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Then there is the day you find blood on Mr. Godfrey’s mouth. Godfrey is a hunter. You think he was just out doing his usual ‘big cat’ routine. But the blood stays. You think, maybe he has a bad tooth, so you take him to the vet.

There is a mass, like a large cyst inside his mouth. The vet looks ashen when he first finds it. He tells you that in cats, in dogs, this is not good. He schedules Godfrey for surgery the following morning.

It is a rough night waiting for morning to come. You eat junk food. You feed the cats extra treats. You try watching Curb Your Enthusiasm to take your mind off things. But your own enthusiasm has about as much zing as a wet blanket, so you give up.

The next day you wait by the phone for news. The vet says he has removed the mass. The biopsy has been sent to Dublin and now you wait. The vet is hopeful. You trust him because he is a very kind and caring person but still, you will have to wait for the results. You don’t think about what happens if they come back positive. You just hope and pray and give Godfrey the medicine for pain.

Today it is pouring out. He is out there with his sister sleeping on the table underneath the umbrella. You watch them through the window as water veins down the glass. You don’t feel anything but immense love for them. You think you will do whatever it takes. Everything around you seems to have stopped. Time, life, just stopped, and you wonder if Godfrey knows what is going on.

Does he know how worried you are? Is he worried or is he dreaming of the time when the rain will stop and he can run through the field again. You hope that is what he is dreaming.

I haven’t fallen into a pothole. The boreen has been hectic in the past few weeks. So hectic there has been no time to post but, a return to the blog is imminent.

I made the Eric Hoffer Award short-short list (www.hofferaward.com) and have had publishing commitments as a result.

Thank you everyone who emailed and sent suggestions for the next episode of Big Cow. We’re working on it. Yes indeed we are, so stay tuned. Thanks also to everyone who has read and enjoyed the blog. Your continued support is greatly appreciated.

I wake in the morning to the still silent beat of another day.
Here, there is a peculiar silence. A sound, a thrum, something you might miss as the clouds pass overhead like a whisper – a silence softly breathing.
Light plays across the floor, tree shadows, all leaves and branch, bend and flutter.
This silence is here, always. Everywhere.

I listen for it.
Find it.
In the snap of rain against a window. A bird in mid-flight. The noisy scuffle of life.

And then in the midst of a wind farm outside Kilmore Quay on a hot sunny Sunday, they are suddenly there. All around me. Windmills rising like white pinwheels against the dry blue sky.

I feel as if I am walking among giants. The landscape is like another world. I could be anywhere. There is nothing but their turning and the breeze, and I want to lie beneath them, listen to the whoosh, methodical whoosh as they turn, a Ferris wheel, moving up-moving down, graceful, dancing.
Long pale metal arms never tiring, always measured as the wind that pushes, slicing through the air. Humming a constant lullaby.
I want to sleep beneath their song.
Wake in the morning to the still silent beat of another day.

Here is a slight digression. I was running when it happened. When I digressed. I was tossing around some random thoughts. I was trying to remember how long I’ve been on Twitter – since February – and why – initially, to register this blog.

Twitter. The blog. A big leap for me. Someone who normally wants to write and not shout too loudly about it.

I didn’t know how Twitter ‘worked.’ I noticed people using it for announcements or sharing information. Fine. My decision. Connect with people who seemed interesting. I’d read their stuff, they might read mine. Ok.

I have never been good at saying something unless I felt it relevant. But still I had tried to get into the spirit of tweeting. For those interested, I wanted to highlight the blog. I wanted to support others. I wanted to compliment. It’s in my nature.

I received an occasional response. Some weren’t really responses but statements. As if to say, well of course you think I’m great.

I was even unfollowed (stupid word) for I think, being too friendly. And then over time, it seemed each attempt to reach out (what was I thinking!) met with less response. Not that I expected much but a ‘hey thanks’ or acknowledgment that I took the time to give a thumbs up or say something kind would have been nice. Has anyone ever heard of being polite? Or does social media eradicate the need for such old fashioned values.

And I did it genuinely. Maybe naively. Maybe I should not have written to people I don’t know but I genuinely thought (wrongly – so wrongly) that because the world has become almost completely techno-dependent, I could try.

But it was, at times, like watching a group of little children at a party, jumping and screaming and throwing cake – doing anything for attention. To have followers. Numbers. To show everyone else how popular or witty or clever they could be. Human nature, you might say.

My run almost over, I rounded the corner towards home and remembered a disturbing tweet I read a few weeks ago. One that made me ask what social media is really for. Someone talking about how he used to hate America. He doesn’t now, he said, but it wasn’t that. It was the nature of his tweet. Seemingly still full of something that felt like anger and although I don’t know this person, it hurt. I could feel the remnants of what was just under the surface. It was a shock and I wondered why anyone would feel the need to be so blatant about hating anything. Such a strong word.

I have been angry; seriously angry at America – where I was born. But I have always had what I hope is the wisdom to be able to separate the government from the people. Not everyone in the states is right wing. Not everyone goes along with the status quo. Not everyone supports the decisions made by political puppets.

I reached our gate, knowing I would pull back from Twitter. Not from everyone. There are people I want to be in touch with and there are those who seem to use it for reasons other than ego.

Social media may be fine for most people but I’m-thankfully-not most people. I know it’s been said that it brings people together. But I would say it does exactly the opposite.

Big Cow final eviction night is only a few weeks away. As a tribute to everyone who has followed the series, Trissi Vanderwig and Cheddar Brown have decided to leave it up to the fans to suggest the next exciting challenge for the remaining Barn-Mates.

Send your ideas to info(at)theboreen(dot)com or leave them as a comment. Suggestions need to be recieved by 24th July 2010. Thanks for watching!

It’s not always easy being a mermaid trying to live on a Boreen. Splashing around in a pothole or tiny river just isn’t the same as having the wide-wide ocean as your back garden.

That fish out of water feeling can be overwhelming at times. So on the 4th of July, a little homesick and in need of a change of scenery, the girls hit the road and travelled east to Kilmore Quay.

no.1

They were having great fun in Foulksmill until they discovered that the wheel wasn’t actually a ferris wheel. What a rip-off. Then to make it all worse, Red fell. Or jumped. Not sure which.

(no.1)

Here they are visiting old friends (no. 2)

no.2

Taking time out for a much needed seaweed bath. (no.3)

no.3

Feeling invigorated albiet still a bit homesick. (no.4)

no.4

And as the sun sets the girls take a few minutes to reflect. (no.5) Realising that they have the best of both worlds. The Boreen is different and interesting and in it’s own way, unique.

They can come back to the sea whenever they want.

They’re a bit concerend about Red though and hope that she’s ok. That somehow she finds her way back home to the ocean.

no.5

Maybe it has something to do with tomorrow being the Fourth of July. Or that I have lived in Ireland long enough so that my father doesn’t always recognise my accent on the phone. It could have something to do with my rooting around in a press and finding this box of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese.

Purchased as a memento on my last visit home. It’s out of date. Not that I would really eat it. The nutritional value of a rock. Come to think of it, a rock probably has more nutritional value.

Whatever the reason, I seem to have a bad case of those Low Down HomeSickBlues. I am pining. Wistful. Dreaming of Marshall’s and Fritos and the folks back home.

I miss American enthusiasm and even though I don’t eat them, a good old American hot dog. French fries in a red and white paper boat eaten on the boardwalk at the beach. Cook outs. Tootsie Pops!

- why my fondest food memories are either fast food or junk I have no idea.

The way it was always so easy, such a relief, like slipping into cool water on a hot day, to make friends.

That wonderful American twang.

Last week, while shopping, I overheard that twang coming from somewhere in the store. Like a child lost in the woods following a trail of crumbs, I headed straight for it. A woman was talking to someone. I wasn’t listening to her conversation. I was hearing her talk. It was as if my heart was attached to the sound of her voice by an invisible string and suddenly I found myself reeled in, like a trout.

I was reminded of what I have left behind. It was in a word, bittersweet.

I thought about saying something to her but in the end, didn’t. I’ve done that before. Most people, while friendly, didn’t really seem to be that interested. They have their own circles. Maybe they see it as an intrusion or strange. I’m not sure. For the most part, it’s not something I dwell on.

But this weekend is a tough one for me.

So, to Americans everywhere and especially those who have made new lives for themselves abroad, happy-happy-happy Fourth of July!

It begins with a Roofing Dilemma. Roofers arrive. Mega bucks charged. We then discover small gaps in the attic where light and cold and rain get in.

Drainage Dilemma. Bog in back garden. Digger Man half completes work, says, “I will return.” Digger Man paid in full. Never returns.

Plumbing Dilemma 1. No overflow pipe from the water tank. Water dripping through ceiling. Plumber never shows – another plumber called.

“Tuesday. 10 A.M.,” he says. Tuesday arrives. No plumber. No phone call.

Plumbing Dilemma 2. Water tank springs leak. This time, a recommended plumber replaces tank. Pipe from tank leaks. He returns once. Does something to pipe – announces, ‘It’s fixed.’ 20 minutes later water dripping through ceiling. Our calls/text messages 100% ignored.

Roofing Dilemma 2. Rotten Fascia Boards on Gable End. Original roofer unavailable. A recommended roofer leaves job unfinished. Emigrates with full payment to Timbuktu or similar.

Heating Dilemma. Radiators bled but still uneven heat in rooms. Two whistling radiator ‘experts’ with a spanner attempt to fix problem. €60 cash for ten minutes. One radiator still cold to this day.

And the list goes on and on.

Then we have the Electrical Dilemma. Afraid to even ask about electricians. And, when all hope seems lost, we discover Brian Weston www.munsterwestonelectrical.com.

Comes out especially to assess situation. Nothing earthed. Wires everywhere. Wonky sockets. “You’re hired,” we say.

Brian shows up on time. Gasp. Professional. Thorough. Dedicated. Knowledgable. Pinching ourselves. Creative problem-solver. Innovative. Excellent customer service. Sighs of utter relief. And a nice guy. Sorts the house in one day. Fair price.

In school one of Brian’s teachers told him he’d never be an electrician. Carpenter maybe. Fool.

Luckily, he ignored fool and did what he wanted to anyway. I hope that inane teacher reads this and needs an electrician one of these days.

The conclusion? After eight years of crap service from incompetent/money grabbing cowboys, finally, we have found a true craftsman. A brilliant businessman. Someone who actually cares about his customers and takes pride in his work. The only shame is that he only does electrics. I doubt we’ll be this lucky again.

You see many things when you live on a Boreen. This is one of those things and it carries an important message.

A water pipe has burst but has either been repaired or is in process. Memories will be triggered. All of the times when the water is off.

Know it’s a bit poindexter-ish but keep track of the dates this happens.

26^th May – 9^th June – 11^th June – 17^th June – 18^th June – during The 2010 Antarctica Festival in January-6 days.

Hear stories. Some families without water for weeks. Cringe and think of dirty feet.

Count the number of days that your house has been without water this year. Eleven.

Begin to believe you are living back in the day of lamplight and open fires for cooking and “haul the water outta the well there, would ye. The child needs washing.” Have a mini-culture-shock-meltdown.

Call the council. The person who answers will say the words, ‘major burst.’

Wonder why ‘major burst’ is so persistent. And, when the water is off for line maintenance wonder, why no notice? No email. No phone call. No white postcard through the letterbox. No nothing.

Someone will tell you the last ‘offage’ was announced on the local radio station. Tell them not everyone listens to the local radio station.

Learn from a knowledgeable long-timer that the water system around here is ancient. It is weak and outdated and in need of constant repair and upgrading. Pipes are susceptible. You will you recall someone saying, ‘from Victorian times’ and your response, a big gaping mouth from your jaw dropping so rapidly.

You are an environmentally aware person. You know about the water crisis in general. You keep bricks in the toilet tank. Time your showers. You can’t think of a way to fix the pipes yourself.

When you have no water, think about water. A lot. Become nostalgic for washing a plate. A floor. Yourself. Dream of that ‘springtime fresh’ smell of clean clothes.

Then ponder the quality of the water. Stinky, undrinkable, poop water.

Remember your first innocent weeks here. Filling a water glass, raising it to your lips, the smell of rotten egg wafting under your nose.

You held the glass up to the light and watched as hundreds of unidentifiable flotsams and jetsams swam around before your eyes. You wondered then as you sometimes wonder now, what are these and thought about those sea monkeys grown from a kit.

Take action. Become even more careful with water. Become a water campaigner. Become a major pain in the rump. Call the council every time it’s off and when it’s not, call to find out when it will be. Don’t be pissie though. Most of the engineers are okay and the person on the phone has as much control over the pipes as you do.

Instead, ask yourself this question. Why did they allow so much development in such an underdeveloped area in the first place?

Realise that everyone knows the answer to that one.

The girl was thinking about what the neighbour had said.

Don’t let the arrangement go on for too long. Someone else had mentioned land rights and a period of eleven years. That it was possible he could take over the field one day.

She asked the farmer about his plans. He was, as usual, evasive.

When the cows had gone again, the grass grew and the farmer showed up unexpectedly with a tractor and baled the grass.

She heard that the farmer was taking the grass from her field and selling it.

Then the girl heard nothing. She called him and asked if he would be continuing the arrangement. She wanted to be fair but was beginning to understand what he was doing.

There was silence then, “sure, we’ll see.”

Months went by. No word. The grass grew wild again. Someone else the girl knew asked if he could use the field temporarily for his horses.

She figured why not. It was after all, her field.

The right thing to do would be to call the farmer and let him know the situation. He would want his fence back.

Unable to contact him she allowed the man to put up a temporary fence.

A few weeks later, the farmer returned.

He stood in the garden silent. Stony faced.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

He did not reply.

The girl felt uncomfortable.

“Is there a problem?” She tried again.

Arms folded tightly over his chest, muscles taut, long veins snaking across his forearms he said nothing. Jaw set square in a face she no longer recognised and then suddenly, he stomped fiercely towards the fence and turned off the battery, began pulling up stakes, ripping down ribbon, throwing everything around like a storm.

The skin on his face had reddened and he wound the ribbon into a knotted wad, threw the posts into a pile, and tossed the battery towards the front gate, nearly hitting her.

The girl was confused and not knowing what to say shouted, “I tried to contact you.”

“I think you have something else of mine,” he shouted, the words like bullets whizzing past her.

The only thing she could think of was the plastic half-barrel he had brought for water. But all she could do at that moment was stare, at him, the pile, the still trees beyond the field. There was the sound of an engine in the distance. A few cars passed.

“I’ll be back for this,” he growled and pointed to the pile.

“Why are you so angry?”

“This is not the way things work here,” he said, battery now cradled in his arms like a child and left.

The girl stood, frozen. Shocked and reeling. What had just happened scarcely registering, until she found herself moving towards the gate and closing it. Walking back towards the cottage, slowly as if she was trying to navigate through impossibly tall grass, everything looked different. The sky seemed darker, the cottage older. The field itself, once spacious and green, now shrunken, small and pale as if it too was frightened.

She went inside and closed the door.

To be continued.