tollipop

getting your irish on

Dear reader, it may or may not surprise you to know Caroline has been wearing green to school every day since the beginning of March. 

 
After all, her great-grandmother was named Eileen Tracy. 

She also informed me for the month of July she'll be needing "firecracker" clothes.  You know: red, white and blue, with lots of sparkles.

She is not especially known for her subtlety...

Which is something I dearly love about her.

Sadly, I have no pictures of Sophie in green.  She leaves for school so early in the morning and it seems we are rarely in the mood to smile for the camera at that hour...
 
Someone who does pride herself on discretion and restraint?
  
Why, that would be Izzy, of course.  Keeping a low profile, but with socks which leave no doubt she's proud to be Irish.

seamus flanagan and the leprechaun...and a happy st. patrick's tollipop giveaway!

 
No one could look at Seamus Flanagan and doubt his potential.  Why, the boy had more potential in his wee finger than all the bogs of Ireland!  Pity, then, about his dripping nose.  And more's the pity a nursemaid was always there to wipe it.

The boy didn't need coddling!  He didn't need palaver!  He needed to fill his lungs with fresh, bracing air--not within the garden walls, but beyond!  Out in the great, wide yonder, where the cliffs meet the sea and the wind carries a salty mist filled with the magical unknown. 

So it was, one day, as Seamus was out traipsing behind his nanny for a morning stroll, he noticed a gate in the old stone wall which surrounded the Flanagan place.  How curious!  How very odd!  He could have sworn no such passageway ever existed.  Yet it was a gate, sure enough, covered in ivy and nearly obscured from sight.  It is said when one is looking for a way out, a means will present itself by and by.  

Seamus looked at Nanny Kelly's immense bustle as it sallied forth through the gladiolas.  Nanny Kelly had very nearly joined the convent years ago, but decided at the last moment her firm hand and unswerving sense of duty could just as well be put to use in the nursery.  The boy blinked.  He twisted the handkerchief he was told never to twist.  Then he put forth his hand as if the latch would burn him, opened the gate, and slipped through the wall before anything could happen to change his mind.

Things looked very different outside Flanagan Place.  A mist settled low on the land, ebbing and flowing, swirling here, curling there, almost as if the spirits of the sea had decided to come ashore.  Seamus's nose started to drip but the handkerchief had been left behind, caught on a nail protruding from the old garden gate.  He was forced to use the cuff of his oxford instead.

Seamus looked up.  A girl was standing before him.

"Don't be silly," she said, "I see by your expression you think I'm a ghost.  I'm nothing of the sort.  See here?"  She reached for his arm and gave him a pinch.

"Ouch!" said Seamus, scowling.  Rubbing his arm, he asked, "What am I to call you, then?"

"My name is Fiona.  But you may call me my dear, darling girl," she said.

"I'll not!" he declared, stamping his foot. 

The girl gave Seamus an appraising look which made him regret the foot stamp immensely. 

"Is that so?," she said.

 
Seamus was not accustomed to being addressed in this way.  He had an uncomfortable sense things were rather upside down in this world outside the garden wall, yet at the same time he had no desire to turn back and retrace his steps.

"See here," he said, a bit gruffly, "What is your business around these parts?"

The girl gazed off into the distance.  "I'm looking for something," she replied, "And you?"

Seamus thought for a moment.  "I suppose I'm looking for something, too," he said.

Fiona smiled and made a slight curtsy.  "Then may this be a lucky day for us both, Seamus Flanagan," she said, leaning forward to tuck a nosegay of clover into his lapel.   

She turned to walk away, fading into the mist with each step, and though he could not account for it, Seamus felt a great loneliness enter his soul.  Having once set eyes upon the girl, he never wanted her to leave his sight again. 

"Wait!," he called, but Fiona continued on as if she didn't hear him.  "Oh, blasted!," he muttered, recalling the odd request she'd made only moments ago.

But when he said it, and when the girl reached out to him through the mist, it didn't seem the least bit odd after all.  In fact, it seemed to Seamus Flanagan the most familiar thing in all the world to be walking along the cliffs of Doneen with a girl named Fiona at his side.

.................

Happy St. Patrick's Day, dear reader!  And if you are feeling lucky and would like a chance to win a copy of darling Seamus, please leave a comment on this post!

i told caroline this is where the rainbow ends, and she's been waiting there ever since

 
I'm a little nervous Caroline actually believes in leprechauns.  Her class was asked to make leprechaun traps and when I listen to her talk about the assignment (which is often), I can tell there's something of a disconnect between fantasy and reality going on in her mind.

As if I'm one to talk.

I don't know about you, but I love the belief in the belief of fantasy.  I think I have a pretty fair grasp on how things actually are, but I find life is somehow enhanced by a certain indulgence in the notion of make believe.  One of my favorite memories, growing up in the Canadian countryside, was the beautiful drive between our farm and the nearby town.  As we passed a certain apple orchard, depending on the season, my mom would exclaim, "Oh, look at the witches' forest!", or, "Oh, look at the fairies' forest!"

Indeed, during the winter, those old, gnarled branches seemed to beckon to me like a coven of crones.  And in the springtime, the sudden profusion of pink and white blossoms seemed like a spell had transformed the trees into a fairyland delight.  Either way, I felt a delicious thrill each time I gazed out the window at that orchard.

To this day, while I'm quite aware of what boxes to check on my identification papers, nothing really gets in the way of this other sense I have, this way of seeing the world as if perhaps there are little people storing gold at the rainbow's end.  It makes all the difference, dear reader. 

That's why I'm hesitant to rain on Caroline's parade.  She will sort it out soon enough, I suppose, but I hope she also retains a sense of how it feels when one's imagination seems just as real as all the other stuff.  You know.  The stuff that puts food on the table and a roof over your head.

izzy and the cadenza

Over the weekend Isabella performed at a music festival.  She played the Haydn sonata I mentioned earlier, the one for which her teacher told her to ignore the cadenza in favor of an abridged version.  Remember?  And then Izzy returned to her lesson the following week and presented the original cadenza to her teacher? 

And, of course, it was still a bit wobbly and in need of major work, and her teacher gave Izzy every opportunity to opt out and take the abridgement.

And Izzy said, no, thank you, I'd like to stick with the original, in a very sweet but definite manner.

 
I often think of my baby girl, the one who would not stop crying if anyone but me held her.  Anyone.  Ever.  Even if I'd duck out for a sanity-saving yoga class and return two hours later, Izzy would be roaring like the Colorado River, audible while I was still in the car with the engine running.  And my husband?  Would be a frayed pile of nerves.  Needless to say we only tried that once.

Until she turned one year old.  Then, out of the blue, darling Izzy consented to admit her dad into the circle of trust.  But by then both he and I were in a state of permanent shock.

 
As you may imagine, I used to worry how that terrifying will would manifest itself in my child.  I imagined calls home from school: Your daughter is holding the teacher hostage with a magic marker.  Your daughter refuses to give back the principal's desk.  Your daughter is starting fires just by looking at things.  As it happened, though, she turned into a rather sweet and loving little girl.  And quite timid, too, just as I was at her age.   

But every now and then, I recognize it--that old, familiar, fierce determination dwelling within a very gentle soul.  And I must tell you, as her mother, it is an awesome thing to behold.

feeling like caroline's socks today

 
Yesterday, on the way to swim team, we got hit by a car as we were waiting to merge onto the freeway.  It wasn't a major impact by any means; indeed, Caroline hardly stopped talking through the entire ordeal. Izzy also seemed to be okay and even opted to continue on to her practice.

But it left me feeling strange, stiff, and sort of sick to my stomach.  The worst part was an unsettled, shaky feeling that came over me afterward, as I started to think about my girls and how lucky we were that everything turned out fine.  But still. 

Anyway, I got up this morning feeling okay but also a bit weird.  And I think something must be wrong with me after all, because I just made a stop at the grocery store and purchased three items, none of them being even remotely healthy.

Seriously.  I bought Cheetos.  Which, if you are not familiar with this product, is some sort of high fructose styrofoam substance sprinkled with addictive orange powder.  Foods sprinkled with orange powder go against everything I stand for, by the way...unless that powder is turmeric. 

I also decided to get potato chips, the plain kind.  Then I selected a bag of Cadbury eggs, those little chocolate eggs with a pretty candy shell that make you wish there really was a bird who laid such eggs and you could keep her as a pet. 

Please don't ask me to explain myself, dear reader.  On my best days I can't even explain myself. 

So tonight we will have a movie party with lots of treats.  The girls will wonder if I have lost my mind, but they will also make sure to gobble those Cheetos down in case my accident-induced leniency turns out to be short-lived after all.

be the star that you are

 
Dear reader, it may or may not surprise you to know when I walk the girls to school in the morning we are not always the most punctual kids on the playground, so to speak.  In fact, lately Caroline and I have been bombing down the hill in full sprint singing "Basin Street Blues" at the top of our lungs.  We often arrive just as the bell is ringing, so I hustle Caroline inside, give her a hug, and send her on her way. 

Then comes the part I love: pledging allegiance to the flag.  

I was raised by the world's most patriotic mother, incidentally.  She made us kids sing all four verses of the Canadian anthem, if that tells you anything.  Four verses?  Oh, yes there are.  Just ask The Honorable Robert Stanley Weir.

My point being I simply adore love of country.  Any country.  I love seeing people sing their national anthem.  It moves the living daylights out of me.  So pledging allegiance to the flag is right up my alley.  And while I suppose I'll always be Canadian at heart, I cannot tell you how deeply fond I am of the United States.  Hopefully it doesn't ruffle any feathers out there, but the history and founding of this country is like no other.  What a story.  What incredible vision and capacity for sacrifice the founders of this land possessed!

So you may imagine how dutifully I stand, hand over heart, with the other pint-sized stragglers in the morning.  It gets me every time. 

Then, another highlight.  The principal gets on the intercom and gives the kids a pep talk.  It's brilliant!  It's fantastic!  It's old school.  And I listen, dear reader.  I practically take notes.

And as I walk home with an extra spring in my step I think to myself: I am going to be respectful to myself and others.  I will keep my hands and feet to myself.  And if I don't have anything nice to say, I won't say anything at all.

Dear reader, let's have the best day of our lives today. 

And remember: be the star that you are. 

ricotta gnocchi

My family owes a debt of gratitude to the world of blogging for the food that comes to our table.  Why?  Because I'm the type of person who can't decide what I'm in the mood to eat until I see what someone else is eating.  That's why, if you've ever been seated in a restaurant enjoying a delicious meal and a lady walks by and sticks her finger in your food, I'm sorry. 

At any rate, once again thanks to the lovely Amanda for reminding me gnocchi is something we haven't eaten in awhile and really, if for no other reason than the deeply satisfying pronuciation of that word, it was due for another appearance on the menu. 

 
Although I did not use this particular recipe, here is one from the internet that looks divine.  I can't remember which recipe I consulted, but I assure you this one is eerily similar.  I mean, let's be serious.  How many ways can you tell someone to mix flour, eggs, and oil?  Franchement, Italy.  Don't get in a huff.  You know I'm jealous of you.  We all are.

In case you're wondering, I failed to humor the step about draining the ricotta cheese.  I had every intention of doing so, but balked at the last moment.  It just seemed so annoying.  Also not finding their way into my process?  The sieve and parchment paper.  Don't tell me the ancient Romans stood around waiting for parchment paper to make their gnocchi or I'll keel over.  I really will. 

I did, however, break out the slotted spoon.  Everyone knows you can't do business in the kitchen without a slotted spoon.   

 
And now a word about letting your children help with the meal: let them.  

Tie on their aprons.  Get them set up in a work area.   Give them some cursory advice about forming tiny dumplings, then let them go for it.  

Really.  Que sera, sera. 

Don't watch if it's going to kill you.  Just tell yourself whatever mangled lumps of dough they proudly present will get dumped into your pot of boiling water and all the parchment paper in the world won't make a bit of difference to how awesome they're going to taste.

not a banner day

 
On Sunday I got up, pacing myself through the morning with what I felt was a remarkable grasp on our schedule.  Having gotten the girls ready for church in advance of the appointed hour, I congratulated myself and turned to the mirror to wave a wand at my own appearance. 

That's when Sophie peeked around the corner with a confused expression, asking if I knew what time it was.  I assured her we were well ahead of schedule.  Then she assured me church had started five minutes earlier.

All of which would hardly be cause for alarm save one detail.

I am the organist.

Dear reader, what is wrong with me?  It wasn't that I lost track of time.  I knew perfectly well what time it was.  It's just that on this particular day I thought church started at a time it has never before started in the history of the world.

So I bombed out the door looking like Cruella DeVil in pursuit of puppies, wondering if by some act of divine intervention the traffic lights would turn green on my behalf. 

Quite the opposite, as it happened. 

Apparently there's a sign in heaven which reads: "Poor planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on my part." 

Argh, heaven.  I question how well I'm cut out for you in the first place.

I parked the car, losing a shoe because high heels were not made for sprints, and hopped into the building in time to hear the congregation singing a hymn.  Accompanied by the piano. 

That's right.  They had to scour the audience for a pinch hitter. 

Honestly, I wanted to disappear.  On the best of days I do not seek the spotlight.  I do not hunger for notoriety.  Yet at this moment I had to march to the front of the room in front of everyone, unlock the organ, and sit there looking like something the cat coughed up.

That's a variation of a classic nightmare, right?

Afterward, friends approached and in hushed tones asked how I was doing.  You could tell they were groping for the right words, although condolences such as:  "Well, if it makes you feel any better, I know someone who was mauled by a bear,"  or, "Imagine the economic pickle Greece is in these days!,"  or even, "How about that bubonic plague?," had a weird way of exacerbating the offense in my mind.  You know?  Like suddenly my being late for church was akin to a deadly pandemic. 

 
But the visit with Uncle Matt?  Well, that was lovely.  It was filled with cousins and movies and trips to the international market to purchase every Haribo treat on the shelves.

And car shopping.  I didn't know this, but browsing a car dealership for my brother is like wandering through Anthropologie for me.  

Who would have thought?

12 hour pet

 
Last night I went for a run and, as I am wont to do, perused my path for lizards along the way.  It's one of my little known foibles: I like to catch lizards.  And frogs.  And, on occasion, snakes.  I do draw the line at spiders, though.  They're creepy.

At any rate, I saw him by the wall: stiff, cold-blooded, not at all pleased by my advances.  But I picked him up and took him home anyway. 

Backtracking a good five minutes of my run, I might add. 

What can I tell you?  Some moms help their kids with math homework.  Some moms sew.  Some moms give their kids advice on how to be popular at school.  Some moms help their kids avoid library fines.  I am, regrettably, not that mom.  But I am the mom who brings a lizard home to her children and tells them they can keep it overnight.

When I got back from my run, the girls were still undecided on a name.  Sophie wanted to call him Agent X.  Caroline wanted to call him Old Joe.  Izzy wanted to call him The Dean.  I have to tell you I was impressed.  I was expecting some frilly, lavender-ish name that would make my face twitch, when in fact even I couldn't decide which name was best.

 
After enduring their heated debate awhile, I shut things down with denunciations of pettifoggery.  Such a great word, so many applications around these parts.  I've taken to singing it like a Bach fugue as of late.

 
The next morning we released him into the wilds.  Two minutes later, we saw a black cat climb over the wall.  As you may imagine, I spent the rest of our walk to school reassuring Caroline that Old Joe was probably halfway to The Strip by now. 

Which she thought was pretty funny.  But she worried all the same.

..................

Dear reader, one of my little brothers is coming to spend the weekend today!  So I think I will sign off now and wish you a lovely few days of peace and relaxation.   

First, calling your attention to Elsita's post about her niece who lives in Chile. 

Second, the comments on the "little old lady" post are amazing.  Thank you for adding your thoughts and bringing so many ideas to this very interesting topic.  Well worth your time if you have a moment to read on...

and the winner is...

 
Kara!  Congratulations, Kara darling!  You are the winner of the vernal "field trip" print featuring Lucinda and her renegade bunny friends.  Do let's get in touch to exchange pertinent information, the least of which is a mailing address.

To everyone else...thank you for playing along.  Thank you for sharing such lovely, visceral descriptions of Spring!  How I enjoyed your comments!  They brought back familiar memories and allowed me to bask in a sense of my childhood home. 

I think a lot of logophiles must come to this blog.  I myself am something of a logophile.  But I must say I wish they would come up with a better word than logophile to describe a lover of words.  It creeps me out, if you want to know the truth. 

Getting back on topic, in lieu of the prize I wish for you a sunny day.  I wish you a bundle of pussywillows tied with a blue ribbon.  I wish you a pretty pair of shoes and a wandering lane down which to wear them.  There is a drowsy hum of bumblebees in the blossoms and you can hardly keep your slippers from skipping along with the feeling that everything is coming alive again. 

In other news, my two darling nieces came over to play with me this afternoon.  Part of the fun?  Letting me festoon them with outlandish blooms and being game to sit still for a photograph or two.