Yankee in a Red State
My aunt Julie was getting married. I must have been nine years old because I remember being awed by her British fiance. Cecil (we never called him that) was tired of me following him around asking questions about the Beatles and so I got whisked away, privileged to be included with the women. I recall attending a bridal luncheon at a neighbor's house. I recall a cool, shaded room and flagstone patio floor, delicate china and polite tea chat. The frenzy of pre-wedding activity was above my head with the taller, older, wiser folk and I was content to observe. Being observant got me places. Catholic school had taught me how to be quiet and mannerly. My father's acquired European grace and manners had required that his daughters be raised like little ladies and while I went through a rebellious period much later in my life, I always remembered that manners and grace will get one places.
During the days before the wedding, the groom's men had arrived from New York City where they all resided. Rugged vitality, jovial laughter, and a penchant for drinking far too much alcohol marked these odd members of a rugby club to which my uncle belonged, but by far the most awesome, to me, was Malachy.
Malachy was (and still is, I believe) an actor, specializing in parts requiring crazy drunken Irishmen, or Irish bartenders, since he had a successful stint in the late 70s on a soap opera called "Ryan's Hope." But imagine being nine years old and diminutive to begin with (I never grew beyond 5'3") and looking up at a great mountain of a man with wild hair and eyes. He reminded me of Iron John from the Brothers Grimm, a great hulking man with a big voice and infectious laughter in dangerous combination with Irish charm and wit. I believe I must have stared, gape-mouthed, like an idiot, but I do believe he is the reason I have such a fascination for the Irish.
It was after the wedding, after my mother and the rest of the bridesmaids had changed out of their sage-colored raw silk dresses and the groomsmen had shed their tuxedos. The guests made their way to my grandparents' summer house for the after-the-reception party. I didn't find out until the next morning, but the new object of my affection (only temporarily replacing the Beatles) had dedicated my grandparents' pond in the Name of Her Majesty the Queen. I, for some reason, recall seeing this firsthand, but my mother and aunt insist there were no children at the party but I see Malachy clearly: half naked, drunk, red-faced in the setting sun, standing on the picnic table and dedicating "The Aswan Dam" (which is real and in Egypt). I suspect the trout in the pond had no clue how fortunate they were to be subjects of Her Majesty.
I heard recently that Malachy McCourt (brother of Angela's Ashes and 'Tis author Frank) has thrown his hat into the ring for the Governorship of the Great State of New York. I am sure he will be all for downstate interests (read New York City) and bugger all the upstaters, but on the very very slim chance he does win, I hope he remembers that little pond in Tompkins County.
During the days before the wedding, the groom's men had arrived from New York City where they all resided. Rugged vitality, jovial laughter, and a penchant for drinking far too much alcohol marked these odd members of a rugby club to which my uncle belonged, but by far the most awesome, to me, was Malachy.
Malachy was (and still is, I believe) an actor, specializing in parts requiring crazy drunken Irishmen, or Irish bartenders, since he had a successful stint in the late 70s on a soap opera called "Ryan's Hope." But imagine being nine years old and diminutive to begin with (I never grew beyond 5'3") and looking up at a great mountain of a man with wild hair and eyes. He reminded me of Iron John from the Brothers Grimm, a great hulking man with a big voice and infectious laughter in dangerous combination with Irish charm and wit. I believe I must have stared, gape-mouthed, like an idiot, but I do believe he is the reason I have such a fascination for the Irish.
It was after the wedding, after my mother and the rest of the bridesmaids had changed out of their sage-colored raw silk dresses and the groomsmen had shed their tuxedos. The guests made their way to my grandparents' summer house for the after-the-reception party. I didn't find out until the next morning, but the new object of my affection (only temporarily replacing the Beatles) had dedicated my grandparents' pond in the Name of Her Majesty the Queen. I, for some reason, recall seeing this firsthand, but my mother and aunt insist there were no children at the party but I see Malachy clearly: half naked, drunk, red-faced in the setting sun, standing on the picnic table and dedicating "The Aswan Dam" (which is real and in Egypt). I suspect the trout in the pond had no clue how fortunate they were to be subjects of Her Majesty.
I heard recently that Malachy McCourt (brother of Angela's Ashes and 'Tis author Frank) has thrown his hat into the ring for the Governorship of the Great State of New York. I am sure he will be all for downstate interests (read New York City) and bugger all the upstaters, but on the very very slim chance he does win, I hope he remembers that little pond in Tompkins County.
willothwisp
Hijacking
The Kudzu Kronikles were hijacked. Mean-spirited people with a penchant for mocking other people's creative works were posting portions of it on the internet with rude comments about the quality of the writing and the alleged personal life of the author.
I'm still here. I am a chameleon. I can blend in plain sight. Ha.
Chatting is a rather distracting and time-consuming sport. It keeps one from attending to the important things in life. I chat in order to share my views on the miserable state of politics in the USA but I have noticed an influx of younger chatters who find it more entertaining to shock and insult than actually discuss concepts. I put this down to the fact that college is out for the summer and these asshats have nothing better to do. High schools in Florida are finishing off this week too. Summer chatting will become impossible. That's ok. I have a novel to work on.
I will continue on here, ranting and raving as usual. Until then, the brilliance of my other work is lost to the Internet ethers forever. C'est la vie ... words are fleeting. I think of this when I recall my poor aunt and the loss of 2,000 rare books to a sump pump mishap.
Enough for now. I'll be back.
The Kudzu Kronikles were hijacked. Mean-spirited people with a penchant for mocking other people's creative works were posting portions of it on the internet with rude comments about the quality of the writing and the alleged personal life of the author.
I'm still here. I am a chameleon. I can blend in plain sight. Ha.
Chatting is a rather distracting and time-consuming sport. It keeps one from attending to the important things in life. I chat in order to share my views on the miserable state of politics in the USA but I have noticed an influx of younger chatters who find it more entertaining to shock and insult than actually discuss concepts. I put this down to the fact that college is out for the summer and these asshats have nothing better to do. High schools in Florida are finishing off this week too. Summer chatting will become impossible. That's ok. I have a novel to work on.
I will continue on here, ranting and raving as usual. Until then, the brilliance of my other work is lost to the Internet ethers forever. C'est la vie ... words are fleeting. I think of this when I recall my poor aunt and the loss of 2,000 rare books to a sump pump mishap.
Enough for now. I'll be back.
willothwisp
