Tonight, I get to wallow in self pity; for a little while anyway. You see, I finally realized that I am old. How did I come to realize this? Quite simply really. My baby, the adorable little thing that fit in the palm of my hand when he was first born, will be graduating from high school in three weeks. Last night he attended his senior prom. Today he started driving for the first time, and will get his license in two more weeks. As I sat in the passenger seat of the car while he drove me home from the store, I realized that somehow in the time it took for him to grow up, I'd grown up too.
I'm not sure when exactly it happened; if it was a slow process or if it happened overnight and I just never noticed, but it happened and it has hit me like a ton of bricks. I. Am. Old. And it's really not as bad as I'd always imagined it would be. I'll survive this revelation, I'm sure, but for now I'm going to mourn my lost youth.
Wallow with me.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Sunday, May 6, 2007
Saturday, March 17, 2007
March the 17th ... sleep the 18th
That was always one of my favorite St. Paddy's buttons - probably because it was so fitting. I only attended the parade in NY a handful of times, and most of those handful were in the early 70s. In recent years the parade was more a hazard than anything, the one in Manhattan anyway. There's a lovely parade on LBI that was much more friendly and inviting. And the bars along the route would open the doors and windows (weather permitting, which was actually rare come to think of it) so you could sit at the bar or the tables in the front and watch the parade in comfort. But it was still always a day of long and vigorous celebration.
For me, St. Pat's has always been a holiday on the same scale of greatness as Christmas or Easter. Growing up in an immigrant family, in an immigrant neighborhood, St. Pat's was the day that the family all got together with other Irish families in the area and celebrated our heritage. There was plenty of drinking (one stereotype the Irish in my family are usually happy to sustain), as well as traditional music, food, storytelling and dancing. I learned the art of 'couple dancing' with a man in his 70s whom everyone referred to as Uncle Quie (pronounce 'kyoo-ee'), though I don't think he was actually related to anyone in the neighborhood. And for being an old fart, he was damned hard to keep up with on the dance floor! That sense of community is something that I miss. But it seems to be unique to NY. I've lived in plenty of other places, but nowhere else is it as socially acceptable to be proud of your heritage and display as openly as New Yorkers do. Now, that isn't to say that anyone was excluded from our celebrations (and I'm referring to our local/family stuff - not the Mayor of NY or the Grand Poobah of the Great Parade and their 'everyone is Irish on St. Pat's except for gays' stand). If you wanted to be Irish on St. Pat's you were more than welcome. My Uncle Jack (who came over in the 50s from a very small fishing villiage near Cork) used to label anyone in that category as a Kerryman (as Kerry would take anyone without a home). And our parties were often chock full of 'Kerrymen' of every shade and stripe. It was actually a running joke in the neighborhood. New faces were always greeted with "And where are you from?", and anyone with the misfortune of actually hailing from the vicinity of Kerry would be the butt of the joke.
Living now in the Deep South/Bible Belt, that sense of community is gone (unless you belong to the church of the moment), and St. Paddy's day has turned into a joke of monumental proportions. It's an excuse for any jerk off the street to paint himself green, get drunk, act stupid and make a fool of himself. And when asked "Why, for God's sake?" the answer is inevitably "That's what you're supposed to do on St. Pat's.".
What I miss most is the music, and the storytelling. Bands and vocalists like Anna McGoldrick (who happens to be a cousin of some sort, living in Toronto), The Clancy Brothers, Tommy Makem, The Irish Tenors, The Irish Rovers; these were the albums I grew up listening to. And the traditional drinking songs, marching songs, patriotic songs (or songs of treason, depending on your perspective), love songs...even the simplest and silliest (The Unicorn anyone?) were still great songs and sung over and over and well into the night. And the stories my Uncles and my Nanny would tell of growing up and surviving The Troubles, the great famine, the Black & Tans - and of course all the faerie stories of the little people and the banshees. I'd give anything to be able to go back in time and record some of those things. And of course, there were also the family stories: the one about my Nanny's first sight of fireflies upon coming to the States and thinking they were the lanterns of the little people; the story of my Grandfather being snuck out of Ireland on a fishing boat after he and some compatriots got into a bit of trouble with the local British Constabulary (there is still some question as to whether the family name Dundon is actually ours, or just a name he picked to stay out of trouble should the authorities continue looking for him in the States. If you ask me, he picked the wrong name if that was his ineention. Google it and see what I mean.); the story of our long and royal bloodline - supposedly being traced all the way back to Red Hugh of Donnegal. There were dozens more, most of which I barely remember, which is a sad affair and something I truly regret.
But we do our best now, to keep up with as much of the tradition as we can. The girls and I are making a soda bread, I've got a CD of Irish music playing in the background and I'll tell them as much as I remember of the old stories that used to be told to me when I was younger. I've inherited the role of storyteller - as neither my mother or sister has any interest in that facet of our family 'traditions'. They seem to believe the corned beef and cabbage are more important than remembering the old stories. Personally, I'd be happy with hot dogs if I could get more of the stories and the music. But if horses were wishes, beggars would ride - as my Nanny used to say.
Enough of my ruminations on St. Pat's. And for anyone who lasted through the whole bloody thing; Slainte agus tainte! and Eireann go Brach !
For me, St. Pat's has always been a holiday on the same scale of greatness as Christmas or Easter. Growing up in an immigrant family, in an immigrant neighborhood, St. Pat's was the day that the family all got together with other Irish families in the area and celebrated our heritage. There was plenty of drinking (one stereotype the Irish in my family are usually happy to sustain), as well as traditional music, food, storytelling and dancing. I learned the art of 'couple dancing' with a man in his 70s whom everyone referred to as Uncle Quie (pronounce 'kyoo-ee'), though I don't think he was actually related to anyone in the neighborhood. And for being an old fart, he was damned hard to keep up with on the dance floor! That sense of community is something that I miss. But it seems to be unique to NY. I've lived in plenty of other places, but nowhere else is it as socially acceptable to be proud of your heritage and display as openly as New Yorkers do. Now, that isn't to say that anyone was excluded from our celebrations (and I'm referring to our local/family stuff - not the Mayor of NY or the Grand Poobah of the Great Parade and their 'everyone is Irish on St. Pat's except for gays' stand). If you wanted to be Irish on St. Pat's you were more than welcome. My Uncle Jack (who came over in the 50s from a very small fishing villiage near Cork) used to label anyone in that category as a Kerryman (as Kerry would take anyone without a home). And our parties were often chock full of 'Kerrymen' of every shade and stripe. It was actually a running joke in the neighborhood. New faces were always greeted with "And where are you from?", and anyone with the misfortune of actually hailing from the vicinity of Kerry would be the butt of the joke.
Living now in the Deep South/Bible Belt, that sense of community is gone (unless you belong to the church of the moment), and St. Paddy's day has turned into a joke of monumental proportions. It's an excuse for any jerk off the street to paint himself green, get drunk, act stupid and make a fool of himself. And when asked "Why, for God's sake?" the answer is inevitably "That's what you're supposed to do on St. Pat's.".
What I miss most is the music, and the storytelling. Bands and vocalists like Anna McGoldrick (who happens to be a cousin of some sort, living in Toronto), The Clancy Brothers, Tommy Makem, The Irish Tenors, The Irish Rovers; these were the albums I grew up listening to. And the traditional drinking songs, marching songs, patriotic songs (or songs of treason, depending on your perspective), love songs...even the simplest and silliest (The Unicorn anyone?) were still great songs and sung over and over and well into the night. And the stories my Uncles and my Nanny would tell of growing up and surviving The Troubles, the great famine, the Black & Tans - and of course all the faerie stories of the little people and the banshees. I'd give anything to be able to go back in time and record some of those things. And of course, there were also the family stories: the one about my Nanny's first sight of fireflies upon coming to the States and thinking they were the lanterns of the little people; the story of my Grandfather being snuck out of Ireland on a fishing boat after he and some compatriots got into a bit of trouble with the local British Constabulary (there is still some question as to whether the family name Dundon is actually ours, or just a name he picked to stay out of trouble should the authorities continue looking for him in the States. If you ask me, he picked the wrong name if that was his ineention. Google it and see what I mean.); the story of our long and royal bloodline - supposedly being traced all the way back to Red Hugh of Donnegal. There were dozens more, most of which I barely remember, which is a sad affair and something I truly regret.
But we do our best now, to keep up with as much of the tradition as we can. The girls and I are making a soda bread, I've got a CD of Irish music playing in the background and I'll tell them as much as I remember of the old stories that used to be told to me when I was younger. I've inherited the role of storyteller - as neither my mother or sister has any interest in that facet of our family 'traditions'. They seem to believe the corned beef and cabbage are more important than remembering the old stories. Personally, I'd be happy with hot dogs if I could get more of the stories and the music. But if horses were wishes, beggars would ride - as my Nanny used to say.
Enough of my ruminations on St. Pat's. And for anyone who lasted through the whole bloody thing; Slainte agus tainte! and Eireann go Brach !
Friday, February 2, 2007
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Spring Cleaning
It happens once in a while; I get to feeling domestic and have a need to fix things up and move them around. So I play with my home away from home (otherwise known as the internet), and get it to pass quickly. Wouldn't want to ruin my reputation as the least domestic person on the face of the earth, would I?
So take a gander and poke around the links, I'm sure you'll find something of interest. It's not likely to happen again for a long long time, so you might as well enjoy it while you can.
So take a gander and poke around the links, I'm sure you'll find something of interest. It's not likely to happen again for a long long time, so you might as well enjoy it while you can.
Sunday, January 7, 2007
The Joy(?) of Parenting
To Kill A Mockingbird ... probably one of my favorite books - and movies - of all time. I read it for the first time in grade four. My older cousins had realized by this time that I not only liked to read, but was also gifted in the art of the book report, so I was enlisted to read the book and write a book report.
I enjoyed the book very much, and managed to catch an airing of the movie a short time after reading it. Seeing the movie made me go back and read the book again, to compare the two and find all the inevitable differences. I still tend to do that, it's how I discovered I was really a Tolkien purist after the release of The Lord of the Rings trilogy by New Line.
I also remember that my teacher that year, Mrs. O'Keefe, discovered I was reading the book and felt it inappropriate for my age. She called my parents to inform them of this inappropriate behaviour, and to ask them to discourage it. I can only imagine her reaction when my father laughed at her and made it clear I could read whatever I damn well wanted. One of the few good things the old man ever did.
I'm getting off track though. To Kill A Mockingbird is one of those books that I go back and re-read at least once a year, usually after I've caught the movie on TV, and my last visit with Jem and Scout and Atticus was a little less than two months ago. I watched the film with my daughters (aged 12 and 14). The younger one enjoyed the film, the older one was bored but watched anyway. Both of them looked down their nose at me when I pulled the book off the shelf the next day and set about reaquainting myself with an old friend. They're both avid readers, something for which I am eternally grateful, but my choice of books apparently wasn't to their taste.
This past Friday, the older one came home with her very own copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. She made her displeasure quite clear and insisted she was reading it only because she had to, and if she could figure out a way to get through Freshman English without actually reading the book, she would. I listened and nodded in all the right places and made appropriate sympathetic sounds where needed, then told her to get started on her reading.
Her assignment for Monday was to read through Chapter 9, and she argued that she'd never be able to read that far because the book was so awful. But she sat down with the book this afternoon and forced her way into it. Somewhere near the end of Chapter 4 she was willing to admit that maybe the book wasn't as bad as she'd first thought. At the beginning of Chapter 9 she reminded herself that the instructions were to not read ahead; she had to stop at the end of the chapter and not go any further. She went to bed half an hour ago, and I'm told she has only 3 more chapters to go before she finishes the book. Once she really does finish, I'm going to have to rent the movie for her. Or maybe I should just buy it once and for all; let it sit on the shelf with the book to be taken out when I'm in the mood to revisit an old friend.
Why am I rambling about #2 child and To Kill a Mockingbird? As the monsters get older (and I say monster with the utmost love and affection), and develop their own tastes and personalities, I see less and less of myself in them. The older ones especially are coming into their own and I worry that I haven't given them the skills and the guidance that they'll need as they approach adulthood. But every once in a while, like today, I find a little bit of me in their choices and decisions, and I think that maybe I haven't been such a bad parent after all.
So here's to To Kill A Mockingbird, one more thing for a monster and I to bond over.
I enjoyed the book very much, and managed to catch an airing of the movie a short time after reading it. Seeing the movie made me go back and read the book again, to compare the two and find all the inevitable differences. I still tend to do that, it's how I discovered I was really a Tolkien purist after the release of The Lord of the Rings trilogy by New Line.
I also remember that my teacher that year, Mrs. O'Keefe, discovered I was reading the book and felt it inappropriate for my age. She called my parents to inform them of this inappropriate behaviour, and to ask them to discourage it. I can only imagine her reaction when my father laughed at her and made it clear I could read whatever I damn well wanted. One of the few good things the old man ever did.
I'm getting off track though. To Kill A Mockingbird is one of those books that I go back and re-read at least once a year, usually after I've caught the movie on TV, and my last visit with Jem and Scout and Atticus was a little less than two months ago. I watched the film with my daughters (aged 12 and 14). The younger one enjoyed the film, the older one was bored but watched anyway. Both of them looked down their nose at me when I pulled the book off the shelf the next day and set about reaquainting myself with an old friend. They're both avid readers, something for which I am eternally grateful, but my choice of books apparently wasn't to their taste.
This past Friday, the older one came home with her very own copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. She made her displeasure quite clear and insisted she was reading it only because she had to, and if she could figure out a way to get through Freshman English without actually reading the book, she would. I listened and nodded in all the right places and made appropriate sympathetic sounds where needed, then told her to get started on her reading.
Her assignment for Monday was to read through Chapter 9, and she argued that she'd never be able to read that far because the book was so awful. But she sat down with the book this afternoon and forced her way into it. Somewhere near the end of Chapter 4 she was willing to admit that maybe the book wasn't as bad as she'd first thought. At the beginning of Chapter 9 she reminded herself that the instructions were to not read ahead; she had to stop at the end of the chapter and not go any further. She went to bed half an hour ago, and I'm told she has only 3 more chapters to go before she finishes the book. Once she really does finish, I'm going to have to rent the movie for her. Or maybe I should just buy it once and for all; let it sit on the shelf with the book to be taken out when I'm in the mood to revisit an old friend.
Why am I rambling about #2 child and To Kill a Mockingbird? As the monsters get older (and I say monster with the utmost love and affection), and develop their own tastes and personalities, I see less and less of myself in them. The older ones especially are coming into their own and I worry that I haven't given them the skills and the guidance that they'll need as they approach adulthood. But every once in a while, like today, I find a little bit of me in their choices and decisions, and I think that maybe I haven't been such a bad parent after all.
So here's to To Kill A Mockingbird, one more thing for a monster and I to bond over.
Saturday, December 23, 2006
Another one?
I really don't need another one of these. No really, I barely keep up with the one original blog I started several years ago; why should I start yet another one? Well, because not everyone uses the same system for blogging, and I need an account at each of the other popular sites so I can keep track of the blogs of people who use something other than my preferred system. Which mean I now have a LiveJournal, a deadjournal, a MySpace, a Blog, and only the deities know how many others I've started and since forgotten about.
What we need is a universal system that will keep track of all of these damned things in ne place. The RSS feeds are a help, but they don't go everywhere.
Bah, whatever. I am here and will ocassionally (hopefully) remember to update this thing - on those rare ocassions when I actually have something worth saying.
What we need is a universal system that will keep track of all of these damned things in ne place. The RSS feeds are a help, but they don't go everywhere.
Bah, whatever. I am here and will ocassionally (hopefully) remember to update this thing - on those rare ocassions when I actually have something worth saying.
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