Patrick Carey

Much noise has been made of the auspiciouness of the 13th full moon falling on Friday, 13th. Here in Nova Scotia, we got our helping of auspiciousness six days early with the arrival of Hurricane Dorian. For me personally, this date is always auspicious but on this occasion, particularly so. My dad died 25 years ago and he led a highly auspicious life.

 

It began when he came back from the dead. One of a set of twins, the product of a  complicated delivery, he was pronounced dead on arrival and stuck in a corner while his slightly older brother got all the attention. An uncharachteristic wail convinced those present that he was very much alive, opinionated and bound for great things.

True to form, Dad notched up a number of firsts. He was the first of his brothers to eschew acting and embrace cinematography. He flew on the first Comet jet to India, and was part of the crew to film the first ascent of Everest. He put Irish documentary films on the map, pioneered documentaries with natural sound as commentary, and gave natural scenes their place in second unit direction. Continue reading “Patrick Carey” →

First Day of School?

Drip, drip,

rain on the first day of school.

The sky is crying

and so am I.

Stomach balled tight.

“Breakfast!”

Dash to the bathroom – hammer on the door- throw up on the floor.

Nerves in shreds.

Hit the shower.

Drip, drip,

summer slipping down the drain.

Dull, dreary months stretch ahead.

Bullies and lunches in packed auditorium

teachers demanding and homework and noise

Drip, drip,

like Chinese torture

Sliding down windows as minutes tick by

Counting the hours ’til freedom again.

“Hurry up, you’ll be late.”

Put on the new clothes.

Force down the smoothie.

Grab the full backpack.

Friends at the door.

Splash in the puddles

Soaked to the skin.

Laughing and pushing and running the last bit.

There’s floods in the classroom

seeps into classrooms

No school; it’s a rain day.

YAY!

 

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First Day of School? – Clo Carey September 2019

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Mothers’ Day Me Too!

I’ve been lucky enough to have had many wonderful, strong mothers in my life. They took the shape of aunts and mothers of friends, my own Mum and my second mother, Evie Redman. Over time the legions of mothers morphed into my friends as my generation took the mothering helm, steering our kids, with varying degrees of success, into adulthood. Now, the baton is passing on down the line. Not all of the mothers in my life have produced kids but instead nurture fur babies, the careers of others; friends, colleagues and causes. All women play a vital role in how this world turns and should be revered and protected for just that reason. In the past couple of years many are finally finding the courage to stand up and say enough, no more; to put into words their frustrations at the lack of progress in their treatment. There is strength in this movement and, pulling together for the betterment of all women, we will effect change. It’s been over a century since the suffrage movement began. There is still so much work to be done. On this Mother’s Day, may we all stand together and determine to put an end to misogyny in all its guises. We are the mothers of all, the backbone of the world. We owe it to the future.

 

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#mothersday #metoo

Photo credit: Clo Carey

The Egg’s the Thing

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My first real memory of Ireland was at Easter. I was seven and my family, never one to follow trends, had just moved back to Ireland from Toronto. It was all a great adventure. The brother and I were taken out of school before the holidays. Farewell parties were held and we were showered with gifts. Trunks were filled with new clothes. New supplies were bought to keep the pair of us occupied so that the Mother could spend the voyage snoozing in a deck chair. We boarded a massive ship in Halifax and off we went across the Atlantic to arrive on the shores of our new homeland, six days later.

It dawned on us quite quickly that this was a very strange place. For one thing, the cars drove on the wrong side of the road and the people talked with funny accents. Even worse, they laughed at us for the way we talked. They thought we were from America, and did we know their cousins in Boston or Detroit. Worse still, we didn’t know our times tables, were shaky on our catechisms and had not a word of Irish. People from Canada were clearly to be pitied.

We took up residence in a mouldering pile of a B & B in Killiney. The bedrooms were huge, and damp with open fireplaces and shabby drapes. The shared bathroom down the hall was so draughty waves formed on the water as you lay in the claw-foot tub. The wife of this establishment, purveyor of breakfast, and clean towels, saw us coming and took herself off to hospital; leaving her domestically challenged husband struggling with vacuums and frying pans. His efforts failed to make the right impression with the Mother who took over the running of the household with an ill grace. Never one for housework, she was not pleased to find herself starting her new life adventure back in a kitchen.   The air was blue and the dinner was burnt but despite all, there was Easter to look forward to. Continue reading “The Egg’s the Thing” →

Galaxy

Galaxy tosses her head and taps her foot, waiting impatiently while the designer’s assistant pins the last of the tulle into place. Why was it always such chaos backstage at a show? They were never ready, always frantically pinning and hemming right up until the model steps through the curtain. She glances quickly in the mirror, rolling her massive brown eyes at the ludicrous headpiece that has been fashioned onto her head; two horns integrated with ribbons and chiffon, sequins and a model Spanish galleon. Whatever next? The dress crackles as she moves; the combination of tulle, net and rip-stop nylon uncomfortable to wear, even harder to sell to the rows of moneybags squatting on the dainty gold seats beyond, awaiting the next creation.

A roar goes up as Galaxy makes her entrance. Head and shoulders above the other girls, she owns the runway. Acknowledging the acclaim that her status affords her, she stretches her long neck and struts on legs that go on for days, down one side and up the other, pausing only long enough to flip her tail-end so the train of this hideous dress fans out behind her to the oohs and aahs of the groupies; then sashays leisurely back, in no particular hurry to re-join the chaos backstage.

The show progresses. Galaxy yawns while a new topknot is affixed and more garments are fitted to her perfect body. She bats her long eyelashes at press photographers and sips a glass of champagne, much to the consternation of the make-up artist stationed by her chair to repair small damages caused by the arrival and departure of each new creation. Galaxy smiles, removed from it all, drifting off into her thoughts. She is at the top of her game and all the other girls know it. Gone are the days when they made fun of her height or her name, which her agent wanted to change to Galaxia for more exotic impact. One glance in the mirror convinces Galaxy that she is quite exotic enough. After all, she is the only giraffe on the fashion circuit and that has to count for something, doesn’t it? Galaxy she remains; celebrated model, highest paid ruminant and toast of fashion weeks across the world.

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Photo Credit: Franz van Heeren

Galaxy – Clo Carey March 2019

blog challenge “Galaxy” South Shore Scribes NS @www.emilybowers.ca   @https://chasscribbless.blogspot.com  @https://contentinretirement.blogspot.com @https://www.facebook.com/groups/1470587219691626 #galaxy #nonsensewriting #amwriting #fashionweek

WINNER

Lottery concept.

 

A couple of evenings ago a market research company called my cell phone. Would I be willing to do a survey on the gambling situation in the province? For once I wasn’t running around like a mad thing chasing my tail. Here would be an excuse to sit down for once, so I agreed.

The survey started in the usual way. Having got the demo/psycho pigeonholing out of the way we progressed to the nitty gritty.

Did I gamble? – Well I buy a lottery ticket about three times a year, does that count?

Was I aware of the…. mega list with everything from dog racing to bingo; scratch cards to casinos that followed? – Yes I was.

Did I indulge in any of the aforementioned list – See first answer.

Did I consider myself a problem gambler? – No I didn’t.

Did I ever lose more than I could afford through gambling? – Well to be honest that $5 on the Max is borderline but probably not what they’re looking for.

Was I aware of the various groups that help gamblers turn their backs on the whole malevolent practice? – Yes I was.

I was happily and somewhat smugly answering “no” to every question when she posed one that stopped me in my tracks –

Was I aware of the level of contribution to the arts, culture and sports of the province that is provided by lottery revenues? – Well, yes I was.

Did I approve of lottery revenues being used in that way – And there you have it. What to answer? Did I or did I not. Continue reading “WINNER” →

Oh Crap it’s Valentine’s Day

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Remember those days back in elementary before inclusivity, zero tolerance and political correctness? Yes, those days. The February days when the classroom craft for Valentine’s week was to make yourself a “mailbox” into which your many affectionate classmates would post their lovingly inscribed Valentine cards. You gave cards to the kids you liked; the kids you admired; the cool kids with their curly blond hair and their crinolines; their confidence and their patent leather shoes. You did not tend to give them to the shy kids with straight brown hair and crooked teeth; the kids with a little extra poundage; the kids dressed by strict mothers in scratchy navy tunics and sensible shoes. No prizes for guessing which category I fell into. The teachers, fearing meltdowns insisted that the boxes should not be opened in class and while many were delved into on the playground after the final bell had rung, I always kept mine until I got home, hoping against hope that a few more kids had taken pity on me and added me to their list. Alas it was rarely the case. The seeds for future Valentine failures were sewn, watered by tears on Valentine’s Night. Continue reading “Oh Crap it’s Valentine’s Day” →

Bunion Soup

“I’m back, dear.”

“Did you get everything on the list?”

“I did. Sure there were only five items. It wasn’t that challenging.”

“And you got everything?”

“Amn’t I just after telling you?”

“Well put them up on the table, so.”

“There y’are, eggs, butter, milk, bread…”

“What’s this?”

“I ah…”

“I said onions. One pound of onions.”

“Yer writing’s terrible, I thought, it said bunions.”

“Bunions is it? Ya feckin’ eejit. How can I make onion soup with bunions?”

“They were half price.”

“I don’t care if they were feckin’ free. Do you not know the difference between onions and bunions?”

“I do yeah. The one grows in the ground, the other grows on the foot.”

“God bless us, are ya mental?”

“I am not! Sure I was lucky; this was the last they had in stock. Yer wan even threw in the foot for ya, said it would add to the flavour.”

“Give me strength, do ya not realize how much extra work the foot is. Ya have to boil it up and strain off the toe jam and the nails before you can even get started. And then you have to take the grater to the bunions. ‘Tis hours of work, so it is. If you think I’m doing that you’ve another think coming.”

“Sure the bunion soup would be just as tasty as the other thing only meatier. Why won’t you take the bother and make it?”

“I’m a vegetarian ya daft git, a vegetarian.”

“So, no bunion soup, then?”

“That’s right, no bunion soup. Now go on back to the shop and get me them onions. Half price bunions. Did you ever hear the like?”

 

* after some consideration the author has decided not to illustrate this post.

Bunion Soup – Clo Carey January 2019

blog challenge South Shore Scribes NS @www.emilybowers.ca   @https://chasscribbless.blogspot.com  @https://contentinretirement.blogspot.com @https://www.facebook.com/groups/1470587219691626 #bunions #nonsensewriting #amwriting

The Last New Year’s Eve

The big party was at our house as it so often was. The Parents weren’t fussy; we could drink, we could smoke, or just be. The regular gang were there, hanging out. Bottles of Smithwicks and Guinness, Cinzano and Gordons, littered The Mother’s prized teak table; they jostled for position with bowls of crisps and cheesy spreads and soggy canapés. The music was loud, the lights were low, and the usual culprits were snogging in corners. We had already played our two party tricks; wedging the youngest into a dustbin where it was left, abandoned, in the middle of the road; miming the pulling of an imaginary rope across the self-same road should a car have the nerve to pass by. When the demands to turn down the music escalated along with the passion in the corners, a new plan was hatched. We would go into town.

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There followed the jostle and giggle of arms into coats and scarves wound around; the dash out the door to catch the next bus. The scramble and leaping as off it went with only the half of us safely onboard; the helter and skeltering, pushing and boosting, up the curved stairs of the old number 10. Then the surreptitious passing around of the tickets; bamboozling the conductor that the fares were all paid. The ould wans giving us the stink eye; the young wans wishing they were happy like us.

Disgorged into dark streets we wended our way with the gathering crowd to Christ Church Cathedral. We’re still waving at friends and passing the mickeys when the crush thickens up and the countdown begins. Then the bells ring out and the ships’ horns sound off and strangers embrace us and dancing breaks out. Happy New Year we shout as the crowd flows around us; Happy New Year again when it ebbs on its way. Continue reading “The Last New Year’s Eve” →

Clarissa’s Christmas Eve

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Clarissa opened one eye and waited for the excitement to hit her. It was Christmas Eve. What delights awaited: The lighting of the tree, the sugar plums, the stockings hanging, Papa carrying her up to bed. But that was long ago and she was here and now. It was Christmas Eve and she was alone. She struggled to push off her covers and clamber out of bed. She was sure, if she could hear them, her old bones were rattling. Clarissa gritted her teeth. She would not be blue. Christmas Eve was her favourite day of the year but despite all, she could feel the black dog edging closer in the grovelling crawl that dogs adopt, thinking you can’t see what they’re up to.

“Be gone!” she said, turning her back on darkness and summoning happier thoughts. She would wear her blue empire waist dress with the puffed sleeves and lace trimming. It was blue to match her eyes; both faded with time, it was true but still perfectly serviceable.

Christmas Eve! She did wish that she was allowed more than one favourite day, like her birthday or Christmas itself, or New Years. Christmas Eve was what she had chosen and she was content with the memories of it even if she did miss the bygone days. Memories must not stop her from participating in these times. She would go to the shops and have a look around.

Mind made up, Clarissa donned her outer wear and took a tentative step out into crisp winter air. A fresh fall of snow blanketed the ground, the late afternoon sun bursting through to highlight the trees with twinkling sparks. Clarissa drifted on into first one shop and then another. She had forgotten her purse but it didn’t matter. She couldn’t buy; needed nothing. She just liked to watch and enjoy the frenzy of others. No one noticed her. They were all intent on their last minute purchases, grabbing and stuffing mince pies and ugly ties and candies and brandies into already over-loaded shopping carts.

Continue reading “Clarissa’s Christmas Eve” →