Childless on Facebook

In my not so humble opinion, being childless on Facebook is on par with:

 Or:

Or, even:

That feeling of being out of place is one of the biggest reasons I delayed setting up a Facebook account, much less posting to it, for a very (very) long time.   Once I finally appeared on Facebook, several "friends" called me a late adopter as if I would have been far more proper or polite to have started my Facebook journey earlier in life.   Alas, I was (and likely still am) unaware of The Rules.   Hence my late coming to the grand social media stage.   

One of the reasons I delayed entering the life-changing world of Facebook is the stunningly high percentage of posts that involve children.   My children. My grandchildren.  My nieces.  My nephews.   And, so on and so forth.  Having none of the above to show for my sorry life, I delayed entry into Facebook, not because a woman of my age could not withstand the social stigma of not being like one of the others, but for the lingering pain of being childless not-by-choice.   

As a side-note, someone should identify a clever acronym to describe those of us female types wandering around the globe longing for children and unable to have them, in biological format or otherwise. Then, such women (including me) could purchase T-shirts with said acronym emblazoned upon them and more effectively make light or fun of one of life's greatest disappointments.  

Back to the matter of Facebook.  I decided to get over my Facebook phobia one quarter in the life of teaching.  I attempted to bargain with students in my advanced technical writing class.  On the first day of class, I said "If you put your heart into learning to write this quarter, I will get over my issues with Facebook and jump into the mainstream, not only setting up a Facebook account, but finding a way to participate productively in this fascinating social media."  Thereafter, I pleaded with my students to befriend me upon Facebook, so I would not find myself with few friends and no place to post.  In response, only one of 75 students friended me.  But, I digress.   

As I attempted to fit into my Facebook shoes, I thought that if nothing else, seeing a plethora of cute children and happy moms would surely desensitize me to my own loss, deficit, and heartbreak.  It's not that I have anything against happy moms or would wish anything but happy parenthood for their lives, but the feeling of a knife into my gut every time I see a pregnant woman, a happy new mom, a whole family.... just never seems to go away.  I wanted to grow past the heartbreak.  I wanted to learn the art of quickly ripping the knife out of my gut, throwing it away, and taking another step forward in life, all wounds aside.  

And during my first three months of being active on Facebook, I perused many a photo of children, grandchildren, nieces, nephews, godchildren, and munchkins of all shapes and sizes.   I read posts, I "liked" photos, I responded to some comments, I tried.   And the desensitization program worked to some extent, as now the feeling I have when I am initially reminded of my childlessness is akin to only a steak knife in my gut rather than a full blown butcher's knife.   

Until one day.  I was perusing the page of an acquaintance, an ex-coworker, whom Facebook had named friend without my permission.   I liked my coworker and missed him in the workplace, but friendship was still a word I reserved for few, not many.   

As I scanned posts, taking seriously my new endeavor to modernize my interactions and relationships, I came across the coworkers's latest thought mixed in with a dozen or so photographs of his new baby:

"You are only as good as the pictures of your kids that you post on Facebook"

Ugh!  Back to the butcher knife experience.   

I can definitely see how Facebook can make some feel like less.   Thank goodness I am now at the age where that feeling is increasingly short lived and inclined to be ridiculed (by me) rather than taken seriously.  

Even Nowhere is Somewhere

While traveling across the country, we often find ourselves "in the middle of nowhere."   What makes nowhere different from somewhere seems to have something to do with (a) the absence of gas stations; (b) rest areas where the nearest bush or shrub serves as the community restroom; (c) a lack of any measurable annual precipitation... or some combination thereof.    These criteria add up to an abundance of "nowheres" in the middle of the western states, especially Nevada, Idaho, and parts of Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas.   Most may be content to pinpoint these barren landscapes as nothing more than 'somewhere out west' but a closer look shows abundant differences among: 

Nevada:

Arizona:

and Texas:

The interesting thing about driving through nowhere is that, as long as there is plenty of gas in the car, a few water bottles in the cup holders, and no urgent cry from bladder or other bodily function, the middle of nowhere easily transforms into a beautiful somewhere:

By its very nature, nowhere is absent of the crowds, the pollution, the struggle, and the chaos of the city.  Some may think such places abhorrent for their lack of theater, arts, entertainment, or other traditional city fare.   I like to think that the arts, the entertainment, the music... are still all there, but mostly on a geological rather than human timescale.  And, while driving miles and miles along these deserted roadways, my mind may slow to the pace of geological timescales, allowing me to be more than content to experience all the drama of nature... slow, vast, and breathtaking... at its natural pace.

The judgement of somewhere as nowhere reminds me, on this Christmas day, of the moment when Jesus Christ chose to turn to the well,  to reach out to a woman who most thought of as no one.  Yet, Jesus spent time at the well with the woman, extending a hand, listening, guiding, and teaching, as if she were someone of the same value as the most powerful king or the richest merchant in the land.

These are just more reminders to me to push my judgements aside and remember that:
Even nowhere is indeed somewhere, and
Every no one is very much a someone.  

Merry Christmas!

Road Kill

Something about the desert prompts animals to run across the road... a lot.  I have to wonder what is so fascinating on the other side that drives them to this risky behavior that results in one million vertebrates run over on the roads every day in the United States (yes -- I wonder too who counted them all and how they came up with this statistic, but I digress).   A large percentage of these poor critters must lie victim along desert roadways:

Today, my soft heart and I endeavored to avoid contributing to this statistic.  As we travelled along long, lonely, gasoline-free stretches of U.S. Highway 93 today, I tried my best to keep from running over one of the many critters sticking its nose out from the sagebrush to gaze at the passing minivan:

Alas, hundreds of miles passed and no strange sounds emerged from the underside of the vehicle.   No abrupt spray of red splashed along our mint green paint job.  No sickening crush of bones could be heard from the Michelin man below.  But, as I began to relax, paying less attention to the shoulder and margins of the highway and more attention to simply staying awake, the unthinkable happened....

Drum roll please....
Tragic music begins....

Thwomp went the right front bumper, and in a single moment, my no-kill day became a road-kill day:

R.I.P.  my tumbleweed friend.
Rest in Pieces.

Deluge

Merriam-Webster says:
Deluge -- "A large amount of rain that suddenly falls in an area."

Others say:
Deluge -- "A poor circumstance in which to pack a vehicle for cross-country travel, especially in the dark of the night."

or:
Deluge -- "A psychological stimulus known to significantly diminish regret associated with departing all locations in Washington State lying west of the Cascade Mountains."

or:
Deluge -- "A highway phenomena known to drastically increase the probability that an animal-laden minivan will hydroplane into the median of any randomly chosen roadway."

or:
Deluge -- "A rather annoying way to start a cross-country road trip."

Haunted by a Potato

It has been over a month since I returned from my first trip to Ireland and I find myself thinking about potatoes a lot.  Make no doubt about it.  Potatoes, as inanimate as they are, can haunt.

Like so many Americans, I expected (even felt entitled to) a vacation that was relaxing and rejuvenating and filled with fabulous scenery and beautiful landscapes.   Certainly, Ireland has all of those things and I am grateful to have enjoyed them for ten days.  But, Ireland also has potatoes.   Despite the fact that some Irish (or transplants from other European countries) wish to turn Ireland into another Foodie Capital of the known Universe, the potato still sits silently by.   It competes for another message that has little to do with paying far too much for a small portion of gourmet food whose aesthetic presentation make an excellent match to a wonderful bouquet of flavors:

While I had heard of the great potato famine of the nineteenth century, I failed miserably in appreciating the tragedy of it until I spent some time in the country that bore its history.   The penal laws of the 17th and 18th centuries set the stage for the Irish to lose one million of its citizens to starvation and another one million to emigrate away in the 1840's and early 1850's.  In one of the classic ugly stories of one flavor of Christianity pitting agains the other, the Protestants denied Irish Catholics the right to own or lease land, live close to a corporate town, or vote.   Despite emancipation in the early 1800's, Catholics continued to struggle on increasingly small pieces of land, paying high rents, and retreating further and further into subsistence farming until all that could feed a family was a crop of potatoes planted on parcels as small as a single acre.

All those potatoes were of only one species, so that when the potato blight came to Ireland, it took down almost the entire crop season after season, leaving fewer and fewer seed potatoes for the following season and decimating hope in greater and greater measure.

Despite the fact that a majority of Irish land supported successful crops of wheat, oats, livestock, and other bounty that had nothing to do with potatoes, a large portion of the Irish population starved, or left, and many who left then starved or died in passage.

As an incredible bounty of food shipped out of the country, insufficient or no help at all shipped in.   The British government, whether by incompetence or political chokehold, could not handle the disaster, and the tragedy of broken and lost life continued, year after year.

The great potato famine was not the first of its magnitude in the world, but the fact that the reasons for the tragedy originate in the corresponding tragedy of divisiveness among Christians makes it all the worse.   One would think that modern Christians, having the great Irish potato famine in their historical portfolios, would strive every day to overcome any barriers that stood in the way of unity.

Yet, we don't.   'Love one another' does not have an exception clause to it.  We need to try harder.   I think the greatest teacher of all time would have liked it that way.

Beautiful, Stubborn Older Lady

Belle is a sweet old southern gal who just happened to spend most of her life in Washington State.   She has been a loving, gentle soul from the day I met her... except when you dare cross her OR you happen to be another dog interested in a leadership role in her vicinity.  Then, you are in trouble.

While this behavior can be trouble in our "blame the dog" society, Belle has never changed her mind about protecting her person (me), not once, in her long walk through this life.  Her unquestioning loyalty has been an inspiration to me on many occasions when I just simply wanted to walk away from one difficulty or another.

Now that she is fourteen years plus some into her dog's life, I am learning about another inspiration that she has to offer me.   She has a cancerous tumor the size of a baseball (and then some) on her left rear leg.  She has a raging infection somewhere in her body that is sending her liver values through the roof.   Yet, still she ambles along, refusing to accept that dying is near.   Unlike mere people, she smells the cancer and knows it grows on her body, yet she dismisses it as long as she can still walk, feel, eat.... she simply has some more living to do and is approaching the end of her life as we all should... one day at a time, until there are no days left.

The gentle fire that still burns in her eyes and all that black, gold, and white fur that keeps growing even in the midst of decline... makes her beautiful beyond measure.

I am fortunate to know more than one beautiful older woman in my world.  Only one is a dog.  The rest are human as we all are. Yet, they hold onto light, vibrance, energy as if they were twenty years old.   True beauty comes from that light within.  And, I have been permanently reminded that just because my body ages does not at all mean that the light needs to age along with it.  

Friend or Foe?

Suppose that one day, someone knocks on your door.  Before you can answer, she slips in and makes herself at home.  She doesn't much like your furniture, so she strings a hammock from one wall to the other and settles in for the night.

While you think this behavior is very strange, she doesn't have a large truck or a bunch of burly guys with her or any obvious weapons, so you let her be.  The first night passes, the morning comes, the sun rises, and all seems to be at peace.

The next night, you start to notice that your uninvited house guest has some funny eating habits.  She is vomiting quite a bit.  Since she is small and delicate, you don't notice any smell or stains on the carpet, so you, in an unusually hospitable moment, let it go.

Another night passes, the morning comes, the sun rises, and life is stranger, but still at peace.  Your new house guest is still vomiting, but despite the fact that no offensive smell or stain comes along with it, you start to notice something even stranger about her.  See, the truth is, you have dozens of uninvited house guests in the house.   And this latest and sweetest new one has a little bit of a mean streak lurking within.   You see... when she vomits, she tends to aim the vomit at one of your other unfortunate house guests.   That, in itself, is just disgusting, but what complicates matters is the fact that the vomit seems to have an exceptional ability to dissolve skin and flesh.   This, you notice, as one of your other houseguests goes from his healthy, happy self to nothing but scant, liquefied remains.

This is awful.  Horrible,  Gross.  Surely, you must now call the police or at the very least, throw this houseguest and her hammock out the door.  Good Riddance.

But then, as all rated R, low budget horror movies would dictate, the situation worsens before your very eyes.   Before you can excuse your guest to the great outdoors, she does the unthinkable.  She turns, grins, and eats those gross, liquefied remains.

Yet, still you debate.  Should I throw her out?  Should I just let her be?   Because, you see, in the middle of her feeding frenzy, she winked at you and promised you two things.  One:   she promises she will never come after you.  Two: she promises she will hunt and eliminate only those houseguests that are truly annoying you.

Thus, you ponder.   Keep her?  Kick her out?  Friend?  Foe?
What's your choice?

And, do you let her keep that pesky hammock strung between the walls?

The Clock Ticks Louder

Beginning in December, 2012, the clock started to tick.  At that time, Grandma Belle was 12 and a half years old.  I came home to a dog that could barely stumble out of the dog pen before collapsing. Her gums were an unfavorable and very pale pink.   I heaved her into the back of the Zoobaru as fast as my ailing back would muster and dashed her to the vet.  A temperature, an aspirated needle, and an hour later, the vet suggested thyroid cancer:  fast acting, untreatable, and deadly.   He said:  "It is just what happens to dogs nowadays when we take such good care of them that they live well beyond their intended years."   Nice bedside manner.  Such compassion.

The next day, the cytology and blood report had lots of big words in it, which naturally led to another set of recommended tests.  Meanwhile, Belle grew weaker, and I did what every self-respecting American with many choices does ... I tried another vet.  One series of antibiotics later and several agonizing days of waiting later, Belle's golf ball disappeared into the land of past and almost forgotten infections.  

From that day forward, I always heard the clock ticking round here.   Belle's arthritis was watched every more carefully.  Her incontinence caused panic, rather than a quick trip to the vet for what is, apparently, standard medication for these spayed girls who lose control of their bladders.   Some days, when Belle is slow to come out of the pen in the evening, I find that cold, hard fear lodged at the pit of my stomach, whispering:  Is today the day?

Over eighteen months have passed and although Belle has grown older and slower, there have been no more scares.   Until today.

I will never forget that single moment when, in the bright fall sunshine, I turned just in time to see Belle trot slowly by me, onto the garden path.  It was a moment when a ray of sun bounced off her rear leg at just the right angle to illuminate what was not normal there.   I will never forget the fear at the pit of every internal organ I own as I inspected her leg, discovering a ridiculously large mass lodged near the junction with her hip, covered in all that Belle bear fur.  I won't ever forget a round of trying to Google my way out of the problem.  Are there any baseball sized masses on google that turn out to be nothing at all?  Hardly.  Even Google can't offer that kind of hope.

Again, we dashed to the vet.  Three aspirations of the mass all showed an incredible amount of blood and abnormal cells in the baseball that was rudely inside my Belle.   The vet thought most likely it was a cancer that was ridiculously fast acting... a few days to two weeks, tops.  No real surgical alternatives.  No treatments.

24 hours later, the cytology and blood work say that this is not a baseball cancer that will kill Grandma Belle this weekend.  Instead, it is a more localized cancer... one that will steal her life at an undetermined time in the near future.

Uncertainty.  Sadness.  Grief. Fear.

How could I miss something that size for so long? What happened to those keen observation skills? Did they just get totally lost in my self-involved, busy life?  How exactly does one miss a baseball hanging off the leg of someone you love so deeply?   What an idiot I am.

The clock ticks very loudly now.  Even Lucky and Lady hear it.  

Fiddle a Dingle

Dingle is a small fishing town on the Dingle Peninsula in southwestern Ireland.  It is most everything a small fishing Irish town should be:  small, quiet, relaxed, beautiful, and blessed with good beer:

While the scenery is enough to quiet my soul all on its own, hearty Irish food eaten alongside some of that good beer is icing on the cake.   As we came out of a pub after enjoying another such meal, we came across a family of fiddlers playing in one of the town squares:

While the younger kids played at large:

The young ladies played with no sheet music and no break into the approaching sunset while one brave young boy danced in front of all the ladies:

I admit to knowing almost nothing about music, my training in that area being on par with my training on art (close to zero).   But, the rhythm of an Irish jig naturally gets the feet and hands moving, tapping along to one or another infectious beat.   I naturally assumed that such fast and upbeat music must surely be accompanied by equally upbeat lyrics.  But, with the assistance of Google and Wikipedia, I found instead, verses splattered with blood, heartbreak, and tragedy, like the following from The Maid Behind the Bar:

"She did not know he was around
  Until the fate of death had struck her
  And now she sleeps beneath the ground"

Or, equally morose, from the Wind that Shakes the Barley:

"But blood for blood without remorse,
  I've ta'en at Oulart Hollow
  And placed my true love's clay-cold corpse
  Where I will full soon will follow"

Typical Irish.   contradictions
Lush, Fruitful Farm Land.   dire famine
Warm, Accepting People.   violent, strife-filled troubles
Even the fiddle is a contradiction.  It is identical to the violin but played in a way that it sounds nothing like it.   No doubt, I have a lot to learn about music, but for this afternoon in Dingle, I am more than content to be reeled into the rhythm of the jig, while ignoring the dark history lying behind it.

False Advertising

This beach along the west coast of Ireland was advertised, by multiple signs, as Inch Beach:

I wondered how I would get a suntan, while perched on an inch of sandy coastline, amidst a hundred other tourists.   I wondered if it were a square inch or a cubic inch of sand that we would fight over with other visitors.  Wonder no more when on Saturday morning, we were relieved to find a much larger expanse of sand and beach on which to stroll, especially at low tide:

I counted at least 200,000 inches of beach (not including the width of course) as we walked and walked and walked, turning back reluctantly before we reached the end of this sprawling sandopolis:

Inch Beach was an excellent case of false advertising.   I still have no idea where the name of this village originates.  Perhaps, a more diligent tourist would have sought out the answer. Was Inch Beach just an abbreviation for 200,000 Inches beach?  Or did the name have a deeper historical meaning?   These worthwhile questions strayed far from my mind while walking barefoot along this vast sandy expanse.   I was more than content to dwell in la-la land than in reality for the moment, at least.  

I expected the Northern Atlantic to be a little wilder, a little bit more insistent about pounding the few rocks on this beach into soft, silty sand.   But, I guess she waits for winter to show her wilder side.   For now, she is quiet, relaxing, soothing.... everything that she should be for all her eager tourists.  

Facing the Wrong Way

I am so spoiled and blessed to live where I do; for nine months of the year, I am in the West and can watch the sun set over the waters of Puget Sound.   For the other three months, I am in the West of the East (along the Gulf Coast of Florida) and can watch the sun set over the water in the Gulf of Mexico.

We've been in Ireland almost a week now and almost without fail, we have been pointing the wrong way at sunset; a mountain or hill has been standing between us and the sunset, rather rudely blocking the colors and light that spruce up the sky with delight at the end of the day.   It may be easy to ask the question: "Why would I not just watch the sunrise instead?".  And my answer would readily be that in my world, sunrises are not an option.  I think it should be illegal to be awake so early in the morning.

Seeking a sunset over the Atlantic, we finished driving the Ring of Kerry, barely surviving another day of Irish roads and wrong-side-driving, to end at Inch Beach on the Dingle peninsula in the southwest of Ireland.   Over three miles of sandy beach were enough to send me temporarily to heaven, but we also had the added bonus of viewing the sun set into the western sky while casting its color over both the hills and the waters of the Atlantic Ocean:

In my world, this is close enough to the perfect sunset.  I don't blame the suite of rather large hills for interrupting the view just a wee bit.  In fact, they could win a gold medal for adding beauty to the whole scene.

Death Defying Tourism

The roads here in Ireland are a wee narrow for the modern car:

While many risk their lives to defend the freedom of their country or pursue a comparable noble cause,  Barry and I risk our lives to see an abundance of stunning scenery, such as this vista along the Atlantic, taken along the Ring of Kerry (peninsula) in southwestern Ireland:

Narrow lanes are complicated by a number of other factors.   We take shoulders for granted on American roadways, but they seem to be as rare a luxury as cloudless days in Ireland.  Other barriers that prevent one from driving the car into oblivion (guard rails, bollards, etc.) are also notably absent from Irish roads, leading to signs like these, which in my mind, basically say "Good luck fella... hope you don't fly home in a wooden box":

Then, we have the tour buses, which only pass by at a rate of one per minute, and, by law, have the right of way.  No matter how much of their lane (and your lane) they are occupying, these tour buses may do as they wish, and the ordinary passenger car driver is left to accommodate a wide range of bus driver behaviors.   While facing these tour buses, head-on, often through one or slightly wider than one lane passages, we are supposed to relax and enjoying the vistas below:

Right.  We learned early on that enjoying the scenery meant pulling the car over, removing the key, and exiting our rented death trap:

With a keen interest in continued living, Barry and I have strict job descriptions on this trip.  Barry has been the driver and I the navigator.  Navigator responsibilities are substantially greater than on American roads, because they must include instructions for winding one's way through a plethora of roundabouts, all the while thinking left rather than right (drive left, look right!). But, the navigator's job description is nothing compared to the driver's job description which often involves choosing between potential wrecks.   How often have I heard Barry say: "Well, I would rather run into a stone wall (on the left side of the road) than a car head-on toward the center of the road!"  You have to wonder ... why are we driving on roads that mandate such a choice?

Death-defying tourism.   Roads more adrenaline-provoking than skydiving.  A curb-clipping, brush-swiping, gravel-spitting experience.

Isn't it amazing that the Irish have a traffic fatality rate less than one third of the United States.   190 killed on roads last year in the entire country (including Northern Ireland).

But, how many of those 190 were tourists?

Green Green Dreams

Ever since we arrived in Ireland, I've been a snob about the color green.   Because Ireland is considered the Emerald Isle, I naturally assumed the grass (and mountains and trees and other flora) would be greener on the other side of the Atlantic (and continent) than my own Emerald city of Seattle  Before I left, many folks I knew reinforced how GREEN Ireland would be.

All that hype inflated my great green expectations of Ireland to the point that they were impossible to meet.  Looking back at my photographs of Kilarney National Park, which we visited on Thursday,  I realized that I was being fooled by my own expectations:

Fortunately, a camera lens is not so easily fooled.   I could look back on the scenery and realize I was smoking something to have missed the vast expanses of green that unfolded before me:

I still take issue with the fact that the hill tops are missing a few trees.  The great oak woods were long ago cleared from these hills, leaving virgin stands in only a very few isolated places in Ireland.

But, that's another blog for another day.  For now, I take back what I said about you Ireland.  You may continue calling yourself the Emerald Isle.  It's a nickname well deserved.

James and the Giant Orange

James and the Giant Peach was a fantasy movie filmed in the twentieth century.
James and the Giant Orange, in contrast, was a reality TV show, popular in the seventeenth century.

The story goes like this.   James was an important guy who decided to be Catholic.   William, who came from a giant Orange as a duke, was not as an important a guy but he fixed that problem by marrying Mary, James half sister.   Mary, who was not particularly thrilled by being a political pawn or being married off to a rather ugly guy (William), cried through the entire wedding.   Thereafter, she composed herself and stayed married to William, but never had any children (put two and two together there).  

Even married, the protestants William and Mary weren't as powerful as James, so they crafted a plan to kick James off his throne.   They had a few battles over the whole affair, committed a few murders, and did a few underhanded things... all in the name of religion.   The fact that both Catholics and Protestants are Christian and fundamentally believe the same thing (that around two thousand years ago,  Jesus Christ came aboard on planet Earth to be savior of the world) had escaped almost everyone's attention at the time.  So the Catholics and the Protestants fought with each other and a Glorious Revolution ensued.  

Meanwhile, back in Ireland, the poor Irish once again backed the wrong guy... James, the Catholic.   When William and Mary's political and military ploys trumped those of James, James ran to France to avoid the prospect of his head becoming a separate entity from his body.  At the time, France was a rather Catholic-friendly nation (just ask Louis XIV), so this worked out all right for James. Unfortunately, the Irish could not just pick up their Ireland and move to France so they continued to take the hit for William and Mary's ongoing campaign, revolution, and "victory".   One of the many ugly battles to "subdue" the Irish (which most have figured out by now is an impossible feat) happened at Charles Fort, which we visited today:

Charles Fort is a star shaped fort, in line with Advanced Fortress Engineering of the 17th and 18th century that had to contend with the fact that massive artillery bombarding a fortress wall was a totally different animal than weapons and strategies of the previous centuries.   Even redesigned, however, the many hills around the fort created a problem, and the British and their buddy William overcame the defenses of the opposing armies, causing Ireland once again to fall under a rule that didn't suit anything about who the Irish truly were as a people.  

The moral of today's story.
History repeats itself... again, and again, and again.

And, watch out for oranges and marrying unattractive men.  You never know where they may lead.

The Rock

There once was a rock in the middle of the water with a wee bit of furze (looks like scotch broom, but it's not) and heather covering her.   The rock was unimpressive, nondescript, and hostile to all other forms of plant life.  Hostile happens when there is no soil on which any plant in its right mind can place roots. Alas, I realize I have implied that furze and heather are not in their right mind, but I've also implied that plants have a mind, so perhaps I am the one who is not in her right mind.

I digress.   This rock, located squarely in the middle of Bantry Bay in southwestern Ireland, went unnoticed for a very long time.   Until, one day, the British decided to build a fat round tower on top. They had little interest in the rock, but great interest in the defensive capability of the tower.  

Eventually, the British tired of beating up the Irish, and left (well, kind of).  The rock and its tower sat alone and unnoticed once again.   But then, in the early twentieth century, a man named Bryce bought it and hired a man named Peto to plant a garden on the rock. Peto did an admirable job of hauling soil, rocks, and other fundamentals to plant life over to the island, employing one hundred men, several years, and lots of money to do so.   Then, he put delicate plants from all over the world on this fresh new soil and renovated rock.   And, after taking one look at the brutal Atlantic winds blowing in from the South.... they died.

Bryce was not pleased with the situation, threw Peto into the wind, and hired a master gardener from Scotland (Murdo Mackenzie).   Mackenzie had the brilliant idea that perhaps all the fragile and delicate plant life transported from all over the world didn't particularly appreciate the brutal Atlantic winds.  So, he planted all manner of Scot and Monterrey pine in belts that sheltered the wee little delicate plants from those mean nasty winds.   And, sheltered as they were,... they didn't die.

In fact, they thrived and multiplied and managed to get along with hundreds of green friends from all over the world, until the island was nothing at all like its former sterile self:

Mackenzie spent the rest of his life making sure that Garnish Island remained a stellar example of gardening gone right.   The gardens were embellished with many an art form, including the traditional Italian garden layout:

Mackenzie could be an inspiration to us.  Someone told him you couldn't turn a sterile rock in a wet, cold climate into a slice of lush garden paradise.   But, he spent his life proving SOMEONE wrong.

Single mindedness does have its advantages.   Garnish Island in southwestern island can attest to that.

Same Old, Same Old... or Not?

Oddly, Cork is the second largest natural harbor in the world, next to the harbor in Sydney, Australia.   And, the Irish will be the first to tell you that Sydney gets a wee bit more sunshine and warm weather than the City Cork.  Regardless, on a sunny day, with the temperatures in the mid 60's, it's hard to find fault with this quaint city of 120,000.   Yet, today, while strolling along the River Lee, my husband, often known to be a fountain of creative and uplifting remarks manages the following:

"Looks like a dozen other cities that have a river running through ...
 Paris, Prague, London..."

I could only roll my eyes at such a comment because with that single thought, the costs, jet lag, ridiculously narrow economy-class seats, and any other number of hassles associated with traveling almost halfway around the world became pointless.

I am certain my husband did not mean this remark in the way it ended up coming out of his mouth, but it made me stop and think about what was different here.  The first thing that came to mind, of course, was that in other cities with rivers traveling through, I did not have a pint of irish lager and rich meat and potatoes lunch in my belly.   This surely slowed my pace if not changed my perspective on the scene before me:

In Cork, most of the walkways and thruways near the river that carry pedestrians, passenger vehicles, and an odd assortment of trucks were built directly on top of old waterways.  In modern day Cork, there is no need for these waterways to cater to ships, shipping, and water-based transport, so the River Lee has been architecturally free to host a delightful variety of low-hanging, romantic bridges and walkways:

Unlike the likes of Prague, London, Paris, and whatever other city has a river running through it, many of the houses along the River Lee are painted in all manner of colors, as if San Francisco had been transplanted to a river bank:

And, finally, the people in the City of Cork seem so much more laid back than this city's gigantic cousins to the east and south.   This may have as much to do with what they ate and drank for lunch as their general outlook on life, but the result is the same.  We ambled through the city today among others who were ambling.  We relaxed as others seemed to be.

And, simply enjoyed life in another place at a better pace.