Friday 20 November 2015

I Love Sky

PREFACE

I am a techno dinosaur, so apologies in advance if I have used the wrong technical terms through my ramblings. 
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Since forever, I’ve been fiddling with various TV services and yokes.  The ‘free-to-air’ doo-dahs were great at the start.  Where I live, the lovely flat landscape may be good for big boy tillage farmers, but when the wind gets up, it played havoc with my doo dah.

A few years ago, when the new Saorview service came into being, I invested in a large TV and a small aerial.  With the extra RTE channels, I felt that I’d be happy enough.  I agreed with Bruce Springsteen’s song "57 Channels (And Nothin' On)" – How many channels can you watch at once after all?  Like the doo dah, its’ success was short lived.  Before long, the sellotape came out and I found myself waving it around trying to get a decent signal.  ‘Stay right there Mam, we can see it perfectly now’, the children would shout from the comfort of the couch as I stood on one leg in the kitchen, holding the aerial. 
There was a free subscription to Netflix in the house, but I never took the time to sit down and configure it with the TV.  To you drama fiends who watch full series back-to-back, you may gasp at my neglect, but hey, t’internet will be around for a while yet.  I’ll catch up with ‘House of Cards’, ‘Orange is the New Black’ and ‘Breaking Bad’ when the kids graduate to teenagehood.

When we aren’t discussing cultural policy and world peace at coffee breaks at work, conversation can descend to discussing Gogglebox and the like.  Until lately, I would nod and laugh along as if I knew what people were talking about, but slightly glaze over and tuck into my bun.  I was starting to feel like that ten year old girl I once was who didn’t get to see ET in the cinema. 
I could take no more.  Drastic action was required.  SKY TV had a deal.  Twenty squids a month for the basic package.  Sure, I’d spend more that on a night out, if I had a social life … IF … All the more reason to invest.  Mr Nice Sky Man came and installed the dish.  He asked me what service I had before and I couldn’t remember any technical jargon, so I used words like ‘thingie’.  But he smiled nicely and didn’t make me feel like a thick. 

The children figured out the remote control before I did.  Initially they were complaining that my twenty euro deal didn’t have all of the children’s channels, but that didn’t last long.  Soon they were charmed with the option to record series and the suite of new viewing options.  Pre-school television will never be the same again (yes, we watch TV in the morning – go on, judge me).  It’s a menu of Weetabix, pancakes and pre-recorded episodes of ‘Ice Road Truckers’ (scary driving on ice in Alaska), ‘Top Gear’ (surely you all know Top Gear ? and ‘Officially Amazing’ (Humungous Russian men pulling cars with their teeth and Norman the dog on a bicycle breaking world records, I kid you not.  Check out  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vdto2MAsU0s )
It’s rare that myself and my girl have time alone together, but my boy goes to a ‘boys only’ club once a week.  When us gals aren’t having a walk with the mutt, we watch the trashiest television possible, such as ‘Say Yes to the Dress’ (spoiled brat American bridezillas looking for wedding dresses, or better again ‘Tots in Tiaras’ (American mumzillas entering their daughters in beauty, sorry ‘TALENT’ competitions’.  The sort of TV that makes you feel like you have some integrity (but by watching it, and allowing your eight-year-old daughter watch it too, you (me) obviously have none.

A real win/win TV experience for myself and the little people is watching ‘Grand Designs’.  Beauty and design, an education lesson in itself with lots of discussion between us on whether we the completed design or not, no IN-YOUR-FACE music and of course, there is Kevin.  Lovely, lovely Kevin … You can talk to me anytime baby.
And have I mentioned ‘River Cottage’ ?  A few hours of uninterrupted back-to-back Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, the sweaty, animal slaughtering chef’s thoughts on 'back to the sea and land as an alternative culinary lifestyle' is food for this vegetarian’s soul. 

As I type, I am watching TFI Friday with the children.  I won’t bother explaining the acronym … Gogglebox is up next.  Will I or won’t I ?  I can always press ‘record’.

Wednesday 18 November 2015

HELL IN A SEVEN SEATER

I wrote this 'pre blog site' two years ago.  The car has been down sized and there's been a few other changes in the meantime, but it stills seems terribly familiar ...

Ah, a Sunday family day out. Warm, fuzzy feeling. Little mammy-in-law and himself up front. Working Mamma sees the opportunity for quality conversation with squiddiewinks in the back. Not even out the gate and they are fighting over who sits with the dog on the back seat and who sits beside me. No one wants to sit with dog, or in their car seats. They both want to sit on my knee. Discussion about 'but you are 6 now' ... road safety ... they couldn't give a monkeys. I relent and boney ass Mya sits on my knee to Dublin ... and accidently headbutts me in the face.

I'm hungreeeeee, I'm thirsteeeee, I need to go to the toilet, I'm BURSTING !

The DVD player won't work.  Read manual, consult Youtube, it still won't work. I'm sooooo bored ... why won't the DVD player work Mam, why, why, why ? I'm sooooo bored. Mam, why, mameeeeeee ?

Wee man starts kicking the seat and he has found a goddamn whistle. Just as well mammy-in-law is there, or the language would be blue. Veiled threats. Kids don't even hear. They are too busy biting each others hair. The dog tries to get in the front seat of the car. He can't manage reversing, and so sticks his bum in my face turning around, claws in your leg.

One last try - The DVD player works ! Squids fight over which DVD to watch. They finally agree, but keep turning up the volume. Little mammy-in- law seems to be asking me questions, as I can see her lips move, but I hear nothing. I nod and smile back. Kids open each others seat belts. Another road safety lecture and no one is listening. Threats to turn off DVD if they dont turn it DOWN NOW !!!!

Arrive at father-in-laws grave in Rush.

It's raining.

Dog escapes from car and charges across graveyard.

Frowns from other people.

Dog pees on someones headstone ... at least it's raining.

Rescue the dog and apologise.

Morto

(Still morto at time of writing)...

And now, the big surprise ... plane spotting at Dublin Airport.  Even with SatNav,we get lost.

Feels like we will never get there.  Kids kick their car seats. 

We get there.

Dusk, airport lit up, lots to see - perfect - what thoughtful parents we are !

Kids show no interest in planes, airport, or their parents. They complain that we are too far away and are more concerned that the dog will escape. No one looks up at planes. Grown ups feign enthusiasm. Grown ups have steam coming out their ears.

Let's get out of here ... Fighting over who sits where.

I've had a glass of vino, so I ain't driving.

DVD is louder than the aeroplanes. It starts to skip.

Wet, mucky dog tries to get into front seat, standing on clean jackets and managed to put his paw in my handbag.

Fighting, moaning.  Where did he get that fucking whistle ?!  I can't cope. I make Boney Ass sit in her own seat and retreat to the back seat with the dog.  He stinks and he is wet. He puts his wet, stinky head on my wool dress. He doesn't ask any question or give me the evil eye.

I close my eyes.

Peace.

Mam, are we nearly there ? Mam ? Maaaaam ?!

Monday 16 November 2015

Month's Memory

It’s a month today since my father died and Milltown is a lot quieter place. Or at least it will be, after the streams of visitors subside.  Already the strict rule of dinner-at-dinner-time (1pm) has relaxed. I bring my mother to Bailieborough, instead of Kingscourt, her closest town, to avoid meeting people she knows when we shop. Before his death, my mother would have left him dinner, or would have rushed home to make it. Today, there is no rush, although we are all starting to feel hungry.

I’ve driven the road home so often in recent weeks. It’s tiring when you are already tired. Once I hit Navan, I feel like I am almost there. Once I hit Nobber, the tears start. The children ask me again, fascinated, about Grandad AND me AND my brothers AND ‘which cousins again ?’ and their cousins, who ALL went to the same school. We laugh when we think about Grandad at school and agree that he was probably a ‘little divil’. Mya reckons that he didn’t like homework very much. Not as much as her anyway.  I ask them if they miss Grandad and Mya says 'no, I just wish he was there'.

I drive up the Glen and I can’t help myself.  I’m bawling now. Leon, is uncomfortable that I am crying again, and crying ‘differently’ than I have before and asks me in a concerned voice to ‘please stop’. I gather myself before I get into the house and greet my mother.

I look around the house. I pooch in a drawer just to see if there is any paper with his handwriting on it. I open his wardrobe and see a neat row of short sleeved checked shirts, neat because my mother hung them up. He hated long sleeve shirts and would roll them up the sleeves, making donut shapes around his elbows, under his jumper. I look at his mobile phone and see a group-text message sent to IFA members informing them of the ‘death of John Russell’ and another one, advising them of a guard of honour at his funeral. I spot pockets of cigarette ash on window frames and feel nostalgic about the thing that until recently drove me crazy.  I see a friend of his in town, who I know was very upset about Dad’s death. Even though I’m driving, I want to pull over and run after him to chat, to see how he is doing.  I suddenly remember that he won't be around for an of the 2016 commemorations and I feel cheated for him.

I go into the children’s school with a wad of money for their MS Readathon, greatly boosted by donations to the MS Society at my father’s funeral. I feel really proud, but sad that the children didn’t get to ask Granddad John for a donation. I would have liked to have his signature on their donation forms. Silly, I know.

I don’t feel like eating and substitute most meals with sandwiches, the blander the better. My daily bowl of porridge makes me feel nauseous and I crave coffee. I’ve ditched the de-caf for now. I get a rotten cold that I can’t shake and force myself to eat. At least I can pass off my watery eyes and nasally sounding voice as the sniffles.

There is nothing like an Arts Council application form to bring one firmly back to earth. On line deadlines don’t really care about your personal circumstances. There is no option in the menu that says ‘Deferred until further notice, because I’ve got stuff going on’. I think about making up the financial table and cutting and pasting last year’s text from the application form and just changing ‘2015’ to ‘2016’, but I think better of it. Thankfully, I work with great people who do the main body of work, before I press ‘send’ and off it goes into cyberspace.

I didn’t get off as lightly with my children’s birthday party. Their 8th birthday is a fortnight after my father’s death. I float the idea with them, that perhaps we wouldn’t have a party this year. I am met with two little faces filled with horror. As far as they were concerned, grandad’s death was long gone. We go ahead with the trip to the cinema, on the eve of Hallowe’en. It is an easy option, that involves minimal interaction with other human beings. I get into the spirit of it though and enjoy a dose of Transylvania. The part that hurts is seeing their birthday cards from Nana Kay. No Grandad John this year. Damn it.

We go Trick-or-Treating the following day, their ‘real’ birthday. Thankfully there is little dressing up involved. It’s a beautiful night and it’s nice to be outdoors. And it’s all done and dusted very quickly. Later, I collapse in a heap.

I carry around cards that I have received and reread one or two. I respond to some texts and other messages every day, finding it hard to do so. I feel guilty about everyone I ever knew who had lost a parent and wonder if I showed them enough consideration at the time. I want to contact them all now and say that I’m sorry. That I didn’t understand. I feel a bit funny about the cards with references to God and heaven because I don’t believe in either. Besides, heaven seems too far away. Dad's energy is in that strong wind that has been circling around me, in leaves circling my ankles and cross winds on the motorway.

Myself and my boy go in to tidy up my father’s grave on Saturday. It's cold and lashing rain and time was short as it was getting dark. The oasis in the wilted wreaths are sodden with water and are a dead weight. I drag two refuse sacks across other graves, being as respectful of them as I could. I feel miserable and I embrace the feeling. My boy makes me laugh, asking ‘what’s that big bump’ on the grave. ‘Grandad’s coffin’, I say. The fresh flowers don't look that impressive in the growing darkness.

Dad’s months’ memory mass was yesterday. The closer it got to it, the more I dreaded it. The logistics of having a huge crowd in my parents’ house. My Mam’s house now, I guess. A call from my mother on Friday asking me to decide who will do the readings and bring up the gifts at the mass seems like a huge task. I feel a sense of panic. Ridiculous. The mass is lovely and the lovely priest, Fr Mark is kind and generous in his words to the family. He reads out my father’s name. Yes, he is really dead. The eight grandchildren sitting in a row, good as gold throughout the mass. I feel proud as punch. I bet that people are looking at them, admiring these lovely children, John's legacy.

I leg it home to turn on the burco boiler and heat the soup. Soon the house is heaving with people. Heaving. All looking for soup even though it’s only 11.30am. Home-made scones and cakes to beat the band. You can’t beat the Russell women for home baking. The men are quite happy to sit and let the women organise the food and drinks. An informal network, taking turns to wash up at the sink, to replenish supplies, with no one needing to inform the other who-is-doing-what. Children, outside, jumping in puddles, destroying their lovely clothes selected for Grandad’s funeral. The older cousins-cousins disappearing upstairs and only appearing when their parents are leaving.

If Dad was there, I know which table he would have sat at. Who he would have chatted to. What they would have chatted about. Which slices of cakes he would have went for. Which one he would have asked me to 'save a slice' of, for later. It was odd to see his friends in the house without him there, deep in conversation. He would have been oblivious to the organisation that went into planning the day. Overall, it was a lovely day, but it was one that I was happy to see the back of.

I didn’t think too much about the one-month milestone today as I had a busy day. But tonight I went to see a final edit of a drama that I produced earlier this year, ‘JFK, The Badge Man Conspiracy’. The composer has just finished the music. The end credits roll and a dedication to my father appears. The Directors had told me previously that they wanted to include it. Seeing it now, I feel honoured and rare for me, speechless. I phone my mother to tell her. I'm not sure how she will react, but she is delighted.

If he seen the dedication, what would he say ?

‘Well holy God, who would have thunk it ?’

Wednesday 11 November 2015

Last Conversations with My Father

I can’t remember my last conversation with my father.   It’s been nearly four weeks now since he died and I hoped that it would come back to me, but it hasn’t.   It's probably because it was a mundane conversation, but I wish that I could remember it all the same.  I remember driving away from my parents’ house the last Sunday that I seen him and thinking to myself that he had barely spoken to me that weekend.  It wasn’t that he was in bad form, he was just unusually quiet in himself.  He probably shouted ‘G’luck’ to me, from his familiar resting place, the couch in the living room where he was stretched out after dinner. 

Since his death, I’ve spoken to lots of people that my father visited, or happened upon in the weeks before he died and great conversations were had.  He even had the ‘I want to die in my own home’ chat with my mother and aunt.  That he did.  I wonder what would have happened if he said that he would like to die in Australia ? 
He had a late night conversation with my sister-in-law in Bristol a few weeks before he died.  I had offered to drive and then travel by boat with my parents to Bristol that weekend, but it didn’t work out.  If it had, my father would have been a Back-Seat-Driver, except sitting in the front, his seat pushed back for his own comfort, leading to the discomfort of whoever was sitting behind him.  He would have opened and closed windows as he wanted, the same with the volume on the radio.  He would have lost patience with the children’s incessant questions and occasional quarrels and grumbled at them.  They would have thought that Granddad was joking and laughed at him, making him even more grumpy.  He would have become restless about the lack of nicotine and looked for an excuse to stop the car.  I would have been stressed out, but happy to make the trip as a Labour of Love.  It would have been identical to the Road Trip to my brother’s wedding in Kerry last year.  The children still laugh about Granddad squashing Mya’s little legs with his car seat.  I’m disappointed now that I didn’t make that road trip, but I guess that it wasn’t meant to be.

The last conversation with my father that I remember clearly was in late September.  I phoned home to tell my parents that the Irish Times were featuring an interview with me that day, a promotional piece, in advance of this year’s MS Readathon.  My father answered the phone and I told him about the interview. 

‘There’s a nice photo of myself and the kids’, I said.
‘I’ve already bought today’s paper’, he said in response. 

‘But that’s the Indo, Da.  I’m in the Times’.  
‘Well, too late.  I’ve bought it now’.

I felt slightly hurt.  ‘It’s not every day your daughter gets into a national newspaper’, I protested, but knew I was at nothing.  ‘Tell Mam anyway.  I’ll get a copy for you’.
‘Right so.  What’s the weather like there ?’ he said, changing the subject.  He always asked me about the weather.  Sometimes, I’d run to the window to see how the weather was that day and remind myself how that I should take a decent lunch break to experience the weather first hand.

That little exchange about the newspaper article between us said so much, that there is probably a Masters Psychology thesis in it :
Topic for Discussion A : My father was a man of principles and by God, he stood by them.  As far as he was concerned, a blue shirted Fine Gaeler farmer had no business reading, never mind buying the Irish Times, even if his daughter was in it.  It seems that he isn’t the only one of that opinion, as I have often found it hard to buy a copy of the Times in Kingscourt, my home town.

Topic for Discussion B :  He hated waste, so ‘why the fuck’ would you buy a newspaper when you already had one ?
Topic for Discussion C : Since my diagnosis with MS over four years ago, my father had barely spoken to me about it.  It’s not that he didn’t care.  It was just that he COULDN’T talk to me about it.  He was uncomfortable about me talking about it too.  Just as well he didn’t read my blogs.  It was hard for him to get his head around his only daughter being anything but healthy.  And then to hear soon afterwards that his son, my brother would also be diagnosed.  That’s news that no parent wants to hear.  I know that he felt helpless. 

His way of checking in on how I was, was to ask ‘Are you okay for money ?’.  On one occasion, soon after my diagnosis, he called me back as I was leaving Home one weekend and gave me some money.   ‘Don’t go wasting that on something stupid now.  Spend it on something that will make your life easier’, he said abruptly, walking away before I could react.  I phoned him later to thank him properly and he brushed it off as if it had never happened.
It’s just come back to me in the past few days that my father rarely called me by my name.  He mostly called me ‘gersha’.  ‘Get me a cup of tea, like a good gersha’.  Since his death, that funny little word keeps popping into my head, over and over, like a soft wind, a mantra of affection and reassurance.

Wednesday 4 November 2015

Tracy and Steve

Last year, my parents came to an event that I had organised at work for the Kildare Readers Festival - the broadcaster Tracy Piggott interviewing writers, cast and crew from the feature film 'All About Eva', that I produced.  I suggested it to my mother weeks beforehand and she reckoned that Tracy Piggott was enough of an attraction to entice my father to cross the border from Meath to Kildare. 

It was a super night on lots of levels.  Because it gave my parents a real insight to my work (because let's face it, no one really knows what an Arts Officer does), but mostly because my father met Tracy.  She was a great sport (excuse the pun) and listened to my father before the event, namedropping obscure horse trainers and potato farmers, expecting Tracy to know who he was on about.  We took photos.  The e6 framed group shot with Tracy that I presented last Christmas has pride of place in my parents house - the cheapest and best present ever.  My astute little girl remarked that 'Granddad doesn't smile in photos, but he did in that one with Tracy Piggott'.  My girl was spot on.  I met Tracy at another event recently and she asked after my father.  He was chuffed when I reported back to him.  I had to break it gently to my mother that she didn't ask for her.

On a similar vein, as a gift for his 70th birthday last August Bank Holiday, I bought my father two tickets to a snooker showcase with Steve Davis and Ken Doherty, to take place in the Moat Theatre in Naas in October. 

I have lots of fabulous childhood memories of being allowed to stay up late to watch snooker.  Alex 'Hurricane' Higgins, crying and holding his infant child after winning the World Championship in 1982.  The most memorable night of all was the 1985 World Championship Final between Dennis Taylor and Steve Davis, the winner, down to who potted the final black ball.   Oh, the suspense.  At that time, Steve Davis was the English enemy and Denis Taylor, the Irish underdog was king.  The silence as the black made its way to the pocket.  The elation as Taylor, with his upside down glasses, potted the black and held his snooker cue over his head, punching it in the air.

Despite my mothers concerns that 'your father never liked Steve Davis', I hoped that thirty years was enough distance for my father to get over any negative feelings towards Mr Davis.  The Good Friday Agreement signed in the interim, it felt like we had all moved on.  I was excited that this snooker event, presented a 'Tracy Piggottesque', opportunity to do something a little bit special.  I bought the tickets in advance to give him no option to back out.  Included, was a photo opportunity with the snooker stars.  I could imagine my Dad bringing the photos into the pub and telling people that Steve Davis wasn't such a 'boring bastard' after all and recalling the banter.

My children gave my father his present and he didn't say a lot.  He was more excited about the e3.99 chocolate bar labelled 'Granddad' and the three of them scoffed it together.  Later, in the pub, he said, 'Hmmmm, Steve Davis, yeh' and started talking about something else.  That was the stamp of approval I needed.  I looked forward to himself and my Mam visiting me in Kildare.

The last weekend that I was at home, my mother broke it to me that they wouldn't be travelling to Kildare for the snooker showcase after all.  She said that my father didn't feel up to the drive from Meath.  I was disappointed, mostly because I felt that it would have been 'one of those nights' and that he and my Mam were missing out.  On other occasions, I would have told him to cop on and insist that they came, or made arrangements to bring them down.  I was annoyed, disappointed.  But this time, I said very nothing to him and took the tickets back, hoping to resell them and donate the takings to charity, while quietly worrying about my father.

The Sunday that the snooker showcase took place, I spoke to my mother on the phone.  She said that my father had been very sick all weekend and that he was going to the doctor the following morning.  I could tell that she was concerned about him. 

He didn't make it to the doctors that Monday, dying suddenly at home that morning.

For his 70th birthday, I had also intended asking Tracy Piggott if she would signing a birthday card for my father.  I just didn't get around to asking and I'm cursing myself now.   He would have got a great kick out of that.  I have the tickets for the snooker showcase in my diary.  So much poignancy in those little pieces of paper, that now seem priceless.