Unpacking

It has been two months since we returned home. After an initial spurt of putting the groundwork of our lives back together, we have begun adding the layers of complexity--cello lessons, orchestra--back in. Unpacking started predictably slowly, as we took things out and either put them back where they used to live, or found a space for new items amidst the old.

One little boy immediately dug into the boxes of trains, and had three layouts running concurrently within 24 hours. The other petted the cat until her fur was all shiny, and got to work locating an explorer post at a fire station. We got a bit sidetracked with some DIY, as we were one closet short due to the spectacular failure of the front hall closet system (think winter coats and board games and puzzles). A new closet system was in order so we could move said winter coats from our bedrooms, making room for our clothes.

Before we knew it, we had barreled headlong into the school year, with book lists and back-to-school gatherings. Alfred arrived home, pulling three more overweight suitcases behind him. There were a couple of things that I had not brought with that I had asked him to tuck in, and he brought with a few other surprises. After four long weeks of unpacking, we finally piled the suitcases back in the garage, to let them gather dust, knowing that we didn't need to go anywhere--for a while, at least.

Which explains the new knife in my knife block and the Renault keychain for my car keys, and the pile of yummy sweaters on my shelves. A few items (including the fleece) will arrive via slow boat sometime next month, and we're looking forward to the early Christmas that will be. But there is one thing that I neither brought with nor left behind that I wasn't sure what to do with.

Though void of any physical presence, it had been a weighty part of my everyday in Tulfarris, as much a part of my day as rustling up some supper and traipsing through muddy fields. I'm talking about this blog.

My morning walks around the lake, with the crunch of the gravel under my wellies, cleared my head and awakened the Wicklow muse. But those walks and the hills are gone from my life, and even though I did finally get the pumpathon pictures up, and wrote a few tidbits, one morning I found the muse, like sand slipping through my fingers, was gone altogether. I felt lost.

It appears that others are having trouble letting it go of it as well: Traffic reports tell me that folks are still reading the blog. A few notes from friends and family wanted to know if I would keep writing? They wanted more!

A bit of investigating options led me to a book: a combination of the best writings and favorite pictures. With the boys back in school, I turned to pasting and cutting, flowing and trimming the blog to fit into physical pages. And so, while the Pacific Northwest rains darkened this morning's skies, I uploaded a beautiful book, full of shadows and light on green fields dotted with white sheep.

We figure that we'll send a couple of copies to our parental units for Christmas, and let others decide if they'd like a copy of their own. You'll find a banner to click on at the top of the page (or you can click here): To help sway your decision, use the code united at checkout for a $5 discount, and the publisher will donate $5 to United Way of King County. Feel free to give the code out or reuse it as much as you'd like.

With this post, I plan to reluctantly tuck this blog into bed, and let it rest. I do want to thank you all for sharing in our adventure. I will resume my occasional posts on tradition and sustainability in my original blog, The Full Irish. I hope you'll join me there!

UPDATE on 16 November 2009: After getting the bugs out of the production process, the link to the book has changed. Also, please note that there is a new, better discount code valid through November 24, 2009: enter BLURBHOLIDAY at checkout for a 20% discount and free ground shipping on any order of up to 5 books. It's a great deal, but expires soon!

Baggage

We came to the Emerald Isle as a family, with eight suitcases, four backpacks and a violin. I had recently torn my hamstring, so was about as helpful as the baggage when it came to moving through the airport; all I could do was stand there and make like I was guarding the mountain of bags, when in fact all I could have done was yell very loudly.

We dug the mountain of empty bags out of the toe space under the eaves in our bedroom yesterday. Most still bear the numbers we gave them (quite arbitrarily, I note) to make it easier to inventory. We have aquired two more bags over the year (We were thinking we could take extra bags, even as the airlines brack down harder? We were thinking that more bags would improve our chances of them getting on the plane when we go through Heathrow?). Would that it were as easy as cramming everything in those bags and going back the way we came.

Ah, but rien n'est simple, or as my mother told my husband on our wedding day, "you'll never be bored!" For only three of us (the shortest) will be headed home Monday, mere days away, via Heathrow. The tall member will head out on the day we flew in--September 11 (flights are cheaper on that date. Still.) So we do need to leave a few items for him to live with. And then there are all the sundry household items that we didn't think we could live without. And indeed we can't: I'm still trying to figure out how to pack the sheets that are on our bed. Many of those will be rehomed in a car boot sale (people here don't have garages, so car boots are how these sorts of things are done); some will go to friends, more to charity, and a few boxes will hitch a ride with a fellow employee whose return date is a month later than ours. Sorting things into the correct piles makes my head hurt.

One dear reader commented that she appreciated me writing even while packing. Truth be told, I'm not packing if I'm writing. Ditto work. I've never been one for early packing, and this promises to be more of the same. Though if I'd like to play megaliths over the weekend (is there one we haven't seen yet?), then I'd better get cracking.

After this post.

Upstream

Seems like we just got back, and it's time to head out again. It's an eerie echo of last year, complete with pulled back muscle, meaning I need help to pack again. The good news is that we're taking very little back, even resorting to the suitcase-in-suitcase technique to provide enough room to bring all our treasures back with us. We may not have had excess baggage going over, but I'm pretty sure we will on the way back.

Our three weeks here have been an indulgence of hours of retrospective with our kids and school community, luxuriating in each other's company and mountains of shared food. We have inhaled three dozen avocados and at least as many thick, handmade corn tortillas. We sprawl on our oversized beds, and rejoice in the fat DSL pipeline.

Our dryer has gone unused, as have our thick sweaters we brought back from the Emerald Isle: the Pacific Northwest appears to have started summer already. The windows are wide open, spring cleaning undertaken, leaving the house fresh and clean. It makes it hard to go.

But we are frankly sad to be packing up and leaving once more. We will start the parade of guests next week, and the remaining two months will likely fly by. We will return home, like geese and salmon, when the leaves begin to turn.

Avocado orgy

Our first impression as we walk in our door after nine month’s absence is that it is roomy: light and airy. We feel like children on Christmas morning: look! A cat! The bed is huge! We couldn’t stop walking around, touching things and opening cupboards. The larder was quite bare—house sitter? Teenager? And then we noticed the back yard: ack! We need to mow, the gutters need cleaning! The deck needs sweeping! But first, to bed.

Thanks to good friends, we didn’t lift a finger the evening of our arrival: supper and good company was provided and delicious and beds were magically made up. Even breakfast was laid out on the counter (pancakes!) so we didn’t have to deal with shopping right away the next day. We got the car started (second turn of the key!) and ventured out to the farmer’s market (ran into a friend there who did a classic double-take) and the co-op (where we ran into two more friends).

And there they were: those green globes of smooth pleasure. Love pears. Yum with a spoon. Guacamole. Yes, I’m talking about avocados.

I love potatoes, I love a nice roast. Ireland is great on spuds and breakfast. But I love avocados more. There, I’ve said it. I’m a fifth generation Californian, that rarity who knows what the Golden State looked like before Silicon Valley and traffic and sky-high property values. I remember when Ronald Reagan was elected governor. And I remember avocados on the table from day one.

And so, this “staycation” has been an indulgence of the bumpy green fruit. Served with balsamic vinaigrette in the pit hole, squashed up with lime juice and onion (no cilantro, which, by the way, only appeared in Mexican food with the tech boom) and scooped out with glorious tortilla chips, heaped on tostadas, chopped in spinach salads, or spooned out just like that.

We head back to the Emerald Isle next week, where we will resume our earth apple diet. But before we leave, I estimate we will have consumed just over three dozen avocados. I wonder if I can convince our Japanese veg box supplier to make just one exception to her limited food miles policy and get us a few of the green jewels each week.