My Great-Aunt Meg passed away last night.  She was 96 years old.  Imagine, what she has lived through!

She was a tiny, gentle lady. I never heard her say a harsh word about anybody. She used to work at the Winfield post office.  When I was growing up, we would often walk down to say "hi" to her at work.  That was always such a treat. She knew everybody in town, and she got into trouble with the postmaster because she took the time to be nice to all who came through the door. 

She was one of the famous "Puppet Ladies" at Central Dupage Hospital.  For years, she met with the others in the Volunteer room, and sewed puppets/stuffed clowns for the sick children.  Aunt Meg did the delicate embroidery on the clown faces.  Every family member who was ever hospitalized has a clown sewed by Aunt Meg. 

One of the high points at Christmas was fighting over her knitted washcloths.  She turned out dozens of them every month, in all the colors of the rainbow.  At most family gatherings she would bring a box filled with them, and the cousins would haggle over their choices.  I shamed my cousin Kevin into handing over a spectacular one he grabbed first just last year.

She had a Kermit the frog telephone, a piano that she rarely played after high school (although she did play on the radio then), and an astounding collection of Christmas village statues. 

She was raised at Mooseheart in Aurora after her parents were gone.  Her brother Lawrence (my great-uncle Larry) and her sister Berniece (my Nana) stayed close all their lives, and all made it into their 90's. 

She lived in the house that Uncle Ed was born in, helped care for his mother and sister when they were first married, then raised three children.  She survived the death of her son, and the death of her husband six months later, over 20 years ago now. She lived alone until the past few months, when Irene joined the family as her caretaker.  The two developed a close bond of friendship.

Throughout the years, she remained a cheerful, peaceful, humor-filled woman.  She was always ready to try anything, and to go anywhere.  We dragged her up the steps of the old Chicago Stadium to watch the Olympic ice skaters in exhibition.  We forced her to walk long blocks in Chicago to eat at the Berghoff.  She rode  out west on long car trips - although she herself never learned to drive.  She flew to Texas to visit her grandson, and then her great-granddaughter.  She didn't make it there last month when her second great-grandchild was born, but she did get to see pictures. 

Aunt Meg led a very ordinary life.  And she was loved by so many, and will be greatly missed.

Blessings to you, Aunt Meg.  Go in peace.

NSN 2006 Conference                    

Wednesday evening storms roared through the Midwest, shutting down the Chicago airports and causing a domino effect of cancelled flights.  When the lights went out at Midway on Thursday morning, a groan issued simultaneously from the thousands of stranded passengers.  I joined in the sound from my comfortless seat on the floor.  I was better off than many, though at least I had a post for a backrest.  The lights came on seconds later, followed by an announcement that the lightening strike had blown the computers at Southwest Airlines.  I wriggled into a more comfortable spot, and resumed reading the nice, thick book I had shoved into my carry-on at the last minute.

Flights finally began arriving, and, even better, departing!  I was lucky, and got into Pittsburgh only a few hours later than expected.  The cab driver helped heave my giant suitcase into the trunk, and we set off for the 30-minute drive.  This, due to an accident, grew into a 90-minute creep into town.  He asked about storytelling, I asked about his story.  At age 15, he had been a Biafran freedom fighter.  Appalling what he lived through.  He had books in the cab that he shared with me, along with his hopes and dreams for his tribe, his country, and our world.

At last, the Hilton!  And not a storyteller in sight, only men in suits.  But the front desk clerk assured me I was in the right place.  And then the storytellers began flowing down the steps.  Hooray, what a relief.  But oh, no, they were heading for the buses to go to the Children's Museum for the Opening Reception!  I was going to be late again (it was already 6:30.)  I sprinted for the elevators, dropped my bags in the room, and rode back down.  I caught sight of Kevin Cordi, who invited me to walk with his group.  Ah, a chance to stretch my legs.  Too late to change into the nice outfit I had packed for the evening, but at that point, I didnt care.

The Childrens Museum was awesome.  I was so thankful for the real food, since I had expected only nibbles.  I found my good friends Karen Chace and Meg Gilman, and started feeling at home.  I kept remembering back to the first conference I attended, in Indianapolis, where there was also a reception at the Childrens Museum.  I remember people looking askance at me as I went tearing about, trying to do everything.  One man actually pulled me aside and told me I looked ridiculous.  This time, I had LOTS of company, and we were all having fun.  Not to point fingers, but youll never believe who joined me in doing the can-can with tutus (except mine, which had to be a four-four because it kept falling off my leg).

I planned to go toone of the fringe performance after, but by 9:30 I felt like a wax candle next to a heater, tilting slowly toward the floor.  So up to my room I went, where I found my roommate, Rita Kohler.  This is the second conference where I have been abandoned by my roommate, and had to ask for somebody to join me.  And I must say, if you have to ask for a replacement, you cant go wrong rooming with an OOPS member!  Both Rita and her lovely service dog Tango made me feel very welcome and comfortable. 

Friday morning and I was ready to learn, although I got to the first workshop, you guessed it, a little late.  Chris Kings Internet marketing workshop was excellent; chock full of information, and reassurances that Im on the right track.  I think it needs to be three workshops, and I hope future conferences will give her more time.

My brain was full, and my stomach was empty.  (I didnt know about food being provided during breaks until I got home and began reading the Conference posts on Storytell, sigh.)  There was another session, but I needed to eat.  Rita and Tango agreed to go walk about downtown with me, in search of lunch.  We ate at great little place just a block down from the hotel, with a tremendous soup and salad bar.  I loaded up on some yogurt and rolls for the next few breakfasts, too.  It was good to have a quiet place to chat, and get to know each other.

Back to the hotel, where we were told by Rick Carsen  that lunch was provided for conference attendees!  Oh, well. 

Rich Sebaks general session How I Do What I Do was interesting, although as a speaker, he said um like 5,000 times too often.  Im not sure what I learned yet, and I did miss having a nice, inspirational keynote speech to get me fired up about our art form.  Still, it was a pleasant 90-minutes of film clips, and Id love to go to that swimming pool!

Afterwards, I stayed for Dan Yashinskys Red Thread of the Story.  Ive been fascinated by him, ever since buying his first collection, Tales For An Unknown City.  I didnt think the session should have been called a workshop, but it was thought-provoking.  Ive been evaluating my stories in light of his discussion.

I wasnt going to join the Storytell bunch for sammiches at Pimantis, because they sounded like something I couldnt enjoy eating.  But when Chris and Rita and I walked past the group, I realized that I was starting to get shaky, and needed to eat something substantial NOW so I doubled back and Batsy Bybell squeezed me into the space next to her.  And I have been converted how could something that sounds so disgusting taste so wonderful?  And our waiter, bless his heart, handled our invasion with a gritty cheerfulness. 

Back to the hotel I sprinted, to set up the room for the Songtellers Swap.  Great room, but a totally cold, inhospitable atmosphere.  I set up the curtains, moved every chair and all the tables into a nice, warm semicircular arrangement, and prayed that nobody would disturb it.  Some folks did come it for a Seder, I believe, but they cleaned up before we got in there, only leaving a few crumbs behind.

Regional concert was very, very good.  I was impressed with the uniformly high quality of the storytellers.  It was good to see friends up on stage for the first time, and to see them succeed.  Bravo to Jane Crouse, Andy Fraenkel, Linda Goodman, Tim Hartman, Megan Hicks, Charles Kiernan, Ab Logan, Gail Rosen, Arianna Ross, and Karen Vuranch. 

The Songteller swap followed.  This was a session for conference attendees to share tales based on ballads and other songs.  We had a small group, and I feared we would finish before the Fringe shows ended!  But no, each story/ballad/song encouraged yet another listener to step from the back of the room and contribute.  It was so good to finally hear Barra Jacobs MacDoweel and her harp partner Linda (can't remember Linda's last name) perform.  They came dressed for the part, too.  It was a lovely, lovely gathering.  And best of all, everybody helped me put the room back into order for the next day.

This came all too soon!  I never did figure out how to set the alarm, so I slept in both Saturday and Sunday mornings.  (I must admit, I didnt try too hard to figure it out.)  So I missed the Mr. Rogers General Session.  And, I hate to admit it, but I missed the General meeting, which I really intended to attend.  But I did take some time and go check out the room for my workshop.  Good thing I went early, because I didnt realize that there was a swap scheduled to end right at 1:30, when my workshop was scheduled to start.  Heres a wish I wish I had known that my friend Yvonne Healy was hosting the swap; I would have had no hestitation finding her and asking to end the swap earlier so I could get the room set-up.  Anyway, I moved the table to where I wanted it, counted chairs, checked the lights and ventilation, and hoped for the best.

Lunch was the so-called box lunch.  I grabbed a plate of food, took it up to my room, and relaxed over my workshop notes.  Back down to the room by 1:00, then lingered outside until 1:15, when I stuck my head in and asked if they could finish soon.  It was a small group, and Yvonne was more than gracious (which is her usual mood; by the way, she is such a lovely woman).  Still, I hope that future Conference planners will remember to leave sufficient time between sessions.  30 minutes is optimal, 15 minutes at minimum, please!

Karen Chace was all I could ask for in a host, she helped me pass out handouts, bookmarks, penguin stickers, chocolate, and took care of everything I needed.  My workshop Story Play itself was such a joy.  There were so many flashes of pure brilliance!  I wish I could remember everything, and everybody who was in there.  All I can say is that people felt free to try new things, people laughed, people worked together, and it was terrific.  I was so proud of everybody who attended.  And I was so exhausted when it was over!  Back up to my room, and my hot pot, and a nice, long, leisurely cup of tea and chocolates, as well as some of the unexpected goodies in my presenter bag.  Many thanks to the committees (workshop & swap) for the surprises!

I was ON TIME for the Oracle awards banquet!  And I had time to change into a nice outfit, rather than one I had sweated through.  It was a joy to finally meet Jackie Baldwin.  She is just as sweet and passionate as she is online.  Her daughter and son flew out to be with her, and I could feel their pride radiating through her.  It was so good to be there to support both Jackie, and Karl Hallsten, for their hours of work.  And it was wonderful that they used their speeches to not only dwell on their many accomplishments, but to speak of their visions for the future.  It was also good to be there to support Colleen Shaskin and Tina Rhode, the WonderWeavers, long-time friends from Northlands, and Sue O'Halloran of Illinois.  Another friend who received an award, Lorna MacDonald Czarnota, was not able to be at the ceremony, but it was good to hear her work being honored at the National Level.

So, because I wanted to be there to support my friends, I was late to the next round of Fringe shows.  And, instead of sitting on the floor outside and trying to figure out what I missed, I forced a certain red-headed friend (kicking and screaming, let me assure you) down to the bar for a quick drink.  This, of course, made us LATE FOR THE NEXT FRINGE!  Darn.  I dont remember exactly what happened next, although I do remember something about penguin stickers and somebodys pillow???  But at last I was ON TIME for the Storytell Swap.

This started, of course, late!  But it was a joy to see and hear everybody from the Listserv who attended.  And how impressed I was, by how much we have all grown in the past few years (artistically, of course).  I didnt quite understand that we were supposed to take a gift as we told, and at the end of the evening, there were still quite a few lovely items left on the table.  I took a couple, and handed them out to other Storytell-ers as I saw them later.  Rita and Tango and I headed back up to our room, where Tango must have realized how much I missed my little pup, because she jumped into bed with me and stayed a good portion of the night.  I have insomnia, and only slept about 4 hours that night, but it was so comforting to reach out and stroke her soft fur during the sleepless hours.  Thanks again Rita, for being so generous with Tango. 

Sunday morning I was bound and determined to make it to the General Sessions.  I wanted to be there for the Future of Storytelling!  You guessed it, I missed it.  I did make it for the final Our Community exercise, and was delighted to be part of the Kingdom of Her Hineyness, Queen Jane. Ive never served as hairdresser for a queen before, it was, dare I say, a crowning achievement?  It was fun, and good to share final blessings with Kate Dudding, whose advocating energy Ive long admired. 

Afterwards, they asked us to clear the room while they reset for the concert.  I was privileged to stay and listen to Barra sing her haunting Redbird song, in honor of her father.  It is a memory that I will long hold dear to my heart.  Thank you, Barra, for letting me share the moment.

After a quick lunch, I did what I had been longing to do all weekend.  I walked across the park, sat at the junction of the two rivers, and dipped my fingers into the headwaters of the Ohio River.  I called my husband and told him that someday we would have to bring the boat up here.  Im ready whenever you are, he answered. 

Back into the hotel for the National Concert, and again, I was a little later than I planned, but not too bad.  This time I got to sit with some of my friends from the Northlands board I miss those folks!  The concert was great.  I had never heard Bil Lepp, and he was a hoot.  I really enjoyed Dan Yashinskys story, although he rambled too much when he started a habit he warned us about on Friday.  Gay Duceys story was very cute, Donna Washingtons story was tragically funny, and Dan was powerful, as always.  Elizabeth Ellis made a terrific emcee, I am always so inspired by her, and YES, she looked GOOD!  

David Joe Miller and Amy (last name?) were kind enough to let me share a taxi, although Amy opted at the last minute to take the shuttle, so I didnt get a chance to get to know her.  David Joe was a great companion, and I really enjoyed getting to know him better.  Darn, I wish we had a whole day for a Storytell Swap, so we could all get to tell and talk!

I do want to make sure I add in kudos for those who worked so hard to make the conference a success.  I loved seeing the volunteers in those bright yellow t-shirts.  What a great idea, and so visible!  It was good to meet most of the NSN staff other than Rishi, I think there has been a complete changeover since I helped with the Chicago conference.  Faces may have changed, but I still found everyone to be personable and professional.  Kudos to Mary Morgan Smith, Joe Wos,  Barra our Magnificent Bard, and everybody who headed a committee, or chaired an event, or contributed in some way.  Its a monumental task, and I hope you will all take the next year to recover.  And thats no joke.

My flight left Pittsburgh about 30 minutes late, but I was back into Midway and out of the prepaid offsite lot with 10 minutes to spare before they charged me for an extra day of parking.  Finally, at last, I was EARLY for something!

Woo-Hoo!  Just got back from my first full week of Summer Reading shows.  I am having SO MUCH FUN sharing my new show, Adventures on the Water.  Several hundreds kids have been singing about the Magic Fish, howling in Captain Geronimo's Noisy Night, and dancing their way through Baby Shark.  Not to mention the 3 victims/volunteers who get to help me show them how to watch out for pirates. 

Six more weeks to go.  I can't believe they pay me to do this! I LOVE my job!!!!   

It's 90 degrees in the shade today, and my husband is complaining about the heat.  Here's something I wrote about REAL heat, back when we were living and traveling onboard our boat, The Day-Lea "G" in the sunny, sticky, sweltering south.

Well, its been hot.  And humid.

Weve gotten some messages recently from family and friends living in the blessed climes of the North.  These notes all claim that it is hot and humid back home.

But, weve just spent the first half of July in the South.  Weve traveled by boat through Tennessee, Alabama, and now Mississippi.  And while I hate to accuse our beloved correspondents of lying, the truth of the matter is this.

They have no idea what they are talking about.  Because down here, its hot.

Its so hot down here that butter melts in the store and eggs hard boil in the refrigerator. Milk turns sour inside the cows.  A triple-dip ice cream sundae lasts 27 and a half seconds in the shade before melting completely including the cherry.

Its so hot down here that the law decrees all dogs and cats must be kept inside air-conditioned buildings during the day.  Because if they do go outside in the sun, they immediately shed their coats and run around town naked, scandalizing the town folks and accumulating citations for indecent exposure.

Its so hot down here that a person with steam rising from their ears isnt necessarily angry.

Its so hot down here that 99% of each sentence spoken evaporates the minute it leaves our mouths, distilling conversations down to an essential yup and nope and dunno.

Its so hot down here that world speed records for running are broken by anyone fool enough to go barefoot.

Its so hot down here that all the trees, bushes, shrubs, flowers, and grass are continuously bursting into spontaneous combustion.  Luckily, the high humidity immediately puts out those fires. 

Its so humid down here that every day we cut out a big chunk of air and slice it into 1-inch squares.  We throw those into the freezer in the morning so that we have enough ice cubes for our evening drinks.

The humidity is so thick down here that it scrapes the paint right off the sides of the boat every day we travel.  We have to repaint every night. 

Its so humid here that we have to dive into the water to get a breath of air.

Of course, the river water is so hot down here, that fish come out of it pre-cooked, and have to be thrown into a red-hot skillet to cool them down enough to eat. 

All this heat and humidity creates the perfect breeding grounds for gigantic bugs.  Down here they grow horse flies as big as horses, dragonflies as big as dragons, and Mayflies as big as July.   The furniture companies down here harvest insect wings to use in ceiling fans.

True Southerners sit beneath those ceiling fans.  Wearing their long sleeved, buttoned to the neck shirts and long pants, they coolly tell us, Oh, not, this aint hot yet.  Just wait until August.

I never used to tell stories.  That was before I went to Ireland.  I went there to take a class in storytelling.  My plane landed at Shannon Airport, just outside of Limerick, on the River Shannon.  I took a bus to my hotel and checked in.  My roommate hadnt arrived, and I was too excited to stay inside and wait.  Instead, I decided to take a walk around.

There was a large garden behind the hotel, sweeping back into a wood. It was a hot, sunny afternoon, and the shade looked so inviting.  I could see a little dirt path pattering beneath the trees.  I could hear the sound of water trickling down that way, and decided to go exploring.

Nobody warned me about the fog.  When conditions are just right, fog rolls quickly up the Shannon from the sea.  I saw a few wisps floating through the branches, and just as I realized what it was, I was completely surrounded by a white blindness. 

I should have just sat down and waited for it to clear, but I didnt.  Instead, I panicked.  I ran back toward the hotel or at least, where I thought the hotel should be.  But it wasnt there.  The trees grew thicker, the path disappeared beneath my feet, and I kept stumbling forward, pushing my way through bushes and tripping over rocks.  Without the sun, it was cold and damp.  I couldnt stop shaking.

The ground started tilting, and I felt myself walking uphill.  Suddenly I burst out from the fog, and found myself at the top.   It was like an island; complete surrounded by the fog.  At the summit was a small cottage.  Smoke was rising from the chimney.  I went up to the door and knocked.

An old woman opened the door.  What do you want?

Im sorry, Im lost I was at the hotel and I came exploringand the fogdo you think I could come inside, get warm, and stay until the fog lifts?

The woman beckoned me in, and sat me down on a small 3-legged stool by the small fire.  It was a turf fire, made from blocks of earth harvested from the bogs.  The smell was unusual, but not unpleasant.  The woman sat down in a chair facing me.  Now, she said, tell me a story.

I started to apologize.  Oh, Im so sorry.  I came to Ireland to take a class to learn how to tell stories.  But the class doesnt start until tomorrow.  I dont know any stories yet.

No stories?  Are you sure?

I felt kind of foolish.  Uh, no, maam.

Well, you cant stay here for nothing.  If you dont have a story to share, youll have to work to earn your keep.  Take that bucket out to the well and fill it.  She pointed to a bucket along the wall.  I picked it up, and opened the door.  I had no idea where the well was, or what a well even looked like, but I could tell she already didnt think much of me, and I didnt want her kick me out completely.

The door closed behind me and WHOOSH!  A great wind swept me up into the sky!  I lost the bucket, and I lost my bearings.  CRASH!  The wind dropped me down into a valley.  I checked my arms and legs, but nothing felt broken.  I stood up and looked around.  There was a little house, not far from where I stood, and a light was glowing in the window.  How strange it was night!

I went up to the house, walked in through the door.  There were people sitting around in chairs, and a corpse lay out on a table.  I had walked right into a wake.  Oh, Im so sorry, I started to say as I tried to back out the door.  But it was too late.  Come, come, weve been waiting for you! said a red-haired man, and he pushed a hammer and nails into my hands.  Heres Brian OBrian laid out to rest, and weve nobody to build him a coffin!  Youll have to do it.

Me?  I dont know how to build a coffin! I protested, but he hustled me out back to a pile of wood.  That hammer came to life in my hands and started in to work.  I couldnt stop it.  It danced and skittered and pounded across the planks until a coffin sat ready to be filled.

Hurry along, now, called the red-haired man, and he dragged me back into the house, took away the hammer, and pushed a fiddle & bow into my sore hands.  Heres Brian OBrian laid out to rest, and nobody to play music for the wake!

Music?  I dont play the fiddle, I tried to tell him, but one hand stuck that fiddle under my chin, the other grabbed the bow and I started to play one jig after another.  I couldnt stop.  And all the folks got up from their chairs and began to dance around.

Enough music, commanded the red-haired man, and he took the fiddle and bow from me.  Now its time for you to say the Mass for good Brian OBrian

I cant say Mass! I tried to tell him, Im a girl!  And Im not even Catholic!  But in a flash I was dressed in vestments saying the Mass.  In Latin, mind you.  Or at least, I think it was Latin.  The words just came pouring out of my mouth, and I couldnt stop.

Enough church, declared the red-haired man.  Now its time to take Brian OBrian to the cemetery. 

Guess who got to put Brian OBrian into his coffin? 

Three pallbearers stepped up to the coffin when I had nailed the lid shut.  Two of them were my height, and one was seven feet tall.  Youll need to shorten that one, said the red-haired man, handing me a saw.

I cant cut off his legs! I said, but the giant sat down, stuck out his legs and that saw cut him off at the knee.  I couldnt stop it!  With the surgery done, the man got up and we took our places at the coffin.  Out we walked into the cemetery, following the red-haired man. 

Quickly, called the red-haired man, weve no one to dig a grave for Brian OBrian, and he handed me a shovel. 

I cant dig a grave, I moaned, as the shovel bent me over and started to work.  Faster and faster it dug, until the dirt was flying all around and the hole was six feet deep. 

Thats good enough, said the red-haired man, Catch!  He swung the coffin at me and I jumped out of the way and started to run.

WHOOSH!  A great wind swept me up into the sky!  I lost the shovel, and I lost my bearings.  CRASH!  The wind dropped me down at the door of the cottage at the top of the hill.  I opened the door, looked at the old woman and said, Have I got a story to tell you!

And I did!  She fed me a grand dinner in exchange for my tale.  Then she lit a lantern and walked me back to the hotel through the clearing fog. 

The next morning, as our bus was leaving the hotel, I asked the driver if he knew of the old cottage on the hill on the other side of the forest.  He drove for a few miles, then pointed.  Theres the hill, miss.

There it was, indeed.  And that tumbled ruin of rock hadnt been lived in for many, many years.

Time for another installment on the Ireland trip.  Check out the Connemara road hazard on the slide show on my profile page - this chapter explains more about it.

Ireland Saturday, September 17, 2005

The alarms went off in the night.  Twice.  At the first alert I was out of bed and at the door, ready to check for heat, or smoke.  But there was nothing, and no babble of panicky voices.  Moms sleepy voice muttered, What was that?  False alarm, probably somebody went through a door they shouldnt have opened.  When the second alert sounded, I stayed in bed, straining to hear sounds indicating trouble.  But deep silence reigned, and we both drifted back to sleep.

The intense nausea of the previous evening was thankfully gone in the morning, but I felt wobbly.  A nice, cold, flat glass of ginger ale was all I wanted.  We went down for breakfast, and I sought out Treasa in the kitchen.  Im so sorry I didnt get to enjoy the rest of the meal last night, I apologized.  She was very sympathetic.  Oh, and are you feeling better this morning?  I asked her if she had anything like ginger ale, or coca cola.  Ah, no, I dont keep any of that in the house, because I dont want my children drinking it.  But Sabrina can run over to the pub and bring you a glass.  Sure enough, as I returned to our table in the dining room, there went Sabrina, over the field with her apron still tied around her waist, and her bare feet pressing down the damp, green grass.  She returned a few minutes later, carrying a large paper cup brimming with coca cola.  It looked incongruous sitting next to my china plate, but the syrup helped settle my stomach to near normalcy.

Linda, a guest of the house from Florida, joined us for breakfast.  She had been sitting with us the night before when I had to make my abrupt departure, and she had offered Mom some anti-nausea medication for me.  Are you going up to the fort this morning? she asked.  Ill try, I assured Mom.  We asked Treasa about arrangements for getting back to the harbor to catch the noon ferry, then began our trek to the Dun Aengus. 

Our lodging at Kilmurvey House included free admission to this heritage site.  We viewedt the exhibits at the Visitors Centre, then began the ascent up the hill.  At first the route was smooth and paved.  We stopped several times to admire the view, (and to let my wobbly knees recover).  The higher we climbed, the rockier the path.  The pavement gave way to ancient rock steps, worn and slippery.  Our final ascent was almost perpendicular, over steps worn to crumbling fragments.  We huffed our way up and through the first wall.

Dun Aengus (the Fort of Aengus) is one of the few complete ring forts still remaining in Europe.  It is composed of three concentric semicircles that end at a sheer cliff face, with a 600 foot drop to the sea below.  Traditionally, the fort is thought to have been originally built by the Fir Bolg, and was the last refuge of the Fomorians, before the Celts overran the islands.  Mom went all the way up into the upper circle.  I found a comfortable rock inside the outer wall, and rested my wobbly knees and wretched stomach on it, contentedly watching pale butterflies play in the grass.  

Descending from the fort was even trickier than the ascent.  We tested each foothold cautiously, fingers clinging to the rock wall and wire fencing.  Out of the Visitors Centre, we stopped to greet a horse grazing in the field.  I wondered if he would be put to work soon, pulling visitors in a carriage through the stony lanes. 

At Kilmurvey House, a mini-bus stood waiting to take travelers back to the port.  We grabbed out bags from our room, thanked Treasa once again for her hospitality (no, she did not charge us for my abandoned dinner!) and boarded the bus, along with several others.  A rather put-out man took the drivers seat.  And how much did they charge you to bring you up here? he asked.  Obviously he had been pressed into service to take us back to the town.  We gave him our three Euros each, and he dropped us off by the pier.  Have a good trip back, ladies.  The carriages were already lined up at the dock.  A wedding was supposed to take place up at the Fort that afternoon, and 300 guests were expected to arrive for the occasion.  Even if we had wanted to stay another night on Inishmore, there were no rooms to be had. 

Winds were kicking up as we boarded the ferry.  There were several boats floating around moorings in the harbor.  I noticed one in particular, a small sailboat named Papageno.  I think thats the same sailboat that was tied up at Ballyvaughan, I pointed out to Mom. The ferry headed out into the swells of the Atlantic crossing.  Out of the shelter of land, we rolled a bit, and a spray of sea spat across the deck.  Weve been kissed by the sea God Mannan MacLir, I told Mom, and hummed a bit of Brian Leos Inishmore By Morning:

In the name of the sea god Manann MacLir,

(oh! the cold of the sea!)

I swear, good lads, we have naught to fear,

and it's Inishmore, lads, by mornin'.

We have bested the ice and the wind and snow

(oh! the cold of the sea!)

but a warm bed's waitin' after one more blow,

and it's Inishmore, lads, by mornin'.

Then scan the skies and man your lines.

The sea turns with no warnin'.

Each wave we crash is a wave behind,

and it's Inishmore, lads, by mornin'.

By the time we reached the quiet waters of Rossaveel, my stomach was churning again.  It was my turn to drive the car, but I gave the honors over to Mom, and crawled into the passenger seat.  Youre a good navigator, she said approvingly, as I mastered our inaccurate maps to wend our way into the hills of Connemara.

Connemara is a barren land of rolling, treeless mountains, fringed with numerous silvery bays and inlets.  We drove through miles of bogs and fields, sheep grazing along the roadway with a nonchalant disregard of fences or traffic.  Our car often came within feet of their decorative wooly bodies.  Silly things! Mom exclaimed, after she pulled over to photograph one of them, placidly cropping greenery inches from the narrow roadway.  Farmers spray-paint their sheep with distinctive patterns, then let them roam.  When the sheep are gathered for the shearing, the wool is bleached, and the dye comes out.

The Connemara loop took us through Costello, and Cashel, past Roundstone, and round the mountain range known as the Twelve Bens, then up to Clifden by lunchtime, where banners proclaimed this to be a special Crafts Weekend.  We found a café near the Station House Museum offering tomato-basil soup, and the warm, creamy broth and simple brown bread helped dissipate most of my lingering waves of nausea.  We discussed finding a place to stay for the night, but it felt too early to stop traveling, even though it was a tempting town.  And it tried to keep us, too, as we missed the turn out of town, and had to circle back.

Up through Letterfrack we drove, then I asked Mom to pull over again at a marked drive.  We wont stay, I told her, but you have to see this.  We pulled into the car park, came round the pond, and the majesty of Kylemore Abbey emerged before our eyes.  Oh, my goodness, breathed Mom.  Nestled between a towering green crag and a peaceful lake, this stately stone mansion glows with an ageless serenity.  Formerly a private residence, Kylemore is now the home of the Benedictine Nuns in Ireland, and operates as a girls boarding school.  Tours are available, but we elected to just linger by the pond and drink in the peaceful view.

Back in the car, we followed rounded the turn into the beautiful village of Leeanane, which I mistakenly remembered as the location of the John Wayne film, The Quiet Man.  (It was actually filmed in Cong.). The road followed the long ribbon of the Killary Harbour, giving us a good view of the floating mussel flats in the waters of this fjord.  Steep mountains rose on both sides of the waterway, gifting us with incredible scenery at every bend in the road and there were many bends in the road!

Later afternoon sunlight glanced off the summit of Crough Patrick as we entered the bustling town of Westport.  Just past the town centre, we passed a small B&B.  Mom parked round the corner, and we unfolded our travel-weary bodies from our seats.  A ring of the doorbell brought a stern-looking landlady to the door.  No, I havent a room for two ladies, she said dubiously, unless you dont mind sharing a bed.  She had two rooms left with a double bed, one miniscule but with a private bath, the other slightly larger with a shared bath, both painted pink.  Are all their bedrooms painted pink? Mom wondered as we attempted to cram our luggage into the larger of the two rooms. 

Westport has a growing reputation for traditional music.  Matt Molloy of the Chieftans owns one of the pubs, and is known to pop in unexpectedly to sit in on the sessions.  We thought it might be fun to find the place.  We asked our landlady for a recommendation for a place for dinner, too.  She gave us directions that were amazing convoluted for a small town, for a pub we never found.

Walking back into town, we were struck by the smells.  Pubs and shops lined the narrow streets.  Diesel fumes from the heavy traffic mixed with the choking cigarette smoke from the pub-goers lingering outdoors with their contraband.  Smoking inside commercial establishments has been banned throughout the Republic of Ireland.  I felt the days incipient nausea creeping back, and longed for a nice, clean salad in a quiet setting.  Which we found in a little bistro, just down from the library, and less than a block from our B&B. 

Westport might be noted for its music, but again, we were too tired to stay up for the evening sessions.  We went back to our B&B, and turned in for an early bedtime.  Mom stayed awake for a while and read, but I was in dreamland long before she turned off the light. 

I just spent the weekend at the Northlands Storytellng Network

conference in Madison, Wisconsin.  I was a co-presenter for a

showcase titled "Old Tales for the New Millennium."  As part of this

showcase each of us developed a new story, based on an old folktale. 

 Several people asked if they could read mine, so here it is. 

The Armless Maiden: An original retelling by Leanne Johnson

The Maiden had a happy childhood.  She was the cherished daughter of a Miller and his wife.  They didnt have much, just their mill on the outskirts of town, and an apple tree in the back yard.  But that was all they needed.

Like the Maiden in the Story, I had a happy childhood, too.  I was the cherished daughter of a Mechanic and his wife.  I had a little sister who was my best friend, when she wasnt being a pain in the neck.  We didnt have much, just our apartment near my Dads gas station.  But I was the apple of my Dads eye.  And he needed me!  Do you want to help me go fishing? Do you want to help me go boating? Do you want to help me finish eating all the black olives?  We both loved sticking those olives on our fingers, and eating them.   

In both stories, everything was perfect, until the Stranger came.

The Miller called him the Devil.  The Devil threatened, Hand over your daughter, or I will destroy your family.  But the Miller said, No! You cant have my little girl!

A Stranger came to my family, too.  But it wasnt the Devil.  No, I thought it seemed worse, scarier, and much more threatening.  It was Adolescence.  Adolescence threatened, Hand over your daughter, or I will destroy your family.  But my Dad said, No! You cant have my little girl! 

The Miller tried to keep the Devil away from the Maiden.  Wash yourself, dress yourself in pure white clothing, and I will draw a circle of protection around you.   And when the Devil first reached to take her, he could not break through the circle.

My Dad tried to keep Adolescence away from me, too.  Why dont you wear that cute little dress your mother sewed for you? He tried to draw a protective circle of family around me.  And when Adolescence first reached out to take me, it couldnt break through that circle.

In both stories, the Stranger would not go away.

The Devil was determined to take the Maiden.  He demanded, Stop washing, and sully that white clothing. Let yourself become dirty so I can touch you. She grew filthy.  Her clothing became tattered, and torn.  Then the Devil demanded, Now, reach your arms across the circle so I can take you!  But as she did, she began to weep.  Her tears fell on her arms, and washed them clean.

Adolescence was determined to take me away, too.  It demanded, Get rid of that cute little pixie hairdo! So I grew it into a long, lank, unbecoming but very fashionable - hairstyle.   Have some acne! and Adolescence threw it all over my face.  Grow up, and my compact little body became gangly, and awkward.  Those cute little dresses my mom sewed didnt fit my new figure and they just werent cool. 

The Devil scowled at the Maiden.  I cant touch you when youre clean!  Miller, fetch a silver-lipped axe. Cut off your daughters clean arms so I can take her.  If you dont, I will destroy your family.  The Miller didnt want to want to do this, but the Maiden pleaded.  Do it, father, save our family.  So he did.  He broke through his protective circle, and he did as the Devil demanded.  The Devil reached one last time for the Maiden.  But her tears began to flow again, so hard and so fast that they washed her completely clean.  Three times the Devil had tried to claim her, and three times failed.  And in folktales, third times the charm.  The Devil screeched, Youre no use to me now! and he went away.

Unlike Adolescence.  By now I was rebellious, self-conscious and terribly clumsy.  Adolescence forced me to trip over my own feet.  I fell and broke through my Dads protective circle.  When I did, Adolescence claimed me for its own.  And when that happened, my Dad retreated within the circle, and sealed himself off.  He stopped talking to me. He cut me off.  He severed all interaction, as if with a silver-lipped axe. I was no use to him anymore. He went fishing by himself.  He went boating by himself.  At dinner, we ate our olives silently, from separate dishes with forks. 

Oh, I had friends that said, Your Dad doesnt talk to you?  You are SO lucky!  But, I didnt feel lucky.  Like the Maiden, who had no physical way to reach out, I didnt know how to reach out to my Dad.  And it hurt.

In both stories, Time passed.

The Maiden grew up.  She left her family and went out to wander in the wild world.  It was tough going, without arms or hands to reach out.  So much communication is in touch, and gesture.  And without arms, how to eat?  The Maiden came to an exotic garden, filled with pears.  The trees lowered their boughs so that she could nourish herself on the fruit.  The garden was owned by a King, who rescued the Maiden, and fell in love with her.  They were married, and lived in great joy.  The Maiden gave birth to a perfect child. 

I grew up, too.  I left my family and went out to wander in the wild business world.  It was tough going.  I had never really developed the skills to communicate with those male authority figures you know, the ones who were doing the hiring for those high-paying jobs.  But, like the Maiden, I too found an exotic garden, owned by a King, who I married, and thought we would live in great joy.  But, well, it didnt work out.  So, I left, hoping that in real life, unlike folktales, this wasnt one of those motifs that happens in threes. 

More time passed.  I found another King, with another garden a floating one.  (He owned a boat.) We were married, and live in great joy.  And we too have a perfect child well, other than the fact that he has four legs and a tail, and says "woof."

In both stories, there came a final twist.

The King wanted to give the Maiden a gift that would help her reach out.  So he gave her a pair of silver arms.   Next in her story, there was a complicated series of misdirected messages.  Then, in a final, magical transformation, the Maidens silver arms became flesh and blood.  And she was reunited with her family.  Ah, finally a happy ending, to a rather gruesome folktale.

My own King also wanted to give a gift that would help me reach out.  And so, he gave me.a laptop.   In my own story, a series of messages also followed.  These were simple and direct they were emails.  They went something like this:

To:  My Dad at juno dot com.

From: Your Daughter at leannetells dot com.

Dear Dad, Do you want to come fishing? Do you want to come boating?  Do you want to come for dinner?  Ill have olives. 

And his reply, no matter what the actual words said, was always the same:

Dear Daughter, I love you.

original retelling by Leanne Johnson. Copyright 2006.  All rights reserved.

Ireland Friday, September 16, 2005

Good morning, ladies!  And would you both like the full Irish breakfast? was the cheery greeting from Mary, Charlies wife.  We had just seated ourselves in the warm, cozy dining room.  A German family filled the large table in the corner, while three adults sporting Green Bay regalia occupied the fireside table.  What exactly is the full Irish? we asked, and Mary explained.  Her full Irish fried breakfast consisted of eggs, bacon, sausages, toast, tea or coffee, plus the cold cereal, yogurt and fruit that already lay on the side table.  Mom asked if we could possibly split a breakfast and Mary assured us that would be no problem indeed, no trouble at all.  My stomach, never very happy at the thought of food in the morning, and still attempting to digest the previous nights rich repast, gurgled slightly.

The Green Bay group hailed from Wisconsin, from Madison and points north.  They were just finishing up their tour of Ireland, and had traced their familys roots.  They had stayed the night before in Clifton, and recommended it highly.  But we already had plans for the day, so I filed it away in my memory, along with Charlies suggestion that we drive through the Glens of Antrim if we made it as far north as the Giants Causeway.

Packed and ready to go, we paid Mary for our lodging, and asked her about the name of the house.  It was originally owned by two ladies from Czechoslovakia, who named it Prague House in honor of their old home.  When Charlie and I bought it, we basically gutted the place, but kept the name. Then she pointed to a large, regally dressed doll on the mantle in the dining room.  Do you know about the Infant of Prague?  On our wedding day, all Irish couples receive a statue of the Infant for their home.  Thats the one Charlie and I got, and because this is Prague House, I put it there for everyone to see!

Bags packed into the boot, we went across the street to the small grocery for more bottled water, then into the pharmacy next door.  Finally, a battery for my camera that fit!  In celebration, I snapped a photo of Mom outside the shop, then off we went for another adventure.

Our route led us along the rocky northern shoreline of Galway Bay, and into the fields of Connemara.  Mountains loomed ahead, and moors filled with yellow gorse and purple heather stretched from the roadway.  We followed the signs to Spiddal, and pulled off at the large Craft Village outside of town.  Because we were visiting in the off-season, and because it was still fairly early in the morning, many of the shops were closed.  But we enjoyed a talk with the owner of the music shop, and I bought the CD he was playing, by Lasairfhiona, titled Flame of Wine.  (Dont ask me how to pronounce her name, but her voice is hauntingly lovely.)  We visited the weavers shop, where Mom tried on a beautiful rainbow shawl that suited her perfectly.  I tried to steer her into buying a less colorful brown and green one, not because of any altruistic motive, more because I wanted the colorful one for myself!  The weaver had another lovely garment on the loom, and a shy dog alternately doing his own weaving around her ankles, and propping his paws up on the counter to assess our threatening appearance.  He wouldnt accept any caresses from us.  I purchased a crocheted wool cap, made by a local woman in her 80s.  It turned out to be one of my most useful purchases, as I wound up wearing it almost every day for the rest of the trip.

The road led through Spiddal, and we parked and walked about.  A large church occupies a prominent spot in town, and we walked behind it to view the ruins, the old crosses, and the muddy bottom of the harbor.  Must be low tide.  We stopped at the bank to exchange some of our American money for Euros.  Mom handed the teller a $100 bill, the woman handed it back.  Im so sorry; we cant exchange bills that large.  Youll have to take it round to the travel agent; they can change it for you.  Sure enough, the travel agent was happy to provide the service.  Oh, thats no problem indeed, no trouble at all.

We walked through the public library on our way back to the car, a tiny two-room building hosting a display by a local artist of rather questionable talent.  Finally we climbed back into our car, and set out for our next destination.

Mom was driving, so I played navigator.  When the sign with the boat loomed up, I directed her to take the road to the left.  We pulled into Rossaveel and the jetties were before us.  Mom pulled into the first Ferry Parking lot we saw, and we walked to the waters edge.  I dont think this is where we are supposed to park, I said after a bit, and we pulled out her guide books.  Nope, there was a free lot farther down, so we got back in the car, found it just beyond the actual ferry dock, and parked.  We got our small suitcases out of the car, locked it up tight, and booked passage to Inis Mor (Inishmore) on the Aran Island ferry.

It was a brisk ride, and I was glad for the warmth of my new hat.  I wanted to sit up on top in the fresh air, since my stomach was still doing little flip flops.  We clutched our warm cups of coffee and tea that we had purchased in the restaurant before boarding.  Mom wrapped her new shawl snugly around her coat, looking both warm and fashionable.  Gradually the spaces around us filled up with travelers of all shapes, sizes, and nationalities.  And species at least one dog was among the outbound passengers. 

The boat maneuvered away from the dock, reversed into the basin, and headed to sea.  Occasional whiffs of diesel fuel drifted past our cold noses, mixed with the salty, slightly fishy air.  We watched the mountains recede behind us, and the shadowy islands slowly take shape in front of us.  About 45 minutes later the ferry entered the harbor of Kilronan, and rafted to a ferry already tied up to the dock.  A gangplank arrangement had us walking from our boat, across the other vessel, and debarking on the concrete pier.  Almost instantly we were assaulted by the aggressively friendly shouts of the tour operators: Take a tour of Inis Mor?  No, thank you, were going to look around town first, we repeated several times.  One enterprising man insisted on giving me his business card.  If you change your minds, he said.  We explained that we wanted to shop a bit, and then go to Kilmurvey House, where we had reservations for the evening.  Ah, then, youll be wanting to leave your bags at the Tourist Information booth, theyll watch them for you for a small charge, and you wont have to drag them all over town. Then you can have them call me when youre ready to go.  We thanked him for the information, found the Tourist office and checked our bags right away.  The friendly attendant asked where we were staying, and told us not to take the touring carriages up to the House.  Oh, no, just take the city bus, you can catch it outside the supermarket at 4:00, it will just cost you 3 Euros each instead of 10 for the tour, and youll cover the same route.

Once outside the Tourist office we were again subject to the soliciting of tour drivers, wheeling past in their horse-drawn carriages and mini-buses.  We finally took refuge inside the Aran Sweater market.  There we spent a long, luxurious hour lingering over the soft mounds of absolutely gorgeous sweaters.  Mom indulged in a stunning cream-colored cardigan with a unique basket-weave pattern on the front.  I wasnt going to buy a sweater, since I had already bought one in Doolin, but when I chanced upon that long green one, flecked with bright colors and marked down because it was an end-of-the-line item with a discontinued pattern, well, you cant have too many sweaters while visiting Ireland!

We finally escaped the shop, with time to spare before catching the public bus.  My stomachs little flip-flops were increasing, and so we decided to find a place to sit, and a warm drink to sip while waiting.  There was a little tea shop next to the supermarket (a.k.a. small grocery store).  I was afraid that tea wouldnt sit well, so I asked for hot chocolate instead.  We sat at the table by the window, and listened to the lively voices around us.  I wondered what the older gentleman was talking about when I heard Condaleeza Rice in the midst of his emphatic Gaelic. 

A white mini-bus arrived, and we were the only passengers waiting to board.  Do you go up by Kilmurvey House? we asked anxiously, unsure if we had the right information.  Of course, that will be no problem indeed, no trouble at all, assured the driver.  He popped into the supermarket for a few minutes, then the coffee shop.  We didnt know if he was getting supplies, using the facilities, or trying to round up some more passengers.  But when he finally boarded the bus, we were still the only passengers.  Now, then, ladies, did you take one of the island tours today?  No?  Well, Ill give you the whole 10 Euro tour for your 3 Euro fare! 

In less than a minute we had topped the hill, and left the town behind.  The landscape was almost lunar, with patches of green separated by lines of stone walls.  The Aran Islands are formed from a ridge of karst limestone, similar to the stone of the Burren.  Farmers cleared the land by breaking up the large rock pavements, piling up the pieces to form walls.  Inishmore is less than 10 miles long, but it is estimated that there are over 1000 miles of stone walls on the island.  There is no concrete or mortar holding the walls together, and I read that they are remarkable in their strength, especially considering the high winds and storms that strike these Atlantic islands.  Our driver told us that about 700 people reside on the island, and there are two schools for the children.  A third school recently closed, and declining admission at the other two will probably soon force them down into one school.  Our driver was also not a native of the Islands, but had married an Island girl.  Mom laughed.  Ah, so you had to move here to be with HER family?  Well, thats only right!

Kilmurvey is the second main village on Inishmore, about 4 miles from the harbor.  Our driver pointed out a large beach on our right.  It flies the blue flag, and the waters are perfectly clean.  To which I replied, ah, but wouldnt we be finding it a bit cold swimming this time of year?  He chuckled and agreed.  Kilmurvey House was about a half mile up the hill from the beach.  Here you go, ladies.  Kilmurvey House.  It used to belong to the landlord, you know.  He was an Englishman named Johnson.  We laughed, told him that our name was also Johnson, thanked him for the ride and the impromptu tour, gathered our bags, and strolled up the long sidewalk.  Nobody answered the doorbell, so we opened the door and peered inside.  A delicious aroma of gourmet cooking tickled our noses.  Hello? we called tentatively.  Still no answer.  We stepped inside, closed the door, and a woman came down the steps.  Oh, did you just arrive?  Shes probably in the kitchen.  Treasa! You have more guests! 

Treasa came bounding out from the kitchen, a tiny dark-haired woman almost quivering with boundless energy.  Oh, you must be the Johnsons!  Youre very welcome indeed.  Im so sorry I didnt hear you come in, the bell isnt working; let me carry your bags up to your room.  Like a small whirlwind she grabbed one of the bags and headed upstairs.  We had no choice but to bob along in her wake.  Our room was up the long carpeted stairs, down the long carpeted hallway to the very end.  She swung open the white door to reveal a tastefully decorated (pink again) room, and one of the most beautiful bathrooms Id ever seen.  Will this be all right? And what would you like to do for dinner? You could go down to the pub, its about a 10-minute walk, or you could have dinner here, we have several guests dining with us tonight.  Dinner is 20 Euros each.  I would just need to know very soon so that I can make arrangements.  And Ill be starting a fire in the parlor in an hour or so, if youd like to come down and sit for a while before dinner. 

Without discussion, Mom and I agreed that the fragrant preview of coming dinner attractions was too much to resist.  Treasa disappeared back into the kitchens, Mom quietly reveled over todays shopping treasures, and I stretched out on the smaller bed, sternly telling my stomach to settle down and behave.  It fussed and moaned, but eventually gurgled its way into submission, and Mom suggested we go down to the parlor.

An older couple was already ensconced on one sofa, watching the television.  In a short amount of time we had met Janelle, Howard, Peg, Leslie, Paulette and Paul all members of one family who had hired a coach for their own personal family tour of Ireland.  It didnt take long to find we shared a similar sense of humor, and we had a great time talking.  At one point Mom mentioned that I was a storyteller, news that was greeted with great delight.  Oh, would you please tell us a story after dinner?  Would I?  Tell stories by the fireplace of the parlor of the old landlords house on the Aran island of Inishmore???

Alas, it was not meant to be.  My traitorous stomach took two spoonfuls of Treasas excellent soup and rebelled.  I muttered my excuses and fled the dining room, cursing that long carpeted flight of stairs and that long carpeted hallway, trying valiantly not to be sick before I could unlock our room and gain the refuge of the bathroom.  It was a very good thing the hallway wasnt any longer, and I managed to make it to safety before losing Treasas soup, Marys excellent breakfast, and quite possibly some of that sinfully rich seafood ravioli from the night before.

So, there was no storytelling that evening by me.  The only story I heard was from Mom, who later filled in the exquisite details of the rest of the gourmet meal that I had missed.  Or, as I like to think of it, the story of the most expensive soup Ive ever eaten in my life.

It's the Day After Easter - you know, when those pretty dyed eggs from yesterday are starting to look a little less appealing?  So, I thought it would be fun to post one of my favorite egg stories.  It's a traditional American folk tale known as The Mule Egg.  Of course, I've tweaked it a bit, and put my own Uncle Billy into it as the instigator.  He also was the one who, uh, egged us on when we were kids.  Enjoy! (now I'll have to find a picture of him to post...)

Jack always wanted a pet.  He longed for a dog, but his mother said no.  He longed for a cat, but his father said no.  He longed for a bird, but his brothers and sisters said NO WAY JACK!

Most of all, he longed for a mule.

You know what a mule is, don't you?  It looks kind of like a horse, and kind of like a donkey.  It's brown and shaggy.  Mules aren't too smart, but they're good workers.

Kind of like Jack.

He begged and begged for a mule, but everybody laughed at him.  One day his Uncle Billy decided to teach him a lesson.

Uncle Billy was the kind of Uncle that most folks have somewhere in the family.  He loved to tease folks, and he especially looooooved playing practical jokes.  Jack came in for more than his share of teasing and jokes, because he was just plain gullible.

Now, Uncle Billy owned the general store out in the county.  Jack loved coming to visit.  He loved looking around at all the things for sale.  There was always something unusual, something new, something he had never seen before.  Uncle Billy took great delight in making up goofy explanations for these objects, and Jack always believed him.  Like the day, for example, that he got in a shipment of coconuts.

"What are these?" asked Jack, holding up one of the brown, shaggy spheres.

Uncle Billy started to answer, then leaned back and grinned.  "Why, Jack, don't you know?  That's a mule egg!"

"A mule egg!  Really?  I never knew mules hatched from eggs!"

"Of course they do, Jack!  Why, all you have to do is keep one of these eggs warm day and night.  In about a week, it will crack open.  And out will pop a teeny tiny mule!  Why, if you catch a mule when it's a baby right out of the shell, you can train it to do just about anything."

Well, that did it!  Jack begged and pleaded for a mule egg of his very own.  Uncle Billy hemmed and hawed, then finally agreed.  "All right, Jack.  Tell you what.  If you help me around the store for the rest of the day, I'll give you a mule egg of your very own to take home."

And that is just what happened.  Jack swept the floor, stocked the shelves, and took out the trash.  Finally, Uncle Billy handed him one of those big hairy mule eggs to take home.  Jack tucked it up under his shirt to keep warm, and hurried home.  He treasured that mule egg.  He took it everywhere, wrapped up in a blanket.  He talked to it, and sang it to sleep at night.  And he made all kinds of plans about how he was going to take care of that baby mule when it hatched.

A week went by.  Then another.  And another.  Now, Jack was patient, but even he had his limits.  Uncle Billy had told him it would be only one week, and now three weeks had passed.  One day Jack unwrapped that mule egg, and tapped it.  He didn't hear anything.  He shook it, gently.  All he heard was a slight "sloshing" sound.  He tried cracking the shell with his thumbnail, but it was too hard to crack.

Jack was very sad.  He knew that sometimes chicken laid eggs that never hatched, too.  It was like the babies inside never finished getting born.  Jack figured that his baby mule was never going to get born, either.  And so, with tears running down his face, Jack took that mule egg over to the garbage can by the shed.

Of course, being a boy, he didn't just walk over and set that egg gently in the trash.  Of course not!  He stood back about ten feet, took careful aim and WHOOSH threw that egg into the bin.

Now, what Jack didn't know was that behind that trash can sat a small, brown, shaggy bunny rabbit.  When that mule egg hit the trash can, it made a loud BANG!  That noise scared the rabbit, who jumped up into the air, then took off running.  He ran right between Jack's legs and kept going.

That rabbit was moving so fast that Jack didn't realize it was a rabbit.  All he saw was a teeny tiny brown shaggy creature - and he was convinced that it was his baby mule.  "Wait!" cried Jack, trying to catch that little critter.  "Come back!  Don't you know me?  I'm your Daddy!"

But that rabbit ran right out of this story and into another.  Jack had to be contented with the fact that, although he didn't get to train a baby mule to do just about anything he wanted, at least he got to see one being born.  And that's more than most of us can say.

Ireland Thursday, September 15, 2005

Jet leg is a funny thing.  My body woke me at 11:00 p.m., insisting that it was time to get up.  Certainly at home things were stirring Dayton was probably already up, making his coffee, while Geronimo was probably still huddled in a little ball, buried in a mountain of blankets, with his head on my pillow.  But here in Ireland, it was time for sleep.  I lay awake for almost two hours, listening to Moms soft breathing, and the muted sounds of an Irish night in a quiet village. 

Next thing I knew, sunlight was reaching bleary fingers through the folds of the drapes, and the muted night sounds had been replaced with the patter of raindrops.  Mom was up, filling the hot pot with water for our morning coffee and tea.  We pulled open the drapes and beheld yesterdays lovely shades of green intensified by the glistening raindrops clinging to every available surface. Good thing I bought those travel umbrellas, proclaimed my wise mother.

Breakfast at Rusheen Lodge matched the dcor quietly elegant. We passed on the traditional Full Irish and instead feasted on the beautiful spread of fresh fruit, yogurt, and breads.  Moms eyes went wide at her first bite of real Irish soda bread.  Oh, yum, she sighed happily.  When our small hot orders arrived (poached eggs for me, sausages for her), we tucked in willingly.  Her sausages were delicious, with a very different taste from our links at home.  And my eggs were done just right which came as no surprise.

Replete with food and rest, we packed up our bags, and said our thanks.  I asked if there was a bank in town, but no, there wasnt one.  I hadnt learned yet to ask for an ATM machine that would come later.  Then out we headed, into the rain and clouds.  It was now my turn to drive, and Moms turn to try to refrain from screaming watch out! at every bend. 

We drove back into Ballyvaughan to the local caf, and asked to use their Internet station.  I sent a quick message to Dayton and Dad, letting them both know that their wee Irish lassies had arrived and were doing just fine.  We paid for the connection (one Euro for every 15 minutes) and loaded up with cups of tea and coffee for the morning drive, and some bottled water for later.  (There was a minimum charge of 10 Euros to use a credit card, and I had no cash, and Mom had just a small supply)

Our route led us back through the village, past the bay, and out along the coastline.  We rounded Black Head, a striking scene of wide, bare rocks; bleak, treeless hills; and extremely narrow, stone-lined, twisting, one-car-at-a-time-around-the-bend roads, with a line of low, misty islands visible out in the sea.  At the first village, I pulled over and we took pictures.  There were several other places to pull off as we headed south, back through the Burren.  At one spot several tour coaches had pulled over, and we scooted into a space behind them.  A group of young people were carefully wandering the stony ground, and obliged us by taking a picture of Mom and me together.  We avoided the puddles growing in the center of the large, pale grey, flat limestone outcroppings, and smiled at the lens.  Another group had scaled the steep cliff by the road.  At one time I might have joined them, but, not now, and certainly not in the rain.

We soon reached the outskirts of Doolin, and I saw a sign for the Doolin Craft Shop.  I had picked up one of their brochures at Rusheen, so I pulled into the car park.  Come on, Mom, lets start shopping!

Ah, it was a dangerous shop indeed, filled to the brim with lovely, handcrafted sweaters and jewelry and accessories and gifts.  We both did our best to support the local economy.  The adjoining tea shop smelled heavenly, but we were still too full from our breakfast to partake of the delicacies. 

The rain kept up, intensifying as we reached the fabled Cliffs of Moher.  The dirt parking area I remembered from my last trip has been replaced with a pay-as-you-exit car park, and a Visitors Centre offered information and mementoes.  We took a quick look around and wisely decided to shop AFTER making the trek to the summit.

Cold, driving rain pelted our bodies as we left the Visitors Centre. I took a half dozen steps, and told Mom, Im going back to the car for a minute.  Back to the boot I scuttled, rummaged in the bags, pulled out the new wool sweater I had just bought in Doolin, shrugged off my jacket, popped the sweater over my head, and pulled the jacket back over top.  Instant warmth!  Mom laughed when I reappeared in my finery.  I wish I had bought a wool hat, I told her, as the cold wind whipped past my head.

Up the slick, black path we toiled.  Do you want to sit and rest, Mom? I said as we passed a dilapidated, seatless bench.  She grinned, but elected to remain standing to catch her breath before we tackled the top half of the steep incline.  Ahead, clouds whirled around the summit.  I dont know how much well be able to see, but we have to go up.

According to one of the guides: Situated in County Clare and bordering the Burren Area, the Cliffs of Moher are one of Ireland's most spectacular sights. Standing 230 metres above the ground at their highest point and 8km long, the Cliffs boast one of the most amazing views in Ireland. On a clear day, the Aran Islands are visible in Galway Bay as well as the valleys and hills of Connemara.
To the south of the cliffs is Hag's Head and the cliffs reach their highest point just north of O' Brien's Tower. The Tower was built by Cornelius O' Brien, a descendant of Brian Boru, to impress female visitors. The sea stack, Breanan Mr, stands over 70 metres above the foaming waves. A walk along the cliffs is not to be missed. Be very careful as there are no safety barriers and sections of the cliff sometimes give way. Those with a head for heights can easily walk to the edge of the cliff and view the Atlantic Ocean below. The Cliffs of Moher are one of Ireland's most visited attractions and when you've been there, you'll know why.

The rain tapered off as we reached the summit.  Wisps of clouds flanked the farthest reaches of the cliffs.  We stood in silence, listening to the gulls scream as they soared on the drafts, listening to the surf roar as it shattered into white foamy lace over the stones at the foot of the sheer rock walls.  Its incredible, Mom murmured.  We followed the path up to the tower, and paid our Euro each to climb the winding stair to the top.  The wind tossed our hair into fantastic shapes as we took turns peering through the telescope.  Rain began pattering down as we warily descended the path back to the Visitors Centre. 

 A few more bags joined our trove of treasures in the boot, then we paid for our parking and turned left out of the lot.  Unfortunately, the loot still didnt include a battery for my camera!  Thank goodness for Moms new digital. 

Gently descending hills, a few glimpses of sea, some long sandy beaches, and tiny villages filled the next few hours of travel.  None of our maps seemed to match up exactly to the route we traveled, and after a while we realized that we had missed the turn we wanted to take to the North, and were heading back toward Ennis.  I pulled over at a gas station in Milltown Malbay and asked for directions.  The reply was long, convoluted, and didnt seem to be completely in English.  We did the best we could.

The rain had gradually diminished as we wandered through tall hedges and stone walls.  A white minibus appeared in front of us, and periodically discharged children at driveways along the way.  Must be a school bus, we agreed.  A weedy expanse of Lake appeared on the right after we passed through the town of Corofin.  I think thats Lough Bunny, but its on the wrong side of the road, according to this map, said Mom the navigator.  I spotted some interesting ruins off on the left, and drove us up the access road.  This turned out to be the ruins of Kilmacduagh, which was founded by St. Colman in the seventh century. According to one source, there are good Romanesque carvings and evidence of repairs and rebuilding as late as the 15^th century, giving the foundation an active life of more than 800 years.  It also holds Irelands tallest round tower.  On our visit, though, gentle-eyed cows grazing in the long grass were the only signs of active life amid the stately ruins.  We tramped along the boundary wall, and then returned to the muddy gravel car park.

Three miles down the road we came to the town of Gort.  As Molly and the Tinker sing:

So let's all raise our glasses to Gort (Gort!),

The beautiful Irish resort (Gort!)

Where the children cavort while the men sit and sport

With a quart of the ale they export (Gort!).

You may travel the thirty-two counties

Up from Wexford to the Dun Aengus fort,

But there's no place can claim a more beautiful name

Than Gort, Gort, Gort (Gort! Gort! Gort!).

Mom had brought several guide books along, and I suggested she look up Gort, and find us a recommended place to eat.  Absolutely none of the books had a single thing to say about the town!  We found it to be the perfect haven for our needs.  A small caf offered unique blends of tea for me (I chose the one named Nana), cappuccino for Mom, and a home-baked Amaretto-Apple-Raspberry crumble for us both, topped with freshly whipped cream.  We sat at a table in the window, and watched as a rainbow chased away the last of the clouds.  After quite a satisfactory interlude, including a much-needed visit to the ladies facility which was an adventure in itself, we left the caf, and visited the prominently placed ATM machine across the square.  Have Euros, will travel!

Back on main roads rather than byways, we started to speed towards Galway City.  I thought we would go straight there.  But, no, truly I should never think like that!  First I saw the sign for Coole Park, the home of Lady Gregory.  But my resolve didnt waiver.  Then I saw the sign for Thor Ballylee.  Sorry, Mom, we have to make a detour!  And we plunged off the highway into yet another winding, narrow, twisting road for a brief pilgrimage. 

In 1916, famed Irish poet (and one of my all-time favorite poets) William Butler Yeats purchased and refurbished this Norman tower into a summer home to share with his beloved wife, George.  Its certainly an idyllic setting for a poet.  A quiet brown mill stream bubbles peacefully beside the stone house.  A thatched cottage is attached and serves as the Visitors Centre.  Unfortunately, we arrived five minutes before closing time, so we couldnt enter the tower.  The staff did let us come into the Centre and purchase a book..  Back outside, I lingered in the bright afternoon sunlight and read the inscription on the wall of the tower:

I, the poet William Yeats,

With old mill boards and sea-green slates,

And smithy work from the Gort forge,

Restored this tower for my wife George;

And may these characters remain

When all is ruin once again.

Reluctantly, I climbed back into the car, turned it around in the ample car park (now thats a phrase you wont read often in this blog) and retraced our route to the highway.  Back we slipped into the relative ease of highway driving in Ireland, heading north again to Galway City.  Our hosts at Rusheen had said that B&Bs were plentiful, just head up that way and we were sure to find one.

Unfortunately, we arrived in Galway right at the height of rush hour.  Traffic crawled along the straight-aways, but thundered around the roundabouts.  Our maps were basically useless, as all road signs pointed to destinations, rather than to actual streets.  We decided to keep heading for the city centre, and hopefully find a place where we could stay, park the car, and walk to dinner.  I was TIRED of driving!  Stop and start, stop and start.  There were several B&Bs along the way, but always on the wrong side of four lanes of wicked traffic.  We passed a bland little hotel that looked convenient, but not very appealing.  Deeper into the city we wove, passing through the downtown area on the harbor lined with grand, ritzy hotels and their uniformed bellmen.  Lets just keep going, I suggested, and the road wended back across a spit of water, and into a residential area.  Theres one! and I shoved our car around a quick corner and parked.  We walked to the door of the Prague House B&B and rang the doorbell.  An older gentleman answered the door with a smile.  Would you have a room available for two ladies?  Certainly, would you like to come up and take a look at it?  We traipsed up the carpeted stairs, admiring the array of pictures and decorative knick-knacks along the way.  The compact, pale pink room at the top of the landing held two twin beds, and a clean bathroom.  Well take it! we said simultaneously, before even inquiring about the fee.  Ah, thats grand, smiled our new host, Charlie.  Just bring your bags round, and Ill help you get settled.

It wasnt as fancy as Rusheen, but it was clean, and neat, and friendly, and it was available and not terribly expensive.  Plus, it was a 10-minute walk to a lively area of the city, lined with rows of shops, and restaurants, and a harbor filled with hundreds of wild swans.  According to the map, we were in the Claddaugh area of Galway.  After a brief rest, we went exploring. 

One of the things I really wanted to purchase in Ireland was a brooch.  I have been subscribing to the magazine Ireland of the Welcomes since 1991, and for years there was a unique design advertised by a jeweler.  It was a large oval shape with four intertwined swans, symbolizing the ancient tale of the Children of Lir.  I knew the shop was located in Dublin, and hoped to find the pin there.  Imagine my surprise to find it in the first shop we entered in Galway!  It was beautiful but, alas, considerably larger than I expected, and very expensive.  15 years of dreaming about this pin and I decided not to buy it. 

We enjoyed a delicious dinner at an Italian restaurant.  We both ordered a bowl of their special soup, a hearty blend, and we split an entre of seafood ravioli.  And, since we were walking, we indulged in a carafe of wine.  After all, we had earned it.

After dinner we walked about town for a while.  The crowds continued to pack the old streets, and street musician staked out their territory to win listeners.  A fiddler smiled as he bowed his strings.  A serious young man whistled into his flute.  The sound of drumming directed our steps until we found five young men, energetically beating a variety of drums but not a bodhran among them, to our surprise.  On the way back to the B&B, we watched a red-haired lad in a kilt pulling on his tartan socks, preparing to dance as his companion was setting up his instruments. 

Several of the pubs had signs advertising musical sessions that evening, but all of them started about 9:30 or later.  It was now only around 8:00, but we were weary, and so we headed back to the quiet of Prague House, and into the comfort of our pajamas.  Mom stayed awake to read for a while, and I fell asleep to the stealthy crunch crunch crunch as she raided her stash of M&Ms.