…and what it is.
It’s not a picture from Washington, DC.
It is, though, a photo from our northern Virginia back garden.
It’s not one of the Japanese cherry trees celebrated this week the District.
It is, however, our very own ornamental cherry tree, which we’re taking pleasure in this spring.
Is it too late to turn back time?
I walked into Daughter-Kate’s room yesterday.
She returned from a trip to the mall with her dad.
Her arms laden with new shirts.
She bought these things without my help.
And they’re very cute.
Things I might have chosen for her.
But she decided upon them herself.
I’m not picking out her clothes anymore.
Sigh.
Darn boots…I blame them as the start of this journey to maturity.
She also had a poster in hand.
Her walls, long adorned with puppies and kittens…
…have taken on a new look.
Her taste is changing.
Growing.
And I find myself seeing the young woman she’s becoming.
So, shall I turn back time?
No, I like this new Kate.
I shall certainly miss the little girl.
But I figure, deep down, she’s still in there somewhere.
…being a one-trick-pony?
The loom is empty.
The needles are motionless.
The blog is unattended.
Fancast goes unwatched.
The reading pile is growing.
It’s ‘all-about-George-Washington-all-the-time’ these days.
What have I done?
It’s the first part-time job where I have full-time homework.
Certainly, not required by the supervisory-powers-that-be, but more an attempt at self-preservation against the onslaught of ‘not-on-the-script’ questions.
‘So what did Martha’s first husband die of?’
‘What components were the exterior paints made of?’
‘What is the Washington connection to Robert E. Lee?’
Legitimate questions to which I long to shout…
‘How should I know, ya loon?!?…I’ve been in Ireland for the last 6 years!’
Thinking that response would be frowned upon, I thus spend my not-so-spare-time poring over catalogs and biographies and inventories and narratives and articles, all arming me with historical factoids to stave off dreaded interpreter ignorance.
There will come a time, though, when the loom will be dressed once again.
And my sister’s birthday slippers will be knit.
And I’ll catch up on my blog reading.
And there’ll be an evening with Fancast.
And those books will all be read.
It’s just not that time right now.
The only thing worse than hearing about the economy is talking about the economy, but wait, this is a happy tale—in a minimalist-free-form sort of way…
Mulch.
The economy.
Then, a necessity.
Now, a luxury.
Bags of mulch?
Lots to buy.
Expensive.
Ouch.
Free bulk mulch?
Lots of trips.
Laborious.
Truck-less.
Tree trimmers.
How ‘bout it, lads?
Gratis.
Delivered.
Risky?
Yep.
Beggars, not choosers.
A garden experiment.
What’s wrong with this picture?
So, is that how Americans view this quintessentially Irish holiday? Has it come down to green beer and caricatured leprechauns?
What a load of rubbish.
Here are some alternative suggestions for today…
Study the life of St. Patrick.
Read a poem by Seamus Heaney.
Listen to a U2 tune.
Peruse the National Gallery of Ireland online.
Find a Gaelic football or hurling match on the internet.
Read a play by Oscar Wilde.
Have some Irish brown bread with soup.
Try a pint of non-green Guinness.
Lá Fhéile Pádraig Sona! (Happy St. Patrick’s Day!)
Just when you think you have it mastered…
We don’t own a television.
And I feel pretty good about that.
Oh sure, it causes a bit of consternation among acquaintances.
‘You mean, you don’t have any TVs in your house? At all?’
And I find I reply, with a smidgeon of smugness—
‘Nary a one.’
But…
(and here’s where my smugness bites me in the bum)
…a television isn’t necessary to waste copious amounts of time.
It’s called Fancast.
Television programs…not on television.
I can watch just about any popular show I want when I want.
With limited commercial interruption.
And I do.
And I waste time.
Just like I did when we had a television.
Bugger.
Okay, so I’m not getting rid of the computer.
But now that I know my weakness, things need to change.
Nothing radical, but a tweak here and there.
Because time is finite and precious.
And there are books to read…
And gardens to plan…
And gifts to knit…
And dogs to walk…
And children to enjoy…
Which therefore leaves less time to drop in on the Gilmore girls in Stars Hollow…
or House in Princeton…
or the CSIers in Las Vegas…
or Temperance and Booth in DC…
or the Epps brothers…
or 30 Rockefeller Plaza…
or…
‘Lost time is never found again.’
Benjamin Franklin
Because sometimes you need a little warning.
Securing a driver’s license in Ireland was arduous.
Okay, that’s an understatement.
Acclimating to the other side of the road.
Oh, and getting in on the other side of the car.
And forgetting which side the rearview mirror was on.
And shifting with the other hand.
Thank goodness I’m left-handed.
But the process required passing another theory test.
And at least 6 driving lessons.
Because driving, I believe, is a cultural thing.
And though I had been driving since I was 16 in the US.
It made absolutely no difference in Dublin.
It’s a whole other ballgame.
Especially with roundabouts.
But I had plenty of time to practice.
Because the waiting time for the driving portion was at least 12 months.
More like 18, in those days.
But learning drivers must plaster a big, fat, red ‘L’ sticker on their car.
A warning to everyone else that a newbie driver is in front of them.
Or behind them, as the case may be.
Of course I didn’t use L-plates.
Reverting to the idea that I already had a driver’s license.
Which technically, was within the bounds of the law.
I couldn’t bring myself to plaster my car with a sticker that screamed…
‘Hey keep your distance…I’m a dolt!’
But I’m re-thinking the L-plate option.
No, not about driving.
I’ve passed my historical interpretation test.
Today is my first day interpreting solo, as it were.
And I’m feeling like a dolt.
So perhaps it would be good to have a warning to others.
You know, just in case.
Let’s face it, we can’t all have Kodak moments.
Okay, I see a fabulous site.
I reach for my camera.
Arg.
Not there.
I reach for the mobile phone.
Crappy camera but better than none.
I realize the never-to-be-repeated image is sitting hundreds of feet above me.
And no, camera phones don’t come with telephoto lenses.
Grr.
But hey, (cue inspirational music) Crappy-Photographers-Of-The-World unite!
Let us not be ashamed of our blurry, wonky, and garbled images!
Let us post these photos with a bit of pride!
For a shoddy, miserable, amateurish picture is better that nothing!
What you are not seeing is the protected and rarely seen American Bald Eagle sitting atop the trees over Mount Vernon. An awesome sight to behold.
Here’s a crappy close-up.
And here’s what it ought to look like.
…and a bit of a muddle.
This scene may not appear dire to you, barely jumbled for some, but those who know me understand organization is a hobby. Well, more like a passion. Okay, perhaps I’m a bit zealous. Bordering on fervent. With a wee bit of fanaticism thrown in. Hey, it’s how I’m wired and if my space is jumbled in the least bit, so is my head!
So what does this picture tell me?
So tell me, what do your surroundings say about you?
…cuz in university it wasn’t those kind of dates I was interested in.
Training Week Number 1 is complete and so far I have not:
a) Passed out in front of estate visitors
b) Engaged guests in a staring contest as my mind goes blank
c) Broken any artifacts
I’d say that’s a success.
I suppose the continual headache I’ve experienced the last 4 days is a tangible result of my brain expanding against my skull for all the facts being dumped in there. One more week of practice yet to come ends with a final test of my readiness to be sprung upon the unsuspecting public without a safety net. (shiver)
In the meantime, a few pics of the workplace. Archived pic of ‘my office’…
The ‘waiting room’…
The view. Wave to Maryland, everyone…
The environment….
Gotta confess, it’s cool.
…I’m really, really, really, really sorry.
Little did I know that my innocent desire for the postponement of spring would result in 5 inches of snow in Alabama, call off school in Washington, DC and generally wreak havoc on the eastern seaboard. Ah the power of the written word!
Good news is…I’m wearing my newly knitted winter woolly socks today.