« June 2007 | Main | August 2007 »
Sharon at The Bird's Nest writes about how irresistible babies are in slings, and Eileen and I wholeheartedly agree!
Many thanks, by the way, to Bonny Babywearer Lissa who gave me my very first sling (almost exactly) ten years ago!
[Photo credit: Marie, age 7]
The other day, I visited Ben and Jerry's website for a description of my favorite flavor, Dublin Mudslide, reviewing it as something that "makes me proud to be Irish." Later on, however, I discovered another flavor far less pleasant--particularly for Irish Catholics--"Black & Tan." When I was growing up, the phrase "Black and Tan" was synonymous with murder and mayhem, never uttered without a grim shudder from my father and perhaps a fierce shake of the fist. I write this rare editorial because I think my father would have wanted it, not out of any hatred, but in memory of those who lost their lives many years ago.
The Black and Tans were a ragtag British force set upon the hills and vales of Ireland between the years 1920 and 22, purportedly to reprise the IRA and its sympathizers, but in reality meting out indiscriminate revenge and terror on men, women and children alike. Barracked in Rathmore, County Kerry, the picturesque little town of my grandmother's birth, these hired guns--about 7,000 in all--swept through the land, burning down villages, sacking Cork City, opening fatal fire at a sporting event (the original "Bloody Sunday"), and abducting and murdering Catholic priest, Father Michael Griffin. A great uncle of mine, so the story I remember from childhood (but can no longer confirm) goes, was swimming in a stream as an eleven year old boy when the Black and Tans shot him, young Irish lads I suppose being a convenient subject for target practice. He survived the bullet to the leg and was fortunate compared to so many others.
Lt. Col. Smyth, a Black and Tan divisional commander, sums up the group's philosophy succintly in these June 1920 orders to his henchmen:
"If a police barracks is burned or if the barracks already occupied is not suitable, then the best house in the locality is to be commandeered, the occupants thrown into the gutter. Let them die there – the more the merrier.Should the order ["Hands Up"] not be immediately obeyed, shoot and shoot with effect. If the persons approaching [a patrol] carry their hands in their pockets, or are in any way suspicious-looking, shoot them down. You may make mistakes occasionally and innocent persons may be shot, but that cannot be helped, and you are bound to get the right parties some time. The more you shoot, the better I will like you, and I assure you no policeman will get into trouble for shooting any man."
Ben and Jerry's has apologized, saying it knew nothing of the Black and Tans and only meant the title as a reference to a drink by the same name, a mixture of Stout and Guiness. Fair enough, but why not rename the flavor, or better yet, resign it to the long list of names in the Ben and Jerry's flavor graveyard?
Heaven knows the Black and Tans of the 1920s were never hesitant to fill the Catholic graveyards of Ireland.
Well, I promised a point to those early posts about our grand lodgings here in San Francisco, and it seems my day of reckoning is at hand. The trouble with beating around the bush for a month is that sometimes, in the business of living, you realize your original impression and intended "point" were not precisely right. You find that maybe you should have taken some time before drawing (and worse, promising) a conclusion.
So here is where I finally get to my original point before admitting new facts in complete opposition to it--then swiftly reconcile the two, so that I appear to have been right all along. (Ah, that law school training finally comes in handy.)
When we first arrived, you will recall, we were impressed and even overwhelmed by the
beauty of this place. Yet, quite honestly, it left me uneasy and wound up—the way I might feel wheeling a triple stroller though a narrow-aisled crystal factory. Our son Patrick hated the place right off the bat. Victorian gables and elaborate furnishings suggest haunted houses to little boys, and he would not so much as walk from one room to the next by himself for a full month.
The girls, although enamored at first, did not really fare much better. Only Agnes continued to love her surroundings without complaint (primarily because of a volume of Shakespeare eight inches thick to keep her occupied). It was clear the other girls felt stifled, as if they could not play or do anything lest something should break. Television viewing and bickering were embraced as cherished hobbies, and I began wondering if we had not entered the region of California known as “Whine Country.”
After a few days of beating up against the bars of her gilded cage, Theresa seemed to speak for one and all by exclaiming, with no small measure of disgust, “I feel as if this is a Stuck Up House.”
Now according to thirteen-year-old Agnes, there are two subjects Mommy is obsessed with and raises whenever possible—the importance of choosing a good husband (if they are one day called to married life) and the perfection of small houses. My speeches on husband selection usually take the form of pointing out potential “red flags” to keep in mind for the future, red flags being things like nose piercings, pink hair, unnerving tattoos, smoking, excessive drinking, sullenness, dishonesty, tax evasion, bad manners, a criminal record, boorishness, reckless driving, reluctance to hold doors, soup slurping, and a seemingly bottomless list of other quirks and foibles I do not wish to see in a son-in-law.
My speeches on small houses, on the other hand, are designed to help my girls become content and joyful in any surroundings. Hopefully (so my theory goes), if the children see small spaces and cottages as the ultimate in beauty and coziness, they will avoid a lifetime of yearning, covetousness, disillusion, debt, and discontent. The moment the girls grumbled about our stately manor house here in San Francisco, I felt validated. “You see?” I remarked smugly sagely, “It is just as I have always told you. Big houses do not lead to happiness! Remember this when you grow up!”
This was the point I was planning to reach in those first few posts, and I probably would have attempted to make it more delicately were it not for everyone’s complete and utter change of heart.
Once again, Theresa acted as the mouthpiece for one and all. As we sat talking about our love for San Francisco, hoping to return one day to this ethereal City by the Bay, the coiner of the term “Stuck Up House” declared (and adamantly, I might add), “If we do come back, I hope we can stay here again. San Francisco just wouldn’t be the same without this house.”
So you see my dilemma? I was trying to come to a point based on my daughter’s feelings over a month ago, and experience appeared to have taught her the complete opposite. Moreover, she had uttered my own unspoken thoughts as well. I would be lying if I did not admit to loving every inch of this place, each tasseled curtain and soaring ceiling, the front stairs, the back stairs, and all five glorious mantels. Even the reluctant Patrick has his favorite nooks and corners, perfect for pitching sheet tents or establishing imaginary zoos in which he is the naturalist in charge of all exhibits.
Mulling things over afterward, I realized what had happened, relieved to find the “point,” though off shivering in a silken-tasseled corner, still remarkably intact. No house could make us happy--WE had made the house happy! We did not love this place because it was opulent. We loved it because we had begun to fill it with family history and memory. It was no longer a looming, antiseptic, untouchable museum, but a living, breathing bower of light and life. It would forever be the fairgrounds for Margaret’s nightly “baby romps” and theatre for Agnes’ loving readings of Romeo and Juliet. It would form the backdrop in our minds for Maureen’s historic penny swallowing, Eileen’s first birthday and her triumphant maiden voyage up a full flight of stairs. In six weeks time, we had inflated this house with our laughter, sprinkled her with tears, affronted her through tiffs and tantrums, and impressed her with our lofty thoughts. We prayed many a Rosary wrapped in her embrace and transformed her trim gilded gables into steeples for the Domestic Church.
It is the family that finds its own measure of contentment, joy, and sorrow wherever it may be, and I hope the children will come away remembering this new adage: “Be it ever so humble--or extravagant--there’s no place like home."
