Missing

Word on the street is that people miss the blog. I would count myself among them. I'm also missing my long walks along the waterfront and down the lane to pick wool off of barbed wire fences where the sheep stick their heads through to nibble at the greener side.

There are a number of reasons why this space has been static. Faithful readers may have noticed a comment posted anonymously that reproached me for my quasi-complaining about the infrastructure situation. I understand that that person may be hurting in their own ways, but I've never had very thick skin, and the words were hurtful. I found myself sitting down to write to dear friends and family, only to find my voice stifled by the what-if this-is-taken-the-wrong-way doubts by someone who doesn't know me. An essay about the weather service, which I believe to be populated by accomplished rheumatism readers (they are too accurate for it to be scientific) is out for the time being. I briefly considered making this a member-only blog, but readership is above their limit. Gratifying, but puzzling.

We've also been dealing with continuing infrastructure issues here: when we returned from vacation, the rubbish bins were piled high; it took a week of calls and emails to the landlady, and magically the bins were emptied. Two weeks ago Sunday. She assured me that there would be regular pickup, but regular apparently doesn't mean weekly. After the bins were emptied, we went out and filled two garbage bags with the stuff that had been blowing around the village: the torn bags and blowing trash are back, with bags piled high again, being ripped open by the stray kitties.

The water situation has improved only marginally: Eddie the plumber finally managed to make it out (while we had guests, we had to work hard to convince him we'd rather be interrupted than not be able to use the tap), and we now have a functioning reverse osmosis filter on the kitchen tap (that's what the mysterious third knob on the sink was!). It means we now have water we can use for cooking and washing vegetables, but it's still not drinkable, as we have no ideas of the level of contamination. Alfred continues to carry water down from Dublin so we have something to drink.

There have been a couple of hiccups in Internet service, with it being down a bit here and there, but (touch wood), it always seems to come back. The golf course has a tournament booked over next weekend, so that may upset the status quo when they leave, but we'll have to deal with that when it comes. There's always the dongle!

And then there's been work. A mountain of work, keeping me translating for two weeks solid, even after turning down contracts. I always joke that paying work keeps me from getting things done, and here it is: I still have two jobs to deliver, but I'm writing this instead! I'll just sleep less.

As I write this, it's Saturday morning, bright and early, and the house is still quiet. We went to bed exhausted last night, without resolving what/where we are doing this long weekend. We might end up staying in a castle near Cavan (which has a great parade, we hear), we couldn't find a room in Waterford for the fireworks tonight, we might find a farm near Cork, or we may just stay here and save vacation days. (St. Paddy's falls on a Tuesday, so about half the population is taking Monday off as well; we're undecided still!)

But by far, the thing that's been weighing on our minds is the rapid deterioration of our arrangements back home. Back in February, the house sitter noted that the house seemed cold. I gave her a few pointers and asked her to tell me if that helped, or if we should get the boiler man to come out. I heard nothing, and assumed the best. But I was also hearing nothing about incoming mail (we had agreed on regular reports and calls), and with the internet down on our end, I had no way of knowing if she was trying to reach us or failing. Tax season is upon us, and I need to know what was coming in.

Long story short, she got tired of living in a cold house and being asked to actually do as agreed in exchange for her free rent; Two weeks ago she let me know she was taking an apartment at the end of May, and would stay until we were back then, to give us time to replace her. One week ago (after friends jumped in to help with the mail and noted that the house seemed empty and cold) she admitted she was no longer sleeping at the house, just popping in every other day for the cat; Three days ago she let me know she was going to be gone for two weeks for spring break and the backup neighbors would be gone too; and yesterday she announced she is moving all her things out this weekend to make room for the new (as yet unidentified) sitter.

Our entire stay here was precluded on having someone at home to take care of "things." Indeed, the first thing people asked when we said we were going away for a year was, "what about your house?" After figuring out there were schools for the boys, securing a house sitter was what sealed the deal. Now we have a house where we have to get the heat working in absentia so we can get a housesitter in --in absentia. We all know how much fun it is trying to meet up with a repairman, who gives you a window and then changes it at the last minute, and that's where we are, except I get a call from their office asking if I can meet the guy three hours earlier. Well, no I can't, but perhaps if they can reach the really good friend who's doing me a huge favor by meeting up with him, maybe she can. So of course, they missed each other. Maybe next week.

And maybe next week I'll find someone responsible to move in, rather than try to put together a rota of kitty care and mail sorting by amazing friends that I want to keep as friends. Because I'd much rather be writing about how incredibly green the fields are right now, the couple of lovely mild days we had, where it was a breeze instead of a chill wind whistling down the vales; about the incredibly cute lambs popping out with the same frequency as the cheery daffodils, which both come in an incredible array of shapes and sizes and seem to have springs in their legs (the lambs, not the bulbs). And how much fun it was to have a passel of kids eating takeaway pizza for someone's birthday and how the boys got my car washed by the Dunlavin fire brigade and it was already dirty a week later. Those little joys that make you forget that taxes will shoot up in two weeks, but isn't it great the lads are playing in Croake Park and wasn't that the funniest song you've every heard, mocking Ryanair (now Urine Air) for announcing they would charge for using the toilets on their flights. Because I'd much rather be living here rather than trying to deal with not living there.

Maybe next week.

Calm and storms

And so we were enjoying the craic in the pub last night, when I realized that we were supposed to be over in Dunlavin, playing with the West Wicklow "orchestra" -- all seven of them. But the warmth from the fire was a good counter to the wind lashing outside, and besides, by the time we got home to get instruments and trekked over the hills to Dunlavin, it would be almost over.

But I am getting ahead of myself. Let's start at the beginning. Sort of.

As I write, the wind is howling around the house, whistling into the windows. My jeans are soaked through just from walking from the car to the back door carrying my veggie box from one of the famer-parents at school. It has been windy for two nights, though the addition of torrential rain only started yesterday afternoon. Since we spent a similar Sunday afternoon with a tub of caulking and some good music, our house is less drafty, but still "breathes": our landlord says, "but how can it be drafty? Those are triple glazed windows!" Indeed they are, but if they don’t shut properly, they won't be able to keep this wind out. I'm not sure even German windows are up to the task.

The stormy weather comes on the heels of a stormy week. Not weather wise, no, in fact, we had sunshine and the first snowdrops are poking up their delightful heads. I actually got a chance to escape fro the turmoil and stress and do a bit of tidying up in the garden, making room for the bulbs to do their thing.

And despite of the wind, things are calming down again. After a week without broadband, using the mobile dial up, the landlady lit a fire under the Omnitel fellows, and our network magically came back up. Two hours later, it cut out again, but then it restored itself right about the time we decided to give up and go to bed. It's been fine since (touch wood).

Seamus the plasterer from the property management company arrived on Monday morning with a box of white powder and the requisite collection of spackling knives. Danny, home "sick" from school, was entertained for at least half and hour. I sent his cheery self to school the next day (Danny, not Seamus). Seamus said he'll be back next week with a bit of paint. I'm not sure if I dare hope, but perhaps his company is atypical.

The situation at Marcus' school resolved itself with a chat with a harried German teacher called Frau Baum (Mrs. Tree), who has to try to force feed 19th century German literature to 8th graders. She was responsive to our request to not leave behind Marcus just because he's a temporary student. There's still the history teacher, whom our son fondly characterizes as "psychopathic." Maybe I'll deal with her once I figure out how to counter the Catholic science teacher's lesson on birth control.

By far the most stressful area, though, has been at Alfred's workplace. While Redmond is reeling from the behemoth's announcement of job cuts (since eclipsed by Boeing and Starbucks), Ireland has felt its share of the pain. Redundancies, as they are called here, were voluntary, and it was a long week for everyone, wondering if enough volunteers were going to step up. In the end, nine people applied, eight were needed; Alfred was spared the difficult task of 'volunteering' one of his reports, whose wife is expecting in May. There is an upside to this process: managers were able to have very frank talks with employees about just what role they played; employees were asked to really evaluate whether they wanted to be there. Every one of the volunteers was looking for a way out, and Microsoft provided it. They are all going off as a team this afternoon to celebrate. I fully expect Alfred to miss supper, but bet he'll be back in time for soccer, assuming the wind doesn't blow their ball away.

Of course, all this has meant long hours for Alfred, and he managed to leave Marcus waiting for half an hour yesterday evening. I was settled at our neighbor's kitchen table, catching up on their doings (major changes: she will take the kids to France for the remainder of the school year to prepare them for the move to a French-speaking secondary school here; her husband passed his driving test; the baby's been sick, but is learning to talk), when my phone rang and Marcus vented. I did mention that the torrential rains joined the gale-force winds yesterday afternoon? And that teenage pride prevents him from doing anything as commonsensical as wearing a coat?

And so it was that we found ourselves in our favorite pub (Blessington has three, though only one serves food, and it is darn good food), snuggled in front of the fire. And we are no longer tourists here: the waitress recognizes us, calling my husband "himself" (the Irish equivalent of "dearie") and we find we are actually acquainted with a few folks around us.

Alfred was deep in conversation with one of his fellow tin whistle classmates, discussing how to play a roll. My guess is that she's around eight or nine years old, and thinks it's funny that a grown man is in her class. Every now and then, she can't hold it in and giggles. I recognize her mother, who has a 17-year old and a toddler at the table as well, from cello lessons on Saturday; we chat too. She is kind enough to suggest that both my son and husband might be interested in another class in another small town, one where they actually learn to read music. Danny hovers around, Marcus pretends he doesn't know us.

I note as we are bundling up to brave the elements that there is a second lower pane of glass inside the pub window, and realize it is there to protect us from the wind that invariably whistles in around the main window frame. So that's what those are for!

I have not yet booked all the flights and hotels (and riads) for the spring trips, but should get to it over the weekend. The American embassy has not yet received my passport, so things might get interesting. But am grateful that things have calmed down and we can complete our year here.