a simple yarn

What happens when you give a camera to your children just for something to do?

I’m feeling like Wilma Flintstone these days.

It has to be said that I’m grateful for the temporary accommodations we have found while the house in the mountains is being finished. I’d be more grateful, I have to confess, if it had one or any combination of the following:

Land line phone
Mobile phone reception
Internet access

As it is, we truly walk in the shoes of our forefathers in a techno-free world.

Be careful what you wish for. Little did I know that tapping into my pioneering reserves would happen from the moment we landed back in Ireland.

We are home again…and the family breathes a collective sigh. It was a good summer. Busy, but good. Many miles, but still good. And as any traveler will attest, it was great to go and it is great to return home.

Home…hmm…that’s a bit of a liquid concept at the moment.

In Ireland, the summer rains came and stayed. So, the renovation work on our new ‘house in the country’ is delayed. Deep sigh. We had arranged for a holiday cottage for a couple of weeks upon our return, and now the hunt is on for accommodation for an additional month or so.

Frustration? Well, a good night’s sleep and a hot shower are a great balm for the jetlagged soul. I am reminded of my anticipation of the pioneering life—the sum total of the adventurers’ worldly possessions packed tightly into a covered wagon for their long and weary journey. Likewise, our luggage goes into our Volkswagen Polo and we, too, begin our own adventure.

In the meantime, we soak in the lovely views, breathe the fresh air and take each day as it comes.

See that header photo which has been residing there for months? It’s a bend in the road.

In two weeks, we return to Dublin and with our return comes an opportunity for a bit of country living, which has been given to our family. A life experiment, as it were. A metaphorical bend in our journey, and perhaps likewise, an opportunity to tap into a hidden reservoir of the pioneering spirit.

Warning—Quick Definition Diversion: By ‘pioneer’ I am using the 19th-Century-North-American-Woman meaning, not the Tea-Totalling-Abstaining-From-Alcohol Irish definition…

The incredible difficulty of everyday life for these women dampened neither their enthusiasm nor resourcefulness for beautiful and practical things. I would love to be a pioneer woman! Okay, I say that with the rosiest of glasses sitting on my nose, enjoying my modern conveniences and having read too many ‘Little House’ books.

A reminder of her weekly chores, this song was sung by Ma Ingalls—
Wash on Monday
Iron on Tuesday
Mend on Wednesday
Churn on Thursday
Clean on Friday
Bake on Saturday
Rest on Sunday

If I were to organise such working of the hands, my own song might sound like this—
Knit on Monday
Garden on Tuesday
Weave on Wednesday
Craft on Thursday
Photograph on Friday
Bake on Saturday
Reflect on Sunday

Ya know, I’m looking forward to this bit of diversion…to see what sort of country life we’ll live and whether the pioneering spirit is alive and well in me. And so the next couple of weeks I’ll be taking a little time to organise my thoughts, re-organise my blog and tap into my inner pioneer.

Now that we’ve taken this path, the next header photo will need to reflect this new direction…telling a simple tale from The Bell House in the Dublin Mountains.

Really a mish mash of things, but alliteration makes me feel better…

Fibre
I’m hunting for cotton warp for the loom. I’m driving around Ohio. My search brings me to a real tip of a place. A little building stuck in the middle of nowhere. An arts and crafts dive. Giving it up as a lost cause. Sigh. Might as well go in as I’ve driven all this way though.

No cotton for weaving. Even if there were, I wouldn’t be able to see it past all the other rubbish on the shelves and in the aisles. ‘If you happen to be lookin’ for that fancy yarn, try the next row over, says the owner, who I might add is more than a little creepy. ‘What a dump,’ I think to myself.

And then, like an eerie game of I Spy, I see the corner of a very familiar label. Lamb’s Pride. Oh wait! Noro. Crikey! Cherry Hill Yarns. Blimey! (as Isobel would say) Lopi. And boxes upon boxes of sock yarn…Regia. Not only that. They’re cheap! I’ve stumbled onto a treasure trove of yarn.

When my eyes recover from glazing over, I slowly realise that my suitcases are already bulging, and so I content myself with one reasonable purchase…teal cotton from Brown Sheep Company. That made me happy!

Fads
A little postcard for my Irish friends. Now I think that I can safely say that I’ve seen everything…

Fun
It does my heart good to see smiles as a result of something so simple. A tree. A tire. A rope. Fun in the country…

Hope you’re all having a wonderful summer!

If you’ve never had sweet corn direct from the field, I extend my deepest sympathies.

The last portion of our holiday journey brings us to the ‘inlaws’ in the heartland of America..the land of corn and soybeans. Amongst the endless fields of grain crops lay hidden patches of sweet corn. It’s worth coming to America for that alone.

When summer heat and humidity is at its early August peak, there is an annual ritual in this land, which is observed with a faithfulness to rival any ancient rite. When the sweet corn comes into harvest, it is the staple of our diet…lunch…dinner…breakfast, if you want—for there is a super abundance of this sweet golden goodness.

But as any gardener will face, there is the question of what to do with the surplus. Father-In-Law-David is known throughout these parts for his generous nature by giving sweet corn to friends and neighbours. And still there is bounty. Thus comes the day, when the corn is at its peak of sweetness that we have Corn Day.

Early in the morning, before the heat of the day is oppressive, the corn is picked.

And the weathered experienced hands…

…teach the young and tender hands how to remove the shucks and the silks from each ear.

Attention: Age Old Secret for Perfect Corn Ahead
Time is of the essence in this work. From the moment an ear of corn is picked, its sweetness is being sacrificed to starchiness. So any good farmwife (Mother-In-Law-Phyllis among ‘em) worth her weight in wisdom will have the water boiling before the corn arrives. If the corn is picked at its peak of flavour, nothing needs to be added to the water. Boil the corn for no more than 3 minutes. Slather on heaps of butter, a dash of salt if you wish and dig in!

Thus, a few hours of work yield a good portion of corn for the freezer to be enjoyed during the harsh winter months…a warm reminder of summer sweetness.

And what shall we do tomorrow? Of course, you know…Corn Day 2.

…by the light of the silvery moon.

The brief flick through Vogue’s Silver Anniversary issue looks like it will cover all the bases…vintage, retro, outrageous, hideous, stunning.