Siobhan Goes To Ballet Class / Grainne Does A Grand Jete

      

"Life is not about waiting for the storm to pass,
It's about dancing in the rain."

                                                                                            --author unknown
                            
                                                                         

       

 When Siobhan was three years old, my mother coerced her into taking ballet lessons.  A dozen times each day, Mama would say to my precious child,  "Siobhan...you want to dance, don't you?  You want Grammy to take you to ballet class-- don't you, dear?"  After weeks of constant badgering and wheedling, little Siobhan finally said "yes". 

 Triumphantly Mama marched my little girl to the nearest Discount Dance Store for a tutus-and-tights shopping spree.  Siobhan returned wearing black leotards, pink ballet slippers, and a look of apprehension.  With a sinking feeling I knew-- Siobhan had no idea what she was in for; she didn't even know what ballet was.  My little daughter had been tricked by her own Grammy...

 

Time passed quickly; the numbered pages seemed to fly off our calendar on their own accord.  Finally the dreaded day arrived.  D-Day.  Dance Day.  Siobhan climbed wordlessly into Mama's car; grimly I followed.  The short drive across town was silent, except for Mama's occasional urgings for Siobhan to 'pay attention to your teacher' and 'try hard so you'll learn a lot'.  I gently squeezed Siobhan's hand from time to time, to show my solidarity and support.  Too soon our destination was before us--Miss Christine's House of Dance.  And what a house it was... 

  

 Now,  nothing in the world can change my Mama's mind, stop her in her tracks, or shatter her confidence better than a big house that belongs to somebody else. And Miss Christine's house was BIG.  All of a sudden, Mama's mind was filled with niggling little doubts and insecurities..."Grainne, we don't belong here.  These people have Money--just look at their house. We'll stand out like sore thumbs.  Maybe we'd better just go home."  I rolled my eyes, turned to Siobhan and gently asked "Honey, what do you want to do--go to dance class or go home?"  My wise little girl solemnly said "I'll go to dance class, Mummy, 'cause we're already here; and I'll hold Grammy's hand so she won't be a-scared."

 

  So off we went, across the drive to the basement door.  I opened the door, and we stepped inside...into a small room with very poor lighting and a lot of chattering mothers milling about.   Occasionally I would catch a glimpse of a tattered brown chair that had seen better days, or drab green carpet covered by a  roadmap of plastic runners.  (Perhaps Miss Christine's pockets were not as deep as Mama thought.)  The grand lady herself appeared and whisked Siobhan off to join the class.  The other mothers continued standing and chatting; Mama and I continued standing in silence...until Mama's curiosity got the best of her. 

Mama leaned over to me and whispered  "What is that paper that everybody seems to be reading on the bulletin board?"  I whispered back "Beats me.  It's too far away to see."  Mama frowned and said "Well, go over there and look!"  I looked across that noisy crowded floor and sighed.  It would take a lot of bobbing and weaving and squeezing through cracks to reach that bulletin board, but Mama doesn't take too kindly to the word NO.  So I looked around for the closest opening--and there it was... a lady to my left and a lady to my right, with just enough room to squeeze between them. Grimly I set my shoulders and took a big step forward. 

  

 Unfortunately, my foot got caught under the plastic runner the two ladies were standing on, and I did a perfect swan dive across the room.  Mama's nervous laughter rang out before I hit the floor, loud and long and hysterical.  I was laughing heartily myself, but mostly because Mama's dire prediction had indeed come true-- right now we WERE standing out like sore thumbs.  When she thought about it later, she would be mortified-- but for right now, it was funny and we were laughing. 

But wait...Suddenly I realized nobody else was laughing; the other mums were just open-mouthed and staring...  I grabbed Mama by the arm and dragged her outside.  Still laughing uncontrollably, we staggered back across the drive, collapsed into her car, and laughed until tears rolled down our cheeks. We laughed until it was hard to breathe and our faces hurt. When we finally calmed down, class was over and sweet Siobhan was trudging across the drive, smiling. ( Apparently ballet class wasn't so bad after all. ) As she climbed in the car, Siobhan  said, "Hi Grammy!  What did you and Mummy do while I was gone?" Still chuckling, Mama cheerfully answered, "I didn't do anything--but your Mummy taught the other mummys how to take a flying leap!"  And quite solemnly Siobhan replied "No-- not a leap, Grammy.  Miss Christine said it was a grand jete."

 

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      "When you stumble, make it part of the dance."

                                                                                                   -----Anonymous

 

"...Perchance to Dream..." / The Nocternal Meanderings Of Grainne And Siobhan

 "To Sleep: Perchance to Dream: Ay, that is the rub:"

                                                              ----William Shakespeare, Hamlet

In our own ways, Siobhan and I are as strange as the rest of our family.  Some would say we are stranger. We have quirks, oddities, and eccentricities like the rest, but the strangest thing about us is our dreams...         

                                                                                   I see dead people--but only while I sleep. (Laugh if you will, but it's not as far-fetched as a Ouji Board.)  I have always had dreams where dead friends and family made nocturnal visits...    

 In one dream, my grandmother walked into my bedroom four months after she had passed away.  Grandma Rose was as elegant as ever-- grey hair perfectly coiffed, dressed in linen and pearls... She primly sat in the ladder-back chair by my bed, with her big straw purse planted firmly on her knees.  In a sad voice she asked "How is your mother?"   (Mama was alone with Grandma Rose when she died, and in truth she was having a hard time getting past it.)  I told her Mama still seemed lost, and she replied "Help her."  As she rose from the chair to leave,  Grandma said "I have to go now--I expect they'll let me come back a few more times."  And with her purse on her arm, she walked out of my dream...


                                                                                                                                                              

 In another dream, my best friend Clarissa walked into my living room a month after she had died from cancer.  Clarissa was much the same in death as she had been in life--a 5' whirlwind in faded jeans, an old tee shirt, and a pair of neon tennis shoes. Like always, her short blond hair was sticking out at all angles from raking her fingers through it.  (I suppose old habits die hard, even when you're dead.)  She flopped down on my sofa, threw both feet on my coffee table so she could admire her shoes, and said "I'm sorry, Grainne,  but it was time to go...I wasn't getting any better, and the hospital bills were piling up.   It was just time... And I gotta go now--I'll see you later!"  With a grin, she jumped up and waltzed out just as she had waltzed in, snatching a handful of  Siobhan's M & M's on her way out the door...When I awoke, the sun was shining through my window, and I knew that somewhere Clarissa was smiling...


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Siobhan's dreams are different.
  She doesn't see dead people--
 Siobhan dreams of dead horses.
 Our horses. 
 All of the horses
 that we have ever loved and lost come to her
 in her dreams... 
Siobhan sees them in our pastures, the Dead peacefully grazing side-by-side with the Living. 
And she rejoices...
                             
                                         



 It is perfectly normal in our house for Siobhan to look across the breakfast table and quite cheerfully say "Don't worry about Isabella anymore, Mum...I saw her in the pasture last night with Salvatore, and she's fine.  (Isabella passed away recently, and we lost sweet Salvatore a year ago.)
                                                 
Or to say "Mum, I saw Angelique, HeartsAfire, and Odette last night. They're still grazing in the back pasture..."(Angelique, HeartsAfire, and Odette passed away years ago.)

A lot of people might find our conversations strange, and our beliefs hard to accept...but  I think of all the times I have heard horses' hooves in the night, when no horse was there.  I think of all the times I've heard a horse whinny in the darkness, when our horses were all tucked safely in the barn. And I wonder...

 I believe what Siobhan sees in her dreams is real--the spirits of our dead horses ARE still here, standing contentedly in the pastures or grazing companionably with their old friends.  And strange as it may seem, we find their ghostly presence comforting.

                                              ****************************



Siobhan sees more than dead horses in her dreams--she sees the future,
 as well...

Siobhan once dreamed her cousin
Tia conceived and gave birth to twins. ( 14 months later, she did.)

Five years passed, and Siobhan again dreamed that Tia was in the family way.  ( One month later,
Tia called to confirm what we already knew. )
 
  Recently Siobhan dreamed a red fox ran across our yard; two days later, we saw a red fox run through our garden.  (Red foxes are not real common around here.  This one was only the 2nd red fox seen on our property in 24 years.)


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Siobhan and I both have dream re-runs, which most people find strange.  One particular dream I have had five times during my lifetime; some of  Siobhan's re-runs are more frequent than that.  The funny thing is that the re-run dream is always exactly as before; we know what comes next in the dream but we can't stop it from happening. The ending is always the same...

 One night recently,  Siobhan and I  had the same dream on the same night.  I dreamed we were at the circus with our farrier; Siobhan dreamed we were at the circus and saw our farrier in the crowd.  Not exactly the same dream, but close enough that even WE thought it was strange...


                                                                                                    
                           


                                           ****************************


                               
                           

                                    

                                       "If we shadows have offended,

                                       Think but this and all is mended, 

                                       That you have but slumbered here
                                          While these visions did appear."

                                                —William Shakespeare, the opening of Puck's epilogue.

                                                             

                                                                                                                                                                          

 


 

 
o

The Freak Show

                                                              The Freak Show

                     


Siobhan fondly refers to our family gatherings  as "The Freak Show".  It is true, some of the older branches of our family tree might contain circus performers--but the current bunch (ourselves included) are the True Freaks.  We are a quirky assortment of oddballs and strange ducks, as well as being the poster people for Dysfunctional Families...so perhaps Siobhan isn't far off the mark.  According to her, we are only two clowns short of a three-ring circus.  That being said, we want to dedicate this post to our family, The Freak Show.    So... On With The Show!

 The first act--and the most memorable-- is my sister, Saphrona.  Saphrona is 58 years old, and a colorful character in every way.  She tans excessively at the local salon, so that her skin is a nice shade of saddle brown between the wrinkles.  She wears her hair short and teased, bleached straw- yellow and  highlighted with big black leopard spots.  I kid you not.  Saphrona always dresses in bright layers of sheer fluttery clothes--with loud patterns, fur, sequins, lace, fringe, or tassels. Or all of the above.  She wears her dresses short and her shoes tall-- stillettos, Roman sandals that lace to the knee, beaded moccasins that lace to the knee, metallic sneakers that lace to the knee, or studded biker boots. You get the picture.  Her favorite accessories are: tons of makeup, tons of jewelry, a lit cigarette dangling from her lips, and an over-sized purse hanging from her arm.  Saphrona has a flamboyant style and a lot of attitude, and neither has mellowed with age.  Last year she got hammered and crashed Siobhan's birthday party, where she spent several hours staggering around the dance floor.  She wasn't dancing, she was grabbing people by the shirt front and saying "TWIRL, M---er F---er".  Most of them twirled like ballerinas because they were afraid of her.  But she's comical, and you gotta love her.  From a distance.

Next comes my brother, Eamon.  At first glance, he seems normal enough.  Fifty-three years old, still fit, still handsome...but looks can be deceiving.  Eamon is just plain crazy. Cracked.  Bonkers.  Around the bend.  Maybe he doesn't dress crazy like Saphrona, but you NEVER see him without his grey tee shirt, jeans, and ragged camo hat; he wears it like a uniform.  You will see him in his trademark outfit at work, Walmart, weddings, and funerals... He pairs this eye-catching ensemble with second-hand beat-up old army boots-- without shoe strings.  According to family legend, a cat chewed his shoes strings off years ago, so he threw the strings out and continued to wear the boots anyway.  Without strings.  In public, his shuffling feet and flopping boots often draw stares from strangers--which might be why Eamon developed his biggest phobia--Extreme Paranoia.  He is always nervous and jumpy ,furtively looking over his shoulder because he thinks people are watching him. (Usually they are.)  He also thinks his phone is tapped and his house is bugged, and people follow him everywhere he goes.  Like I said before--crackers.  Eamon  also has a phobia about doctors.  I once saw him stitch up his own arm with a sewing needle and thread, rather than go to the ER.  He thinks all doctors want to microchip him, and inject him with truth serum.  Delusional.  Poor old Eamon was married once, for almost 13 weeks-- to a woman even crazier than he is.  Then he got locked up for choking his new wife, and the marriage ended before the honeymoon did.  Can't say I really blame him, though.  She tormented him night and day, calling him "little baby" and "Mama's boy", and taping plastic baby bottles all over the house; she threw his truck keys in the lake, ripped up all his old family photos, burned most of his clothes, slapped him a few times, and pointed a loaded gun at him.  That's a lot of craziness to cram into 13 weeks. And in his defense, he only choked her once.

The third act is my younger cousin Brigid; she is a first cousin and therefore a legitimate part of the freak show-- but thankfully she is adopted, and we don't share any of her genes.  AT ALL. When we were kids, we would take Brigid to the arcade just to watch her play skeeball.  Every time she threw a ball, she would have a 5-second seizure.  Shaking, quaking, quivering.  Strange.  Brigid lived with her adopted parents on the shore of a huge lake. When Brigid was four, her mother gave birth to her sister, Rachel.  Brigid was very solemn about the situation.  She matter-of-factly told me that one day she was going to put her baby sister in her carriage and push it in the lake. Even now, I'm pretty sure she meant it.  Brigid once beat her first husband half to death with a baseball bat for snoring--while he was still asleep. As soon as the casts came off and his vision cleared, he left her.  Two houses have burned to the ground while Brigid was living in them. Both times she was mad at the landlord shortly before the fire.  Folks, we are talking major Scary Sherry here.  Every time the family moves, we forget to give Brigid the address.

Following Brigid is my favorite cousin, Patrick.  Patrick is in his 70's now, and has spent a lifetime training and showing horses.  Much to the neighbors' amusement, he  plows his garden each year with his finest show horse--usually a fiery young stallion.  The rows are not very  straight, but the horse IS earning his keep.   Patrick likes the old ways; he cooks on a wood cook stove and makes lye soap over an open fire.  Patrick is a lovable character.  Back in the 70's, Patrick gave in to peer pressure and went to get his ear pierced. When he realized they were going to charge him the same price for one ear as they charged his sister for two, he cussed like a sailor until they gave him his money's worth and pierced his other ear...He has worn gold hoops in both ears ever since.  Mama and her evil minions shun Patrick, and refer to him as "weird"-- but Siobhan and I adore him.  We like his earrings, and we don't care if he DOES wear dresses and heels once in a while...especially since it took Patrick to teach Siobhan how  to walk in stilettos without clomping like an elephant.

Now, in the center ring are my parents...First my father, Ambrose.  He is a class act, and not the least bit crazy--except by proxy.  Ambrose tells with obvious pride how his great-grandfather Silas  was known far and wide for his ability to ride a goat and play a fiddle.  At the same time.  Why he would want to is mystery to me.  The only thing that makes my father even  remotely freak-worthy is the fact that he married Mama and lived with her for 62 years.  That rates right up there with the guy that sleeps on a bed of nails.

Lastly, my mother, Gerda. Gerda is a drama queen, a hypochondriac, a seasoned manipulator, and a control freak--with a mean streak a mile wide.  Her own sainted mother died at the age of 34, and Gerda was convinced she would do the same.  So she spent her entire 34th year prostrate on our couch, swooning and playing dramatic death scenes for the family.  At least once a week, she would call us children to gather 'round so she could say her final good-byes...We  would yell at each other, "Come on! Hurry up! Mama's dying again!!"  But of course she never did.  When she turned 35, Gerda grudgingly got up off the couch and went back to screaming and nagging at us kids, and making my poor father jump through hoops.  Which is why she is the Ring Master of The Freak Show.

                                       

                                

                                                  

   

                                            

                                                 

                                                                                                   

                        

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Siobhan and I hope you've  enjoyed this peek at our Family Freak Show.  Although most of it was written tongue-in-cheek, I assure you all of the strange parts are true.  However, in fairness to the rest of The Family, the next post will be dedicated to our own strangeness...







         

Sweet Tea On A Hot Day Is Heaven To A Southerner...

Sweet tea on a hot day is heaven to a Southerner; I know that to be true. I grew up in the deep South– where summer days were sweltering with heat, and the air was always heavy with humidity.  Summer evenings would find us kids in the cool shade of Mama’s veranda, sprawled in our old porch swing with an ice-cold glass of sweet tea clutched in our hands. We spent many happy hours there, escaping the heat–laughing and talking, listening to music on a transistor radio; eating Chico-Stix and Baby Ruth bars, and always, ALWAYS drinking Mama’s sweet tea.

Ah, the memories…  I can still see the beads of sweat on those cold tea glasses; I can still hear the rattle of ice cubes and the comforting creak of the old porch swing. If I close my eyes, I can almost taste the sweetness of that first sip– and the surprising sourness of the lemon. I can feel the wonderful coldness of that golden liquid as it slides down my parched throat, and hear the inevitable sigh of satisfaction that follows– ahhh…Nothing was ever better than Mama’s sweet tea in the summer!

In those days, everyone we knew drank sweet tea–every day, and all day long.   Every kitchen had a pitcher of sweet tea in the refrigerator, and every café, restaurant, and diner had sweet tea on their menu.  But all sweet tea is not created equal…

Anyone that has ever attended a Sunday School social in our town will tell you–hands down, Mama’s sweet tea was the best.  And it still is.  After all these years, folks still ask for the recipe– so we decided it was time to share...

Siobhan and I hope you will try Mama’s Sweet Tea recipe this summer–and make some happy memories of your own!  (lemon and porch are optional.)

Mama’s Sweet Tea Recipe

You will need:
a 2 qt. enamel pot (it HAS to be enamel; stainless steel or non-stick pots will leave an aftertaste)
a 1 gal pitcher
1 gal. cold water
3 Lipton Family Size tea bags
1 1/2 c. sugar
lemons (only required in the South!)

Directions: Pour 1 quart of cold water into a 2-quart enamel pot; bring water to a rolling boil.  Reduce heat to a medium-low setting; add tea bags and boil for 2 minutes.  Remove pot from heat, and allow to steep for 5 minutes.  Remove and discard tea bags; pour hot tea into a 1 gallon pitcher.  Add sugar and stir.  Add remaining 3 quarts of cold water; stir well and refrigerate immediately to avoid clouding.   Serve over ice; add lemon slices, if desired.  Enjoy!