Tuesday, July 26, 2011

Hair clips and Cheerios

I am struggling to corral my reflections and emotions about going home. This last week has been a long time coming. The questions about when and why we are going back, you must keep in touch, how kids adapt, how we will all readjust, how difficult it will be for Himself commuting, how brave we were for giving it a go. Friday’s final assembly at the kids’ school was a heartbreaker. The Y6ers all saying goodbye to their primary school years, the teachers milking it, giving them a right good send off. I could not look at The Small Man without welling up as his new found friends and he reached an emotional crescendo. They were inconsolable especially our Small Man and his Italian friend who returns to Italy the same day we go back to Galway. I could see him fighting back the tears all day. You just know it with that face they make. We are such cruel parents putting them though this again, just a year after they said goodbye to their Galway friends. The girls just let the floodgates open big time in the school playground, the tears unstoppable as they hugged and embraced their buddies. The teachers and staff of St Joe’s compiled leaving scrapbooks for all three with messages from their classmates and photos from throughout the year. Birdboxes, cricket matches, school plays, sports day, the big trip to Woodlands. I could not bring myself to open it until Sunday night. They are treasures I hope they will value as the years push on. I certainly will. Friday night I went for a drink with the women, the Tay n Tunes crew and the rest of the ladies I have gotten to know, their parting gifts so thoughtful.  Pots of Towersey jam, black bean soup receipe (truly honoured!) poetry books and the rest. We will endeavour to meet up when they come over in August. We arrived in a place, submerged ourselves in the community, we were welcomed with open arms and this makes the leaving all the more difficult. 

The melancholy has abated. Thoughts and emotions of leaving and goodbyes are replaced with excitement about going home. The past few days have been a whirlwind of bubblewrap, paper and boxes. Last year the night before we left I huddled with the kids and  cried my heart out, our house was no longer a home but an empty shell. Last night I sat in the sittingroom of the house here, bare walls, minimum furniture, it was like water off a duck’s back. No connection to this abode whatsoever. Today in the vacant rooms I stood and admired the collection of hair clips and Cheerios left all over the house, before the kids hoovered them up. The black line of our furniture is left on the manky beige carpet, now ready for the next round of tenants who will occupy the house. Good luck to them. I just want to get going, now ready to go home. We will all have to readjust, settle back in, even though we are going back to what we know, where we are from, our own house, where we fit. Our two girls always have each other, to mull over things together; so lucky. It helps. They just want to bring their friends back from England so that the girls at home could meet them all. The Small Man, in that no man’s land between child and adolescent, is tetchy and ego centric be times. He is apprehensive about meeting up with his old friends, will they have changed much; he reckons he has. They are also a year older, I tell him and reassure him that their personalities will be the same, just as his is. He certainly has had experiences this year that they will not have had and vice versa. That’s what makes life interesting, the sharing of stories, the recounting of particulars about those you have met. A line from The Wallflowers song One Headlight springs to mind ‘I aint changed, but I know I aint the same’ and that’s how I feel about my experiences this year. We have all grown, the kids inside and out. I hope for the transition to be as calm as the Irish Sea we now cross on our way ar ais trasna an uisce. 

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Shakespeare, breakfast roll man

As our departure draws near I had a bee in my bonnet to visit his nibs birthplace. Well given that I have spent much of the last 5 years studying his works I figured why not check out his crib. After much grumbling and giving out, like it or lump it, it was off to Stratford-upon-Avon with us. It's a picturesque village for the most part but the facade looks like a post office or public swimming pool, all red brick and tinted windows.  Not sure would the famous man of words find it aesthetically pleasing. Once inside we were guided along through a serious of short vignettes of facts and figures regarding William Shakespeare, in the voice of Patrick Stewart, Captain of the Enterprise. ‘I never knew Shakespeare wrote StarTrek’, The Small Man thinks he’s hilarious. No, but you can be sure if you poked and proded it enough you would probably find Shakespearian themes and references scattered throughout. I have to say, the kids were well impressed. The Youngest said it was better than she expected, and, no whining. Meanwhile, Himself is away off searching for monkeys and typewriters. The old house itself is just as you would imagine. Tiny windows, low ceilings and doorways, stone flagged floors, Tudor style and slightly askew. His father, John Shakespeare was a glove maker so all the tanning for leather was carried out on-site using, amongst other stuff, urine. They must have had shares in Febreze. On entering we were escorted through the various rooms by strange people in period costumes (well, they said they were costumes but I’m not so sure, they looked awfully comfortable in them). We proceeded up the rickety stairs to the room where he was born, and where he slept along with his parents and siblings, for much of his early childhood. Crowded, smelly and they still managed to produce more children. Little boys at that time were apparently dressed as girls because the belief was that the evil spirits and whatever you’re havin’ yerself would spare the boys life if they were disguised as girls. Girls weren’t worth the effort, those from the dark side priced little boys. Funnily enough, this would continue into later life for budding thespians, since men had to dress as women frequently where ladies were not permitted to tread the boards. My two girls, little feminists, not impressed. They reckon women had it rough in ‘olden times’ as they call it.

And so there he was, a young gassun, helpin his aul lad make a few gloves, fast forward a few years and he’s away off to London to make a name for himself. He pitches his plays (many of them reworkings from other writers but sin sceal eile) to a few dragons to be told ‘I’m out’. Finally he gets a backer and The Globe’s his oyster. On return to his homeplace he buys a house for himself and the missus, and also inherits the family home after his father’s death. So what does he do but lease it to a lad who turns it into a pub, the Swan and Maidenhead Inn. Shakespeare, the property developer, a breakfast roll man, hard hat, high viz, cup a’ scald in hand, truly a vision of times past. After all that, we were treated to a couple of lines from Taming of the Shrew, in the wonderful garden, by two actors. The Youngest said she didn’t get it, what on earth were they talking about. The Middle was lost too but enthralled nonetheless and we managed to run the giftshop gauntlet without purchasing. All’s well that ends well. 

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

Ag dul abhaile

My mind is yet again in a state of flux. It’s like a Rubix cube constantly twisting, without any resultant blocks of colour. The decision has been made to move back to Galway. We are among many of the casualties of the property and banking catastrophe. A mortgage on our home we can neither sell nor rent and large wads of rent in this exclusive part of England is just not tallying. The English country quaintness of Thame and surrounds comes at a high price. The property prices and rentals remain consistently high due to an unhealthy obsession with schools (education industry more like) and because of its proximity to Oxford and London. I guess our decision has been made for us but I have also come to the conclusion that you do not arrive at a right or wrong verdict. You make a judgement based on particular circumstances and run with it. It is only retrospectively can you label it as a right or wrong one. There is a sting in this tale though as Himself will now join the many others on the early Monday morning and Thursday/Friday evening flights trasna an uisce. The Shannon Heathrow route is busier than the Rahoon Eyre Square bus with all that’s commuting over and back.   I don’t have a crystal ball and I don’t know how this will play out. For sure, I know he is lucky to have a job, no doubt about that so I may stop such moaning.  We did the commuting thing for a year before the move. Thus I know what is ahead. There is the accentuated Sunday blues with the bag at the front door ready for early Monday morning departure. The delayed flights on the return and disappointed children are all to contend with again. I met a man from Tynagh during the week at the school, has been over here 24 years. He made the comment that there are many who during the 80’s had emigrated to England and moved back again. Now because of work and, without wanting to uproot their families, they now commute. That’s just the way it is. Just as the news of our arrival spread like wildfire, over the last few weeks so too has the news of us heading back. The account of our impending return now rolls of my tongue but yet feels like the needle is stuck. I feel like a character in a Beckett play.   

I don’t regret the year. I have made some good friends. Some I hope to keep very much in touch with and meet up with whenever I can, others I will never see again. The kind, helpful and genuine nature of many I will never forget. The year has been stressful, emotional and difficult. For my part I have learned much and those same contemplations I choose to keep to myself, for the moment. The children have relished the experience of living in a small town and all the conveniences that come with it. The doorbell here is worn out with the buddies looking for one or all to come out and play, like the way I grew up. I am hoping they can draw from the confidence they have gained knowing that they came to a new school, assimilated the different ways of learning and settled in to very established classes.  I am truly proud of their achievements. They have made some great friends and will keep in touch with a select few. The ending or not of these friendships will take its natural course. They look forward to settling into their old school, seeing their old pals, being close to their grandparents and living in their old house again. So too am I.

Accordingly, emotions are running high with all of us and the slightest thing ignites, sets us off, as our departure draws near. There will be difficult goodbyes. The underlying feeling of going home to Galway, I hope, will eclipse the farewells and feelings of sadness that come with it. Not just for the children but for all of us. 

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

Al-Cat-raz

I feel I know my neighbours, even though I don’t know them. I don’t even know their names. The neighbours in one of the gardens at right angles to ours spend alot of time outside in their garden, as you do. There are three generations living in the house, grandparents (granddad and his second wife), parents (daughter of granddad and her Irish/American husband) and grandchild. Space is at a minimum thus the garden is like another room. The elders spend time in their hot tub. And before you ask, I cannot tell if there is attire worn and if there is, bikini or ‘costume’, Speedos or leopard skin thong, is just TMI. On any given Friday or Saturday night the unmistakable sound of a can of bear being opened can be heard over the bubbles of the tub. And sometimes during the day, when mum and dad are gone to work and grandchild is at preschool, they relish the privacy and they crank it up, put the bubbles on max and he sings away to his wife. A great voice to boot. The other day they were all out in the garden, as we were, and I could not help but eavesdrop as granddad enlightens his grandson as to the various cats buried in the garden. He comes to the final one, let’s call him Tabby.  I was introduced to said cat just the once before his demise, in strange circumstances, but I cannot recall his name. It was 11.30 of a mid week night and I was up potterin away on the laptop in the sittingroom, Billy no-mates. Kids asleep, not a sound. In fact it’s noisier at home in Galway with the cattle mooing and the foxes screeching at night. The door bell rings. Here, it’s questionable as to whether or not you phone someone after 9.00 don’t mind ring the doorbell at such an hour, so I was intrigued and scared shitless. There was a full on should-I-shouldn’t-I-answer-it in my head. Could be a head the ball with a machete in one hand and my P45 in another, could be just someone looking for help. Ah sure, what the hell, I’ll answer it. I could see through the frosted glass that indeed it was a man, and as I had turned on the hall light, I now could be seen also. So I had to commit and gingerly opened the door after I blessed meself. Lo and behold it was singing hot tub neighbour, with a flashlight. 'Ah how ya, it's only yourself' I said relieved. He was so embarrassed and so apologetic. Here’s the thing. He has, how do I say it, well...a gammy eye, so one looks east and the other looks west and let’s just say, it was bit awkward. I just stared at his forehead. He was sorry to be botherin me and for waking me and would I mind if he had a look in our garden as he reckoned their tabby had climbed over the fence and got stuck in our bushes. No problem, and I walked him through the hall and out into the garden. The cat had a stroke, he recounted, and could get a little perplexed. It’s the medication you see. I fought to restrain the giggles as a serious of questions and images flashed through my head. ‘Can you account for his last movements, sir, can you describe what he looks like, sir, has he gone missin’ on ye before, sir!’. An artist’s impression of a large fluffy cartoon cat, eyes fixed with stars and tweety birds floating and fluttering around his head, sprang to mind. So here we were in our garden, almost midnight, like wardens with search lights, looking for tabby who has done an Alcatraz over the fence. His missus is in the tub. He’s whispering loudly over to her, ‘which direction did he climb ova’, love’, ‘Well, I don’t knoowwww, swee’ha’!’, clearly upset and half cut. We trampled through the shrubs and sure enough, we shone the lights on this poor orange mass of fur, huddled in a ball, all at sea. He was carried home, with loving care and there were more apologies again for the disruption. Sadly, yon cat was not to be for this world for very much longer, I think it knocked the wind out of his sails. The adventure was all just too much for him, Ga’ help us.