted about in a text message.

Living in this modern technological world we are more aware of how possible indiscretions can land us in trouble. Photos captured when you were not looking your best at 3am are cheerfully uploaded by ‘friends’ so that everyone can see how you had a wardrobe malfunction, or worse still, dribbling kebab sauce all over that beautiful top that you paid a fortune for the day before.

The list of shared horrors can go global in seconds…

Recalling an incident a few years ago I was invited to my cousin’s house in County Wicklow with my husband for a dinner party and an overnight stay. We regularly entertained and were on the ‘Dinner Party’ circuit with my cousin and his wife. He is a professional composer and musician, and all his parties ended with sing songs around the piano where he would belt out tunes and I would sing our grandmothers and mothers favourite songs. His mam and my mam are dear sisters.

This particular night my hubby and I arrived late. We dumped our overnight bag in the hall and charged down to meet the other guests who had gathered in the bar. Yes- our hosts did have a full bar in that particular house complete with high stools, optics and neon signs. It was a very cool party house.

I was introduced to a German Film Director (who shall remain nameless) and over a couple of pre-dinner drinks we discussed film, world politics (as you do) and other subjects. We got cosy on the high stools and when we were eventually called out of the bar into the dining room for dinner we sat beside each other in order to finish off our conversation.

As the night progressed and the wine flowed, the chat was divided equally amongst the other guests present. I was engaging, chatty and in fine form for the singing that eventually took place with my cousin at the piano. I was wearing a long black high necked cocktail dress on the night and at some stage my underwire bra began to pinch! I remember sneaking out to the hall (where my overnight bag was still residing) pulling the bra off and stuffing it into the bag and resuming my place at the piano where no one was any the wiser as to my bra less state.

At about 3am the guests began to depart and my husband also said good night to me, leaving my cousin and I still singing at the piano. The German Film Director had long left the company although he was also staying overnight.

My cousin and I were the last ones standing, his wife having also taken leave of us, abandoning us to our demented sentimental singing.

We continued chatting, singing and drinking until I noticed dawn creeping around the window frames, and having said good night/morning I stumbled my way upstairs to my room. As I entered the bedroom, daylight was filtering in through the curtains. I glanced around for my overnight bag and not seeing it, decided that it was just easier to peel my dress up over my head and sleep in my knickers.

I crawled into the familiar uncomfortable rigid futon and snuggled up against my husband’s back and wrapped my arm around him to get some heat. I murmured something about the fecking futon being ‘so damned hard’…. and that’s the last thing I remember before waking up alone with sunshine flooding the room at about 1pm the following day.

Looking around for my overnight bag and not finding it, I pulled on the dress from the night before and made my way down stairs to the lovely and welcome smell of breakfast. I entered the kitchen to greet my husband, my cousin, his wife and the German Film Director who were all sitting at the table. The stony silence matched their stony faces.

Grinning I took my place and asked why everyone was so quiet…. The German Film Director spoke first. “Leaving the party was tough” he said “but I knew I had to be up to travel to the airport. What I didn’t expect was a naked woman to creep into my bed, snuggle up to me, rub her breasts against my back, mutter something about it being hard and then to turn over and start snoring”.

Sitting there I remembered thinking “this conversation is strangely familiar”…… The four stern faces around the table confirmed that YES… I had gotten into the wrong bed!

In my defense!

My cousin had told my husband when we arrived LATE that we had been allocated another bedroom that night but neither of them had told me. I just followed a familiar worn path to the same room that we had previously occupied.

When the gracious German Film Director was accosted in his bed by a semi naked inebriated house guest who believed that the bed was HERS, he did the gentlemanly thing and vacated it immediately and spent the rest of the night on the downstairs sofa. (Or so he said)!

When my husband woke up and found me missing from his/our bed in the allocated alternative guest room he did a search for me and found me asleep on the familiar futon alone at about 9am. He also found the German Film Director asleep on the downstairs sofa.

Gathering early that morning, my husband, my cousin, his wife and the German Film Director pieced together the entire previous night’s scenario before I had raised my head, and collectively they decided to make me suffer AND THEY DID!

I remember sitting there thinking that had I fancied the German Film Director for an instant (and I didn’t) I could never have pulled off a stunt like this even if I wanted to.

We all departed the best of friends at about 4pm that day. The German Film Director drove to the airport to go home, my hubby and I went home to Dublin, and my cousin and his wife spent the remainder of the day clearing the detritus from the night before.

I was only home and in the door about 15 minutes when the texts and phone calls started. My escapades had reached the four corners of the globe and my mother was the first person on the phone. “Were you naked in bed with a Foreign Film Director while your husband was asleep in another room” she asked.

News like this in the 70’s & 80’s would have taken months via letter writing and queuing outside public phone boxes on windy nights to relay. It would have gathered legs, and reputations could/would be ruined before the real truth was revealed.

Conversation and information that travels via text messaging and social media is so instant and has the power to influence how we think and react. My innocent late night escapades reached my extended family and friends across the globe within hours and I spent the next few days explaining and justifying how I came to be naked in a bed with a complete stranger.

Thankfully the situation didn’t ‘damage’ my reputation although my many far flung family members and friends had a good laugh about it.

Damn it! Had it been a clandestine one night affair dya think I would/could have explained it so easily?

I don’t think so.

Destiny maybe the subconscious devil in us all…..

Missing someone….

Missing you is not something that I think about every minute of every day.
Missing you is something different.
Missing you is not hearing your voice and laughter.
Missing you is not smelling your special sweet smell.
Missing you is not having you to hug and listen to.
Missing you is looking at your children and seeing your lovely features in them.
Missing you is our stories and history unfinished.
Missing you is my present and future without you.
Missing you is like missing the other half of me.

Missing you is simply always missing you.