She’s a Super Duper Granny (Life in the fast Lane)

Tags

art exhibition, grandchildren, Granny, mackerel, markets, meditation, painting, Portugal, psychotherapy, super duper, swimming, watercolors, whatsapp

Lets ask granny (She isn’t doing anything)

When I mention the word ‘Granny’ what springs to mind?

A plump white haired lady, sitting rosy cheeked, glasses perched on the tip of her nose, in an armchair by the fire clicking two knitting needles, a cat and a ball of wool on her lap?

Well that’s what I pictured.Until I became one.

May 2019.

It’s seven am I am already up and dressed and sitting at my kitchen table.

Laid out in front of me is a large water color pad.

At my right elbow is a jar of water.

Beside that another jar holding paint brushes and beyond that my box of Windsor and Newton paints (artists quality).

At my left elbow lies my smartphone and my headphones.

I panic for momentarily.

Is it silly to do my twenty minute morning meditation before I start painting?

I decide it might help me so I put on my head phones and listening to the voice on my app I take a few deep breaths, close my eyes and start counting my breaths.

A blanket of calm descends before…..Three hens scuttle in front of my closed eyes. Two Sussex whites and a Rhode island red.

‘Just a thought… acknowledge it and let it go’.

Feeling proud that I remember what to do, I return to the breathing.

Focusing on it.

The blanket descends again.

Then a gentle voice prompts me and I begin my body scan.

It’s going well.

I have got as far as my hands.

Another picture. This time harebells, their delicate heads nodding in the breeze.

Manganese blue for the sky I think? no! maybe cerulean? I might cheat and block out the clouds with masking fluid that way I can get a good wash with no harsh lines.

Oops! just a thought! let it go!

I return to the body scan’.

If you become distracted’ the soft voice in my earphones reminds me ‘just acknowledge the distraction and return to the breathing don’t fight it

‘That’s all very well.

ANOTHER picture emerges.

Hens trampling through the harebells!

It’s no use, I pull off the head phones. tossing them onto a chair.

I’ll try to paint mindfully instead and meditate later.

December 2018.

‘We’ve been given permission to hold an art exhibition’ Anne, one of my colleagues, announces excitedly, when I bump into her in the canteen on a particularly busy weekend in the hospital.

It’s so busy that I am only allowing myself a five minute break and and when she approaches I am in the process of cramming a scone down my throat.

‘Would you be interested in exhibiting some of your work? 25% of the proceeds of the sale will go to a charitable cause’.

I swallow half the scone in one go, crumbs shooting out of my mouth and try to remember if I have anything lying around worth exhibiting.

‘Its not till next May’ Anne continues, dodging a shower of crumbs.

‘You have lots of time’.

‘Count me in’ I announce lavishly.

‘I’m setting up a WhatsApp group’ smiled Ann ‘If you can think of anyone else let me know?’

And so, Christmas came and went.

Then work and then new year and then work.

And then Family and then work.

‘Could you collect the boys from school on a Thursday as well as the Wednesday?’ My youngest daughter asks.

Of course I could  (Isn’t that what granny’s are for?)

‘Could you give me a hand out on Friday? the carpenters are coming’ My older daughter asks.

‘Of course no problem’ (Isn’t that what grannies are for?)

‘That bread was lovely last week. any chance you could bake some more?

‘Could you hold the baby, take the dog to the vet, take the dog to the groomers, pick up some nappies when your coming up, have a look at these garden designs, let the electrician in. open the door for the painter.

Of course I could.

And so the days/weeks passed swiftly.

‘How is your paintings coming along?’

That’s from the WhatsApp group.

‘Great’ I lied.

‘How many do you expect to be submitting?

‘My finger poises over the keys of my phone.

‘Six’ I type, foolishly.

I start to delete the ‘six’ and change it to ‘two’ but Ann has already seen it.

‘Great! Me too’ ooh so exciting!’

I’ll easily manage six, I console myself.

March 2019

Spring is here.

‘Have a look at these garden design’ what do you think? Want to meet for a coffee and discuss them’, Should we move that shrub, mow the lawn, Could you hold the fort, mind the dog, the painters need to come back. Would you be free Mon/Tues/Thursday. Are you working this weekend?’

I am working this weekend.

It’s very busy. I’m not coping with it. Most days I am crying with frustration/sadness by the end of the shift.

I no longer have time in the day to do the basic nursing stuff (hold a hand, listen to a worry) I find it upsetting.

I decide to go to therapy to see if there is any way I can manage my work load better. (Should I use roller skates for example).

I check my diary and book myself in for Wednesday morning’s.

Other than collecting my grandsons from school, Wednesday appears free.

I really should be using Wednesdays for painting.

April 2019

I go on a holiday to a small town in Portugal. I plan to do lots of painting while I’m there.

I pack my paints, brushes, pencils.

I see myself, straw sun hat firmly in place.

Easel placed strategically along the waterfront.

I will, I promise myself, produce my six paintings here.

Easy peasy no interruptions.

Except of course there are many interruptions.

Sun and wine and markets and beaches and coffees on terraces as I watch the world go by.

And meeting people.

‘You must make eye contact’ My daughter remarked, when I regaled them with my story on my return (and moaned about how difficult it is to be really alone).

‘Yes’ my other daughter nodded, agreeing with her sister ‘Random people don’t just approach you on a deserted beach unless you encourage them.’

Yes they do.

I went out to one of the islands and after stopping at a small restaurant for a lunch of delicious grilled mackerel, I continued my way across the island and arrived at a pristine beach.

I walked along the waters edge, following the line of the sand as it curved back around leading to the land side of the island.

I stopped for a swim in the crystal water and was dressed and in the process of stuffing my towel into my backpack when I spotted the lone figure making its way in my direction along the waters edge.

By the time I had added my swim suit and was closing the zip, a woman was standing six feet away.

‘Hello’ She was dressed in white jeans and a blue striped top.

‘Hello’ I replied not wanting to be rude but hoping that by keeping my eyes on my task it would discourage conversation.

‘I wonder if you could help me? I appear to be lost’!

‘Sorry, I’m a stranger on this island myself’ I start to explain.

‘Oh! Where are you from? Are You Irish?’

Before she had given me a chance to reply she was continuing HER story.

Her father was from Co Roscommon, her mother from leitrim, but they had moved to London after they were married and she and her siblings were born there.

She continued to explain how she was renting a friends house on the island (see daughters I haven’t given her any encouragement. In fact I haven’t had a chance to get a word in.)
Her mouth appeared very dry so I offered her a drink of my water. But she ignored my offer waving vaguely instead in the direction of the sand dunes.

‘I think its over there’.

Sure enough I could see some low roofs in the distance.

‘She rents it out! would you like to see it? You’re probably going that way anyway’.

At this stage I had my backpack on so I nodded.

I like coincidences and who knows, it might turn out to be a good place for our whole family to rent sometime. no harm in looking.

‘I’ll make you a cup of tea’. My new best friend announced as we headed off towards the dunes.

At this point of the story my daughters are looking at me incredulously and throwing their eyes to heaven.

‘You went with her and had TEA!!!!’

I ignored them and continued my story.

We were finally on a pathway leading towards the houses when she stopped and  nudged me in the ribs.

‘NEVER EVER’ she hissed from the side of her mouth ‘EAT IN THERE’.

The path was running behind the small restaurant where I had stopped for a lunch.

‘Why not?’ I asked, my stomach suddenly feeling queasy.

(I thought she was about to tell me that their fish wasn’t fresh or they had been the cause of a recent food poisoning breakout on the island.)

She looked back over her shoulder, picking up speed.

‘They’ she confided in a whisper ‘Are suspected of all the recent break-ins on the islands’.

I breathed a sigh of relief as my stomach returned to normal.

I said goodbye to her at the harbor and as I sat waiting on the boat, waiting for its engine to start, I could see her figure slowly trudging back up the hill.

I left the island feeling stressed.

My daily holiday routine:

I meditate every morning up on my little terrace in the sun looking over the town.

Its going well!

No hens or harebells impinge on my calm mind.

I sketch every day, people and buildings and the beautiful cactus on the terrace.

But the water colors and paper stay in my bag. I cannot seem to get started.

‘Oh for goodness sake’ My Sister says, when I ring her in a panic.

‘You’re on holidays. Relax! Only do only what you feel like doing’

And so I take her advice and relax and the paper comes back empty and the brushes dry, The paints unopened.

 

May 2019

There are six days left before the paintings have to be submitted.

A whatsApp message bleeps on my phone.

‘Are still submitting six? I need to know for sure. I’m figuring out the exhibition space. Oh and what size?’.

I am sitting in my daughters living room minding the children as I read the message.

My eyes alight on a couple of IKEA frames leaning against the wall.

I put the baby on the floor and take a look at one of them. 40cms x 50cms it reads.

’40 x 50cms’ I type .

The baby crawls at high speed for the shoes on the mat.

I scoop her up before she reaches them and she wails in protest.

(why do babies always want to play with dirty/dangerous/ objects?)

I pop her into her high chair and give her a breadstick. pulling the high chair over beside me as I set out my paper and paints on the table.

‘Can I paint too nanny?’

My three your old grandson is mesmerized by my hen paintings.

‘Of course you can’

I push my own paper aside and show my grandson how to wet the brush and apply the paint.

(isn’t that what granny’s do)

I now have three days left in which to produce six paintings.

I get a phone call from my brother.

‘Come quickly! Mom isn’t well’.

I make the 30 minute journey to check on her.

He is right, she is very unwell.

I call an ambulance.

and follow it down to the hospital. They will keep her in for treatment. I stay until she gets a bed and help settle her in.

Its late when I get home.

I have two days to produce my six paintings.

Somehow I manage it.

Because.

I’m a super duper Granny.

(P.s I don’t intend sounding boastful! I just learnt a thing or two at my therapy.)

 

 

Drop, Deflate, Invert and Lower! (On reaching sixty and the overuse of parentheses)

Tags

Aerlingus, Alentejo. sixty, deflate, drop, Flying with a bicycle, handlebars, invert, paranthesis, pedals, Portugal, saddle, VW camper

(Going abroad with a bicycle the easy way)

Parenthesis:

• ‘ A word or phrase as an explanation or afterthought added into a passage which is grammatically complete without it (usually marked off by brackets, dashes or commas.)’
• A woman who on reaching sixty, finds herself adding many afterthoughts and unnecessary explanations (parentheses is the plural) to her writings.

You would be excused for thinking that the title for this post was to do with a new yoga regime for the older woman.

Or that my absence from this blog (it must be at least three months since my last post) is due to the fact that I have been away on a such named boot camp devised for the middle aged.

As an aside it has occurred to me that, while NOT writing, I have become sixty!

(A note to oneself: Keep writing… it prevents you getting OLD!)

And though I do feel some days that I have been inverted (Silly me to imagine things would slow down when I reached the above age) and even somewhat deflated, (It’s getting harder to find time to write) the above title is only to do with my fast approaching holiday in Portugal (Where I plan to rent a VW camper with bike rack and explore the Alentejo region) and the obvious question….

Do I bring the yellow bicycle with me or rent a bicycle when I arrive?

It might seem a simple enough affair to throw a bicycle into the nether regions of a plane but its more tedious than you would think (or maybe on reaching sixty things just appear more tedious)

You see for the passage of a bicycle, airlines request that you;

• Deflate both tyres.
• Invert both pedals
• Drop the handle bars and turn them sideways
• Lower the saddle.

These procedures are simple to accomplish with a good spanner, pump and wrench but the tediousness comes with the redoing of the undone.

Flying the yellow bicycle to France all those years ago when I was a young and energetic fifty year old (as opposed to the ease of cycling it fully intact onto a ferry and off the other side last September as I approached sixty) seems a long time ago.

Yet the recollection of sheltering from the downpour under a walkway outside the main doors of Bordeaux airport as I struggled to unwrap a large sodden cardboard box in which my bicycle had travelled, is still vibrant.

As the rain pelted down and the taxi men sat warm and smug in their cars watching the show, I wondered if it had been a wise idea after all.

I had packed it into a large cardboard box, courtesy of my local bike shop (The other option of using one of those fancy bicycle bags I dispensed with as unpractical. I didn’t intend hauling any unnecessary equipment on my journey). The idea that I would just tear up and throw away the cardboard seemed the best option (I had a month of cycling to consider how I would pack it for my return journey)

It turned out to be easy to fill up the various bins outside the airport with the sodden stuff. Whether it was legal or not was another question but nobody stopped me and as I cycled across France, I quickly learnt that if you are on a bicycle you can get away with anything.

At this stage, strip by strip the yellow bicycle began to reveled its shiny self and just as I had run out of bins, it stood before me, a sorry sight, its metaphorical head hanging as though in shame at being caught at its most vulnerable.

I got to work, my audience twisting their heads to get a better view.

Inflating tyres with a small hand pump is a lot less fun then deflating them but I pretended that I was having the time of my life.

Eventually that task was complete and I had less trouble attending to the inverted pedals and raising the saddle.

It was when I tried to tackle the final chore that I had to admit defeat.

No matter how well I held the handlebars upright and how tight I tightened the screws they just stubbornly dropped back down again.

Meanwhile the taxi men grew either bored or received a passenger because one by one they roared off enveloping me in a wreath of petrol fumes and leaving me with a bicycle that looked like a cross between an Omafiets , a hybrid and a racer.

However there was a happy ending to this story.

On finding a nearby bicycle shop a handsome young man (without any look of disdain) not only righted and tightened the handles to the correct height but also oiled the chain and finished inflating the tyres and, refusing to take any payment, handed me back my bike and wished me ‘Bon voyage’

Needless to say (as in all good films) I had only left the shop when the rain stopped and the sun came out.

With a light heart, I turned the yellow bicycle towards the west and headed into the setting sun.

My destination was Arcachon where I dipped the tyre of the yellow bicycle into the Atlantic before turning eastward and cycling across France to the Mediterranean.

In hindsight it hadn’t been too tedious and as I write this piece this piece this morning I know what I will do

I will bring the yellow bicycle to the dutch bicycle shop (the only bicycle shop where the employees don’t hide under the table when they see us coming) and get a few lessons on the raising of handlebars.

Then I will ring Aerlingus and add the yellow bicycle to my flight.

The end

(Arriving at the Mediterranean successfully with handlebars still aloft)

 

Why do you shout so loud Bear Gryllis?(Random and inane thoughts from a Portuguese wedding)

Tags

families, family, Portugal, weddings

We are back from the wedding.

Well most of us are.

The two main components, the bride and groom, are still swanning around Paris.

Those of us who are home, continue to discuss the wedding on a daily basis.

Posts appear on facebook. Phone calls are received. Fuzzy drunken photo’s poured over.

‘Ha ha just look at you’

‘Wow! she looks beautiful’

‘That can’t be me’ (Me)

‘I cried my eyes out it was so lovely’ (my fifteen year old niece)

But Lets start at the first photo’s.

The ones taken in Tavira castle.

Where the ceremony is about to begin.

A cream vintage Mercedes pull’s up at the castle gates. The driver helps the bride out. I find this ironic as she is young and agile and well able to leap out by herself despite her layered organza wedding dress and lace veil.

Really its me(I am after all the mother of the bride) that needs the help, but as no one pays any attention to me, I sit a bit longer in the low slung beautiful leather seat .

I wish I could sit in it forever.

I wish I owned it for it’s a thing of beauty.

My hat is askew from the breezy spin up the winding cobbled streets to the castle.

Past the old doors of peeling paint half hidden by trailing bougainvillea.

Past the old men sitting wobbling on plastic chairs whose four legs cannot find an even patch on the cobbles.

Past the tourists sitting outside the café’s drinking ‘meia de leite’ and eating freshly made ‘pasteis de nata’.

Eventually when no one comes to the rescue me,  I haul myself, straighten my hat and tug at my dress. Is it my imagination or has it got tighter? Whether it has or it hasn’t, I feel and probably look like a mild but younger version of Mrs Bucket.

I go over to stand beside my daughter. The bridesmaids, looking exquisite in mint green are fussing around her straightening her veil.

Its hot , but we have become acclimatized to the heat by practising life without the air con.

Even though the Villa is very luxurious with air conditioning in every corner we are under strict orders of the bride not to turn it on.

(The villa also has a lift which at first I laughed at but in the heat began to use when no one was looking).

We cook without it in a hot kitchen.

Sleep without it under a duvet.

Walk into town on the hottest of days.

And it worked.

(Though I did draw a line at sitting in a warm sitting room with outside temperatures of thirty six degree’s threading ‘order of service booklets’ together.

It was either straight, clean and in the correct order with air con

OR

Crumpled, sweat stained and in the wrong sequence without.

I won and the order of service were pristine).

Yes, thanks to our ‘heat training’ I find the day pleasantly warm with a tropical breeze coming in from the sea.

My son in law comes running out through the gate.

His sons, the two ring bearers, aged six and just four refuse to carry up the rings.

I become flustered in a granny like manner.

I want every thing to run smoothly.

I want this to be my daughters perfect day.

I want no mishaps. No botching of chores no matter how young the chore doer’s are.

BUT….

‘Don’t worry’ my daughters voice is calm and serene ‘If they don’t want to carry them they don’t have to, it’s OK’.

She pats her brother in law on the arm.

I feel ashamed.

I was about to march up and shout ‘JUST DO IT’ at them even though I’m not in the slightest bit stressed.

The sweet strains of Tabhair dom do lamh. (played by my brother Gregory on the flute) float high above the castle and the bridesmaids are off.

They walk gracefully up the gravel path like water nymphs.

The sun striking off their silken hair.

Even the scrunching of their feet sounds delicate.

My daughter smiles at me.

Her eyes say ‘relax Mom’ and I try to, but only after a quick struggle about which side I should be on and who’s holding who’s arm.

My memories of walking my daughter up the garden path are dreamlike.

The tree’s casting dappled splashes of mauve shadows across the path.

A scene that must look like a Monet painting to any passer-by who stop’s to watch.

I remember the smiling faces of family and friends.

I remember my younger daughters voice singing ‘Raglan Road’.

‘On Raglan road of an autumn day

I saw her first and knew

That her dark hair would weave a snare

that I might one day rue.’

I don’t think the Bride or Groom will ever rue this wonderful day.

I feel my daughter squeezing my arm.

I know I have tears in my eyes as we weave our way through the tree lined path to the waiting groom.

We are high above the town, away from the noise of the traffic, the only sound is the hushed whispers of the guests and a voice singing sweet and high.

The bride’s dress is picking up the sunlight turning it into gossamer.

Her skin is ethereal.

Her dark hair, glimpsed at through her veil, is flowing over her shoulders in shining waves.

She looks so beautiful.

A fairy princess.

The old stone steps of the castle, the crumbling ramparts, the blue sky above, the rose pedals strewn along the path below, the various flowers of Portugal, all lend to this fairy tale wedding.

And how peaceful and illusionary it is.

An inane thought passes through my head.

Why does Bear Gryllis insist on shouting?.

Why is he is so noisy and frantic,

I don’t own a TV. Nor do I babysit much. But when I do and my grandchildren are in bed I am fascinated by this ‘shouting’ man as he tackles various means of survival and helps himself to bits and pieces of tree’s and things that grow on tree’s or live in tree’s.

When I first used to watch him I kept the sound off for fear his loudness would waken the children but as time wore on I left it off as he is funnier when you can only see him.

He is always in such a sweat and a tangle.

I was recently reading a piece about the Tukano peoples of the upper rio negro.

a https://www.culturalsurvival.org/ourpublications/csq/article/endangered-ideologies-tukano-fishing-taboos.

Please Bear Gryllis take a leaf out of their book.

Because, well, any place of such natural beauty does not need noise like that.

I push the absurd thoughts of Bear Gryllis out of my mind.

We continue to move gracefully and quietly through the tree’s (Though when I looked later at the video of us walking up the path I thought I walked not very gracefully but more like a farmer. I blame that on the high shoes.)

The ceremony is in both English and Portuguese,

I prefer the Portuguese version with it’s soft sshhhhing sounds.

My eldest Grandson (the one who is old enough to be depended upon) reads a long poem.

I like you because……

He reads so well, remembering to pause and look up and not run away with the word’s. We give him a round of applause when he finishes.

The grooms best friend and best man reads a Poem. First in Portuguese then in English.

Had I the Heavens’ embroidered cloths,

Enwrought with golden and silver light,

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

of night and light and the half light,

I would spread these Cloths under your feet;

But I, being poor, have only my dreams,

I have spread these dreams under your feet

Thread softly because you thread on my dreams.

This time I prefer the English as this is one of my favourite Yeats’s poems.

The ceremony is given by a Man called Jonas,

He first has to translate the legal ceremony.

I am glad to hear my Daughter has no impediments.

The civil ceremony is beautiful and thought provoking.

Jonas has obviously formed a connection with the the bride and groom and gives a compassionate and very wise talk.

I see all the older married couples leaning forward and pricking up their ears.

I see middle aged wives digging their heat snoozing husbands in the ribs.

Even the younger ones are paying attention.

At last the ceremony is finished and the newly married couple pass through the well wishers who throw petals .

Down the path they run and out through the castle gates and back into the real world.

I must remember to share my Bear Gryllis thought’s with someone later.

My shoes scrunch on the gravel as I follow the merry makers…..

I wish I could have brought my yellow bicycle, she could have danced with this handsome chap.