The author (second left) in Mogadishu port, Somalia, April 1993

Slighly Bemused writes:

It’s 3 o’clock in the morning. I think it is likely time I went to bed, so I turn off the speakers, put my PC to sleep and pick up my phone to make the weary trek upstairs.

And then I hear it.

The sound of rain on my porch. A gentle patter of drops on the peculiar shape of the small edifice attached to my home. It stands out among the others, all of whom have gentle tiled gables above their porches. Mine is a spiky plastic mongrel jutting into the heavens.

When it rains heavily from one direction (not the band, just the northwest) a small drip occurs just above the original front door. I bought one of those mats that is esupposed to gather up water. On a bad Irish Winter day… let us just say Winter wins.

Also the house is getting old, and one of the window’s double glazing turns into an aquarium if the rain and wind are from a different direction. One day I will replace them.

So I sat on the stairs, not quite up to my favourite halfway point. I think I figured out part of why it is that. When I buy stuff, and some is for upstairs, as I come in I take it out of the bag and plonk it on the stair at about shoulder height. It usually, but not always, goes up on the next trip up to the heavens. I have caught myself sitting there, holding this new addition to the house and sitting on the stairs wondering: why did I buy this again? Oh, hand soap, yep!

Don’t worry, I do not yet have dementia, I just like to lose myself in the moment. Like the rain. I love the sound of rain. I admit, most especially when I am inside and it is not, but the sound of it on the roof is somehow comforting.

When I grew up, my bed was in a peculiar place under the sloped roof of a dormer room. Flat roof on the top, and this strange angled alcove that an old army bunk could fit in. And about 10 inches above your head the rain would occasionally hammer, yet here you were, safe and dry. Sometimes, it was the lullaby that rocked me asleep. Maybe it will be again tonight.

I have lost count of the different types of covering I have sheltered from the rain under over the years. My favourite has to be corrugated iron sheets under a tropical downpour. So loud you cannot hear yourself think, it also cuts off communication. Sometimes, if you are having a lazy Sunday afternoon, it can be nice to sit on the veranda, sip a cool beverage and look out over the freshening land.

Most places I stayed in did rainwater harvesting, running a gutter to a large collection tank. Mostly used for cleaning, on a wet day the tank could be overflowing very quickly. For fun, we once did a quick calculation of the volumes of water coming down.

In school I used help with the weather station, and one rain gauge was a peculiar design of the teacher. It had a square funnel of almost a metre squared. He told us that 1 mm across a square metre produced a litre of water. So with a standard corrugated roof of about 30 square metres, filling the 10,000 litre tank was a doddle in a good downpour.

I guess my least favourite was in an older canvas tent, and rolling over in my sleeping bag to accidentally touch the wall of the tent, turning my sleeve into a gutter as the water came through and cascaded along my arm and into the sleeping bag.

But one good thing about a decent downpour where the rain is warm is, if you cannot hide from it, it teaches you that you are in fact waterproof. Going to college when it rained I would hunch my shoulders, turn up the collar of my inadequate coat and funnell rain down my back. I always seemed to be passing a big puddle when a car would go by, and trousers and shoes would squeak for all the day. Until I got my donkey jacket. Mostly OK, but shoes still squeaked.

One summer day, after college, I was walking up Georges Street towards Rathmines when the heavens just opened. I was wearing a light jacket, and a baseball cap. Quickly saturated, and with the kerb funnelling the water like a sluice down the road, the only good thing was the brim kept my glasses from getting too wet.

Realising that I was already past salvation and yet to reach the halfway point home, I decided to make the most of it. The shoppers huddling under awnings and in doorways were treated to the sight of a loony man careening up the street, doing a very bad impression of Singing In The Rain. More akin to the Morecambe and Wise version than the Gene Kelly, I assure you, and no umbrella in hand.

Once I got home and changed out, I realised that no bits had melted or dissolved away, and once dry, I felt strangely refreshed.

As a result, when on my first overseas trip, getting caught in the daily rains during monsoon seasons, when work could not stop, brought about my ‘uniform’ of jungle hat, polo-style t-shirt and shorts.

I got a pair of Teva style sandals to round out the look, which my brother brought from the US for me. Very comfortable, he actually got me the ladies ones. The two of us have similar sized feet, and he said the men’s sizes were way too wide and so were not snug. I must say, I really did not care, and I think they are still upstairs somewhere in a trunk or under a heap of other collected detritus of my life.

So as I wind down now, safe for another night from the raindrops beating gently against my window, I wonder what I will dream of, and will it involve singing?

****

The photograph above was taken in Mogadishu port, Somalia, in April 1993. From left to right is my car at the time, the one I repaired the radio in (reference a post many moons ago), my driver Mohammed, who really liked me because I repaired his radio. He also took my Bob Marley tape, but that was OK, I got a new one when I came home. Then there is me in my outfit, pre-sandals. This was how I rocked up to a Thai naval vessel to meet their Admiral on a semi-diplomatic event. As you can see, I had excellent colour sense. After a few days, my arms could match my polo.

Next is my field officer Abdulahir, who had to keep telling me to talk slower as he tried to translate. When I got excited, my rate of speech increased, and my Dad’s Cork roots would appear. In negotiations with stevedores, loaders, drivers and tallymen, this could be a problem for poor Abdulahir.

Beside Abdulahir is Mohamoud, our senior field officer and deputy of the office. I reported to him. Thankfully, he was very forgiving, and when I realised he had a passion for genealogy, we compared notes and found that the Irish clan system is very similar to the Somali one.

Finally there was our Convoyer [sic] Ahmed, whose job it was to accompany the shipments of food from the port to our warehouses. One was directly across the road from the entrance to the port, so we imaginatively called it the Port Warehouse.

Slightly Bemused‘s column appears here every Wednesday.

Pic via Slightly

A war of attrition with birds of varying feathers in Slightly Bemused’s garden

Slightly Bemused writes:

My crows did not turn up today. Rather unusual. I tried asking them when I saw them on the green later in the day, but they did not answer. They were poking around one of the areas where the teenagers had gathered, so I took that to mean crisps or even chips may have been had, and bits of food treasure were to be sought among the blades of grass.

And therein lay my answer. Starlings. I have been putting out fat balls for the little birds that live in my hedge, and my brambles and my thorns and nettles. I was told not to put out seed, as it may stop the little ones from foraging.

Wait until there is no fruit on the brambles, I was instructed. The fat balls help them when they are nesting, and as their young grow. I tried putting out peanuts, but that did not work. Actually, that was an eye opener. And a feeder opener.

I have a pole with curly arms for hanging out the feeders. The curls are supposed to keep the feeders from falling off. But those dastardly crows figured out how to lift the feeder off and drop them to the ground. All the easier to access them. The pigeons like to perch on the upper arms and poop all over everything below. Really, they have no manners!

I used to have a washing line strung across the garden where I would hang my washing in the summer, and in winter occasionally feeders. Unfortunately the pigeons would perch above my freshly washed duds, and poop. Making the whole fresh air smell pointless.

I bought a new peanut feeder. Last winter’s one was beyond redemption and in any case had provided years of good service. The one I bought, for all it had a metal mesh cylinder, to be honest it was cheap, and cheaply made. The crows landed on it. At first this was fine, but when the big lad arrived, his weight proved too much, cheap plastic split, and the feeder plummeted to the ground, lid spilling and a bounty of legumic delicacy spilt over the grass.

I bought a newer feeder, one more robust. I had hopes. Oh foolish me. I filled it up, hung it up and came back in for my 20th hand washing of the day (or so it seemed). And as I looked out my window above the sink I watched as the crows gathered, and deftly two of them together lifted the feeder up and around the curly bits and dropped it to the grass below.

It took a few attempts, but it was clear they knew what they were doing, and worked as a team. The big lad then dropped like a stone onto the mesh cylinder. After a few dive bombs, the cylinder collapsed, and the lid popped off. So much for sturdier.

The problem was that this largesse of peanut loveliness attracted a couple of somewhat unwelcome guests. Rats, and I will talk about them later, and starlings. I have rarely had to deal with starlings in my previous feeding, as they would mostly have already fled for warmer climes when I was looking to keep the little ones nourished through the winter. And starlings do not come in ones and twos. Anyone who has seen a murmuration will know that. Nope they come in flocks! They came for the peanuts, and found the fat balls.

The fat balls are in a different type of feeder, one with an outer cage so only smaller birds can get in. Actually designed to keep squirrels out, starlings are too large. But not uninventive. Or uncooperative.

They could get their heads in, and would peck at the fat balls, dropping morsels below, where others would feast. Then, the ones above would swap out, and the ones below would take up pecking duty. In full spate, they can empty the feeder in about 10 minutes, leaving only crumbs for the little ones and the pigeons.

The crows, clever divils that they are, figured out how to open the lid of the feeder, so filling it full invites a fairly short time before the top ball has been snarfed and wings its way to a nest, or eyrie, or tower somewhere to be shared.

Crows are surprisingly generous among themselves, but will censure any who do not share when they find caches of food. When the boss man arrives, the others will hop back until some signal tells them they may now come and feed. The bickering is always amongst the younger ones.

Oh, and crows really do not like magpies, or rats. The magpies are gluttons, I am not sure what their beef is with the rats. There are about 3 species of crows that frequent my garden: ravens, hooded crows and rooks. For all that magpies are also corvids, they are not welcome.

As I mentioned earlier, the peanut harvest on the sward brought in some unwelcome guests. Now, I knew they were there, my house butts onto a ditch, and the local lawn tennis club which plays on tarmac is beyond that. For all its urban designs, the town is still very rural, and ditches hide a million secrets, some of whom are rats.

But you can deter them. You can put down poison but that risks onward poisoning of those that prey on them, including housecats and small terriers, and owls. There are foods which they will not like and will keep them away. But to entice them, you have to make the nasty taste nice at first. Coating with peanut butter is recommended.

So today, I coated pellets with peanut butter. I hate peanut butter more than I dislike fish, and this tub was now no longer safe for human consumption. While I have put down the deterrent pellets for now, still the peanut butter is not okay. So it was with a feeling of joy that I pulled out my permanent marker and wrote POISON on the lid and jar.

I love peanuts, just not peanut butter. And Little Slightly had this irrational love of celery stalks filled with the stuff. Argh! At least her food was safe from me.

But likely not from starlings, who leave nothing behind such that even crows don’t come back.

Slightly Bemused‘s column appears here every Wednesday

All pics by Slightly

Gnomes populate a tree on the edge of Slightly’s estate

Slightly Bemused writes:

I had a wonderful experience over the past few days. I realised that my town smells different in the different parts, and at different times of the day. I was heading to the main street, past the pub I grew up in which once again can open it’s outer doors.

When I was growing up, passing by that wall, with it’s extractor fan in the window, brought tales of smoke and stale Guinness, and probably yarns being spun around fresh pints, while in that front bar there was still straw on the ground, and the farmers wore their muddy boots and waited for the next round of their working day.

Often that included moving the cattle along the main street from the field across from my house, in the place that is now a convenience store, was a hardware store that sold everything from a needle to an anchor, and before that a garden centre.

Before that, a field, where the cows fed and waited to be led to the milking shed in a place that is now a Supervalu and posh hotel. The smells they left were not all that wonderful, but one of the joys of living in what was then very much a country village. I do not want to discuss muck spreading season!

But today, as you round the corner from that pub with more tales to tell than Sherherezade you turn on to the Main Street, and are met with the scents of far away places that lady may have known. We are coming to the Wellness Emporium (which was the local video rental shop during the time of the herds) and the scents of foreign spices and rare unguents and ointments fills the air, wafting you to dreams of Aladdin and his Princess.

All too soon you are past it, to come to the supermarket, and in the morning the smell of fresh breakfast rolls entices you to come in, luring you with thoughts of greasy loveliness. In the afternoon, this place is redolent with spicy chicken and pizza takes over in the evening. But my journey is not to end here.

On I continue, to be met with a wall of floral loveliness, a delight missing these past months. The florist is open again, and samples of his wares are placed outside and cannot help but lighten my day. Sadly, I do not understand which ones are which – I can just about manage roses – but they do smell good, and the colours add to the feeling of joy as I sadly pass on by.

Opposite the traffic lights, the thoughts of the sub-continent break in to waken you to the joys of korma and butter chicken, real curries and balti dishes. For vegetarians, this is a must as their range is quite simply spectacular, not to mention tasty, and the rival fragrances create a panoply of olfactory visions.

Further down, from the evening come the wonderful and hard to resist aromas of the Chinese takeaway, vying with those of the chipper next door. A relative, blow-in, the Chinese is there a mere 15 years, the chipper has a longer pedigree. Although the premises have been done up, they have been getting my order wrong since I was a nipper, although they do do a great Chicken Burger with Cheese.

When we came here, they were the only purveyors of convenience food, now we even have a hotel. They also do kebabs, but they do not have the proper vertical rotating slab of kebab meat grilling away to add its own aroma to the hodge podge of scents that do escape.

I may seem to mock, but coming home after a night in the corner pub, which when it was allowed always had live music of a Friday, passing that chipper’s door was nigh on impossible. The smell of chips on a few pints was irresistible. And their chips are good, with lashings of salt and malt vinegar.

If we continue on, there is the smell of the Thai restaurant after 5pm. Subtly different from the Chinese, once again you are transported to far off lands, and even if you have eaten, thoughts of second breakfast spring to mind, and temptation is hard to resist.  So on we go. But memories bubble up.

The first Thai food I had was aboard one of their naval vessels. Coming in to the port of Somalia, they were gifting a cargo of rice to my agency and the WFP. Our own ship was in port, and I was there all day, covered in dust and grime from a day up and down gangways, arguing with stevedores and dockers, truckers and tallymen.

And I got a call on the radio. I was to represent our agency at a dinner on the naval vessel just tieing up behind ours. As this would be after sundown, and so after curfew, I was authorised to stay aboard our ship for the night, and the captain, with whom I got on well, happily made a cabin available.

I was able to take a shower, and leave my cowboy belt of accoutrements, and my bushranger’s hat in the cabin. But there was little I could do about my clothes. I had not time, as the admiral commanding the Thai ship had sent a junior officer to escort me. A training vessel, the poor cadets were the ones offloading. I wished I had as good workers on my team. I apologised to the officer, indicating my grimy clothes, and let him know that I had been unprepared. He merely smiled.

He led me up the gangway of his ship, and I was piped aboard (only time, darn it, but it was fun) before everyone turned and came to attention, and the officers saluted as their flag was lowered at sundown. I was then escorted below to a cabin, and offered a clean set of civilian clothes for the event. I was impressed, their information was ahead of mine. I took another quick shower and changed. When I returned, my clothes had all been laundered. Cleanest I had seen them in months, despite the best efforts of our housekeeper.

So I was brought below, and met by the first officer of the ship, who spoke excellent English. The WFP rep was escorted by the ship’s Captain. I was introduced to the Admiral, who made a short speech about how honoured his nation was to assist in this great humanitarian endeavour, before inviting me to dine. My escort then politely asked if I had ever had Thai food before, and when I answered in the negative, he proceeded to explain each dish, and in one or two cases their cultural relevance. That was when I learned that Thai food is eaten with a spoon and fork.

The scents that arose were wonderful, and passing by the restaurant in my town always brings me back there

Back home, and we wander along the Butterstream that used run through the school in a field wherein I did my Inter Cert, that is now an Aldi. I was one of those who helped build the walls that now contain this stream, and made a few small wiers that have improved the flow, and encouraged small life to find a home there, right at the edge of the town. A later addition, the childrens’ play area has a point where the young ones can safely look down and if the day is clear see the little tiddlers and sprats dart around below.

Once bigger, some of those will journey down and enter the river just a few hundred yards away. But here is where fragrance is joined by sound, as the burbling of the brook washes over you, and leads you down to the place from which my town gets its name: the crooked ford across the Liffey at what was once a very important trade route. With an esker leading to the town from the north, and continuing aways to the south, this was where people travelled before there were roads, and in the days when much of the town was marshy.

The river brings new scents, those of the water flowers, and the decay amongst the reeds. An angler’s delight, these beds shelter the trout and chuff that are the fisherman’s targets. Catch and release is the order of the day, but I know many an hour has been spent by some who do not intend to catch, but just enjoy the serenity of the water. The patch along the stretch passes through hedgerows and shrubs, which bring a vibrancy to the air even when no blooms are to be seen. The air seems fresher, tastier, somehow fuller while being lighter.

And back out to the road for home, just south of the old ramparts of the Pale. Less obvious now after recent works, the road used have three distinct bumps approaching the town, which acted as an alarm clock for weary commuters on the bus on the way home of a dark and rainy evening, when you could not see outside the steamed up windows to tell where you were. That third bump was the signal to get up and make your way to the front, and if Peter was driving, get dropped off short of the stop directly opposite my house.

Although not so bad these days, here the scents are more mechanical, dominated by the traffic to this small town, which now is heavier than the traffic was from Naas to Dublin in the 60s when it was decided that for safety a dual carriageway had to be built.

And back around to the edge of the estate, and bid a welcome to Gnomie, who has moved in to live with Mr Gnome and mind our access. So back in past the beech trees and to the smell of fresh cut grass filling up my senses. And making my eyes run me cough and sneeze. Hay fever in these days brings funny looks it never did before. Why is it grass that affects me, when that smell just evokes summer? Well, back home, and dive for the antihistamines before I weep all over the place.

Maybe I will spoil myself, and have a Thai takeaway for dinner.

Slightly Bemused‘s column appears here every Wednesday.

Some 400,000 people have evacuated Goma, one of the Democratic Republic of the Congo’s largest cities, after the Mount Nyiragongo volcano (top) erupted last week

Slightly Bemused writes:

It is with a certain amount of dismay and concern that I have been watching the news around the eruption of Mount Nyiragongo near Goma, in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. Hundreds of thousands of people are displaced and now are dependent on assistance from others.

International aid agencies are trying to respond as best they can, but they are hampered by many factors. The flow of lava has effectively cut the town in two, separating one side from the emergency supplies available on the other. Crucial infrastructure, such as the town’s main water supply, have been affected.

In some cases, carefully prepared compounds with supplies for displaced people, mainly aimed at those displaced by the ongoing insecurity of the region, have been either cut off or, in some cases, engulfed. Yet still people try to assist.

First and foremost, as is always the case, are the locals themselves. Many of the townsfolk of Goma have fled to the town of Sake (pronounced like the Japanese drink) 23km away. There they have been welcomed by the people of that town, and are being given shelter in halls, churches, schools, and wherever else they can be put up. The people of Sake have had their own troubles and know what it is like to be forced to leave everything suddenly and flee. Thus they are welcoming to those others so ill-affected.

In here too are the local organisations. Many set up to assist their own people, they quickly move and mobilise volunteers and what resources they have to try to provide food and clean water. Assisted by international agencies, they are the true front line for agency response. The international agencies often have the resources, but not the penetration into the community, even after all these years, that local organisations have.

Consider, if you will, what would happen here, who would respond. Assume that the government and their emergency systems are not available. The full resources of the State cannot be brought to bear, so it is only those locally based who could respond.

You might think of such local volunteer organisations as the Red Cross, Order of Malta, John’s Ambulance, any locally based Civil Defence teams. But also you would have the invaluable support of the local ICA, Mens Sheds, Parish Centres, perhaps local scout troops and, in a way clearly shown through this pandemic, the likes of sports clubs such as the GAA, soccer and rugby clubs.

They may not all have ‘experience’ in such responses, but what they do have is a readily available cohort of people they can contact who know the area, who know the people and who are willing to help.

Often dismissively referred to as Community Based Organisations, they are truly the heart of the communities in which they live, and they come together quickly to support those in need. And so it is in Sake, and across the border on the other side into Rwanda and the town of Gisenyi. Ideologies are set aside and communities move to assist those in need.

I first arrived in Goma in the immediate aftermath of the previous eruption in 2002, arriving the morning after into Gisenyi to cross the border and assist the local response. My role was logistics, so warehouses and roads were my main priority, as my colleagues worked to provide medical support, shelter and basic sanitary supplies, and distribute the food the trucks I managed brought to them.

Much will be the same today, but I fear that this could be even worse. While Goma was cut in half then, there was really only one major, slow eruption. Today, there are ongoing tremors and concerns for additional eruptions, which causes additional fear and indeed panic amongst the population.

Goma has also grown since then, with a major influx of townsfolk from more rural areas fleeing the fighting further north arriving to the relative sanctuary of the town. Yet, while sadly 38 people have so far lost their lives at this time, it is so much better than the unprepared population of the early 2000s where hundreds died. Admittedly, many of those were people who ran back to try to save their goods or, in some cases, to loot. This has so far been avoided.

When I arrived, it was still cooling, but a German-led roadbuilding team who had been improving the connection with Sake to the west had already moved in and risked their lives and vehicles to forge a road across the still cooling lava to reconnect west and east Goma. The teams were mainly people from the town, so it was their families, their friends, and their community they looked to help. It is the very improvements they later finished on the road to Sake that allowed people this time to move so quickly to relative safety.

To highlight the dangers then, and still now, I walked across that roadway at one point – foolish youth that I was. The fumes were searing, and the heat still in the road bed partly melted the soles of my boots, permanently embedding small bits of lava grit into them. I had to take the boots off to enter any room, especially ones with wooden floors, thereafter.

And I was left coughing for a week. Those fumes pose as great, if not greater threat to the people still in the town as the lava itself. I was there but a short while, those permanently living there risked long term breathing difficulties.

As I write this, I cannot help but raise my eyes to a piece of black rock (above) on my mantelpiece. Dusty now, you can still see the whorls and solidified wavelets where the lava froze. While definitely a keepsake and a talking point, it also serves to remind me just how precarious the lives of so many on this planet are, subject to the whims of nature.

But I am also reminded of the surprising good that can arise in some of these situations. There was a school, with buildings on four sides and a central area intended for children to play. The gateway was the only break in this, but every day it flooded when the rains happened, washing out the makeshift shelters of the people who had come there for safety.

The people, mainly women, got together and made a barrier of sandbags across the gate to stop the inrush of water, while the men worked to dig drainage points to let what did get in flow out quicker.

I arrived one day with the truck with food and rations for them to find them preparing a feast and dancing as that day, for the first time, their shelters had not become inundated. They celebrated this small victory with song and dance, and hope for the future.

Little Slightly was not yet a year old, but I got her a piece too, and mounted hers on a small wooden plinth, with the words “Goma, 29 January 2002” on the side. This got her in trouble one time. She was about 6 years old, and doing geography in school. Her teacher told her that rocks were all ancient, millions of years old. A certain little lady objected, saying she had a rock that was younger than she was. She was quickly told she was wrong and to be quiet.

The next day I got a call from her very irate mother, who had been summoned to the school. My little darling had marched into the classroom, silently plonked her mounted piece of Goma lava, with it’s inscription, on her teacher’s table, and gone and plonked herself into her seat. While a valid point, this was not the way to win a teacher’s heart. Mother was summoned, later father was called and berated, and father could not control himself and fell off his seat laughing. This did not really help matters, but it did brighten up my day.

So as I look at this token of destruction on my mantelpiece, and think of all those affected, and those trying to help them in Goma today, I cannot help but smile at the thought of people celebrating the simplest of things like dry shelters, and a little girl standing up for what she knew to be true.

Slightly Bemused‘s column usually appears here every Wednesday.

Getty/Slightly Bemused

The author’s poem to his mother when he was aged 7

Slightly Bemused writes:

I am glad to say that I am feeling much better, and got my first jab, next one soon and then I can travel the world again one decrepit step at a time.

I have been going through old diaries and records for/with stories about my Dad [Slighly’s father passed away earlier this month]. As a family we want to gather the memories for our later generations, such as my own Little Slightly. I sadly never knew my Dad’s Dad – he passed before I was even a twinkle.

My little one did meet her granddad, and they corresponded quite a bit, the old fashioned way with pen, paper and envelopes. I got the occasional one, but then I was off gallivanting around some interesting parts of the world.

Anyway, I found this below, from a blog I tried to start years ago, but limited internet connectivity and heavy workload doomed it to failure. But it does mention my Dad, and in a peculiar way I also thought people might find it amusing. As with that blog, I give the introduction long after actually starting to post. I fancied myself a poet. Turned out I am not, and certainly not up to the standards of the wordsmiths of Broadsheet.

Introduction to The Not Quite Poetry Sessions

Hi All, and welcome to any crazy enough to be reading this.

Welcome to my first blogging experience. And, as per my normal style, I got it backwards. The Introduction is supposed to come before the main event starts. But who cares?

Anyway, welcome to the Not Quote Poetry Sessions. I have, over the years, in fits of boredom, ennui, fear, rejection, anger, and plain drunkenness written several pieces that the kind might refer to as a kind of poetry. I have also come across scribblings in my diaries that may perhaps be referred to as my attempts at philosophy, or something. Given I was most likely drunk at the time, I am not sure. But I thought I might share it with you all, and so help reduce the average IQ of the planet by a few percentage points

So where did this come from? I am not sure. My writing is not consistent, in that I do not pump out several poems a week, month, year, or whatever. Only when the muse struck (or I got drunk with a pen and diary handy ) and so there is no real theme.

There are several written as paens to an old, sadly departed girlfriend. And others to whom I gave my heart. Either nice poems, or ones after rejection. Mostly the latter. As my brother once said, we mostly write when in extremes of emotion, and I take rejection extremely badly – usually with a few pints followed by a bottle of something nicely alcoholic. [New note May 2021: sadly I have had to put that side away and can only have the occasional tipple now. Younger oldies recover faster, but older minds are a little better at rejection :-) SB]

In one case, coming soon, I answered the beautiful poem of W.B. Yeats: He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven. It was after I found my marriage was breaking up, and I did not particularly like my wife at the time. So, while I do not consider it a plagiarist poem, it is most definitely influenced, and written as closely as I could to the style and language used by W.B. as a direct response, or perhaps the same person later. Not sure if Yeats would approve, but I do not classify myself anywhere close to his standard, and hope more that he forgives my temerity.

Why the name? Well, I rarely use rhyme at the end of each line. I personally do not believe poetry needs rhyme – that runs the risk of becoming doggerel. It does need meter, though, and I have tried to have at least some meter in each. I have also put rhyme sometimes within sentences or even words or syllables, so that when spoken the rhyme appears, but not when written if looking at ends of sentences. My father once saw an old poem of mine, not yet posted, that had no rhyme at all. He told me that without rhyme, it was not quite poetry. And so my title was born. I would become a writer, not of poetry, but of Not Quite Poetry.

I have already posted a couple of my ‘works’, and will continue with a few more a week for a while. There is no particular order, and at this time I do not intend to comment on the circumstances surrounding given poems. Some are just too personal, but mainly because I would like that people make up their own interpretations of what was meant. Additionally, I hope to post small snippets, perhaps cogent paragraphs from my diaries over the years that I think are more interesting than others. Sometimes I may just post phrases that may mean something to me. Freedom is my canvas, and I intend to fill it to the edges.

He Had the Cloths of Heaven

I had the cloths of Heaven
Woven in light of gold and silver
Starlight and moonlight embroidered
And laid in colours of light and night.
In a swoon I laid them at her feet
That she might walk above the clouds and sun
But her hobnail boots cut those cloths
And now my dreams are nought but shrouds

Sorry, Mr Yeats!

Slightly Bemused‘s column appears here every Wednesday.

Peter Riordan and Terry Healy on their wedding day in 2014. Peter is wearing the same military suit he wore when commissioned into the Defence Forces in 1961

This afternoon.

Slightly Bemused writes:

It is with great sadness that I have to report the passing of my father. Thankfully, he died peacefully, with two of my brothers with him, and another on stream. The hospital were fantastic, and put him in an isolation room so family could visit, which would not have been possible in a ward. Ironically, it was the room beside the one I had just spent a week in, but I could not visit him.

It is strange what comes to mind at times like this. My mother had a miscarriage when I was 6, and was rushed to hospital. My Dad, who normally barracked in Cathal Brugha, was let out to mind the horde. It could not last, so we were being farmed out to various relatives, starting overnight with my aunt who lived up the road.

First we knew was Dad making hot dogs (well, sausages in a bread bun, but my first experience) at about 11 pm with hot Coleman’s English mustard and Chef tomato sauce, followed by jelly and custard. Then all into the Cortina still in our jammies and up to our aunt. Some while we were eating, Dad had packed our holiday sleeping bags in the boot, and we ended up having a sleepover with our cousins. Years before 24 hour TV and VCRs, so horror stories it was. And Dad was gone.

Caught up in that moment as a six year old, I never noticed his concern, or that of my aunt, or that his disappearance was to be as close to his wife’s side as he could be. We were taken care of, so he could now concentrate entirely on my mother.

Today, we are all grown and can take care of ourselves, but it was lovely to see that same concern in his new wife, my step-mother’s face as she sought to tend him. Now is our turn to rally around her.

Well past his reserve status, he needed the permission of the Chief of Staff to wear his dress uniform on their wedding day. He asked if he could have his lanyard cleaned. They sent him a new one. They sent a Captain to take pictures, including the one (above). When doing such duties, members of the Defence Forces do not wear their head gear, as this absents them from military protocol.

On that day, the Captain, in her Number One uniform, deliberately put on her cap as my Dad left the Church. He was a Commandant, and this meant she had to give him a salute. He was surprised, but of course returned it. A small thing, it meant a lot. Not just to him, but to what they thought of him.

In my own work I later met the officer who received that request. He told me of the reaction at the highest levels of the Army. There was no question he would not be allowed wear his dress uniform. My father had been one of the Chief of Staff’s instructors. The Irish Defence Forces are small, but very cohesive.

Naturally enough the days and even weeks to come will be full and likely fraught. As a result, for now I have to step back from any thoughts of a column, or the next would be morbid as anything. Maybe it needs to be, but not with this frame of mind.

He was the man who did more to shape me than I even realise.

Pic: Defence Forces

Slightly Bemused writes:

I got a new mattress. Did I tell you that already? I got a nice one, pure white, made in Ireland with a lovely Irish (Galway) name. I am sure it is very comfortable. But I have not yet slept on it, and likely will not until January.

Little Slightly is coming over to stay for a few months and study up the road. But she is allergic to dust mites, so I do not want to risk entering any to that mattress and want everything to be as pristine as I can keep it.

To this end, I have been giving my bedroom a deep clean. It has badly needed it for years, but I am the lazy type. So a desultory hoovering, a shifting around of the piles of junk, and the occasional attempt to put my clothes away has so far succeeded for me. Now I need to get serious.

I realised that I have not cleaned my curtains since I first put them up over 16 years ago. Dust and dirt should be the most on them, but still, dust mites. So down they will come, and another foray into the dark of the Boom Boom Laundry Room is on the cards.

But as I contemplated them, I remembered something.These curtains were bought – well, made, as a pair with a set of bottle green ones. They fall from the rail almost to the floor, and in winter are amazing at keeping the heat in. Little Slightly’s mother loved green, so those ones were the shades that kept the security lights at bay during our nights.

When we finally separated, she took those curtains, and all the green towels. I got to keep the blue ones. And those were the ones in Little Slightly’s room, and will be again. Synchronicity of a form. I also have blue towels, although not as well colour matched as the green were. I already owned these ones, and being a man have no real sense of anything other than ‘blue’.

My brother stayed over a while ago. He did not like my towels. I do not use softener on them, as this affects their ability to dry you. He did not like my scratchy towels. Yet I am surprised – it was our own mother told us this. Soften your socks and jocks, your t-shirts and trousers, but leave the towels alone. Besides, a vigorous rub with a ‘scratchy’ towel will wake you up in the morning :-)

Speaking of Little Slightly, she is having to jump through loops. They now want to know about medical insurance. I have her PPSN, which we got when she was a wee one, and as such she is covered by the State same as I am. Her college are having problems with this, so I have asked her to arrange a call with them. I can then explain how healthcare works in a country, which while not perfect, does actually work. Should be an interesting call.

And today I opened my shed for the first time this year. I fear the lawnmower is dead, beyond resuscitation. A skip will be needed for the other items, and soon that shed must topple. If left alone, it might make the end of the summer, but I doubt it.

So the question arises: replace with wooden, plastic or metal?

Slightle Bemused‘s column appears here every Wednesday.

Pic by Slightly

Fiat’s classic 127

Slightly Bemused writes:

How do you fit ten kids in a Ford Cortina? Not a red one, burgundy. Bench seats front and back, and column gears. Allowed for a lot of sins in today’s age.

Growing up as one of the little ones, I remember being carried in my mothers arms as brothers and sisters fought for room on the back seat. In later years I got the vaunted window seat, rear left, as we towed the caravan around the country. I was light, the shock absorbers on that side were dodgy, but I got the window seat.

Of course we grew up, and quite literally outgrew the Cortina. So another car was needed, and our aunt gave us her Fiat 850. It was blue. So we called it the Bluebottle. We were very imaginative in those days. I remember once polishing it, and putting the lid of the bottle on the front bumper thinking it would go nowhere because it was metal. Yeah, well, that did not work,, so we just used all the polish instead, and said nothing, although in hindsight my mother’s grin said she knew.

That Bluebottle brought me to my First Communion. We had been brought to what I always called electrocution lessons (elocution, how to pronounce your thees and thous and to enunciate even unto the farthest walls). I remember being asked as the first of our group to give my prayer. When I finished, a microphone was proffered. I was still the only one heard at the door. Probably explains a lot about me.

Back to the Cortina,, and my mother. My father did service overseas with the Army as part of a UN mission. So he had to teach my mother to drive. We only had the Cortina at the time, so naturally that was what she learned in. We came home, and were met by a lovely man from across the road. His name was John. Although I have no specific memory of the occasion, apparently I told him that Daddy took us to a lovely smooth road and Mummy made it all bumpy.

Years later I was in the car with my mother, and we are going down a road I was not totally familiar with. So I asked, and in a tight voice I was informed this was the road Mummy made all bumpy. So time to shut up, and enjoy the scenery.

But eventually we outgrew the Cortina, and the Bluebottle pretty much died. So one day Dad wandered off with it and came back with the Fiat 127. He had wanted a 126, but they had none in stock. Apparently a TV ad made them most popular. It was his first brand new car.

We wandered all over in the country in that car, usually behind the caravan towed by my Dad. In Connemara one time the caravan suddenly did an impression of one of those cowboy bucking broncos, and ended up through one of those lovely scenic walls, and on its side. Two sensible driving habits happened that day: Dad kept going to avoid the van, and Mum backed right off, to avoid the van. In the end, while all the soft stuff was scattered, only one plate broke. I learned the difference between packed and stowed.

My eldest brother had his first car crash in that Fiat, as he avoided a tractor that decided both sides of the road were good. Later, whatever damage that did, my mother told my Dad that the car felt unsound. So he took it off the road, bought a later model 127, and decided that as this had been his first brand new car, no one else would own it.

So he cut it up with an angle grinder. Turned out it was riddled with rust, which was what my mother had felt. So, in the reverse of Johnny Cash’s song, it was one piece at a time into the bin. Took the whole summer. Not sure what he did with the engine.

Slightly Bemused‘s column appears here every Wednesday.

Pic: Fiat

‘Slightly Bemused’ as a boy (left) and ‘Little Slightly’ (right) when she was “littler”

Slightly Bemused writes:

I am afraid I do not have anything for today, other than a little bit of news. I have been in quite a bit of a daze since I heard it. And, to be honest, quite a bit terrified.

Little Slightly has been calling a lot lately. She lives in the mid-west US, and has no idea about time difference. OK, not totally true – she does know, she just does not really care. Since she was a very wee one and wanted me to read her a story before bed, she just called. The stories are a little more grown up now, but she still calls when she wants to talk. And of course I answer.

I am in a daze because of the last conversation. For a number of years she has lived with her boyfriend. She no longer lives with her boyfriend. She lives with her fiancé, and it seems I will relatively soon (like early next year) be a father-in-law. Gulp.

And gulper! It appears that before the end of the year I just may be a grandfather.

So I have not been able to string a coherent thought since then. I am not sure when I will be able to.

So please, share this short bit of news instead of my column. Janet and Millie may soon have competition for the cutest babby, and I think I will need a stiff drink!

Thank you,

A much more than slightly bemused.

Slightly Bemused‘s column appears here every Wednesday.

Name that jammer, anyone?

Slightly Bemused‘s laundrette: “I go late in the night, about 1 am as they are normally very busy during the day”

Slightly bemused writes

Sometimes laundry day can seem like it drags on forever, and sometimes it feels like a furtive foray into the darkness of the night. At the weekend I put on my weekly load, and somehow it reminded me of washing days past.

When I grew up, before we moved to the town I still live in, we used to have a twin tub top loader: washer and spinner. During the week, while we were all at school, my Mum would do the washing, carefully separating the whites from the coloureds, and doing so many loads with so many of us it is amazing it survived. I do recall clearly the smell of boiling detergent as my mother cleaned the terry cloth nappies of my youngest brother before transferring them to the spinner.

My father would later use the same pot to make what we called doggy bone soup. We would have to go out to the garden and collect up all the bones our dog had chewed and left all over the place. In the meantime, my Dad would put on fresh marrow bones for the soup, but of course told us youngsters that he used the old ones we collected. Once cooled, the new bones went out to the dog, and the cycle continued.

I solved the separation issue by not having any whites, and the ironing issue by buying as many crease-proof garments as I could.

Sheets were changed on beds in rotation. With ten of us as kids, that meant 11 beds, so two on Monday, two on Tuesday, and so on. We each knew our day, and in the morning before school we had to strip our sheets and pillow cases, and lay the blankets out so they aired. No duvets or Continental quilts in those days. Oh no, we had nice scratchy woolen blankets. I do know they were cleaned regularly, but I have no idea how or how often.

Our dryer was the line stretched across the back garden, and there was never any shame in seeing your unmentionables blowing in the breeze. I remember once trying to help, and pulled at my own Spiderman undies, and the fabric they were made of ripped. Back to little boy tighty-whiteys. But the sheets got special treatment.

After careful folding, very much a two person job, one end was fed into a hand cranked mangle, while the poor feeder then had to turn the handle and squeeze the water from the sheets. The mangle had a tray after the rollers and there seemed an arcane trick to folding the outcoming sheets, while the tail person kept their end off the ground. Then on to the washing line.

When we moved we got a front loader, as there was a ready plumbed in place for one. A Spanish model, it had a clockwork control dial, which was a pain in times when the power went out as it kept going. When that happened, one of us was dispatched to turn it off with a slap on that dial, as pulling it out turned it on.

Later, we moved on to a Hotpoint, which my Dad still had until he moved to his new house. With so many of us, the brushes on the motor regularly wore out, but the spares were readily available. The sight of my Dad changing them was at least a twice yearly spectacle.

I remember one time coming in and on top of the part of the machine that protruded out from the counter was a condom, still in its wrapper. I picked it up and laughed, and replaced it. My parents, sitting on either side of the table having a cuppa snorted, and my mother said ‘Well it’s not his!’ Turned out to be another brother, but I will not say which as he never owned up, but the rest of us knew.

Anyway, with Spring this year having sprung, I decided to do the annual cleaning of my duvet. A little big for my own machine, I decided to use the commercial publicly accessible one in the local petrol station. On an aside, this petrol station is the same site where the Boom Boom Room and service station was in the film I Went Down (1997), although all has changed and the Boom Boom Room is no more.

I decided to go late in the night, about 1 am as they are normally very busy during the day. For several years I have done this, as it is half the price of a dry clean, and is just as effective. I wonder what the security guys monitoring the cameras think when I arrive, pull out what may look like a body, and stuff it into the large capacity drum. Or do they think I am attempting to get rid of evidence of having used it to conceal a body?

The duvet cover (incidentally the first one I bought when I first moved into my own flat, from Guineys on Talbot Street) does fit into my machine, so it went on once I got home. After I collected the quilt, and all was draped over bannisters and airing racks, the house was redolent with the smell of clean laundry.

My daughter bought me a mesh laundry tote bag one Christmas for when I came over to make it easier for me to carry my dirty laundry to the hotel guest laundry, which I tended to do during the early hours in Ireland but while the other guests were still abed. The time difference here worked in my favour. While waiting, I would head for reception for the free coffee and waffles.

I still wonder what happened to the mangle.

Slightly Bemused‘s column appears here every Wednesday.

Pic by Slightly