Grannymar

I hear the birds in the South of Ireland are chattering Post Codes once more. Let their music not fade into oblivion like a one hit wonder, but rise with a great crescendo to completion of the task. Postcodes are very handy. I know because I have one. Way up here in the cold and often forgotten part of the UK, are many towns and villages with a prefix of ‘Bally’. I live in one of them. Back in the days before we had post codes our mail took the tourist and scenic route via Ballycastle. Now with a Post code such detours are avoided.

Nowadays all my outgoing mail has a return address of my last name, house number and post code. I have in fact received Christmas Cards from the United States of America addressed to that return address. If for any reason I need to phone my bank or any utility company they ask first for my postcode and then the house number and finally ask me to verify my name. When travelling my luggage tags have only this return address.

Northern Ireland was the last part of the UK to be postcoded with all postcodes here beginning BT, a mnemonic of the capital city’s name. While Belfast was already divided into postal districts, rural areas known as townlands posed an additional problem, as (at the time) many roads were not named, and houses were not numbered. Consequently, many people living in such areas shared the same postal address, which is still the custom in the Republic of Ireland. Today the majority of roads in Northern Ireland are named with the odd exceptions in Co Fermanagh and most houses (even in rural areas) are allocated a number. Those that are not allocated numbers can be uniquely identified by a house name. An example is Bushmills, which begins with BT57.

The format of UK postcodes is generally:

A9 9AA

A99 9AA

A9A 9AA

AA9 9AA

AA99 9AA

AA9A 9AA

where A signifies a letter and 9 a digit. It is a hierarchical system, working from left to right — the first letter or pair of letters represents the area, the following digit or digits represent the district within that area, and so on. Each postcode generally represents a street, part of a street, or a single premises. This feature makes the postcode useful to route planning software.

The part of the code before the space is the outward code or out code used to direct mail from one sorting office to the destination sorting office, while the part after the space is the inward code or in code used to sort the mail into individual delivery rounds. The outward code can be split further into the area part (letters identifying one of 124 postal areas) and the district part (usually numbers); similarly, the inward code is split into the sector part (number) and the unit part (letters). Each postcode identifies the address to within 100 properties (with an average of 15 properties per postcode), although a large business may have a single code

wikipedia.org.

The population in the Republic of Ireland are well prepared for this type of system since vehicle registration has worked on a similar vein for several years. Surely incorporating the latter system would make the providing of Postal areas and districts an easier task.

What do you think?

We all know the phrase ‘Walking off into the sunset’. Mostly it brings to mind the idea of walking off into the never, never land of eternity, or as I like to think of it, walking into a new life, a new beginning. I was reminded of it last night while watching the sun set.

The sky at night on several occasions this month reminded me of another new beginning thirty years ago. Elly arrived in our lives in the early days of May and with her the beginning of a glorious summer. She was outdoors from 7.30am until it was time to bed her down for the night. The good weather lasted until October that year. Many a night Jack and I sat until well after the sun went down, I can still hear his remark ‘I suppose we better go in!’

May was a beginning for Elly and now it is also a time of endings. Last year it saw the official end of her single status as she prepared to marry her true love, George. This year May marks the ending of the time they spent is their temporary home and the new beginning of the move to their first step on the property ladder. Making a move like that is not easy nowadays. The current climate in the financial world has not made it any easier. They are to be admired for sticking in there and seeing it through.

I wish them well in their new home and look forward to sharing many visits. I hear ‘Mammy’s bed’ is on order so it won’t be very long before I have an excuse to travel south more often.

I only hope my visits are not like this:

I keep saying it – Where would we be without our commenter’s?

A ‘Strange but True’ themed day was suggested by Steph, so get your thinking caps on while you read this and then share your story.

One bright September morning when I was aged four, mammy dressed me up and put a large bow on my hair. We were taking my older brother to school. At the time I didn’t realise that she wanted to enrol me for the following September. The school was run by an order of nuns and Sister Patrick the Principal, announced to my mother that she would take then and there that day! I had no time to prepare and Mammy left in shock without (at that time) her only daughter!

My teacher for the first couple of years was called Miss Kierce. Naturally when I came home I talked non stop about her. Daddy said to me that in his part of the country (Co Clare) she would be called Kearse and that I was to tell her. I think it was the first thing I said to her the next day. The banter went backward and forward through me, and we discovered that she was from Ennis in Co Clare, not many miles from Kildysart where my father was born.

Miss Kierce asked if daddy ever went down to Clare and precocious little me said “Of course he did, he went to see Granny Kildysart!” So the message came home: “Daddy Miss Kierce says; next time you are going to Kildysart will you drop her off in Ennis!”

Weeks passed and eventually daddy was arranging to go to Clare, so I again brought messages back and forth. Times and dates were sorted and on the day teacher came home from school with me and she and daddy set off on the journey. Driving from Dublin to Ennis at the mouth of the Shannon in the days before motorways, gave plenty of time for questions to be asked and answers given. Daddy’s first question to all young women was usually “Did I know your mother?” Daddy did not know her mother but discovered that he knew her Godfather!

Miss Kierce’s Godfather was daddy’s Uncle Jim! The same Uncle Jim who came to our house for lunch every Tuesday and stayed all day!

Grand Uncle Jim

When I married Jack back in 1977, I wanted a simple wedding with no fuss. My friends were all well married and at 30 I was considered a very late bride (thankfully that silly talk has vanished)! I settled on a two piece outfit with crochet top and linen skirt in Ecru. It was right for me with my deep auburn hair. Jack as I have said before was older and walked with a slight limp due to injuries he sustained in Burma during WW11. Jack always referred to the injured leg as ‘the wooden leg’! He was a widower when I met him.

Walking up the aisle with Daddy who was ill.

Now we are married!

Several years later my brother was researching our family history. On a visit to Co Clare he spent several hours looking at the archives of the Clare Champion, a local weekly newspaper. He sent me a copy of a cutting. It was a description of a wedding. The date was 30 Jan 1900 and the Groom a widower, was marrying a woman much younger than he was. She had auburn hair. The description of the bride’s outfit told us it was the same colour as mine. The Groom did have a wooden leg. How do I know? The bridal couple were my paternal grandparents. The bride was Granny Kildysart!

Now you must have a strange but true story to share with us. I’m off to buy a horse, I’ll talk to you much later!

Rick O’Shea of RTE-2FM fame, always one for mischief, is encouraging us to ask someone out on a date this week.

So, on Thursday we’re asking you to finally ask out that person you’ve been dying to go out with for ages. Maybe it’s someone you work with, a friend or just someone you see on the bus every day.

It made me think.

How many people out there pine after, or quietly fantasise over someone without finding the courage to ask them out on a date. If you are in a relationship, how did you come to be on your first date? Did it take forever to get around to it? You all know my story, because I made a Podcast about it.

Modern media give us stereotypes of what we should look for in an ideal soul mate.

What is ideal? Do you have fixed ideas? Did you sit down and write out a list?

Is the ideal woman

• a size zero, six foot tall, high-earning career woman who can whip up the perfect soufflé in a matter of minutes?
• a pretty 5ft 8in blue-eyed blonde - who is good in bed and doesn’t earn too much.
• a busty beauty who will be a physically fit size 12, weigh a trim nine-and-a-half stones, live on her own and occasionally wear glasses.

Is the ideal Man

• a high earning ‘suit’ who drives a Mercedes and lives in a £1,000,000 property.
• intelligent with a wacky, entertaining personality and an optimistic outlook on life.
• a sporty outdoor guy with well toned muscles

Have you a list with check boxes?

Looks
personality
Eye colour
Long or short hair
Does/not wear glasses
Height – tall, medium or petite
Slim or curvy
Fitness
Outlook optimistic
Good in bed
Property – owns, rents or at home
Outlook optimistic
Own transport
Career
Drinks occasionally
Non-smoker
Loves clubbing
Into Sports
Children yes/no
Animal lover/not

Does anyone make that list or are we all ruled by the chemical spark, jumping blindly in without thinking?

Ian wrote about ‘Unhappy school days. It rather opened an old wound for me. So far I have skirted around those years trying to convince myself that I was over them.

Primary school was normal enough I think, apart from all the days I was kept at home to open the door and allow the doctor in to see my mother, unfortunately her health was not the best at times. Among other problems she had a serious heart attack when I was ten. I was also needed to prepare meals for the family. I remember my first attempts at making dinner involved going upstairs to find out from mammy what to do at every stage. The meals were cooked on the gas stove or in the oven. I avoided the grill as I considered it dangerous. My father and brothers would consume at least five potatoes each without those for my mother, sister and myself. Peeling the potatoes and vegetables took an hour each day. I became quite adept at making stews and casseroles. My eldest brother helped when food was cooked and pans and dishes were hot. No way as a slight small 8-10 year old was I capable of lifting them. Daddy NEVER entered the kitchen and expected his food on the table as usual! Homework! Why would I need to do that, when there were men to be fed!

At secondary level I went to a new school (3 years old) run by the order of Nuns that taught my mother. We had to sit a written examination to gain entrance. Our class of thirty whittled down to 15 after Intermediate Certificate. We were constantly reminded that it was a College (this allowed them charge higher fees) and that they did not teach us - they educated us! Their main priority was to reduce the debt incurred in building the school. We had a wonderful Gym, equipped with bars, ropes, horse, mats etc. It was the envy of many another school and we used it only as a supplementary examination hall! The pupils’ parents were bombarded with books of raffle tickets on a weekly basis, at least 12 books at a time. I refused to take them home – I was the only one with nerve to stand up and say so.

It was the early 60’s and I was one of 6 children, my father had spent almost a year in and out of hospital. Daddy was diagnosed with Addison’s disease, a visit to the library told my eldest brother and I that it was fatal. At that time there was no cure. My reading of the situation at the time was that if my mother handed out money for 12 books of raffle tickets to me each week then she would have to do the same for my 5 siblings. At that point there were three of us in Fee paying schools. No way was I going to ask for £12 a week.

No allowance was made for late developers, slow learners or difficult home situations. Pupils were told which subjects they were allocated, there was no such thing as choice. Abuse both physical and mental was employed on a daily basis. If you didn’t keep up you were lost from the radar. Pupils not thought to bring glory were encouraged to leave. I was considered a rebel and not at all bright.

Reading was not a priority in our home. Latin and French were difficult for me, Irish was a torture. The fact that if you failed Irish you failed the whole exam in those days, added to my burden. Back then Irish was not standardised and in one school year alone we had four teachers. They happened to come from the four provinces, Ulster, Leinster, Munster, and Connacht, each with their own dialect. To my ear they were four different languages. I never really recovered.

Maths I managed but science was not offered to me. Art and Domestic Science were on my programme and I actually knew more about cooking and hygiene than the teacher. She knew little about sewing, but a sister of my father’s took me under her wing and nurtured in me the love of the needle.

By now you all know my level of English! Elly constantly corrects my grammar and spelling. The fact that I am borderline dyslexic adds to the problems. Reading justified text, or light print on a dark background is torture. There are many blogs I would love to read, but if I have to struggle to find the content in amongst the flashing lights, bells, whistles and distracting adverts, well I walk away. Am I the only one to do so?

The nuns did try to move me out. Mammy stood her ground; she had to leave school at 16 in favour of her brothers’ education, so she was determined to let me go as far as the boys. I passed my leaving certificate with a couple of honours thrown in, much to everyone’s surprise. I was glad to leave school and never returned for any of the reunions.

My best pal was at school with me. Despite distance, family and other commitments we are still close and in touch on a regular basis. She has been a second mother for Elly, and her sons the brothers Elly never had. As I often say some good came out of those dark years!

La Mon. Two words that send shivers down my back. I was seven months into my new life here in Northern Ireland. A challenge unfolding all around me, the discovery of people, places and the sharing of new love, and new life growing deep inside me.

Twelve people were killed and many more badly burned on 17 February 1978. The bomb turned La Mon House, a small country hotel, in the Castlereagh hills east of Belfast, into a raging inferno. The events surrounding that fateful evening will for ever be imprinted on the minds of the scores of people who escaped from the clutches of death. Some of those injured may well still carry scars and suffer physical pain to this day. Even those fortunate enough to walk away without a physical mark were haunted by the memories of that dreadful night.

It began as a Saturday night of celebration. It was a happy get-together for members of the Irish Collie Club and their friends. They had converged on the hotel from around the Province. They had been allocated a private function room known as the Peacock room.

The terrorists strapped their explosives to two cans of petrol and attached them to the security grille over the windows of the room. They then retreated under the cover of darkness. The massive explosion that resulted sent a sheet of burning petrol through the small function room, incinerating those in its path. In addition, the glass and materials from the explosion shredded the many helpless, innocent and unsuspecting victims. In addition to the many guests in the hotel that evening, there were in the region of 90 staff on the premises.

This was a time of hormonal overdrive for me, newly married, and six months pregnant, no wonder the details seem etched in my brain. There was also the fact that exactly I week later we were to attend the annual dinner for all the staff of the company where Jack worked. It was the quietest week of my life. Nobody wanted to broach the subject. We all worried about attending, yet none of us wanted to be responsible for cancelling the event.

The evening of the Dinner Dance arrived and with it, thick freezing fog. It was impossible to see much further than the nose of the car. We debated whether to cry off or not. I know Jack was worried about me and the safety of our growing baby. We often have bad weather around us and when we travel a few miles south in the direction of Belfast, discover a different climate altogether.

Jack never wanting to let people down decided we would set out and if we found it difficult, we could circle round and come home. The driving condition I hate most of all is fog, never mind freezing fog but I stayed stumb and agreed that we should make an effort to get there. Our destination was Clanbrassil House Hotel, A Georgian Terrace on the sea front at Holywood, Co Down. I think it has since been converted into apartments.

We set forth on our journey, heading for the M2, neither of us wanting to say a word. All concentration was focused on the road and searching for red tail lights ahead. The journey down the M2 southwards into Belfast is lovely on a bright day. On your right Belfast Castle is set into the hillside and peeping through the trees of the Cave Hill. While on the left is the sweep of Belfast Lough glinting in sunshine, forming a natural divide between County Antrim and County Down. Had the night been clear we would have been able to pick out the cluster of lights at Holywood.

That night there was no cluster of lights, we did make out red tail lights of a car in front and tucked well in behind it and followed at a safe speed and distance. Finally reaching the hotel I gave an enormous sigh of relief. I thanked God twice over, once for a safe journey and secondly because there were NO grilles on the windows. We were the first to arrive and Jack found me a comfortable corner and headed to get a warming drink for us. It was only then I realised that my teeth and hands were clenched.

Soon the other members of the party started to arrive and seeing Jack they relaxed. Everyone felt as we did, yet turned out more in support of each other than the desire to party and also not wanting to let terrorism win. We soon had the call to our table. Good food and wine warmed and relaxed everyone. Jack and I shared the good news of our forthcoming event. The band was excellent and we all danced to the wee small hours.

We had a representative over from Head Office, and between the weather that night, and the chat at the table during the meal, he realised the conditions that the staff and particularly those out on the road, had to contend with on a daily basis in Northern Ireland. To give him his due, he picked up the tab for the whole evening!

When the band finally packed up for the night and we said our Goodnights, we headed outside to the car. The fog had cleared and the sky was a mass of stars. Jack and I sang all the way home.

Who would credit the difference a week can make!

Grandad asked a question on Saturday.

The conditions of his release from a short spell in captivity include lying low and not interfering with his neighbours property or staff building workers, shooting Tourists, or ranting and raving about the dedicated and hardworking personnel who so unselfishly and wholeheartedly give of themselves for the good of Ireland by serving in Government. This leaves little for him to do so in his boredom he committed a few short words to the laptop and asked a question.

Now this was either a ploy to check up on the loyalty of his followers, or to get them to do all the work and fill Cyberspace with their answers and keep his stats up. There is also the possibility that the answers would provide meat fodder topics for further blog posts.

The question he posed was ‘Why do I(you) Blog?’

I quickly sent my first thoughts winging over the Interweb:

• • Elly walked me into it.
  • The novelty.
  • Now to keep in contact with all the virtual friends I have made.

Happy enough with that I went about my daily chores. Alas there was no peace, the question haunted me at every twist and turn.

So, Why do I blog?

Yes, the answers above were all correct. Elly did walk or push me into it. I was her guinea pig for Bar Camp South East way back in September ‘06. I did say “what would I want to do that for? and many other unprintable things as well. But we I got there and my first post was two sentences!!!! Yes two.

Elly was more concerned with me learning about Podcasting. I did my best, and my first effort The Favour was all of two or three minutes. Way to long for anyone to suffer listening to such a dreadful voice!

With time I became more comfortable and adventurous, the blog posts grew longer as did the Podcasts. I learned to insert graphics and photos and last week I managed to add a mini video clip.

Slowly, very slowly over time the comments started to arrive. There are some folk who visit and tip-toe away saying nothing, and that is their right, but there are other stalwarts who visit everyday adding their wisdom, another point of view or sense of fun. At this stage I feel they are my friends and I cherish them. Not being able to ‘Run the Roads’, as they say here in Norn Iron, as much as I would like, I appreciate my blogging friends all the more.

Thank you, Elly for the push! Thank you George for your help also (now where are my flags?). I have learned so much since I started, I discovered there is so much more to learn and most important of all plenty more fun to be had.

So in short I blog, and read blogs because:

• I learn from others.
• Ranting or readings rants, raises my blood pressure.
• The laughter is like jogging on the inside.
• The smile some posts put on my face requires the use of more muscles than a frown, and it also keeps the laughter lines curved upwards giving my face a softer look!
• Then there is the ‘T’ word…..

So please visit more, you are good for my health!

This Podcast tells the story of the power of love between a child and his or her favourite toy.

The Velveteen Rabbit

Sleeping Elly and Sammy

Sammy in his bag today

• Get out from under the bird of darkness hovering round my head for the last month or two.

• Realise that lost time can never be found.

• Spend more time outdoors.

• Enjoy the simple things.

• Feel pride bursting through my chest when Elly, George and my friends do well and are happy, and tell them that I love them, at every opportunity.

• Laugh often, long and loud. Laugh until I gasp for breath. Spend lots and lots of time with friends who make me laugh.

• Learn something new - Never let the brain get idle (“You don’t lick knowledge off a stone” A quotation from Tom Murphy’s Grandmother.). “An idle mind is the devil’s workshop.” And the devil’s name is Alzheimer’s!

• Try everything twice. Now where are the Toy boys?

And finally my wish for you in 2008 is:

May peace break into your house and may the thieves come to steal your debts.

May the pockets of your jeans become a magnet of €100 notes.

May love stick to your face like Vaseline and may laughter assault your lips!

May happiness slap you across the face and may your tears be those of joy.

May the problems you had, forget your home address!

In simple words….

May 2008 be the best year of your life, try not to screw it up!!!

As the year draws slowly to its close, we all regardless of age seem to look back over the events of the past year, remembering lost loved ones, re-live our celebrations, rejoicing over achievements, tiptoe past disasters and move on to plan for the year ahead.

At first glance sewing seemed to overtake if not punctuate my year at every available space. In fact it was actually a year of great variety. In March I attended the Irish Blog Awards in Dublin, where I had the opportunity to meet with other Bloggers with amazing talent. A week later I turned sixty and officially become a senior citizen.

Over the months many hours were spent talking to Elly simultaneously on the phone and internet working through suggestions, ideas and plans for the wedding.

Moving forward to May I was approached on Skype and asked to help a young man in Italy to improve his English. I almost said no, but now we talk regularly and I think at this stage he can be counted as a friend.

The Wedding in June brought family and friends from across the globe to help celebrate and witness Elly & George’s Special day.

The weather was kind and Elly looked happy and glowing in her outfit. She said that it was very comfortable to wear and gave her the freedom she wanted.

The train of her outfit was detachable and was removed for dancing.

The end of May was rather scary with an emergency trip to hospital but thankfully I have recovered, and learned yet again to listen to my body! By the end of September I had sufficient energy to attend Podcamp in Kilkenny. It gave me the opportunity to learn and share, while renewing old friendships and making new ones.

November saw the passing of Cherry the mother of my new Son-in-Law George. I know that with Elly by his side, and the love of his father and siblings to share the great loss, George will feel the smile of sunshine on his face once more and hear and enjoy the birds singing.

Back in July I quietly marked the 30^th anniversary of the day I married. Sadly, and not by choice, I have been alone for a third of that time. When Jack was alive our world was wonderful and I am thankful for warm loving memories.

The mention of marriage reminds me of a radio interview I smiled at over the holiday, an 80-year-old lady was the focus, because she had just remarried — for the fourth time.

The male interviewer asked her questions about her life, about what it felt like to be marrying again at 80, and then about her new husband’s occupation.

He’s a funeral director,’ she answered.

Interesting, the young man thought. He then asked her if she wouldn’t mind telling him a little about her first three husbands and what they did for a living.

She paused for a few moments, needing time to reflect on all those years.

After a short time, a smile came to her face and she answered proudly, explaining that she’d first married a banker when she was in her early 20’s, then a circus ringmaster when in her 40’s, later on a preacher when in her 60’s, and now in her 80’s, a funeral director.

The interviewer looked at her, quite astonished, and asked why she had married four men with such diverse careers.

She smiled and explained, ‘I married one for the money, two for the show, three to get ready, and four to go.’