Mom and Moone

We trekked up to the airport after breakfast to pick up my mother for her whirlwind tour of Ireland. I should clarify: "We" only included those who habitually rise before noon. After greeting her and her travel companion, I showed them where we would meet up a mere six days later; this was all the time they could squeeze out of their busy schedules.

Knowing that Mom would be tired, but that she would need some activity and fresh air after the long flight, we aimed for low-key activities that took into account the limited mobility that late summer chickens have. We were also guided by the precept that we don't want to have to revisit the same monuments over and over again to please our guests; we are also here to experience the place!

Off the great wall came the National Stud and Japanese Gardens in Kildare. We had heard of this unlike-sounding pairing, and as the now-risen and showered teenager is enamored of the Japanese Gardens at home, we decided to tootle over the Curragh to this mecca of bloodstock. Of course, different people see different things: we had forgotten how charming the sheep are (as ubiquitous as trees and green), and how refreshing the hues of green can be for someone living in arid northern California.

Mullaghmast standing stone, selected on a single criteria: at about six paces from the side of an extremely quiet lane, it is absolutely the easiest standing stone to get to that we know of. It also helped that it is was close to Kildare. I'm still fascinated by the vertical grooves on it; and the boys discovered that the base of the stone contained a modern inscription with its name on it, something that had escaped our notice on our first visit.

We figured the Moone high cross would turn my mother on, and we were right. And no surprise, as the master of Moone knew his way around a granite block. We made an exception to the revisitation policy, as this is a favorite of us all--it seems to make more sense, and the changing quality of light reminds us that we are not photographing things, but moments.

Jam session

In all the flurry between marrying off sisters in Germany last summer and preparing to move to the Emerald Isle, not a single jar of jam with the year 2008 on the label made it onto my shelf. Odd, when you consider that 100 jars is pretty normal for me in a season. Indeed, when we arrived here I could not bring myself to buy jam in the supermarket--thank heavens for Irish laws that allow people to sell their excess. I soon had jars of gooseberry and raspberry in my larder with a home-printed label.

A source of brown eggs was also identified (the wife of the man who gives button accordeon lessons at the Hollywood Community Centre on Saturdays), butter came in brown paper package tied up with string from one parent at the Steiner School, and another parent started a veg box scheme. We came to rely on our connections for fresh foods, and our very temporariness precluded the need to jam. For we already know we won't be here next winter.

But the habit--or instinct--is there: as the veggies turned the corner from dark greens and roots into the delicate first leaves and fruits, we rejoiced in rhubarb crumble, a sure harbinger of spring. Before we knew it, strawberries had joined the mix, and raspberries were on their heels. As the summer progressed in fits and starts, people complained that it would be another non-starter for shorts and beaches, but it meant that the berries just kept coming. And we happily gobbled raspberries (one punnet for the ride home, one to eat after supper).

And then the farmer, weary from stooping to pick all these berries while her belly swelled, but knowing that she would be happy to have them once the baby came, approached me: she had heard that I knew how to make jam, would I teach her? We set a date, exchanged emails: tender berries need a high-pectin fruit to gel into jam, did she have apples or some such? Crabapples were coming in, and purchased lemons would do for the strawberries.

We met at the school, and I discovered that her idea of a lot of fruit was a lot more than I could ever imagine. After enlisting kids to wash, cut and stir, we started batching jams. Six hours later, we had nearly 50 jars of jam, but we still had a small mountain of fruit. We called in the marines, or rather another mother who had said she could take any extra. Dumping half our remaining heap on her, we jammed on for another two hours, until we thought our feet would fall off.

Needless to say, there was no energy to make supper, so I put in a call to the old man to meet us at the Ballymore Inn. Over terrific food, we regaled him of our hard work, and showed him the six jars that came home with us. We will have to finish them up before we leave, or use them as thank yous for the amazing people who have lent a hand along our way here. And maybe, just maybe, we can bring a bit of Kildare sunshine back to the emerald forests of the Pacific Northwest.

Forty (Euro) cents

When the opportunity to come here came up, we immediately began making lists: questions that needed answers, followed by lists of things that needed to be done before leaving and after arriving, along with things to take. And last of all, things to do while here.

A certain small boy dug in and said there must be a ride on a steam train; an older boy said he wants to see the Giant's Causeway; the largest boy wanted to putter and see lots of megalithic things; I added attend a traditional music session to the list. Over the months, the list grew, hidden on my computer and eclipsed by the "need to do" list. With six months behind us, it was time to get it out in the open.

Our lease tells me we can't affix anything to the wall with nails or such, so my dreams of a bulletin board were out. A lone screw (serving to hang a landlady-painted acrylic which now resides in the attic) gave us a place for the calendar. I bought a package of reusable kneaded adhesive and up went a map, and we started adding slips of paper with items from our list, together with attractions and events we have heard about here and there (the Wexford strawberry festival and a tractor rally). When a guest suggests something, it goes up there too (that's where the antique monorail and road bowling came from). Thanks to the magic of blutack, we can move these items around will-nilly, and itineraries start emerging.

Not everything is big ticket: there are some local events, like the Tudor Inn in town having a session on Sunday, and horse racing in the Curragh. We also note that April is spring cleaning month, but it's a pretty safe bet we won't be celebrating that!

We made great inroads this week: with friends arriving Thursday, Alfred ducked into the Stillorgan branch of the EBS and picked up tickets for the "Easter Eggspress" steam train on Easter Monday. While we were at it, we also booked an organic farm on the Dingle Peninsula.

Saturday was spent here, running to lessons and chatting with neighbors in the sun, watching kids run around and swing from lampposts. In the evening, we thought we'd go see the entertainment in town, but our naïve reading of the board meant that we showed up three hours early for the music. There was someone there Sunday evening, they offered.

A flicker of mothering genius: we ducked into the newsagent, where each person could select a magazine and a candy bar. With four sofas in our tiny rental house, we could put on our jammies, and read and veg. I don't think there's ever been such a long peaceful stretch in our family's history.

Sunday's plan was pretty easy: horse racing in the Curragh. We had driven through the Curragh once before, on our way to Tullamore for the St. Patrick's Day parade. It's a place of gentle rolling hills, with sheep and walkers roaming free. Driving out onto the plain and parking anywhere also seems to be acceptable, judging from how many people do it.

We followed the signs (an exceptional experience) and parked on a bit of plain where everyone else was parking, and followed the crowd to the track. A few euro pressed into the hand of a young man who had tickets but no money to play on the horses (kids are free), and a few euro for a racing form, and we made our way to the cafeteria, where we filled plates with chips and whatever for a hearty lunch.

Consulting the racing form, we learned that the afternoon offered 8 races, 30 minutes apart. We couldn’t imagine what we would do in that time, but it soon became apparent. First, we went to the circle and watched the horses parade. We read the form and looked at the horses to decide which one(s) we liked, then headed inside to place our bet(s). By the time we mosied outside again, the horses were headed to the starting line (almost out of sight, thank heavens for the big screen TV). To the top of the bleachers, watch the horses, go back inside to claim our winning(s), repeat. After 6 races, we'd picked two winners, and were up about 40 cents. Not bad for an afternoon's entertainment. We can cross "horse racing" off the list.

We did return to the pub last night for an eclectic mix of traditional and 70's hits (think Cat Stevens and John Denver), but I'm not quite ready to cross "session" off the list.

The system, chaotic as it seems, appears to be working!