Handsome Brute

I didn’t mean to sleep with him last night, my handsome brute.  I had been dropped home after a few unexpected drinkies in town with a friend.  He was standing there, waiting.  His beautiful brown eyes looked at me.  Devoted.  A look of love.

I had a conversation with myself in my head.  ‘No, don’t go back there.  You said NEVER AGAIN.  You have moved on.  There IS NO GOING BACK.’ 

Then the alcohol spoke.  ‘What the hell, who will know? I'm AN ADULT’ and threw caution to the wind. 

I’d forgotten how heavy he would be, lying on the bed beside me.  It had been a while.  He had put on a few pounds since he had the snip last year and his increasing girth had become a touchy subject.  Still, better safe than sorry.

We cuddled close for warmth.  The wine hit me and I fell asleep quickly. 

I awoke early and listened to his deep breath as he slept on.  I picked up my book and read quietly, trying to retrieve some of the duvet. 

The children wouldn’t be home for hours yet.  The house felt so different without their presence.  It had only been hours since I had seen them, but I longed for their return. 

I crept out of the bed and caught sight of myself in the mirror.  The dregs of last nights make-up smudged down my face.  A vision indeed in a rather old fashioned cotton nightdress that I came across, while rummaging in the bowels of my wardrobe late last night.  ‘Good choice, you sexy bitch’, I whispered, winking at myself.    

I looked back at him in the bed thinking that it was too late for regrets now.  He looked at me with one eye opened, but didn't really acknowledge me.

Back to bed with a cuppa and toast, I thought that it had been a long time since anyone, other than Me Mammy, had brought me breakfast in bed. 

‘The children will be old enough to boil the kettle soon,’ I thought optimistically.

My sleeping partner stirred.  He looked happy to see me and me him. 

But then he was

gone

leaving dog hair and paw prints all over my crisp white duvet. 

 

Mysterious Ways

I’ve been doing a lot of naval gazing of late, it’s New Years, and sure, we have all been at it.

I’m conscious that over the last year, that I’ve made big statements about my beliefs and values and have created contradictions therein.  Many of the posts I have written lately have referenced formal religious settings, such as blessing of the graves and funerals, often written with fondness and nostalgia.  And yet I don’t believe the formal teachings I write about.  I guess for me, my religious experience is more about family, tradition and the gathering. 

I’ve heard a lot of talk about heaven since my father died.  I know that a lot of people take comfort from the idea of an eternal life beyond the pearly gates, (maybe including you dear reader) but not me.   

As I’ve gotten older, that idea of another place beyond death has become much more real to me.  That place isn’t somewhere else.  It’s here.  Around me.  I’ll try to explain with three examples of experiences I’ve had.

My paternal aunt Olive, the second youngest in a family of ten died in 1989, just 6 weeks’ shy of her 33^rd birthday.  I had been in awe of Olive since I was a child.  She had a big presence with legs that went on forever.  A funky dresser with a great singing voice, the stage was made for her.  My granny called her ‘my lovely blonde.’ 

Cancer took a terrible toll on her beautiful body and she was skin and bone by the time she died, leaving a two-year-old son and husband.  ‘It’s a sad day a girl doesn’t have anything to fill her bra with’, she said one day, half laughing, deadly serious.  I was an awkward teenager at the time and although I visited her a lot with my Mam, as part of her care-roster, I can’t say that I had profound conversations with her, beyond the ‘bra story.’  But that sense of awe, that she was someone special has always stayed with me. 

When I was pregnant with my twinnies nine years ago ago, I was 33.   It was only then that the realisation of how young she was really hit me, the unjustice of it all.  I didn’t make a conscious effort to think of Olive, but throughout my pregnancy, thoughts of her came to me, usually when I was on my own, often in the shower, of all places.  I don’t know if I shared these thoughts with anyone else at the time.

Weeks after my children were born, I was with my mother and aunt Mary.  My mother said that she could see a lot of Olive in Leon and my aunt agreed.  They both felt reluctant in saying it to me, but I could see it too.  As he grows, I can see the performer in him too, the thick head of hair with the cute little nose. 

Two years ago, my aunt Aine, my maternal aunt died after a short illness.  She was my ‘single’ auntie and lived in my Nana’s house, so I saw a lot of her.  As an adult, we had many shared interests and I enjoyed bringing herself and my Mam on trips to gardens or shopping.  I miss her a lot. 

I’m a divil for holding onto cards, letters and tickets, all stashed in bunches here and there, which I sort and move from one place to the other – Just don’t ask me where they all are.  On three occasions since Aine has died, I’ve come across a ‘Thinking of You’ card that she sent me when I was awaiting test results from a hospital a few years ago.  The card seemed to appear like a stone pops up in a newly ploughed field and you wonder where it came from.  Each time I found it, it was on a day that I really felt in despair.  She may as well have put her arms around me. 

Aine had similar hoarding tendencies to me.  After her death, my darling cousin Nicola handed me a bag of cards and letters that I had sent to Aine over the years, that she had retrieved from Aine’s house.  Most of which I had no memory of sending.  It was such a treasure to get back. 

My daughter was pooching for something in my bedroom in May last year.  She handed me a card, saying ‘look at this Mam.’  It was a handmade birthday card that I had made many years before for Aine.  I took a step back when I realised it was Aine’s birthday that day.  Coincidence ?  Maybe.

A few weeks before my father died, I contacted some friends via Facebook messenger to ask them if I minded writing about their Mum, a great friend of my mothers, who had passed away some years ago.  I didn't hear from one of them and I checked my message. I had sent it to the 'wrong' Claire Smyth.  I apologised to Claire, someone I went to school with, who had been confused by my obscure message.  After my father died, I got a message from the 'wrong' Claire to say that she was one of the paramedics who was called to the scene on the day to assist him. That funny little coincidence means so much to me.  It throws up thoughts about destiny and about what was meant to be.

In the run up to Christmas, I’ve barely had any time to myself.  One morning, having a late start at work, I hopped back into bed after the children were dispatched on the school bus, for a much treasured snooze.  The smell of a freshly lit cigarette woke me.  I jumped out of bed, looking for the source of the cigarette.  I ran around the outside of the house, but there was no one there and there was nothing burning.  Similarly, I was in the house alone having shower, with all of the usual smellies and again, I could smell the freshly lit cigarette.  I hopped out, dripping wet, but there was no one there.  

Over the years, one of the greatest causes of rows in our house between my father and I was his smoking habit.  It drove me insane that he didn’t know, or seem to care what damage he was doing.  But JR always did things his way. 

There is no doubt in my mind that the cigarette smoke is my Dad checking in on me.  He was never going to ‘send me a sign’ via a butterfly landing on a flower.  It’s kind of ironic that this source endless source of tension is the thing that now brings me comfort.  Mad, or what ?

First Christmas Without My Father

It’s Christmas Eve, the car is jammed, the twinnies are in the back.  I’m at a traffic lights in Navan, indicating to turn right across the Boyne.  In a rare break to the continuous Christmas songs, Nizlopi’s ‘JCB Song’ comes on the radio.  

My father always had a tractor, ‘The International.’  I’m transported back to a hot summers day.  It’s 1983, I’m nine years old and I’m wearing shorts.  I’m sitting on my fathers’ tractor, hanging on to the metal frame, as he drives along a road to Aghamore.  Feeling all of the bumps and jolts that are unique to a spin in a tractor.  We don’t say too much to each other.  He is singing ‘The Fields of Athenry’.  I later complained to my Mam that he never stopped singing that song, even though I enjoyed hearing him sing.  He could hold a tune, my Daddy, his voice not unlike that of Paddy Reilly, who released the song that year. 

The children can see that I am crying again and this time, it needs no explaining, because the song reminds them of Grandad John too, ‘even though he didn’t have a JCB’, no flies on this pair.

These are my last big tears for my father this Christmas.

Before he died, I had already planned to spend Christmas Day in my parents’ house.  My newly acquired ‘single’ status is taking a bit of getting used to.  The thoughts of shopping for Santa on my own felt lonely, but unavoidable.  A bit of moral support (and help with the wrapping) for Santa’s big arrival made the situation a whole lot better.  Besides, it was lovely to have Santa back in Milltown after all of these years.  For my children to open the same door as I did, to see what the Big Man had brought.

My father always said that there was a great sense of calm down in the farm yard on Christmas Eve, that the animals knew something special was happening.   Many Christmas mornings brought a new born lamb or two.  We often had a shivering little thing in a box, warming in front of the fire, amongst the Santa toys.  There was no let up the work on the farm over Christmas and even as a child, I was aware that there was hardship involved here with frozen pipes and sick animals, while other people enjoyed long holidays.  

My mother always fretted about having Christmas Dinner at ‘dinner time’ for my father (that’s 1pm sharp, for all of you non-farming folk).   This got more difficult as the years went on and as us grown up children found it harder to make the strict 1pm curfew, with small children, Santa and work commitments.  My mother bought some time, giving my father roasty bits of meat to keep him going, while he read some of the stock pile of books he received as gifts and half-watching DVDs.  He would get an extra big slice of Mam’s black forest gateau later on.

I took a day off work recently to bring my mother Christmas shopping.   We had a lovely day – some quality mother and daughter time and we both felt the better for it.  When I brought her home, the house was in darkness and it felt unusually cold.  No JR sitting there reading the newspaper, lamp on, TV on in the background, raising his head to ask ‘what kept ya ?’ and wondering how we could have spent so long shopping.   I felt bad leaving my mother there on her own as I headed back to Kildare.  ‘You get used to it’, she said, which offered no consolation whatsoever.

My sister in law Denise (and I suppose my brother Robert helped a bit too) cooked Christmas dinner in their house this year.  With four excited children, my brother and his wife home from England and my Mam, there was lots to be done.  Cousins, aunts and uncles called in.  The usual craic, opinions, gossip and messing.  The following day, my mother cooked Christmas Dinner Part II in Milltown.  My other brother, his missus and their four kids arrived.  The flock all around.  Such fun.  My Boy sat in ‘Grandad’s chair’ for dinner and no one passed much remarks. 

I don’t feel sad because my father never seems too far away.

St Stephen's Night

I didn’t have to be asked twice when the brothers and their significant others suggested going out on St Stephen’s Night.  My Mam and the significant others had arranged babysitting and my brother nominated himself to be the Designated Driver.  AND we got a seat in the pub.  The Trinity of a perfect night out for a 40-something Momma who doesn’t get out often.

Before we took off out, I got a good dose of The Guilts from The Boy.  A really, really sad face asked me not to go.  Well, actually, it was more like begging.  There were tears.  I stood firm and promised that I would be home ‘soon.’  He wanted a finite answer on what ‘soon’ meant.  I lied and said ’11.30’, knowing that I would probably break my curfew.   I reasoned with him that I was entitled to a play-date of sorts too.  I felt like a teenager getting the inquisition.  All that was missing was him reviewing my outfit and saying, ‘you aren’t going out in that.’   As it happened, I didn’t pack too well for myself (nothing new there) and my potentially slinky outfit was compromised by the addition on a kidney-warming black vest to cover up a not so reveal-able white bra.   So The Boy had no worries in that department.

Le Pub of choice was an old haunt of mine years ago and I expected to see the familiar faces.  I was disappointed with how few people I recognised at first, but a steady trickle appeared throughout the night.  And bless my innocence, I didn’t realise that a clatter of people I knew were in the smoking area, but I didn’t like any of them enough to spend my night in a haze of smoke.  A Russell night out wouldn’t be the same without a gathering of the cousins.  As the years go on, there are more family and work commitments, so the numbers have dwindled, but we found a few along the way and the gene pool was well represented on the night.

Our seats were near the door to the toilets and the exits, so it was the perfect people watching point.  My inner Gok Wan goes into overdrive.  Thinking that some girls should wear what suits them, rather than what was fashionable.  Thinking that some of them could have done with my kidney warming vest that also had the smoothing-it-all-out effect.  Envious of the young ones that just looked gorgeous.  The ones that had time to do their hair.  My eyes, and everyone else’s following the long-legged ones all the way to the door.  

Waiting at the bar to be served, a guy gave me a wink, ‘Howya.’   I reminded him that he knew me from school.   The spark of recognition kicked in.  ‘Jaysus, you have improved with age’.

A gang of lads took over the middle of the pub, celebrating their friend’s Christmas visit from Oz.

I spotted someone early on in the night who was a son of one of my father’s friends.  He has lived abroad for years.  I wondered if he would recognise me or my brothers.  Curiosity got the better of me and I asked him at the end of the night if he knew who I was.  He didn’t.  ‘’I’m John Russell’s daughter.’  A gasp of surprise, he hugged me so tight, I thought that he might crush my ribs.  He had heard about my father’s death.  His memories of how our families intertwined were very similar to mine, but he also had stories about my father that I had never heard before.  We promised to meet again.  I also met a school friend who had recently nursed her father before his death.  More hugs and a few tears.  A shared moment of how our respective Christmas’s were this year, without needing to say too much.

One of the brothers fell asleep in Le Pub, which at this stage is as traditional for him as pulling the Christmas crackers.  He was dispatched home, via the chipper.  Meanwhile, the significant others made the executive decision that the gals and honorary girl, my cousin Ken were going to Le Discotheque.  A bit of long overdue dancing for the disco divas.  Designated Driver brother was on speed dial to pick us up whenever we wanted.  Could this night get any better ??

I hadn’t been in this particular establishment in about ten years.  It was a kip then and it’s even more of a kip now.  In fact, the toilets looked identical to the last time I was there.  All that it had going for it is an opportunity for a late night drink and a boogie.  

When we arrived, the place was flipping freezing.  With a e10 admission fee, wouldn’t you think that they could have turned the heat to ‘on?’  Or maybe a gal who felt the cold so badly should have been at home in her leaba, guilt free, with Her Boy ?  I felt justified in drinking the mini bottle of wine that I had sneaked in from Le Pub.  No point in wasting it, huh ?  If it was a pint, I would have looked for cling film for transporting the drink from one place to another. 

I didn’t recognise most of the dance music and felt like an old codger, but danced anyway to stay warm.  Even the kidney-warming vest didn’t help.  As the night moved on, the music got better and the stragglers straggled in.  The body heat kept us going. 

I met more school friends, three gorgeous sisters who knew my Da.  We laughed at how alike our fathers were.  They unanimously declared that my father was a ‘legend’ and I felt inclined to agree. 

An eejit lit up a cigarette on the dance floor.  The bouncers were on him as quick as a flash and I  wondered if he was 1. that drunk 2. that desperate for a fag ?

I was glad of the afore mentioned kidney-warming vest as the zip on the back of my trousers, proved slightly unreliable for dancing and I needed a bit of extra fabric coverto save any unnecessary exposure of flesh.

The guy from Le Pub who told me earlier that I had improved with age appeared in Le Discothèque.  He was now fairly sozzled and didn’t seem to recognise me anymore.  Or maybe I had dis-improved with age as the night went on ?

My bro, the Designated Driver, the 6 foot angel-with-a-Mohawk appeared as promised, as we were asked ‘are you right there folks’ ?  Various child car seats were manoeuvred and a clatter of us piled into the people carrier.   

The Boy asked me the following day what time I got home at.  I lied again.  The only 3.30 timeframe that he understands is home time from school.  He had sat up with his auntie Sue until 1am the night before waiting for my return, until tiredness got the better of them both.  The Girl meanwhile, was so busy enjoying herself that she had barely noticed me gone. 

The head was a bit ropey and the knees felt a bit shaky the next day.  Was it worth it ?  Hell yeah ! And as for the vest. 

All hail the vest.

The School Nativity Play

A few weeks ago, my children very casually announced that they were going to be Mary and one of the Three Wise Kings respectively in the school nativity play.  I had a flashback to my own childhood, when the who-would-be-who in the Christmas play was announced by the class teacher.  I remember my disgust at being a shepherd one year.  No little diva (or maybe just moi) wants a part that involves a brown tea towel on their head.  The most prestigious role that I remember having was an inn-keeper.  At least I had a line of dialogue.  I’m sure that it went something poignant and significant like ‘…No Room at the Inn … ’  Now, MY girl was MARY no less.  Mary !  I could channel my childhood disappointments and embrace her starring role.  A Wise King wasn’t to be sneezed at either.  A bit of bling was guaranteed after all.

The pair of them didn’t seem as impressed with their roles as I thought they might (should).   Maybe because they didn’t have dialogue, or maybe because they are just more laid back than their Ma, or perhaps it all went over their ikkle heads.  Only last week The Boy asked me ‘why do we celebrate Christmas anyway Mam ?’  I prompted him about the story behind their Christmas play that they have been working on for weeks in school.  ‘Oh yeah,’ he said, ‘I forgot.’

Most of the time in the run up to the public performance involved The Boy teasing The Girl about Ryan (who played Joseph in the play) saying that Ryan was her boyfriend.  Looking at Ryan/Joseph’s wee face, I thought ‘you couldn’t go wrong with him daughter’, but thought that I had best say nothing.

The getting-ready on the morning of the play was far from joyful.  Already banjaxed from Christmas shopping the day before, I scrapped the children out of bed too late and left myself short of time.  They fought over who would have a shower first and came up with opposing rationale on who should go first.  They presented valid arguements.  ‘I’m the oldest’ (even though it is only by one minute). ‘I asked first’, ‘I got out of bed first’, ‘I’m dirtier’, etc.  In the end, I thought of bringing them both into the garden and power hosing them simultaneously.  

My Wise King arrived home from school during the week with a rather impressive cloak, with the instruction that he was to wear it with a round necked top on the day of the play.  In a rare moment of going against what ‘teacher said’, he insisted on wearing a skater boy hoodie underneath, with skinny jeans.  A hipster king.  As the clock ticked, I thought ‘it’ll do !’ and thought that he might be onto something.
Mary was easier to dress.  A cream dress from my brother’s wedding last year, with pale blue headscarf and sash (hand stitched by me, Mother of the Year.  Did you hear me, hand stitched).  All ironed and ready to go.  But could I find the white band to hold the headscarf in place ?   The one that was there a minute ago ?  The one that I had been carefully minded for a week ? The one that fussy Little Woman actually gave the thumbs up to ? No !  Clock ticking.  Bad language and muttering under breath.  I wondered if I could use masking tape to secure it to her head.  Phew !  Found the white band.  Mary shall be gorgeous after all.

I guess that you could say that the nativity play was an alternative one.  The main gist of it was the gift of giving.  Spinning tops, floppy clowns, marching soldiers and dancing dollies all did a party piece for the baba.  My favourite gift was given by the shy rabbit who brought hugs. 

Much of the script was delivered most eloquently by narrators.  One described the angel ‘very, very gently placing the baby in Mary’s arms.’  In reality, the rather angelic looking angel reefed the baby Jesus from where he lay, didn’t support his little head and sort of slam dunked him onto Mary’s lap.
At the best of times, children singing makes me shed a tear.  I’m a sucker for ‘Away in a Manger’ and ‘Cead Mile Failte Romhat, a Iosa’ sang by a choir and during this play, both were sung.  There was no hope for me.  Of course I forgot to bring tissues.  I tried to use the lack of absorbent materials (other than my sleeve) as a deterrent and avoid Panda Eyes. 

The Junior Infant pupils singing in padded star costumes made it all very cute.  There was no picking-of-noses (as a friend witnessed at her daughter’s play), but there were some big arm stretches and drifting off mid-sentence, staring into the distance.

The play involved the whole school community of almost one hundred pupils and all of the teachers.  The Trojan effort was obvious.  It was one of those days when I was grateful that my children have the experience of a smaller school, where each child had his/her own platform, where a humble spinning top seemed as important as ‘holy Mary.’  I guess that I learned a lesson too.  A more humble diva anseo anois.

Happy Christmas gorgeous people x

Santa in the Bag

So, my blogs posts of late have been a tad sad. I know that I made some of you cry. I know this because you told me so. Sorry. I didn’t mean to. Writing really has helped me to process the death of my Dad, something that I didn’t anticipate. Whatever does it for you, I guess.

But I wouldn’t want ye to think that I haven’t embraced Chrimbo. How could I not with two eight year olds ?

As I write, my twinnies are running around the house in high pitched hystericia, with Star Wars eye masks on. In a moment of madness today, I bought them, thinking that these eye masks might settle then at night. Instead, the masks have become vehicles to turn my children into beings in need of an exorcism.

They have been at it now for 20 minutes and I waiting on one of them to come into me, crying hysterically, saying the other one hurt them. It’s inevitable that there will be tears. I shall resist saying ‘I told you so.’ That wild hysteria is a sure sign that Christmas is imminent. There was other give away signs too, apart from the ho-ho-ho tinsel stuff. The toaster has packed in and the septic tank is full. Oh yes, the stuff that always lands on ‘The Week Of …’. Murphy's Law and all that.

In the meantime, I’ve pretty much got Santa in the bag, well, in my Mam’s wardrobe actually. Let’s hope that there aren’t any games of Hide-and-Seek there before 25th.

The children did a letter to Santa at school a few weeks ago. Teacher very thoughtfully sent them home in the schoolbags. They were pretty good letters, with rather impressive punctuation, grammar and illustrations.

Little woman’s list was quite modest and doable. She will get a lovely big surprise that I’m excited about and I can’t wait to see her little face. Eek ! just remembered that I forgot the ‘baking things’. A sieve and a baking tin will sort that out. And cheap as chips. Music to my ears.

My boys letter was quite aspirational. He is looking for an X Box, a bike, a very long list of farm machinery and Nerf guns. Does anyone want a Nerf gun in their face on Christmas day ? I think not. The X Box is a non-runner too. I tried to let him down gently, saying that Santa probably wouldn’t bring someone an X Box the year if they got a rather nice tablet last year, especially children who spend too long on the tablet. The eternal optimist, he ignored my warning and said, ‘But JUST SAY, Santa brings me an X Box, will you buy me a TV for my bedroom ?’

I took a copy of the Santa letters with me when I did The Big Shop. I had an hour to kill last week and aimed to have it done in a flash as I thought that my previous Sherlock-like investigations would have me in good stead. The problem was that the recce trip with the children was in a toy shop in Carlow and I went shopping in Naas. My anthropological research can now reveal that kids in Carlow like tractors and agricultural toys more than their peers in Naas. I couldn’t believe it - A crammed aisle in Carlow, but not a bale-trailer to be seen in Naas ! So much for the one-hour-shop.

I did manage to acquire the ‘small Claas combine’ on Leon’s list. I was delighted. The larger one was on display alongside it. I confirmed with the sales assistant ‘that’s a small Claas combine, isn’t it ?’ He agreed. Sorted ? I thought so ! Until Leon shown me afore mentioned combine harvester on Youtube. It was teeny weeny. It appears that there is a ‘smaller small’ than I had seen in the shop. And my medium sized purchase is in my Mam’s wardrobe. ‘What’s the difference between that one and other models ?’ I asked, quizzing The Boy. ‘The wheels Mam.’ Shite, too late now.

I bought a David Walliams book for Leon too. I bought it in Farrell’s bookshop in Newbridge where the lovely staff do all the work. The book was put in a bag and shoved into the over packed wardrobe. Another job done ? Kinda. Both of the children had book vouchers that they wanted to cash in. We were in Carlow shopping centre today and the vouchers were burning a whole in their wee pockets. They both made a bee line for David Walliams books. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember which book I had bought. I tried to steer them elsewhere, but they insisted.

‘These are OUR vouchers, so we can spend them on what we want.’

‘Yeah Ma.’

They eye balled me, the pair of them. Mutiny on the flipping bounty.

There was a 3 for 2 offer, so we now have THREE books by yer man in the house. I may get my Mam to see what I bought for Santa. At least they are getting in the reading buzz for the holidays.

I had lots of great ideas for stocking fillers over the last few months, but when I see them, I always have the kiddiewinks on tow. The sort of thing that you wouldn’t make a special trip back to get. I’ve thought of distracting them, ‘hey, look over there !’, while shoving the stocking filler under the cauliflower, but the pair are way too cute for that. Instead, I bought them some stocking-filler-type gifts today, including the much regretted eye masks.

I almost got caught out this morning. Leon picked up a piece of paper in the back of the car that must have fallen out when I was taking Santa out of the car boot.

‘Why does this say John Deere ?’

Darn it ! The receipt for the ‘low bale trailer’ that I bought yesterday.

Luckily uncle Robert is a diesel mechanic.

‘He asked me to pick up a part for him’, I said, ‘he will need that receipt’, I said, whipping it out of his hand at such speed that I almost took skin off his little fingers.

‘I thought that he only fixed JCB’s’ said the boy suspiciously.

 

‘It was a special favour to a friend’, I said, feeling the lies coming in around me.

This Santa craic is hard work.

The Living and 'The Dead'

On the recent stormy nights, I often think of my father trudging down the farm yard to look at an animal that was sick or a cow that was calving.  I would have worried about him on those nights -  The fear of galvanised sheeting coming loose and falling on him.  The fear that he would call out for help and his voice lost in the wind and the creaking trees lining the boundary of the yard.  You could say that there is no danger now, that he is at peace.  But I take no comfort in that.  None at all.      

I can’t bear the thought of him lying in a cold, wet grave in Kingscourt, also overlooked by creaking trees, giving a sense on foreboding.  When I tidied up his grave for his months’ memory mass, if felt like the loneliest place in the world.  My boy asking ‘is Grandad a skeleton now ? But his suit still looks like a suit ‘?  Too many questions.  I just want to fast forward to the part when his body turns to dust.

After the months’ memory mass, I went back into turbo-boost mode at work, to get through the last big projects of the year.  Preparations for Christmas are bombing along, as they do when you have small children.  But now it feels like I am in free fall, at a time when perhaps I should be getting myself together. 

I don’t get asked about my father’s death anymore and feel self-conscious bringing it up, even by way of explaining myself.  And yet here I am, writing about it again.  Why?  Because I want to.

When I see the ‘QUIT’ TV adverts, featuring Gerry Collins, I can’t but feel angry at my Dad for never really trying to give up cigarettes.   The adverts are very powerful, with Gerry, terminally ill with lung cancer, reflecting on his life and appeals to smokers ‘Don’t smoke, don’t start, and if you have, stop.’  As a non-smoker, I am taken with the adverts (as are my children), but I cant but feel that it’s only non-smokers who are absorbing this information - Sure, aren’t the smokers outside smoking when the ads are on anyway ?  Smokers don’t want to know – My Dad definitely didn’t want to know and right now, I’m really sad about that and, if I’m honest, a little bit angry. 

Ah !  That will be the ‘angry phase of the grief process’ then.  There I am, one big cliché again. Now I know what it looks and feels like.  I’m not comfortable with this at all.  It feels irrational.  With this feeling, comes guilt, for feeling like this.  Brilliant !  Just when I thought that I couldn’t feel any worse.  Sometimes it exhausts me and I go to bed in the clothes that I was wearing that day.  Who’s going to notice anyway ?

But Da, I’m only angry because we would have liked to have had you around for a while longer.  Another ten years maybe.  With Mam.  Long enough to have seen all of your grandchildren grow.  Even long enough to see what happens with the IFA, how the next government fairs out.   To travel some more.  Maybe see Meath back in Croke Park winning medals again. 

I went to see The Performance Corporation’s operatic adaptation of James Joyces ‘The Dead’ last Saturday in Project Arts Centre, a matinee.  It was what you would expect from TPC, witty, with a lovely understated aesthetic, pacey choreography, considered music, brilliant acting and strong dialogue.   I felt totally immersed in the experience, as did my children (although my boy later protested that he would have liked a bowl of jelly that was part of the performance). 

Our journey to Project was through congested traffic, via Jervis Street Shopping Centre.  We emerged from the car park into full-on two-Saturdays-before-Christmas-shopping.  The place was packed, the festive cheer was infectious and the decorations, ‘awesome’, according to the children.  But ten minutes was enough and we were all relieved to escape the super shiny experience, across a breezy Hal’penny Bridge.  My boy was troubled by the homeless man begging on the bridge and asked me about it later.  I ignored the man, making him invisible by looking away to avoid eye contact.  I was sorry that I didn’t give the man a few bob and just say ‘mind yourself, to make him feel for a short moment that someone gave a damn.

While ‘The Dead’ was humorous throughout, the closing dialogue was poignant, remembering a dead child and a lost love.

Yes, the news­pa­pers were right: snow was gen­eral all over Ire­land. It was falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, fur­ther west­wards, softly falling into the dark muti­nous Shan­non waves. It was falling too upon every part of the lonely church­yard where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and head­stones, on the spears of the lit­tle gate, on the bar­ren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the uni­verse and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the liv­ing and the dead.

I had been doing so well, but that felt too close to the bone.  I felt like crawling on stage and climbing under the sheet, beside the actress who lay there. 

I gathered myself and I tried to recall another line from the performance

Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age.

 And I thought of my father.  That was you Da, no fade and wither here.