The Romance of the Past

My mom and dad are going to Ireland for their anniversary. I’m so excited for them! It’s always been my mom’s dream to visit Ireland. Her mom’s father left Ireland to come to America. He never wanted to go back. My grandmother never wanted to visit Ireland. In fact, when she found out my mom was going on this trip, she asked, “Why?”

[Cave Hill. Belfast. County Antrim, Ireland] (LOC) (Photo credit: The Library of Congress)

My grandmother moved in with my parents over a year ago; so when I went home in June, I sat down beside her and asked her to tell me what it was like when she was growing up. Her childhood was influenced by the Great Depression. She found ways to save money and get by, like learning to sew stockings with the same colored thread so that no one could tell where the tear had been.

My grandmother’s recollections have been softened over the years. I think that’s why my mom and I have romanticized the prospect of Mom’s return to the place her grandfather gave up. “Just to see it,” she says. I hope she won’t be disappointed. I don’t think she will. She’s a down-to-earth type, really.

When I was a teen, I sent this poem to my grandmother because I’ve always enjoyed curling up beside her and requesting:

Tell me a story, Grandma, dear
About your youthful past;
About the wisdom you have learned
From beginning to last.

Tell me a story, Grandma, dear;
That happened years before;
When one man left his heritage
In hopes of something more.

Tell me a story, Grandma, dear;
Please let it all be true;
So I can tell my own young ones
My stories about you.

P.S. It is my grandma’s fervent prayer that my mom and dad won’t get killed for not being Catholic.

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Bug Plug

This morning, I read two blog posts about bugs and toilets. Here is the first from Tilly Bud’s The Laughing Housewife. Here is the second from Joe Kurtenbach’s blog. Is it bug and toilet week on WordPress? Here’s my bug contribution (sorry, no toilets mentioned):

Bug Plug

While to slumber I was switching;
To my great surprise, an itching;
Started tingling there upon my outstretched hand.

Well, I quickly went to scratch it;
Felt a bug and tried to catch it;
Oh, that is the type of waking I can’t stand.

Now I feel the little critters;
Up and down, gives me the jitters;
Ack! How dare that bug presume on me to land!

Here I am in my own cubby;
Snuggled down warm with my hubby;
‘Get you home, unwelcome creature!’ I demand.

But a bug’s a bug, I know it;
Lands on prince and pope and poet;
Doesn’t matter if I’m little known or grand.

Yet, if I could give him one thought:
‘Do not land on those you ought not.’
Then would bugs rate ‘most intelligent’ in the land.

Have an in’critter’ble week!