Category Archives: Grandma All

My First Gray Hair

20 Saturday Mar 2010

Posted by in Grandma All, Image, Poetry

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I was lucky this Paddy’s Day, because I got out to enjoy my lunch of corn beef, cabbage, boiled potatoes, and a Guinness before my festive mood was crushed.I spotted one of those little short hairs that sticks up conspicuously, and if I’m truly honest with myself, it wasn’t actually gray, but white. I found a white hair attached to my head.

At first, I was totally in denial. I thought it had to be a brain worm that had just finished chewing on my right frontal lobe and was coming up for air, but then I pulled it out and stared at it for a while. It did not appear to be alive. I pulled out another hair to compare to the white one, just to be sure, and appeared to be identical, except for the difference in pigment. I did this several times until I had a large patch of hair missing, kind of like a monk. Unfortunately, the only wig I own is a pink mullet that I got for Halloween about ten years ago.

So I called my mom and explained my crisis in detail. I told her how I recognize this as the first sign that my youth is officially over, yet I have no job, am single, and live in a 600 sq. foot apartment in which my only companion is a tiny mouse I’ve adopted and named Ben but who I know only loves me because I feed him Butterfingers. Mom laughed at me and hung up. Decided not to seek sympathy from my grandmother, who turned 97 that same day.

After writing about the inevitability of death in my journal, I ordered a large pizza, and watched ‘Animal House,’ which is my comfort movie.

That was three days ago. Depression still periodically rushes over me in a wave.

This story is kind of anticlimactic. Sorry.



All of these people are old now, and some of them are probably dead. Happy weekend!

Gutterballs

21 Saturday Mar 2009

Posted by in Grandma All, Iowa City, Iowa Writers Workshop, Meredith, New York City, Sam, School of the Art Institute of Chicago, Spring Break, St. Paul, The Big Lebowski, University of Iowa

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Watching The Big Lebowski. I decided to watch it after reading I’m a Lebowski, You’re a Lebowski, which I had to do to cheer myself up after reading about the bombing of Hiroshima for class. I didn’t think I would find a book more depressing than Primo Levi’s Survival in Auschwitz. Then I read Letters from the End of the World: An Eye-Witness Account of the Bombing of Hiroshima. It turns out that things can get even more depressing than an account of someone being systematically dehumanized while being physically, mentally, and emotionally crippled by the intense suffering inflicted upon them by their fellow human beings.

As it happened, I was not accepted into the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, but I’m actually pretty happy with this turn of events. I’m excited for the future. Still haven’t heard from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, from which I’m supposed to get a letter sometime soon. I’m going to be glad when it comes, whether I get in or not. It’s the waiting that kills me. Plus, the program is really unique and innovative, which makes not knowing ten times harder. I could see myself living in the South Loop, going to grad school. And when they called me for my phone interview, it sounded like they thought they were stealing me away from the Worskhop. I just let them keep thinking that.

Woo hoo! SPRING BREAK!! Yeah, I spent it traveling with my parents. I spent St. Patrick’s Day with my parents and grandmother. I was in Spencer on Tuesday afternoon and Wednesday morning, celebrating my grandmother’s 96th birthday. She’s starting to talk more about going into a nursing home. Of course, she wants it to be near Uncle Jim and Aunt Mary. When we got to St. Paul, we spent an evening having dinner with Jim, Mary, and Kate. I told Jim about how Grandma manages to steer the conversation to Jim no matter what we’re talking about. For example: I was telling her about that book I was reading for class, and how horrifying it was to imagine this poor man running around the bombed-out city of Hiroshima, desperately seeking his family, and somehow, we went from talking about that to talking about how Jim spent so much of his free time helping the neighbors out with yard work without being asked. She also mentioned during this trip that Jim was such a perfect son, he never once threw a temper tantrum.
Anyway, we took Grandma to Cindy’s Steakhouse for her birthday dinner, and they brought her a small, yellow cake that was still warm. The whole meal was good, but the cake was especially nice. I think Grandma enjoyed herself, and she got to see a couple of her former students.

Then to St. Paul, where I bonded with my nephew and spent some time with my sister and her husband. Got another great meal from a fancified restaurant. We talked about my possibly staying up there for a while when the new baby comes, helping out a bit and saving money. I thought this might be nice, especially since Sam and I get along so well, and Meredith is able to get so much more done when she runs errands if there is someone else along to keep him occupied. When we went to Lowes on Thursday, she was able to get all of her business done while I took Sammy around the store. He seemed to like it. We looked at all the tools, then he sat in every riding lawn mower there. He calls them tractors. He also wanted to test out all of the bathroom fixtures: toilets, faucets, whathaveyous. It’s pretty easy to keep him entertained. I think we spent at least an hour over a period of three days sitting in their front window looking out at all of the cars passing by on the road. “Big truck!” “Where are the people going?”
Also, he’s scared of the car wash. Interesting.

So, that was spring break. Now I’m back in Iowa City sorting through things that I need to get rid of, being that I know for sure now that I’m not going to be here in the fall. The question is, where am I going? Chicago? St. Paul? New York City? Even Los Angeles is in the running.

For tonight, though, I’m keeping a narrow focus on movies and a Tombstone pizza that is currently cooking in my oven. Perfect, lazy end to a lazy spring break.

On the Road II: Withdrawl

13 Wednesday Aug 2008

Posted by in Dublin, Grandma All, Ireland, Keenaugh, Lynne, Meredith, Mom, Nadia, Poetry, Roddy Doyle, Roundstone, Sam, Sligo, Spencer, St. Paul, Yeats

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August 2
The last couple of days have been tough. It’s pretty impossible to get any time away from my parents. All I want to do is sit quietly and watch people, but Mom won’t let me go anywhere by myself. I found my way around Dublin by myself for six weeks – they never gave us directions, just told us a time and a place. And yet, I managed to survive. But now, it’s like I have no ability – apparently, I can’t read maps or follow road signs. It’s horrible. Roundstone was a town that literally had one street. How am I supposed to get lost in a town that only has one street?
I don’t really have any time to do any real writing, either. Just documenting. Like, about the trip to the Aran Islands. That was wonderful. I was happy to be with my parents then – touring the island of Inishmore, seeing the fort, and I even got a sweater made ON the island. I’m really excited about it. But I can only spend three or so days with my parents, constantly by their side, before I start to feel like I’m going to strangle someone. I’m just not used to spending so much time with people.

Before we came to Sligo, we stopped in Cong, very small town, almost impossible to get lost, though we did manage to lose each other for a few minutes looking through the old monastery/cemetery there.
The Irish are very pragmatic when it comes to utilizing space. Nothing is wasted. When a church is falling apart (they don’t tear them down, because, unlike our country’s Puritan founders, they revere what they see as holy relics – the Puritans never liked to put any stock in earthly things) and the graveyard is full, they start burying people within the old building’s crumbling walls. But it was beautiful there. Huge trees, clear water, and green, green grass. By far the most beautiful grounds of any holy place I’ve seen.

In Sligo Abbey, there was a grave marker with the family name, date of death, and details about the mother chipped away. Or maybe they weren’t details about the mother. Maybe the (vandal?) chipper had removed the words, “May he rest in peace.”

Sligo Abbey is pretty full of death. Near the Abbey are the ruins of a private home built using stones taken from the Abbey that was out of use by that time (18th Cent.). I guess living on such a small island teaches a society how to make use of everything.
Went to the museum today. Mom, Dad, and Lynne are going to his grave to pay homage, but I just can’t. I can’t survive wtihout time to myself – silence and stillness. Both are necessary for me to maintain some semblence of sanity.


Sorry I Didn’t Visit, Mr. Yeats

A family built their home
With stones
Taken from the Abbey
And its cemetary
Where graves became unmarked.
Long lost Christian bone
Missing soul that disembarked
Years ago and gone
To worlds unknown
Perhaps beyond the Hill of Tara.

The alter stands alone
Remaining
Without its sacred tome
To give it meaning
So ferns and flowers grow
Through the cracks that are
Ever lengthening

A man’s existence can be erased
With a chisel taken to the stone
That once marked his eternal place
But now serves as a mantle
For the family’s fireplace
Inside their modest home.

August 3
Getting on a plane tomorrow. Good thing we’re not staying two nights in this B&B. The hostess is so uptight. She has little signs posted everywhere with the house rules. She has to have everything just so. Not the type of person who should be welcoming strangers into her home. It’s called Rathview House in Swords. Beware. Beware.
I did end up seeing Yeats’ grave. On the way out of Sligo, Dad stopped the car so Mom could get into her bag and I could have a look at the man’s grave. Not what I expected, but now that I’ve seen it, I realize that it’s exactly what Yeats would have wanted. Maybe even too elaborate for his taste. It’s kept very clean so that it looks like new. Also on the way out of town, I saw, from a distance, Queen’s Maeve’s burial mound. She’s purported to be buried standing up, facing the enemy. I read in “The Feckin’ Book” that in her time it was said that she bedded up to thirty men in a day. She must have been exhausted. My hat is off, Queen Maeve.
Stopped by to see Maggie Delaney on the way to Swords. Stayed for less than half an hour. We might have had more time if we hadn’t stopped in Ballyshannon first. There was a “French” market going on there. Apparently, “French” just means “open air” market to the Irish. There was nothing French about it. Except all of the French-speaking tourists.
Down the road from Maggie’s house is an old mill, all crumbling and full of trees, overgrown with ivy and moss and raspberry bushes.

I with we couuld have spent more time there, in Keenaugh, with Maggie and looking at the Mill, but we were off to Swords, where we ate at a tavern called The Cock and served boring food like the type you would get at Applebees. The menus said, “Tommy Guns, Burger Heaven, USA.” Weird. Our uptight hostess recommended it. Should have guessed that that anal retentive priss would sent us to a shitty place like that to get dinner. She probably thinks it’s rustic.
Still reading Bibbonne. This book has a lot of typos, but it’s really interesting. Learning a lot about rural life in Ireland from the 1920s to the 1970s.

August 8
Holy shit! So busy these last couple of days – and when I wasn’t busy, I sat on my ass and drank.
I read half of “A Star Called Henry” by Roddy Doyle on the filght home. It’s freaking awesome. Almost finished with it now. After spending a few days at home, we’re up in St. Paul to visit the Tessiers. Mom and Dad have taken Sammy to the zoo. He’s learned about a million new words since I last saw him. Now he babbles like he’s paid to do it. Meredith and Andrew are getting ready to go to a wedding and after Mom and Dad bring Sam home and put him to bed, we’re all going to sit down and watch “The Quiet Man,” which I’ve wanted to watch since the second week I was in Ireland. After visiting Cong, where it was filmed, I wonder if any of the locations will look familiar or if it all will have changed too much. At least we know the pub will look the same.

August 10
Left St. Paul this afternoon and arrived in Spencer at about 4:30pm. It’s bloody awful hot in the upstairs with no air conditioning. It’s hard to imagine that Grandma All’s house came from a catalogue for $600.
I’ll see Ilse in a couple of days and we’ll talk about how we miss Ireland. I felt really nostalgiac watching “The Quiet Man” though we were only in Cong for an afternoon. A little more than a week ago, it was.
I already miss Sammy, too. He loves water. His favorite things to do at home are to play in the kitchen sink (“washy” he calls it) and to play with a hose attached to a small, plastic fire hydrant that hooks up to the garden hose. He also loves bath time. He likes trucks and ball – “golf!” he knows. Daddy must have taught him about golf. He also loves to walk Nadia. She’s still very tolerant of him, though not quite as attached to him as she is to Meredith and Andrew. Mom and I make sure we spoil her whenever we visit. I gave her chunks of hamburger and the strips of pure fat from my bacon accompanied by maple syrup leftover from the awesome waffles Meredith makes.

Tonight we took Grandma out to dinner and showed her pictures from our trip. Tomorrow we’re taking her out to breakfast and then it’s back to Davenport so I can get my teeth cleaned. The dentist found two cavities a few days ago – one for each year since I was last there. Ooops.
John Rogers told us before we left for Ireland that the return home would be more difficult than the trip there. All I can tell is that I’ve been irritable.

Dublin Buses Are Enormous

25 Wednesday Jun 2008

Posted by in Dublin, Grandma All, Howth, Ireland, Irish Writing Program, Jayne, Kris, Maddie, Martin Roper, Olivia, Suzanne Gold

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I told people I would keep a blog while I’m here. So I’m going to try it. So here we go.

June 14
Walked around the city centre today. There are so many beautiful buildings and streets, but somebody thought it would be a good idea to erect a giant, steel stiletto right off the O’Connell bridge in honor of the millennium. So there are old brick houses that have been there for over one hundred years on stone streets where James Joyce, Oscar Wilde, Beckett, O’Casey, etc., etc., lived and worked and walked and wrote about, and then, looking completely out of place, someone managed to insert an enormous monument to the phallus that actually looks dumber than the Washington Monument. It makes me sad. The tower that was there before was very cool. Danielle showed me a picture of it on her laptop – it was a big, stone column called Nelson’s Pillar that the IRA bombed in the 60s because… they like to blow shit up? The Pillar was supposed to be controversial in its own day, too, though, which makes me wonder if one hundred years from now, people will think of it as an irreplaceable part of the city’s landscape. I think it’s official name is the Spire of Dublin, but Martin said it’s also known as the Stiffy on the Liffey, which I prefer.

June 16
Today is Bloomsday, though you can’t tell down here near the Institute for International Education of Students (IES) building on the Liffey at 8:45 in the morning. News from Iowa says that the sandbag levees have broken. Hopefully they were successful in cleaning out the art museum. Materials in the library should be fine. Also, the river has apparently crested at Cedar Rapids. I’ve heard people here talking about it now and again. I’ve tried to gain sympathy/free Guinness by letting the locals know that my university is underwater and my neighborhood has been evacuated, but so far no dice.
Sitting in front of Portobello College, now. Had our very first official class, and later we’re meeting with our drama teacher. We don’t start actually workshopping until sometime next week. It appears that this program is going to be just as intensive as everyone says. I hope I still have plenty of time to let myself become absorbed into the population. I’ve been in contact with Patch about some cool places to hang out.
The walking tour on Saturday was nice, too. Our tour guide was also a writer, and we bonded over a mutual love of Guinness and Jameson. He also explained some of the other rules of cricket that I’ve never understood, but I forgot to ask him about pelota. I hear it’s only played in rural Ireland anymore. I’m not even sure I’m spelling it right. At lunch after the walking tour, Martin told me that he wants to keep a journal entry cataloging the weird things that I say, though I’m not exactly sure which weird things he was talking about – good weird things? He also wants us to write our own journals about our experiences here. Could be good to send to Grandma – with a few edits, of course, but I’m sure she’d love to hear how I am enjoying her own grandmother’s homeland. I should also drop off her post card at the post office today, along with the ones for my nieces and for Jayne.

June 17
At International on Wicklow Street. Martin Roper’s sister’s fella bartends or manages this place, or something like that. Everyone is staring at the soccer match on TV. I asked for a Guinness and the bartender asked me twice if I needed two. I guess single girls don’t come here often. Waiting on the rest of the group. I think they’re lost.
There’s an awful lot of woodwork in this bar. Low stools around the tables, copper pots with handles hanging over the alcove where the cash register is. I wonder what used to be there. There are barrels in the wall behind the bar that maybe used to dispense whiskey? Or beer. Or both. Mirrors and a clock in the center that doesn’t work.
Shoibhan was right about the Irish men; they stay clear of me unless they’re drunk. This guy says, “I hate you people.”
“Writers?” I asked, as I was writing in my journal at the time.
“Americans,” he said, like I’m the idiot.
Then he went on some tirade about me being rich and spoiled and lazy. I told him I thought he was confusing television with reality, but I should have just stayed quiet, which I figured out immediately after he started in again, this time pretty much repeating what he’d said before, but faster and angrier. I couldn’t really understand him because of his slur and accent combined, but I did catch a few unoriginal insults before the bar tender kicked him out, then apologized to me as if it was his own fault. Much nicer than at home, where the bar tender would have watched with a blank stare while I was accosted. Who would guess I’d meet an Irishman who couldn’t hold his liquor to the point that he’s drunk at 9:30 in the evening?
Every time I glance up at the television, there’s something strange on, like a pop-eyed puppet with a huge shock of red hair. Or people in nice suits who look like newscasters sitting next to people in brightly colored woolen hats and sweaters and both of them are making silly faces at each other.

June 18
The Winding Stair is the name of the bookstore that Shoibhan’s friend owns – over the Ha’Penny Bridge. Must get the following: Dislocation: Stories from a New Ireland, Seamus Dean’s Reading in the Dark.
John Swift was kind of a dick, I guess. Promoting the superiority of the English/Anglo-Irish? I still notice this, actually – people not recognizing individuality and assuming that the location of one’s birth automatically means that one embraces the values and culture of that place. Or perhaps it’s thought of in a racial context, but that’s just as ridiculous.
I learned that if I mimic the Irish intonation when asking for a drink, or anything else, in a loud, crowded place, I don’t have to repeat myself two or three times to make myself understood. I asked one of the fellas I met last night what our accent sounds like, which is one of my favorite questions. I never actually got his answer, because he wasn’t quite sure what I was asking him. I’ve decided that the Dublin accent makes me think of fairie tales; it’s very comforting. People from Southwestern Ireland sound like pirates – yaarrr!
Apparently, they don’t know where the disease came from that caused the potato famine. 1840s – 1860s; population of 8 mil. on the island, dropped to 4 mil. by the end of the famine; millions either emigrated or starved to death.
I feel endless joy when I walk around this city and remember that it was founded by the Vikings.
June 19
The Winding Stair is a nice little bookstore – across the Ha’Penny Bridge on the North side, turn left, and it’s across the street from the Liffey – though I couldn’t find everything I needed there. I found Flann O’Brien and Seamus Deane, but no Margaret Atwood or Dislocation. Reagan, the man who owns the place, chided me for carrying too many bags, but it’s difficult when I have to make several stops and travel for miles. I’ll have to stop at Hodges and Figgis again, then I have to get more eggs and breakfast sausages. I can’t wait to read Flann O’Brien. He sounds like the type of author that I appreciate most; morbid humorist, satirist, and if he has a love for killing off his characters, I might just cream my jeans.
I brought my camera with me on this walk, but so far I haven’t felt compelled to pull it out. Not sure why. I think it’s because I’m still uncomfortable with being seen as an obvious tourist and foreigner. I recently read an article called, “Top 5 Reasons We Hate Tourists” and it seemed pretty accurate. For an international hub, there are a lot of people who are intolerant of those who hail from other countries. Maybe it’s because no one used to come here until their economy started to boom. I would also find that irritating, I guess. People are more like vultures than they like to believe. The wealthy probably come here for their vacations, buy crap from the street vendors, hassle the locals, then move on to the next fashionable spot – is it Milan? Zurich? I’m not sure, though I do know that if I were ever to go on a European vacation, it would be to Spain. It’s the California of Europe, to paraphrase J.G. Ballard.
Cathach Books is a rare book shop off Dawson St., on the North side of Duke St. I went in there and handled some books signed by Samuel Beckett and Joyce and Heeney. I think the boy behind the counter knew what I was doing and that I couldn’t actually afford to buy any of the books, but he didn’t say anything.
Neither Hodges and Figgis or Waterstone had the books I needed, so I had to order them.
It’s starting to get chilly and rain. Now I’m sitting at a coffee shop called West Coast Coffee and is across the street from the rare bookstore. It’s nice because it’s much less crowded, and there is no one staring me down and babbling in French.
The police here are so much better than the sadists in the US. They are actually helpful, and they don’t automatically treat you like a criminal the second they lay eyes on you. They call them the garda here, and though I’ve always had a thing for men who have to wear special clothes to go to work, today was the first time I ever saw a policeman who I found attractive. Not in the type of way that I’d be willing to follow him around and break a few laws just to get him to talk to me, but it is refreshing to know that just because a man has a badge and carries a weapon doesn’t mean he’s automatically a prick. They can actually be intelligent and charming. Who knew?

June 21
Woke up this morning planning to go to the Temple Bar food and book market, but when I looked out the window and saw all of the blowing rain, I decided I’d rather wait until tomorrow. So I rolled over and went back to bed.
Ilse’s birthday is today. Suzanne and her other roommates are planning a surprise taco party, but I don’t know what time it is.

On the Luas. Pierce and John are apparently keeping Ilse occupied while the taco party is being prepared, and they’re having trouble. So I’m going over to Doyle’s to order a Guinness and drink it very, very slowly. Doyle’s is right next to Trinity College. Pretty small and low-key. I haven’t been there, yet, but the others have. I imagine that on a Saturday in the early evening it should be pretty quiet. Quarter Finals are today.

Taco party was a success. They even made their own guacamole. It was delicious. I brought Ilse some cider and had some myself – it was orange and fizzy like Squirt. Now everyone is out at the pubs, but I decided to call it a night to get some writing done. Still haven’t finished my assignment, and I can’t get much good work done with a hangover. Not that it’s good work, anyway.
At Doyle’s, a man came up to our table and asked us if the Guinness there was any good. I told him we were from the United States and didn’t know the difference between good Guinness and bad Guinness. Apparently, the Guinness at Doyle’s is bad. He told us to go around the corner to a place called Mulligan’s. I will have to try it. It’s nice when people are helpful and don’t treat us like shit because our great leader can barely put a sentence together.
Missed the Quarter Finals. Rugby was on at Doyle’s and we were trying to describe the scrum to Ilse, but none of us is actually familiar enough with rugby to properly explain it to anyone else. It looks goddamn painful. There’s nothing more arousing than watching grown men beat the piss out of each other.
Roommate is watching “Sex and the City.” It’s agonizingly boring no matter what time zone one is in.

June 22
Didn’t go to Temple Bar again. High winds and rain. One or the other would be fine, but both means that my umbrella probably wouldn’t last long. I did need food, though, so I had to wait until around one in the afternoon to make the trek to Tesco. I was out of milk and cheese. Also got pasta, chicken, laundry det., etc. Got up to the counter, and the machine wouldn’t read either of my cards. So the man who was checking me out told me to go to the ATM. Waited in line for about ten minutes, waited for the machine to process my card, finally got back to the line and there was another man there, who asked me, “Are these things yours?” in a very accusatory voice. I would have thought that the other guy would have explained it to him. So I told him the story, and he checked me out without looking at me or saying anything else. It was odd. I couldn’t figure out if I had done something wrong or if the new guy was just a douchebag.
Braved the winds to get home, then had some bread and cheese while I settled in to do homework. Only four pages done on the assignment. At least two more to go.
Rommate Chrissy just got back from Cork. I asked her if the horny old man held her up-side-down to kiss the Blarney stone, and that was an affirmative. Too bad she missed the massive nude photo shoot at Blarney Castle. I may not be very comfortable with my body, but I’d tear my clothes off in a second to be part of an enormous naked photo shoot at Blarney Castle. Woohoo! Spring Break!
I should make plans to go to Howth. Patch said it was his favorite trip. Roommate Danielle went there this weekend. The highlight was the National Transport Museum, which is essentially a barn full of old vehicles. She said she was the only one there.
Tonight, orange-pepper chicken for dinner and baked potato. Must also send email to Grandma. Kris emailed me and said that Madeleine and Olivia got their postcards. I sent Olivia one with a happy-looking pony and Madeleine one with a picture of a pint of Guinness and a plate of what appear to be oysters that read, “Traditional Irish Breakfast.” Haven’t a clue where that came from, but whatever. The next one I’m sending has a photo of a set of statues commemorating the potato famine. They’re all of people who look exactly like skeletons and who appear to be carrying what belongings they can as if they’re going to a boat to flee the country. The statues are so lifelike that it’s easy to pretend they’re actual people – that there were people who looked exactly like that in Dublin in the 1850s. Would be a good lesson for a couple of kids who always seem to be complaining about the food on their plates.
The washing machine hates me.