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      Sure and it’s coming up on St. Patrick’s Day and I’ll be proud to be wearin’ the green once more. I’m not just “married Irish,” but Irish in my own right. My father’s family came from the Old Sod, a mix of Cork and Down. They came because of the Famine and worked their way across New York State to settle in Buffalo’s First Ward. Currently, there is a plaque to them at the base of the Irish Memorial on the Buffalo waterfront. In time, there was further migration to South Buffalo, which is where I was born and raised. My husband Pat’s family arrived by another gateway—Canada, but ended up in the same place, which is where we met.

     Some fifteen years ago, we made our first trip to Ireland. There were four couples and not everyone knew each other. Of course, they all had a bit of the Irish in them, and so it didn’t take long for them all to bond. Over a pint at the Shannon airport, as I recall. Ireland was as green as they said it was. I loved the hills and the houses and the winding roads that made you glad you weren’t doing the driving. We had hired a small bus and a driver, whose name was David and who took it upon himself to make sure we had a great time.

      One of David’s first chores was to teach us the fine art of drinking Irish beer. He had a Four Step program. Day 1 was Harp, followed on subsequent days by Kilkenny, Smithwicks, and finally the ultimate--Guinness. He showed us the Lakes of Kilarney, Bunratty Castle, the Burren, and took us around the Ring of Kerry--backwards. We had to start early in the morning in order to make it to the place where the road narrows before the big tour buses arrived. “Start” meant making a visit to a local pub owned by Irish football legend Páidí Ó Sé (Paddy O’Shea). The proprietor himself opened up just for us and made us Irish coffee. (I was saddened, while looking up the correct spelling, to learn that Paidi had recently died. According to Wikipedia, “The body of Páidí Ó Sé lay in repose at his home in Ceann Trá, with "a constant stream of mourners" seen going in and out during the wake.” I can only imagine.)

     We stayed in B & B’s which is definitely the way to go in Ireland as you’ll meet some of the nicest people God ever put on the face of the earth. While on a two-day stay in Dingle, I learned that the young son of our hosts was going to be part of an Irish cultural production in Tralee the next evening. I wanted to go there. My father’s favorite song was The Rose of Tralee. Since David was taking a break and going home for a night, we decided to get a cab and head over there. When David heard that, he promptly cancelled his plans and drove us. The program was lovely—something similar to Riverdance. Our Dingle hosts had asked us to bring their son and his friend home with us on the bus, so afterwards, they hopped on and we set off for Dingle. The road was dark and winding. Suddenly, David began to sing lovely Irish songsand the two kids chimed in—their sweet voices filling the air as we drove through the night. It was one of the most magical moments of my life.

     About the only disappointment I felt during the entire ten day trip was with the sheep. We like to think of those green hills being covered with fluffy white dots. The dots, alas, had big splotches of spray paint on them. I know. It was so the owners can identify them, but still. . . Our second trip to Ireland was about ten years later. We flew into Dublin for just a few days, but made the most of them. We walked around the city, taking in the Book of Kells at Trinity University, having a photo op at the statue of Molly Malone selling her cockles and mussels, doing a literary pub crawl, and visiting the Wicklow Mountains to the south. While driving through the mostly deserted upland, we came upon the Guinness Estate. We were amused to see that the water in the lake was as black as the peat through which it filtered down. A “head” of white French sand spanned one end of the lake, looking for all the world like a huge “pint.” Naturally, we had to visit the Guinness museum, as well, where we ended our tour, as do all tourists, with a free pint in the Gravity Bar at the very top of the building, complete with a shamrock drawn in the foam. The place offers a spectacular 360˚ view of the city.

     I want to go back again, and I’ll be thinking of how to put that plan in motion on March 17 as I raise my glass.

     Slainté!

Tempus fugit. Or so said the Roman poet Virgil. Time flies. And 2012 “fugited” about as fast as any year I can remember. For those of you who have completely forgotten I exist, or for those who have just moved into the area, I may need a bit of an update here. Scrapbag has been pretty much a regular column about this, that, and the other thing for a long time. I enjoyed writing it and over the years, a few million people told me they enjoyed reading it. But it came to an abrupt end on December 31, 2011, when I decided that life had just gotten too hectic and I needed a break. Not only from Scrapbag, but a lot of other entangling alliances I was in the habit of getting myself into. I was bowing out for a while. “Lots of luck,” scoffed a few skeptics, who knew me a better. They’d heard it before. This time, though, I meant it. Until tempus fugited again and without even being aware of any intervening days or weeks or months, I found myself staring at the calendar again: January 2013. Where had the time gone? Had I really had a rest? Had I accomplished anything but ticked off 365 unremarkable days? When I set out on this new road, I had a few goals in mind. I wanted to get healthier. I wanted to publish a book. I wanted to get back at the piano. I wanted, in short, to have a little breathing space to do something I wanted to do and to hang around long enough to do them. It’s hard to say “no” to people. People you like, people who came to rely on you doing something, people who kept wanting you to do something else, something more. Surprising even myself, I somehow found the will. Okay. Report card time. I did get healthier. I lost some weight, started eating more veggies and less chip and dip. I also started exercising more, although that wasn’t part of my initial plan. I was trying to get my husband to exercise and it became clear that the only way he was going to do it was if I went with him. So I did, and found I actually liked it. My body stopped hurting so much. I was able to go up stairs without almost needing one of those little elevators you see in the back of magazines. There were no more sudden and very painful back spasms in the middle of the night. It wasn’t easy. But something was working. I also published not one book, but three. All ebooks, which necessitated a technical learning curve that rivaled scaling Everest, at times. (Note: If you want to learn more about them, check out my web site: www.m-c-ryan.com). And I got to play a rousing rendition of Heart and Soul with 7 year old grandson PJ. That gave me the courage to look up some other sheet music and I’ve been having fun seeing just how far I can get my fingers to stretch, not to mention remembering about sharps and flats. I’ve also, as you can see, returned to Scrapbag. I can’t promise it will appear in every issue—more like when the Spirit moves me. (Excuse the pun.) Thanks for your understanding, if in fact you did. It’s good to be back.

This is going to be short and sweet. It's purposely being written on December 31, 2011 so that I don't immediately break perhaps the biggest New Year's resolution ever. Which is, to wit:

I'm taking the year off. I know this will be a disappointing, if not heartbreaking, announcement to my millions of fans in the Spirit of Bainbridge circulation area, and especially to my esteemed editor, Anne. But I promised myself to start the year with a clean plate and I intend to keep it that way--at least during 2012.

One of the questions I'm asked most is if I'm working on a new book. The answer, for quite a while, has been no. It's not for lack of ideas or for lack of time, but for lack of commitment. I seem to be able to squeeze all sorts of other things onto my agenda, and that has to change. I also want to get back to playing the piano, taking better care of my health, and just enjoying life and family without the pressure of details and deadlines.

You may not see the Great American Novel by this time a year from now, but hopefully, there will be something readable on your Kindle or Nook. You may not be fair game for those scalping tickets to hear me play a sold-out concert at Severance Hall, but I'm determined to not embarrass myself when I play a duet with my six year old grandson this spring.

At the very least, I should be happier, in better shape, and ready to jump headfirst into 2013. My wish is that you all will be the same.


PS: Not to say I won't jump in here with a post now and then. I just don't want to HAVE to!

They came pelting into the house, all four of them, on that August afternoon in 2008.

"Grandma, come and see what we made!"

Now I'd been a parent long enough to know this could be either a scenario for disaster or a "grab your camera" moment. I took a chance and picked up my trusty Canon SureShot.

About three quarters of the way down our lawn, they gathered around a small tepee made of branches and twigs. Emma, who was three at the time, could fit inside standing up; the others flanked it. They were all grinning from ear to ear, pretty proud of themselves. They posed for a few pictures and then showed me the finer points of the construction, which included a pathway of larger branches leading up to the entrance. It was the sort of project that not only kept them busy and outdoors for a few hours on a summer day, but also fostered the sort of creativity that's sadly lacking in many children's lives these days.

Too soon, their visit came to an end and they headed back home to start school. A month later, the remnants of Hurricane Ike came roaring through Northeastern Ohio, downing limbs right and left and leaving devastation in its wake. When it had passed, we were amazed to see the little tepee still standing tall in the front yard. We called the kids and let them know what terrific builders they were that their creation had weathered a pretty strong wind.

After that, we became curious to see exactly how long it would last. As the calendar moved toward Thanksgiving, my husband decided to put it to use for something he'd always wanted--a Christmas crèche. He came home one night with a ceramic Nativity set of 9" tall figurines. It was pretty complete--Mary, Joseph, Baby Jesus, a shepherd, two wise men, an ox and sheep, and an angel.

I shook my head. "Not going to work," I declared. "Ceramic won't last a New York minute in this cold."

He let me ramble on and then, in his own imitation of a wise man, went out and put them in the tepee anyway, first adding some straw and stringing an extension cord with a spotlight. The angel was hung from the top, overlooking the Holy Family. I examined his project and found that it was actually pretty nice. It didn't make any difference that because there's so little traffic on our street, very few people ever saw it. Throughout the holidays, every time we drove out the driveway, we were reminded of what Christmas was all about.

In the spring, when the snow had melted enough to bring in the statues, we found they were still in great shape, so we packed them back in their box and stored them with the other decorations.

Christmas, 2009. The tepee was still there. It had made it through an entire year plus of rain and wind and sleet and snow and ice, and many summer lawn cuttings. Out came the Nativity set and once again the Holy Family graced the little shelter that our grandchildren had built. When snowstorms came, the spotlight melted the drifts and kept Baby Jesus warm. We found ourselves keeping the light on almost into February. We just liked seeing it, even though the snow often kept the shepherd and wise men buried.

Christmas, 2010. Ditto.

By now, the kids eagerly looked forward to seeing the tepee when they came for visits. One day, the older ones even expressed some doubt about whether this was the original tepee or whether we took it down and put it back up when we knew they were coming--sort of like Aunt Martha's ugly vase that you bring out of hiding when Aunt Martha is on the front doorstep. But no, we assured them, it was most certainly the original. We hadn't changed a twig.

2011. Not all miracles are momentous, life-changing affairs. Some are almost too small to be noticed at all. We know one happened in our yard as again we find ourselves ready for the "Christmas star" to shine, welcoming all to the stable.

Every day, ideas continually bombard us. We stand there, a bit like Jim Thome, trying to figure out which ones to let go by and which to try and hit out of the park.

Several years ago, I came upon an article in some woman's magazine telling how the author had a special Christmas tablecloth on which every year all the guests signed their names. Afterwards, she would embroider the names as a permanent record of who had been there. Each year was a different color. Hmmm, I thought. That's a good idea.

There were a few problems, however. First and foremost, we didn't have Christmas dinner. Not one with guests, anyway. Because the family is so scattered and Christmas involves transporting gifts, we don't much try to get together for that holiday.

Ah, I mused, but we do generally have a mob for Thanksgiving. How could I take that idea and tweak it? Or, as they say on American Idol, make it my own? I churned that around in my head for a while and eventually a light bulb went on. What was Thanksgiving without cooking? And what says cooking more than--aprons! My "tweak" was that instead of simply inscribing names, we could do a theme, and everyone would put their mark - a thumbprint--along with their name.

At the craft store, I found a muslin apron and some fabric paint. The first theme was a no-brainer - turkeys. Everyone made a thumbprint out of brown paint and added a penciled name. Afterwards, I added red wattles and orange tail and feet and embroidered the names in orange and brown floss, adding an embroidered year at the top of the bib.

It was an instant hit. In the years that followed, we did apples, pumpkins, grapes, pilgrims and Indians, spoons, bowling balls (a Thanksgiving tradition), and on a somber feast in November, 2001, tiny submarines and an American flag, representing our son who had been deployed to the Gulf shortly after 9/11. Last year, it was candy corn. What was especially fun was to see the thumbprints increase in size as the years went on. One of my favorite aprons is the pilgrim one. Granddaughter Caroline once printed her name across half the apron, and added three or four extra bars to the final E. She just started college.

On the day of the feast, everyone in the kitchen has a choice of which apron to wear, although the number of choices now far outnumbers the cooks, since this will be our 20th year.

Thanksgiving has now moved from our house to some of the kids'. I grumbled at bit when that change happened, but it's kind of nice to be in charge of the stuffing, the rutabaga, and the pumpkin muffins, and that's all.

We'll be gathering again this year. It won't be everyone, but everyone will be there in spirit--and in thumbprint.

His name was Al. In the days before we knew him very well, we'd had loftier expectations and registered him as "Greenbrier's Alex." We should have known better, for even his arrival was fraught with misconceptions.

In the late 1970's and into the 1980's, one of the top family TV shows was The Dukes of Hazzard. It told of the escapades of a couple of back country cousins and featured a souped up Dodge Charger called The General Lee. One of the regular characters was Sheriff Roscoe P. Coltrane, who was always trying to outsmart the Duke Boys. His faithful sidekick was a laid back Basset hound named Flash. Our kids loved the show and we particularly loved Flash, who was rarely roused to do anything more than get up on the seat of the police cruiser. So, when we felt the time was right for a dog, we decided we needed our own Flash.

In retrospect, this was far from being my finest hour and I may never live it down. Who am I kidding? There is no "may" about it. Here's how it unfolded:

I scoured the nightly want ads (acoustic ebay) looking for someone who was selling a Basset. Eventually, my search paid off. A woman was looking for a buyer for a six month old puppy--&75 or best offer. I was excited. The kids were excited. I made an appointment to check it out. A few of the kids went with me.

We were only in the place a few minutes, when a roly poly bundle of fur and floppy ears came charging out into the room, toenails clicking and oversized feet sliding on the bare wood floor. In a second, he was in our arms, wriggling and lapping our faces with his tongue, and all of our hearts immediately melted. This was where he belonged. Permanently.

Which left only the finances to be decided. Best offer, huh? I knew there was someone else coming to see the dog and I wanted to be the person with the best offer. Therefore, I told myself, I had to go higher than the $75. "I'll give you $125," I blurted out. Surely that would win the auction. I know, I know. I have endured gales of laughter every time that story is told, so now I know and have for a long, long time. But hey, I got the dog!

Which is when Al began to show his true colors. At six months old, I guess I figured he'd be at least paper trained. Wrong again. And he didn't really show any interest in it. Not for quite a long, long time. Besides the canned stuff, he considered almost anything "food." He had quite a liking for butter, even to the point of getting up on the kitchen table to chow down when nobody was looking. He once even crunched up a pair of eyeglasses that had been carelessly left within his reach. He wasn't leash-trained, either, resulting in daily walks being more of a daily drag, literally.

The kids adored him. I'd often find a pile of them curled up with Al on top of a floor heater watching television. "See, Al?" they'd say. "There's Flash!"

Al's "home" was a huge cushioned wicker basket that was parked under the counter of our lower level kitchen. The end of the counter was supported by a post and we'd hook him up to the post by his leash. I did have one rule that, most of the time, was obeyed. The dog wasn't allowed in the carpeted parts of the house--living room, dining room, bedrooms.

If you don't know anything about Basset hounds (and want to), I'd advise you to watch an early Tom Hanks movie called Turner and Hooch. Hooch was a French mastiff, much larger than Al, but with the same propensity for--well, there's no polite way of saying it--slobbering. When these dogs shake their heads, it goes flying and the devil only knows where it will land. I got to the point where I wished it would always land on me, rather than the back of the bookcase that separated the kitchen from the family room. Clothes were easier to wash than the back-breaking labor of scrubbing an expanse of wood. Eeeeuuuu, as they say. And enough of that.

I never found out until later

This is a story (the first part, anyway) of a young woman who opened a letter that came in the mail one day and found a check for $200. She had bumped into one of her uncles at a family event a few weeks previous. He had commented that he still felt guilty for not paying her for some work she had done for him some thirty years ago when she was a teenager. The woman had tried to assure him that he didn't owe her a thing, but yet here was the envelope and the check. She didn't want it, didn't need it, and while she remembered doing the job, she had never expected any payment for it.. She wanted to send the check back. But something stopped her. She called her father for advice.

"It was a debt that had bothered him for years," her dad said. "You need to let him pay it, so that his mind is clear."

That story reminded me a bit of a talk I once heard on the parable of the Good Samaritan. The priest who gave it said that there were three components to the story. First, of course, you have the Samaritan, who gets the most attention--and the most credit. Samaritans and Jews didn't exactly get along at that time and we don't really even know who the injured man really was. Nonetheless, the Samaritan stopped to help, after several other people had passed the man by, reminding us all that we have an obligation to those less fortunate.

There is also the innkeeper, who takes in the man after the Samaritan brings him there, and who trusts that he will be paid later. This, too, is a good example for us who often look with suspicion on people who make promises.

The third figure in the picture is the injured man himself and if you really think about it, he was in the hardest position of all. It's a place that few of us want to be in--obligated to someone else. We resist it. We can do it all ourselves, can't we? We don't need any help.

My mother was as independent as they come. She'd had to pull herself up by her bootstraps so many times, it's a wonder she had any bootstraps left. We all loved her, but we tread carefully. In her later years, if any of us tried to take her arm to steady her over a rough patch, she'd glare at us and say, "When I want your help, I'll ask for it." (And to be honest, the older I get, the more I understand her.) One day, however, she fell and broke both wrists. It's pretty hard when you can't turn on a water tap or the television set or make yourself a cup of coffee, or even get dressed. You don't have much choice.

And so, the young woman swallowed her pride, kept the $200 check, and thanked her uncle. Then she passed the money along to a needy organization, thus paying the good deed forward.

I don't think I'll ever forget how the priest who told the Good Samaritan story ended his talk.

"Sometimes, you have to be the one in the ditch."

Home improvement isn't always a planned thing. Sometimes it's the result of a completely unanticipated event. It could be a kid proudly scribbling his ABC's in Sharpie pen on your bedroom wall. Or Mother Nature could do what amounts to the same thing.
In the tail end of winter, 2010, I walked through out living room and suddenly spied something new--a shell pink elongated bubble hanging from the upper molding of the wall. It looked like--oh, just use your imagination. It was, I later learned, caused by a water dam, ice that had built up in one of the valleys between different slopes of the roof and then melted on the bottom. The water had nowhere to go but between the dry wall and a few coats of paint. We let the water out and mopped it all up, but to put it mildly, the decor had been seriously compromised.

Life got complicated and we never seemed to find the time to do anything about it. Clearly, the room needed to be repainted, but it seemed more than we felt comfortable handling. Painters were expensive. But it was right out there in full view of whoever came into the house. We considered a few options: putting the Christmas tree in front of it (which would have worked at least until after New Year's) or hanging a picture over it, but even with our rather eclectic tastes, it would have looked pretty odd.

Enter our oldest daughter, who had just shipped her last kid off to college and thus had a bit of time on her hands before she needed to start sending care packages. "I'm coming down to paint," she informed us. And she did, bringing rollers, buckets, spackle--obviously she had done this before. Needless to say, we welcomed her with open arms, and a few old sheets to use as drop cloths.

The first order of business (aside from dealing with the paint bubble) was color--the bane of every redecorator's existence. Ever visit the paint department of a big box hardware store? If you've ever wanted to know what infinity was like, that's a pretty close approximation. Now, I had something in mind, but none of the little paint cards I'd already brought home seemed to work. We were dealing with a stone fireplace with wallpaper above it. Mary began picking up books and other items from the room and holding them up to the wall, the fireplace, and the light, trying to get me to see different colors. Not my strong suit, but we came up with a few ideas and went to get some small sample cans. Within hours, the entire wall looked like a patchwork quilt. We thought one looked promising, but despite his being color blind, my husband's reaction was about eleven thumbs down. Back to the big box for more samples. More patches. More samples. I almost wore the carpet out walking back and forth, squinting one eye to cover up one color so I could see another without distraction. Miraculously, throughout a fitful night's sleep, I came up with a decision--one of the first colors I'd looked at, of course.

Before the painting started, though, things got down and dirty. You know how, over the years, you accumulate things--books, pictures, bowls or figurines and the like? My daughter, a reality show aficionado, believes that if you're going to freshen up a room, you need to go all the way. Why do you have all those books? To read. When? Sometime. Haven't you got a big bookcase upstairs? Yeah. And what about that stuffed polar bear on the mantle? Uh, a gift. It's been up there for years. It's dusty. Uh, yeah. Probably.

Ever seen one of those shows where they're trying to get somebody to clean out the stuff in her closet and the poor thing is screaming and crying because she can't let go of her favorite pair of Crocs? It was a little like that. Not pretty. I let an old microwave cart go to the basement, but argued over a bookcase of the same era--and lost. I'm not quite sure where the marble bookends went, but I suppose they'll show up some day. I was essentially told to put things I wanted to put back in one box, keep but relocate in another and discards in a third.

For those millions who eagerly await my next offering, I'm sorry, but I just--well, forgot and am behind a good four postings. So, am now playing catch-up. Enjoy.

Now, they’ve gone just a little bit too far!

By “they,” I mean whoever out there is trying to make sure we all look reed thin like Audrey Hepburn (females) or as buff as Ryan Reynolds (males). I mean, it wouldn’t be a bad thing for any of us, I guess, to move in that direction, but it most likely would take the entire staff and student body of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and their wands to do it. But they’re still trying. Oh, yes, they are.

Case in point: For my birthday, I requested dinner out at one of my favorite Italian restaurants. The place was not crowded and pleasantly cool after a rather warmish day. I snuggled into a booth with my significant husband and daughter, smiled at our handsome waiter, ordered a glass of pinot grigio, flipped open the menu, and felt the cold clutch of fear grip my stomach, which I knew all the pinot in the world wasn’t going to dispel.

My menu selection system, carefully honed after several decades, is this: look first at the dishes I like (which tend to be some combination of pasta and shellfish) and then at the prices, eventually coming to some sort of balancing act between the two. This time, however, there was a third bit of information thrown into the mix – the calorie count.

There are, to my mind, a few good reasons for going out to dinner. It definitely is a great way of kicking back and easing the stress of the day. You don’t have to think of what to have, how to cook it, whether they’ll like it, or who’s going to clean up after it. You can talk without interruption (except by the annoying habit of wait staff of coming back every five minutes to see if there’s anything you want. Hey, just give us a little bell, okay?). Somebody actually brings food and drink to your table and if you drop a knife or fork, you don’t have to invoke the three second rule or get up and wash it off. Just ask for a new one. The last thing I want to worry about is the bathroom scale laughing its head off the next morning.

But you can’t help it, you know. It’s right there in front of you and try as you might, you just can’t block it out. Especially when the number associated with your entree is somewhere in the vicinity of the national debt, even without the bread, butter, wine, and dessert, none of which, by the way, had a calorie count attached. I also had salad, which added another third of my recommended daily calorie consumption. Another odd thing is that the calories almost matched the price tags, minus the decimal point, but including the zeroes that came after them.

Did I enjoy my meal? Not so much. Will I go back there? Note to area restaurants: Probably not. Unless this was just a trial run and they go back to letting us eat with our delusions intact. Or until I finally get my figure looking something like Audrey Hepburn’s, which I’ve been working on ever since I saw Breakfast at Tiffany’s in 19—oh, whenever. In other words, not any time soon.

SCRAPBAG

If you were one of the 2.5 million who read my last column, you may remember me saying something about spending my family vacation “testing the waters.” I’m happy to report that I did. And I survived. Mostly.

The first test involved my twelve year old granddaughteR. More of a baseball player than a swimmer, she nevertheless accepted my now realized as foolish challenge to a length of the pool. A short pool. She grumbled a bit about being better at backstroke, so I let her do that. She beat me handily. Well, then, I reasoned, I could probably take her at freestyle. Wrong. She beat me by half a body length – and by more than a half century, which was my consolation.

Next came a delightful hour and a half out into the Sound on my brother-in-law’s sailboat. Thankfully, I remembered to duck when the boom went flying by over my head and I got to take the wheel for a while, too. I love sailing.

So on to the boogie boards, probably my favorite thing to do in the ocean. There’s no feeling quite like it when a wave gets under your board and carries you smoothly up onto the beach. Some of you who are, like me, aging will certainly realize the problem with that – getting up. I was pleased, therefore, to find that the waves were tame enough that I seldom reached the shallows, ending up in water only hip deep, so the whole maneuver much less of an issue. Best of all was catching a wave with a bit of a boost from a second one. That time, I zipped happily almost to shore by the side of my newly-engaged granddaughter. We came up grinning at each other.

Water Test #4 was a kayak expedition on an inland river, Pat and I sharing paddling duties with our more muscular sons. Our goal, according to our oldest, was what appeared to be a Lego bridge somewhere off in the distance. He’s actually well known for letting you know the goal only after you’re too committed. I was glad to have that additional power behind me. For well over an hour, the bridge never seemed to get any bigger. In and among the reeds we skimmed, taking in the local wildlife: lesser blue heron, egrets, and even a dolphin who cruised along about 50 feet away. The neatest things were the oyster beds. Close up, we could see all the little oysters joyfully spitting into the air. It reminded me a little of the dancing water fountain that used to be a big attraction in Tower City. Or our kids. Anyway, the bridge eventually did show up as a rather large structure and we beached the boats beneath it. The reward for our efforts was a margarita at a local pub. Surprisingly, I detected only a little soreness the next day.

The last day of vacation dawned. Throughout the week, “Minute to Win It” contests had been held at night. There were four teams. I headed up one: The Granny Birds. Through the heroics of a grandson and a son-in-law, plus a stellar team effort water ballet that included a senior citizen, a pregnant woman and a six year old, we won the whole enchilada – a ride on a Waverunner. Now, a Waverunner is basically a floating motorcycle, only there are no roads, no lines, and I’d never been on one. After several futile protests, I donned my life jacket and goggles and headed out onto the Sound, me steering and my daughter sitting behind me. Quite simply, I was terrified. I tried a little throttle. It moved forward. A little more. It jumped like a jackrabbit. Whoa! I kept experimenting until my passenger muttered something about either seasickness or water in her face, I wasn’t quite sure. Now the Sound was nothing like Beartown Lakes. It had whitecaps, for Pete’s sake! Then the order “Floor it, Granny Bird!” came from behind and so I thought what the heck and I did.

The first few seconds were fun. However, the situation quickly deteriorated to the point where the Waverunner and I were parting company with increasing regularity and if I didn’t slow down, we were going to part company completely as we flew over the waves, or rather, off the top of half

Birthdays are funny things. You either love them or hate them. When you’re young, you can’t wait, either for the party or for the status of a particular age: starting school, becoming a teenager, the driver’s license, the legal limit. Reaching 30, you’re probably getting a sense that the calendar pages are flipping with much more rapidity than you’d like. Whoa, you say, let’s put the brakes on a bit, okay? Unfortunately, this seldom happens, and life continues apace until you get your first AARP invite, at which point the whole thing is like watching the sixth race at Churchill Downs.

I’m having a birthday this year. No surprise there, I guess, except that it’s next month and it doesn’t seem as if the heat has entirely dissipated from last year’s candles. I do detect, however, somewhat of a shift in my thinking. Hey, I tell myself, you can still get out of bed without sounding like a Halloween haunted house, what with all the creaks and groans. Upon occasion, you can crawl around the floor playing trains with a grandkid and you can still paddle a mean kayak. So what if you have bifocals? You still can read, and while your tech skills aren’t quite up to par with Steve Jobs or Mark Zuckerberg, you do know an iPad from an iPod and have completed all available levels of Angry Birds, even if they aren’t all three stars. Reason enough to rejoice.

My mom believed in celebrating birthdays, too. She was a good cake baker and each year presented me with a two-layer chocolate cake with 7 minute boiled frosting, beautifully decorated with colorful rosettes and leaves. Not only did I enjoy it then (with a scoop of vanilla ice cream on top, naturally), but it sometimes tasted even better the next day when the frosting had formed a sugary crust.

One of my favorite birthday presents ever was a 78 recording of The Sons of the Pioneers, with Roy Rogers—my idea of rock stars back then. It was many, many years later that I learned my father had thought me a hopeless case for aspiring to be a cowboy, even into my early teens. It’s nice to think he and my mom supported me anyway. I still like horses.

A while back, the family had a surprise birthday party for me, with the kids coming from all over and a phone call to Italy to talk with the one who couldn’t get home. I’m not sure they yet believe I was really surprised, so let me put that to rest right here. I was totally and utterly flabbergasted. Really.
So the years have alternately crept, sped, and flashed by and here I am facing yet another milestone, but I get to celebrate it with my five brothers and sisters, which is about as good as it gets. In the meantime, I’m planning to test the waters, so to speak, when we go on vacation, to see if I can still catch the waves on my boogie board.

Happy birthday to me!

Easter in Buffalo, NY, can be, as in Cleveland, an iffy thing. One year, daffodils, hyacinths and tulips may carpet the ground, and the next, the Easter Parade garb of choice is the parka. Yet in the Easters of my youth, there were certain details that remained inviolate, regardless of what kind of breezes blew at sunrise.

First, though, getting to Easter was a journey, starting with a Tenebrae service, usually held on the Wednesday of Holy Week. The part I remember about it was that they turned all the lights out in the church, then read some prayers while they were turned on again. I thought it was to symbolize Christ being the light of the world. Some churches still do Tenebrae.

Holy Thursday Mass was celebrated in the morning, due to most schools being closed for vacation. And many people took off from work or went in late. The lavish Mass ended the reposing of the Blessed Sacrament in a beautifully decorated side altar and in the stripping of the altar in preparation for Good Friday. Churches were open for adoration of the faithful throughout the day. One of the special practices was to visit seven churches. Since we pretty much walked everywhere back then, and since Irish Catholic South Buffalo had more than enough churches, this resulted in a great combination of exercise and piety. I guess it also got us out of our moms’ hair for a while.

Good Friday hasn’t changed much in the intervening years. It remains the most somber day of the church calendar. I loved—still love--all the rituals that were so different from everyday church.

By noon on Holy Saturday, we were ready to break out the jelly beans, since almost every kid had given up candy. Lent was “officially” over. Some purists carried on their fasting until Easter. I fluctuated. Of course, we dyed eggs, adding decals of lambs and crosses and lilies. (Try and find any of those in your Paas package now!) I’m sure that’s probably why even today, the smell of vinegar makes me think of Easter.

Easter Sunday had its own rituals. No self-respecting female would dare venture out without two items: a hat and a pair of white gloves. We had to wait until after Mass to attack our baskets, which were filled with traditional stuff: marshmallow Peeps; chocolate rabbits, crosses, and chickens; and our favorite special treat, compliments of Mom/Easter Bunny—Fanny Farmer buttercream eggs. They were delicious, not to mention deadly. You could practically get a sugar high just from opening the box. My mom would fix our typical Sunday brunch, the centerpiece of which was a Breakfast Ring, frosted and decorated with jelly beans.

In the afternoon, my friends and I often hiked (sometimes through slush or worse) over to the South Park Conservatory for their Easter display. The huge domed greenhouse smelled heavenly—a mixture of earth and flowers. This was the first, and for a long time, only place I’d ever seen a banana plant.

I’m not sure that we ever ate dinner on Easter, replete as we were with the contents of our Easter baskets. Occasionally, we probably went to our aunt’s house and I guess we must have had ham.

I no longer wear a hat to church on Easter and the white gloves have gone the way of the dinosaur. But I still love this time of year. As Christ’s Resurrection takes center stage, it’s almost as though all the world has now been given permission to burst forth in beauty.

Happy Easter!

Now that the warm winds of spring have occasionally wafted over Northeast Ohio, bringing once more to life what has lain dormant under the winter snows, I, too, feel those stirrings and at last emerged from my cocoon.
(Yeah, I know I spent at least three weeks where the sun was shining, the flowers blooming, and the birds chirping, but I just couldn’t resist the urge to wax poetic. So sue me.)
Anyway, on one particularly warm day, I venture out onto the trails of Beartown, which I hadn’t trod since an unexpectedly mild New Year’s Day. The water in the lakes is high with rain and melted snow and the spring peepers set up an ungodly racket. For something that makes so much noise, they sure are elusive to the eye. But it’s a sign of awakening and I search for more as I motor along.
A log floats invitingly on the surface of Middle Bear Lake, but no turtles have clambered aboard for a sunning. They may be yet tucked in the mud. Their winter-long spa, as it were.
A couple of Canada geese honk a welcome and it might be time for me to begin looking for the arrival of Jim, my resident blue heron. A vulture soars by overhead, eyes open for a tasty morsel.
Deeper into the woods, the tips of skunk cabbage peek out from the marshy areas where creeks have cut deep grooves into the land. I often wish we had the type that live in the Northwest, with huge yellow blossoms. But in a while, we’ll have an equally golden marsh marigold for color.
As I come up from the park, I take a tour around my small above-ground garden, finally freed from snow piles. Already, the garlic cloves I planted last fall are sticking up. I’m wondering what else to plant this year. Last year’s garden was pretty much a disaster, between the deer and the Japanese beetles and the pumpkins I had such high hopes for, but which practically rotted on the vine. I’m putting peas back on the bamboo teepee, and going to try potatoes again, but in the ground this time, not the growing bags, which dried out too quickly. Maybe bush beans, too. Or, this may be the year I just let whatever seeds are in the compost do what they will. That always means at least a few varieties of tomatoes that I eat or toss into soup.
Finally, I come upon some sprouts of chives and the first hint of real color erupting from its journey.

Warming
Sensing
Stirring
Sprouting
Moving
Reaching
Rising
Thrusting
Shooting
Branching
Budding
Swelling
Blooming

CROCUS!

My mother raised me to be a law-abiding citizen. And she succeeded, pretty much. I never did get into much trouble when I was a kid and even went through high school without once getting a demerit (detention, jug, whatever they call it these days). I came close a few times. Crimes in my high school tended to be a) wearing socks or b) cutting from one side of the hall to the other in order to get to class faster. We walked single file in a one-way traffic pattern. I was never that much of a renegade, though.

When I got older and learned to drive, I still stayed on the straight and narrow. My first—and only—speeding ticket came on the heels of a 42 year clean driving record. I could still spit nickels when I remember it, mostly because I had a handy excuse sitting next to me and was too dumb to use it. My husband had an IV in his arm (which was why I was driving in the first place) and I probably could have pled being in a rush to get the bag changed. That happened nearly 20 years ago and it still rankles. It never occurred to me. That’s how law-abiding I am.

Not so other members of the family, however. Not so. They think that getting somewhere five minutes early is worth the risk of being pulled over and cited. Not to mention paying those fines. If you added up all the tickets they’ve accumulated, you probably could buy a Boeing 747.

Someone Who Shall Not Be Named got a speeding ticket about a month ago, in a Cleveland suburb named Something Heights. SWSNBN was evidently admiring the scenery and exceeded the speed limit in a school zone by about 10 mph. It was before noon, so maybe all those kindergarteners were on their way home. No excuses, though. It was a legitimate bag.

So home came the ticket and promptly disappeared. It wouldn’t have been prudent to let it slide (speeder, yes; scofflaw, no), so when the paperwork refused to surface after much digging around, calls were made to the Something Heights Police Department to see what could be done.

“Call the Something Heights Court,” was the response.

“Call back later in the week,” was the response of the court clerk. “We don’t have anything on file yet.”

Well, okay. But on Friday, there was still nothing. And nobody acted like they’d ever heard of a ticket getting lost. Requests for suggestions netted a “Call the Police Department.”

Did that. Again. Got a better answer. “Just come down to the Court and they’ll take care of it.”

So, SWSNBN hikes on down to the Something Heights Court (which, incidentally, is in the same building as the Something Heights Police Department and about 15 feet away) and takes care of the bill. Which amounts to: $235.

For a measly ten miles over the speed limit? Hitting 90 on the Turnpike probably wouldn’t get you that. But I guess if you do the crime, you do the time. Only in this case, it looks like you’re liable for everybody else’s crime and time, as well. Here’s the itemized printout:

1. IDSF HB1 & HB562 (no explanation): $25
2. Victims of Crime: $9
3. Capital Improvements: $10
4. Computer Legal Research: $3
5. Court Costs: $107
6. Drug Law Enforcement – HB562 (again?): $3.39
7. Justice Program Service – HB2: $0.11
8. Security Fee: $1.00
9. IDATF (State) – HB562 (again again?): $1.50
10. Speeding Cost: $5
11. Speeding Fine: $70

Note how the actual speeding fine was only $75. I guess crime does pay after all. At least for the Something Heights Police Department. Be careful out there