Spontaneous Phone Eruptions

A couple of days ago I noticed something odd on my phone. In the catalog of applications, right there on the first screen, there was one I had never seen before. You have to understand, I don't download new applications. This device already does more than I have ever asked of a phone, and occupies more of my conscious hours than I'm comfortable with as it is. It came with three pages' worth of software, most of which I've never had any reason to use. I downloaded an application once, when I realized I had forgotten the digital timer I need for work. So I felt confident stating that I had never downloaded this particular feature, and given its prominent display at the bottom of my phone's screen, I would not have failed to notice it before. It had found its way onto my phone some other way. 

Thoughts on Digging Earthworms: Part I

As I dig up planting beds around Bill’s place, I am always excited to find earthworms. They’re a sign of healthy soil, a good mix of organic material. So each time I find one, I carefully move it to a spot where I won’t disturb it again. It doesn't take me long to realize this activity has led to a song going through my head on continuous loop.

 

RED wigglers, the Cadillac of worms, HEE hee

The Cadillac of worms, HO Ho

The Cadillac of worms, HA Ha

Year Four

Dear James,

This week, including as it did the anniversary of thy birth and thy death, was hard. Almost as hard as four years ago, when we'd just lost thee. I suppose I can come up with some explanations. The four of us are each dealing with the passage of time and the slow betrayals of our bodies somehow, and that has us leaning into one another even more. We feel the lack of thy strong shoulder and cheerful support. We were leaning on thee already, more than we realized, when we first lost thee. 

Then again, maybe this is just the way grief works. Things circle around again; I assumed it would never get better, just more familiar, but even that prediction is proving false. Any time I start to think I'm making sense of it all, something knocks me sideways again. I keep trying to figure it out though. That's just how my brain works. I speculate, thee would have turned 45 on Tuesday. Do I think that age has some special resonance? Not that I can see. 41, 45, what's the difference? Sure, in ten years I can see myself trying to figure out what thee'd be like at 51, what thee'd be doing with thy days, but 45? Big deal. 

I do wonder what thee'd think of the house in Jersey. I still haven't found the right place for that huge globe crystal of thine; few of the windows are both big enough, and well exposed enough to light to make it worthwhile. But I've still got some locations to try. Thy wooden dolphin seems happy there, leaping vigorously in front of Vince's giant flatscreen. A communing of dead brothers: his love of high end electronics and television meets thy love of figurines, nice wood, dolphins, exuberant creatures. Thee would have tried like the dickens to draw Vince out, I have no doubt. Maybe thee would have even succeeded. Thee could be relentless, but it often caused some unlikely friendships to flourish. I like to picture thee managing to talk him into attending a game party. From what his siblings and neighbors tell me, it would have been quite a feat. But if anyone could have accomplished it, it would be thee. 

Thee'd love the fact that Bill's sister Laura gave us a frame designed to be filled with wine corks, and turned into a bulletin board. She knew nothing of thy cork fixation, or rather of the fixation thee tormented Mary into  forming. I told her the story of course, and she loved it. Bill and I have been adding to the collection regularly; we're almost halfway to filling it. Once it's completed, I'll hang it and put some of thy homemade totems on it, maybe thy picture. That will probably fill the thing up completely; it's not that big, really. Thy various trinkets, gew-gaws and teasing jokes continue to fill into the corners of my life. They don't even have to have belonged to thee originally at this point; stained glass, prisms, wind chimes, jaunty hats, and figurines will always make me think of thee from now on. 

Once again I missed the big gathering in Richmond; maybe my present volatility is due to that, and to not having made the time yet this week to observe my own little ritual, eating salad, blueberry pie, and junk food while watching an episode or three of Mystery Science Theater 3000. Bill is always a loving and enthusiastic participant in that. Thee would have liked him a lot; thee probably could even have talked him into playing board games. He likes them too. He's sorry he never got to meet thee. 

We love and miss thee, James. 

Link: A Review: The Nance

I have a review up at my other blog home, Queer New York. Go here to read my thoughts of Douglas Carter Beane's New Play, The Nance.

Tribal Feasts

A story has floated around for centuries suggesting that the Irish are  one of the lost tribes of Israel. I love this idea, but that doesn't mean I'm buying it. So many of the supposed commonalities seem to be evidence of shared Indo-European roots, nothing more. Lunar calendar? Counting nights instead of days? The harp as a national/cultural symbol? Red hair? Similar-looking wedding dances? A nomadic past? Eh, not terribly convincing. 

Even so, I had reason to remember this theory on Saturday. Bill and I were shopping for a small dinner party we were hosting to celebrate Saint Patrick's Day and I couldn't help but notice how many items we were getting from the Kosher section: corned beef, smoked salmon, saurkraut*. And while Kosher was not an issue, there were also plenty of potatoes. No, I'm still not buying this story; what we have here are two cuisines shaped by harsh northern climates, peasant cooking, and salt as a preservative in the days before refrigeration. And if we really study this, we have to realize we're looking at links between Irish and Ashkenazi cooking. I don't know this for a fact, but I'd assume the lost tribes were Sephardim, at least by default. Show me an Irish flatbread, a fondness for figs and olives, or one dish made with chickpeas, and I'll agree we have culinary reasons to explore this idea. 

No, this story doesn't hold water, but it's still fun. And one more thing both cultures share is the belief that one should never let the facts get in the way of a good story. 


*Yes, I know saurkraut is not part of the Irish tradition. Bill made mini-Reubens as appetizers. Which sets off a whole other set of fun issues; the Irish loved cabbage but didn't eat saurkraut, Jews keeping Kosher would never have meat and dairy in the same meal let alone the same dish, many Reuben purists would say the meats should be Virginia ham and turkey, not corned beef, and the sandwich includes Swiss cheese and Russian dressing. It's like lunchtime at the U.N. Yet none of our guests questioned including these in a Saint Patrick's Day dinner. 

Digging

On Sunday I began cutting sod in the backyard, as a first step to putting in a garden. My friend The Midnight Gardener had warned me not to try cutting turf that was too wet. How right he was. We'd had four inches of snow on Friday. By noon on Saturday the warmer temperatures had melted it all, but it turns out that less than thirty hours was not enough time to dry the ground out, not even this sandy soil. My impatience got the best of me by Sunday afternoon however, so I began the epic wrestling match with the sturdy, hardy grass and the heavy, sopping soil. 

The only other time I'd pulled up sod was back in June, 2009, during the month I spent in Indiana grieving for my brother. Mary and Tony were expanding the garden bed in their front lawn and I offered to help.We pulled up squares of grass, shook and scraped as much soil off the roots as possible, killed any Japanese beetle larvae we found, then threw the grass into a wheel barrow for eventual transportation to the compost box. 

Expanding the Franchise

The bird feeder in the backyard continues to attract a growing population. It's just far enough away from the windows that we can't always see much detail however. This means we mostly see, as Bill puts it, 'cardinals and little guys.' I have been able to identify several kinds of sparrows, a variety of finches, lots of chickadees and juncos, and a handful of nuthatches, but it's not easy. Bill and I watched as one squirrel managed to climb up the pole and reach the feeder, but his attempt to get onto the (too small) platform sent him plummeting to the ground. This of course meant some seed fell, so it wasn't a completely wasted effort, but he probably doesn't see it that way. 

I had reported some bird-watching details on Facebook which caused one friend to share the story of her own feeders. She had enjoyed having them until she realized how much more her cats were enjoying the abundant bird buffet. Not wanting to lure birds to their deaths, she decided to get rid of the feeders. I commiserated, but said confidently that I didn't think I'd have the same problem. The feeder is mounted five feet up a pole that sits several feet away from any trees, bushes or roofs. I was mostly intent on not making things TOO easy for squirrels, but impeding land predators seemed like a side benefit. 

The next morning, less than twelve hours after this interchange, I looked out the back window, and there, as if conjured by my hubris, was a large, healthy tiger cat. He was sitting comfortably right at the base of the pole. I saw no evidence of carnage, fortunately, no feathers floating about or birdy body parts scattered on the ground, but naturally I also saw no birds. 

I trust that five feet up will be enough distance to protect the birds, and the ground feeders should have enough time to notice and flee a galloping kitty; there really is no place he can hide and sneak up on them. The cat clearly didn't have a very high opinion of bird intelligence. I'd assume sitting at the base of the pole wasn't going to  prove an effective strategy. Bill says he hasn't seen the cat again in the last week and the birds quickly returned. 

Installing Bird TV

In December, while visiting my family, a pileated woodpecker showed up in my sister's backyard. Mary, Tony and I were all thrilled and sat watching it the entire time it spent there, drilling away at the magnolia tree for insects. (Bill watched too, and seemed interested, if not quite as excited as the rest of us.) At some point during this experience I thought, hm, I never get this excited about celebrity sightings in New York. 

Okay, I realize there is an apples-and-oranges aspect to this. I adore Julianne Moore, for example, and have seen her out and about on three different occasions, but even when she sat across from me on the subway eating an ice cream cone, I didn't feel like staring fixedly at her. Nor was I holding off for fear of seeming creepy or rude; I love her, but observing her in her natural habitat doesn't do anything for me. I mean, no matter how much I love a person, watching her eat ice cream isn't a big thrill, and not just because I don't really care for ice cream. I admire her beauty, sure, but mostly I admire her work; staring at her until she alerted the authorities might give me some insight into how she handles a crisis, but probably wasn't going to teach me much about acting. Watching that giant bird (the literature says they're 'crow-sized' but I swear this one was the size of a buzzard, and its crest made it look like a pterodactyl) go about its day, even just for a few minutes, was thrilling.

Archeology

I couldn’t believe I’d never noticed the duck tile before.

I had been in Vince’s house several times in the past few months, had stood at the kitchen sink every time I’d visited, but I’d never taken it in. Bill had spent weeks in the house since the spring, but he didn’t notice it until I pointed it out to him. His older brother Vince had exactly three pieces of art hanging on the walls in this house: a painting of a schooner at sea, a frieze-like metal sculpture of a bridge, and this duck tile. We’d noticed the painting and sculpture immediately, but had missed the tile completely. That was odd enough, but it was odd for another reason; this cute little thing was completely out of character with the rest of the house.

After the Storm

My apartment is a hell-hole in the summer. The building shares walls on both sides with other buildings, and faces buildings of same or greater size.One block-long cliff wall of buildings faces another such cliff-wall across a narrow canyon. My apartment lies at the top of the five floors, directly under a tar roof (though to be fair, it was painted silver sometime in the last couple of years). It is impossible to get anything resembling cross-ventilation in the place; the layout is L-shaped, with two windows facing each other only at the narrowest point.  Half the windows face a small courtyard, the other half face the street. Any air that comes in open windows has been warmed nicely by the concrete and tarmac. The worst heat tends to come around 5pm, after the entire city has spent the day soaking up sunshine. Fans do their best to move the sluggish, smelly, super-heated air around, but the idea that this makes things cooler is laughable. I'm conflicted about using air conditioners, but I do, figuring that they will allow me to get at least some sleep during the hottest months. I don't handle heat well, it's true. Anything over 80 degrees with any moisture in the air makes me miserable, verging on suicidal. Or homicidal, if there's any noise in the street, as there always is, because none of these buildings are inhabitable in the heat. A hell-hole, I say.

But then, well, a big storm comes along and I realize how well this whole block withstands them.  It seems it was designed for just that purpose. In the past my ceiling would leak whenever there was the slightest bit of rainfall, but that seems finally to have been remedied. In bad weather the lack of open walls means limited exposure to the elements. Severe winds are effectively blocked or channeled along the east-west street. I don't know why exactly we've been lucky with the power and water for both Sandy and Irene, since obviously the substations are not in this building, or even on this block, but whatever the reason, we didn't lose anything, not even internet, last night or last year. We're very lucky.

So while I'm not about to stop complaining about summers, I'm taking stock of my present situation, and appreciating this place for what it does best. I'm off to investigate the neighborhood now, and see if my neighbors need any help.

Favorite Books: Julie of the Wolves.

A few weeks ago I came across an article about some study that had been done on the influence of book-reading.  As I understood the article, the main finding was that after we have enjoyed a novel, we often aspire to become more like the main character. 

If there were ever an article better suited for an issue of DUH! Magazine, I don't know what it is.  Maybe one of those essays about how sleep is really good for you. 

That said, it did resonate with thoughts I'd been having about various books I've read -and reread- over the years, and how I'm growing more aware of the ways they helped shape me.  There's a daunting essay forming in my head around Mary Renault's The Charioteer, which I hope to tackle at some point.  But a recent death has me thinking about another book today. 

Julie of the Wolves, by Jean Craighead George was a book I reread obsessively as a kid.  I have only the vaguest of memories of the first time I read it, which suggests it came into my life pretty far back, maybe age eight or nine.  Thanks to Rudyard Kipling's The Jungle Books I already loved wolves, and aspired one day to join a pack somewhere, preferably as a full fledged member.  Julie achieves this dream too, at least briefly; like Mowgli, she eventually realizes she has to return to the world of humanity.  I always found that part of both stories distressful, if not downright tragic, and was determined that if I ever got the chance, I wouldn't blow it. 

In 2004 I had the privilege to work on a stage adaptation of the book.  Ms. Craighead George had collaborated on the script and attended many of the rehearsals, her presence was warm, generous and supportive, never daunting in any way.  This was production number five where I played non-human characters, in this case a wolf pup and caribou (well, half of one, but not exactly in the way you're picturing).  On the day of the performance, I asked her if she would sign my copy of the book. 

"Oh, it would be my honor," she said.  Here's what she wrote:

To Patrick,
The most incredible caribou and wolf pup I have ever met. 
Thank you, Thank you,
Jean Craighead George

I can say that her book contributed greatly to my appreciation of nature, my environmental concerns, and my love of wolves.  All those things are central to who I am as an adult.  But if I'm completely honest, I'll admit I also haven't entirely given up on the dream of living with wolves, even becoming one.  Living in one of the biggest urban centers on the planet may be a weird way to go about it, but I don't think it's a coincidence that so many of the roles I've played over the years have been animals, special emphasis on canines.  And with that in mind, her book dedication stands as one of the nicest reviews I've ever received. 

Thank you, Ms. Craighead George, for sharing your beautiful world with us. 

Why I Support Occupy Wall Street

I took these photos at Occupy Wall Street a few weeks ago.  As I've tried to articulate why I support OWS, my slow brain hasn't been able to keep pace with the changes in events.  Like a lot of people (see Paul Krugman, for example) I wonder if Bloomberg's heavy-handed raid may have been a blessing in disguise, keeping the occupation from fading away as winter approached, and galvanizing many of us to greater enthusiasm for the movement.  Counter to my usual thinking, I believe the lack of specific demands was a strength of the occupation, but wonder if now we've reached the next stage in the process, and will begin working on particular goals.  

It probably doesn't surprise anyone who knows me that I support OWS, and the vast majority of my friends and family probably agree with me.  But I know some of my friends don't agree, and are rather disgusted with me for my support.  It's you I hope to reach with this post.  Let me explain my view of things. 

Have You Ever Seen Something Amazing?

That line above comes from a TV commercial running presently.  I couldn't tell you what the product is, I want to say a car, but I can't remember.  That will no doubt disappoint the writer of said commercial.  (Actually, I may not even be remembering the wording correctly; it's really not an effective ad.)

Normally a question like that would make me roll my eyes.  How much more banal can you get?  It's right up there with 'have you ever eaten something tasty?  Heard something beautiful?  Felt excited?  Do you like fun?'  The first time I heard it though, instead of snorting derisively, I found myself vividly recalling one such amazing sight. 

I was ten years old, sitting in the back seat of a car my family had rented in Ireland.  We were driving along the west coast, in view of the ocean.  It might come as a surprise to know it was raining.  As a kid I loved being in the car during big downpours.  I loved watching the raindrops stream up along the windows, the sound of water on the roof, tires on the wet road. Watching storms from a house window was fun too, but it was so much better doing it inside a car, a moving 360 degree view, especially if the landscape was stunning and spacious by itself.  I have many fond memories of rainy car trips in Ireland and the UK.  Only recently did it occur to me how nerve-wracking those experiences must have been for my parents.  Driving an unfamiliar car, on unfamiliar, narrow, poorly maintained country roads, frequently around blind mountain passes, on the left, during a torrential downpour?  And let's not forget having to keep alert for flocks of sheep.  I doubt my parents were having much fun.  It says a lot that they didn't prevent me from enjoying it. 

This particular day we came around a hill to the sight of great sheets of rain marching in from the Atlantic, coming up onto shore and across some cliffs.  And 'march' is the only way to describe it.  The rain looked like it had been carefully arranged in rows, evenly spaced, all moving at a brisk yet controlled pace.  At that distance, the storm seemed planned, at least organized.  Whether I thought it consciously or not, I suspect I was also awed by the scale.  This storm was probably several miles long, at least a few miles tall, but from where we were it was a single entity, one enormous, awe-inspiring battalion. I may not have had the good sense to be frightened, but I was definitely awed by the size and power of it.  .   

I'm not sure why the commercial copy triggered this particular memory, but I'm grateful that it did.  It has me wanting to compile a list of personal experiences that I would consider amazing.  Rough categories are already forming in my head; there are all the ones involving weather and landscapes, ones involving animals, and the ones involving works of art or performance, just for starters.  Not really sure what will be gained by recording these memories, but I plan on finding out. 

How about you?  Does this question trigger a specific memory for you, or does it just make you roll your eyes?  What is the most awe-inspiring thing you've seen or experienced?  Care to share?  Feel free to do it in the comments section, or share a link if you do it on your own blog. 

Happy Bloomsday!

(For various reasons this didn't get published on the actual day, so here it is two months later.)

Tain Mural, Dublin

 No, I haven't read Ulysses. But when I spent a semester studying in Dublin in the Fall of 1986, I lived with a lovely family a block from James Joyce's Tower, in Sandycove, County Dublin. So I figured today was as good an excuse as any for me to revisit my photos from last year's trip, specifically the Dublin portion.  That's as much of a connection I'll be making to Joyce, however.  So if you're here hoping for an illustrated tour of Bloomsday, my apologies, and good luck with your google search. 

Saint Stephen's Green

It probably won't surprise anyone that when you have a country as small and as saturated with writers as Ireland, you're going to come across literary landmarks quite often.  I was tickled a few years ago, when I was reading At Swim Two Boys, to discover that much of the action is set at the Gentlemen's Bathing Area, which is situated not far from Joyce's Tower.  I never went swimming there; as much as I love cold water, the Irish Sea in Autumn is too frigid even for me.  Word was the area was still 'men only, bathing suits optional' at certain hours of the day, though. 

Saint Stephen's Green

The country is small; I think the population is hovering around five million now, and in 1986 it was closer to four million.  I was to discover that this meant Dublin was both a cosmopolitan city (complete with international celebrities) and a small village (everyone knew each other, including the famous people).  The founder/registrar of the school I attended was an old chum of Paddy Maloney, the founder and leader of the Chieftains.  Because of their friendship, the group gave a concert in the lounge of our school, for about thirty of us.  This was something they did each year, apparently, and even relished, since it was one of the few opportunities they still had to play without amplification. 

Memorial to Constance, Countess Markevicz, Saint Stephen's Green

Seamus Heaney gave a reading for us in that same room.  David Norris, who I came to learn was credited with starting the LGBT movement in Ireland, was on the faculty (teaching Joyce, by the way, oh look there's another connection).  My host mother was an old school chum of U2's manager.  Had I been staying in town one day longer, I might have been able to see their hometown concert.  For FREE.  Sigh. 

Saint Stephen's Green

Given all this, it didn't surprise Mary and me to discover that we'd be spending the flight to Shannon sitting next to Malachi McCourt.  He was every bit as charming in person as he had always seemed on TV.  Like us, he was travelling in part to honor a brother who had died recently, in his case his brother Frank.  A school in Limerick was endowing a chair in Frank's honor the following day. 

Ha'Penny Bridge, Dublin

Thanks to the volcano in Iceland, we were looping to the north, which added at least two hours to the flight, but with a gifted storyteller as company, the time flew by. 

River Liffey, Dublin

 He asked us what we planned on seeing, and we mentioned one of our first stops would be at Kenny's Bookshop, in Galway. 
"Oh, I'm afraid it's closed," he said.  We were crushed.  Kenny's has been around for decades, and has supported many great writers.  Dad came across it sometime in the sixties, I believe, and it's been a regular pilgrimage stop for all of us ever since. 


The Foggy Dew, Dublin

 Of course bookstores are dying out all over the world, thanks in large part to the internet, and with Ireland's economic troubles, it didn't surprise us at all that Kenny's might have succumbed.  Once we arrived in Galway though we were delighted to discover that shop hadn't closed, it had simply moved.  In fact the move had been due to a needed expansion of the bookstore, art framing department, and art gallery.  It was a bit of a walk to the new location (we had elected not to rent a car), but we found the shop spacious and well-stocked.  Browsing was still encouraged, even to the point of the store providing free tea and coffee and comfy couches.  Mary and I spent two happy hours there. 

Dublin near the Center of Town. 

When we went up to make our purchases, we told Rosemary, the lovely woman working the cash register, how glad we were to find the place, especially after we'd had our scare courtesy of Mr. McCourt. 

"Malachi said that?" she exclaimed.  She shook her head, tsked a bit.  "We have to call him!"  It was like she was talking about a rascally-yet-beloved uncle.  Off she went to inform the owner of the store of the situation.  I have no doubt that he immediately called Mr. McCourt, and teasingly scolded him for spreading false information. The Irish are big ones for teasing.  Sorry if we got you in trouble, Mr. McCourt!  I'm sure you're as delighted as we were to find the place thriving. 

Near the River

Lo Siento, No Hablo.

On the day of the royal wedding, I went to my local laundromat.  There are two TVs in the place; the one closest to the desk is sometimes tuned to an Asian language channel (for the owners), but the other is always tuned to a Spanish language station.  I was a bit surprised to hear the words "el palacio de Buckingham" as I walked in, but apparently this obsession was more international than I realized.  That's cool, I guess.  Kate and Wills, they seem like nice kids.  I like a big show as much as the next guy, but  this one hadn't really captured me for some reason.  I didn't get too worked up about it, one way or the other. 

Others in the room, however, had much stronger opinions.  The older woman seated next to me was watching the coverage intently.  Suddenly she piped up, "why is this important?" 

I replied without thinking, "Yeah, it does seem a bit silly, doesn't it?"

This would all be fine, if it weren't for the fact that we had this interchange--short simple words, short simple concepts, present tense only--in Spanish. 

Yes, I took Spanish in school.  Hell, I got straight As in Spanish, in my midwestern schools, studying for six years under fellow midwesterners with names like Hollingsworth, McKnight, Schneider and Terkoski.  My last class was in the Winter of 1985, but I've retained some vocabulary.  Many folks in my neighborhood here, including the cashiers at my grocery store, don't speak a lot of English, so I've gotten in the habit of exchanging short, almost reflexive phrases of a very practical nature with them.  None of this should  be construed as indicating that I speak Spanish, however.  Unfortunately I had, of course, just given this nice lady that impression.  And having provided the opening she was looking for, she was off on a long, passionate, very fast diatribe of disapproval of this whole event.  At least I think she disapproved; her tone and expression did not indicate sentimentality or celebration, but that was all I was going on.  Because she spoke so quickly, and with such energy, I felt like the moment when I could have admitted my inadequacies had come and gone before I knew what was happening.  So, I tried to ride it out.  Because, you know, that seemed like the best solution. 

I stared intently at her, trying desperately to catch something, anything of what she was saying, but in addition to my poor language skills we now added an internal monologue that went something like this:

"Okay, I think she just said hambre, she's probably talking about starving people.  Are you smiling at her?  You are, aren't you.  Stop it, that's weird, she'll think you're not taking her seriously.  Hey, that phrase, was that 'lots of money'?   I think so but damn, it's gone now, let it go, bye-bye, stay with her.  Are you smiling again?  Quit it.  Nodding your head is probably a bad idea too.  It gives the impression you understand her.  Wow she is especially worked up now, go with a frowny face, furrow your brow, that's probably safe.  Trabajos, jobs, pretty sure she's working an economic argument here, I respect that, QUIT NODDING, YOU MORON, was that regina?  I think so, for god's sake stop smiling!"

I can only assume expressions came and went on my face like a wheat field on a windy day.  By sheer force of will I did NOT tilt my head like a confused dog.  I started to relax when I heard her conclusion coming.  She came to a rousing finish, and looked at me. 

Oh.  Right.  Damn.  Not out of the woods yet.   

" Did she just ask a question?  It didn't sound like a question.  I didn't hear an uplift on any of her sentences, certainly not that last one.  Is she expecting a response?  Hell."  

Of course I could have, should have admitted my ignorance at this point.  But my embarrassment was so complete by now, I figured, in for a penny, in for a pound.  So I nodded one last time, grimaced sympathetically and shrugged my shoulders in a general gesture of summing up.  This seemed to satisfy her.  The gods of laundry smiled on me at that point, ringing the bell that told  me to move my clothes to the dryer. She never tried to engage me in conversation again.  Maybe she figured out the problem.  Maybe she just had nothing more to say.  I haven't a clue.  

Her English is probably excellent. 

I may have to change laundromats.   

Kiss Me, I'm Irish

On top Knocknarea, Ben Bulben in the background.

In honor of the day, here's a story from my travels in Ireland with Mary last May.  

Strangers tend to take a shine to my sister quickly.  You'd think I would have remembered this fact, having seen it in action several times in the course of a weekend the previous November in Philly, but somehow it had slipped my mind.  Add in the fact that many Irish, especially in the west, are very quick to chat up a stranger, and you have a recipe for some interesting encounters.  People of all shapes and sizes are drawn to her, but probably the greatest percentage are men who give the impression they would propose if given the slightest encouragement.  There were at least three such encounters during this trip.  My presence occasionally inspired a certain wariness, but rarely any actual deterrence, and finding out that I was her brother rather than her husband usually brought the twinkle back to their eyes.  As it so happens, in two cases the men mentioned early in the conversation that they were themselves (happily) married; the flirting, if that is what it was, was just play, though I wouldn't say that meant it was insincere.  They were by turns cheerful, teasing (the Irish are big teasers) and charming but never offensive. 

On the Burren

Sunset in Midtown, March 12th

These images may benefit from enlarging (and viewing separately) more than most.  Just click on each image, as usual. 

Reading the Signs

Another gull story: 

During my first year living in Seattle I was walking one day through the main quad of the University of Washington.  A huge flock of gulls and pigeons were on the ground and circling in the air, squabbling, squawking, making a lot of racket.  Believe it or not, I didn't see gulls that often, especially not that far inland.  Seattle is on Puget Sound, which is salt water that flows directly into the Pacific, but people were very firm with me that didn't mean it was the same thing as the ocean, and consequently Seattle was not on the coast. 

Don't ask me, I still don't get it. 

Harlem Sun & Moon

Rats

Gulls in Riverside Park

 I love gulls. 


It's not that surprising that I would have found them exotic at one point.  My first memory of them is from a trip we took to Ireland and the UK when I was seven; the sight and sound of them is tied up with some  exciting places.  Not just the ocean, which would have been good enough, but castles and weird foods and funny accents and all sorts of fairy tale wonderment. 

Riverside Park, same day.