Ireland 2014

[cranefly]

I suppose I should have questions about other parts of your trip. But for some reason the broken float and leaky valve plagues me. It's a lifelong fear I have, reinforced by bad experiences with cars and house plumbing or electrical. I try to fix something and succeed only in compounding the problem, and suddenly it's far beyond my scope to fix.

Did you get it fixed?

[Greg_phpbb3_import1]

Long story short, plumbing all better. Water crisis resolved. Reading drought averted.

Type more come soon once pseudo LSD trip endeth.

[Drunk Monk]

It really doesn't work for anyone who's ever done LSD. Trust me.

And yes, for those DOOMers that have done LSD, the title of this post is a pun.

[Greg_phpbb3_import1]

I thought puns were supposed to be funny. Or at least be able to see amusing from where they are.

[Drunk Monk]

...as you've seen Bollywood flicks.

I thought puns were supposed to be funny.

whatever gave you that idea? puns are supposed to make the listener groan.


But ne'er mind that. Tell us more of your family adventures in Ire.

[Greg_phpbb3_import1]

Another pun! Or did you just misspell Eire?

[Drunk Monk]

if you did groan, yes, 'twas a pun. yay me!

if you didn't groan, 'twas still a pun. To quote Sailor Moon "In the name of the moon I will PUNish you!"

[Greg_phpbb3_import1]

I WANT CANDY

The day starts with another 6 mile walk around Lake Quannapowitt. Hopefully, if I keep spelling Quannapowitt, rather than lake, I’ll be able to actually remember the name of Lake Quannapowitt.

The path is much quieter and peaceful on Saturday. The walk actually feels contemplative rather than an automobile assault on the senses. Until you pass the Honey Dew doughnut shop where all the Accountants and Lawyer Harley Davidson aficionados are taking a break before their weekend ride. Ten motorcycles all starting at once would be the opposite of contemplative.

Quannapowitt is very ethereal with the thick fog rising off it. I’m betting money the cel phone picture did not capture the magic of it. Still kicking myself for not lugging the big camera. But the cel phone is good for those quick hits of upload bliss.

When I get back to the house, Steve wants to show me something down in the basement. Oh, dear, you would thick this is the end of the road for me, but no. Steve or rather Natalie, has inherited her father Walter’s 1988 Pontiac Fiero sports car and it’s sitting in the garage. All it’s styling sings the 1980’s. Steve wants to know if I would like to go for a ride later. Just the thought of driving the car puts a twinkle in Steve’s eye. I agree to a later ride.

Since we are downstairs near all his tools, I gently broach the subject of the running water in the toilet. Steve tells me just to jiggle he handle. I tell him I’ve investigated the problem and mention the water streaming out of the float. And how if I had two big wrenches, I could fix it.

He said sure. Have at it. I wondered what he was thinking when I told him I already knew where one of the wrenches was hiding. We finally found an old plumber’s wrench among Walter’s old tools. Not the best choice, but it would do.

There was cursing and grunting for quite some time but I eventually realized I was turning the pipe the wrong way. Sigh. After that, it was pretty straight forward. Old float out. New float in. No more constant sounds of running water.

I go into Helen’s room to write up the previous days experiences. Steve comes in with some notes from my mother. He also wants to know if I can get some file off my father’s phone to print out on their wireless printer. What? Who?

I look at my mother’s note. It’s handwritten in her left handed-scrawl that takes forever to decipher. The bright pink felt pen doesn’t help either as all the letters bleed together into a blur. I decode, from what Steve is saying, that this is an email my mother wants me to type up and send to one of her students.

My mother has been making my father do this for years. I, on the other hand, want nothing to do with this little task. For a variety or reasons, some amazingly petty. I stomp downstairs and dump the three small pages in front of my mother. I tell her I’m already busy doing my own jobs, thank you very much.

She gets all cranky that I won’t help her out. She gives me a mad “Fine” when I tell her I am not doing the email.

I finish up with my writing and come back down stairs. My father asks me if he can use his phone to send the email. Score one for evil. The only thing I would hate more than sending the email was having to see my father struggle to send the email on his little phone.

I take the pages upstairs. I notice that there is no actual email address on the note, just the person’s name. I stomp back downstairs. The original email is on my father’s phone. I ask him to forward it to my computer. Another email my mother wants sent has now joined the pile of little pink papers.

Isn’t this part of my mother’s job? Doesn’t she get paid to correspond with her students?

My mother decided long ago to not learn how to use a computer. We’ve attempted to teach her multiple times. But everyone just gets frustrated and finds it is easier just to type it ourselves rather than fight with her for the millionth time on which button to press. Again my mother loves for people to cater to her.

Today my mother dines with her High School classmates from Mary Cliff academy at the Escadrille restaurant in Burlington. Because of our wanderings in the car, I have already driven by this restaurant many times.

It has been offered that my father and I join them for lunch. Sorry, no. Rather eat glass. although I can see all of our futures, when we are in our eighties reminiscing about past high school dances and school newspapers.

The only thing I have said it would be fun to do while we are in Boston, would be to go to a classic Massachusetts restaurant out at Revere Beach. It was a place my father used to go back in the long ago. He took us to one of the newer branches of the restaurant, Kelly’s Roast Beef, when we came out for my Uncle Jimmy’s funeral two years ago.

The original was located at Revere Beach which was Boston’s answer to Coney Island. All those rides and amusement arcades are long gone, but I thought it would be fun to see.

My father has been fluctuating in his health status on this journey from feeling crappy to slightly less crappy. I was getting the feeling that driving all the way out to Revere wasn’t something he was particularly interested in doing. I started pushing for a sub shop near Burlington.

He said no, kind of grudgingly, more like he was trying to please me than actually wanting to go. Plus, he got to dispense more stories about the Meadow Glen Mall which used to be the Meadow Glen drive-in, a place he worked at in college, and other stories during the drive through more half remembered streets.

My father was shocked to see all the big condo complex that now lined Revere Beach. He was equally amazed to see people swimming in the doubtless frigid New England waters. Planes came in across the bay and landed at nearby Logan airport in a steady stream. A couple of kite surfers fought the blowing wind and the placid water.

Kelly’s was right where he said it was. Unlike the place we went to in Saugus which had a big dining facility, the Kelly’s in Revere just had a walk up window and a couple of tables. But the charm of eating at Kelly’s was getting your brown bag of food, sitting at the benches along the strand and dining Al Fresco. You place you order at the window and then with a dozen other people who also await their orders. I took some time to look at the postcards Revere Beach back in it’s heyday.

Miracle of miracles, my father started to perk up a little. The stories started to flow while he chowed down on his roast beef with real horse radish. Seagulls and pigeons pestered us for crumbs.

A strange man with a cat on his shoulder wanted to know if I wanted to take a picture of this extremely docile cat while the cat sat atop a Revere Beach sign. I did but I also think the guy was angling for a tip after I took the picture. Other tourists saw the cat and dragged the guys focus towards them and I wandered away.

The other reason I opted for not going to Revere was that it was about a forty five minute drive from Burlington. We only had about two hours before we had to pick up my mother. Seeing my dad happy made the trip worthwhile.

My mother still owns her father’s home in Cambridge. She rents it out to people and the previously mentioned David McKenna plays handy man. My mother had called the tenants the night before and told them the owners were coming by. That has to be a scary call for any tenant.

After we picked up my mother, we drove over to Cambridge. We went along a route that I half remembered. As we got closer I remembered even more of how to get where we were going. Me telling this to my father had no effect on the constant stream of directions coming my way.

The house on 109 Lake View ave, no lake view included, looks the same as ever. It’s part of duplex. The trees are bigger in front. More of the porch has decayed.

The tenants were extremely nice people. He’s a professor of Sanskrit poetry in Harvard. I don’t think I ever heard what she does. They have two kids and now a small dog that is against the terms of the lease. David McKenna said it would be okay, without consulting with my parents. The small dog was nowhere in evidence during our visit.

The house looks much better than when my grandfather owned it. The tenants have done a great job on decorating it with some eclectic pieces of art, including some huge pieces of brass which look similar to giant swords but are actually money.

I toured all three floors and basement of the house, snapping pictures of everything and comparing the rooms and fixtures to my own memories with the current state of the house.

Tenant Joanna followed me down to the basement which had it’s familiar must smell. Natalie had also come along to see the house which was a big part of her childhood as well.

Joanna wasn’t very happy with David. She was constantly asking him to do repairs. The current round of chores had been hurriedly done only the last week because he knew we were going to be visiting. Joanna loves the house, would buy it. She knows plenty of handymen that could do better repairs than the ones David currently does.

We spent a good fifteen minutes talking about the David situation. I told her I had no power to solve these problems but I would see what I could do.

Since we had seen my father’s parent’s graves, my mother demand equal time for us to see her parent’s graves. We followed Natalie over to the Mount Auburn cemetery, who’s most famous tenant is Mary Baker Eddy. Eddy had a phone installed at her grave, if I remember the story correctly, so Eddy could call back from beyond death.

My mother actually cracked out some genuine emotion at her parents grave. I took more pictures of headstones with familiar names on them. The cemetery tour continued with a stop at Natalie’s parent’s graves. I noticed that Walter had been buried with both of his wives. Yes, I made an inappropriate remark about this to Natalie and immediately regretted it.

Now, it was time to find candy. You heard me. My mother wants to bring candy to people in Ireland. My father kind of remembers where the historic Fanny Farmer store is located.

Yeah, not there. I checked my phone for a location and discover that they were consolidated with another company ten years ago and are now owned by 1-800 FLOWERS. You can only get their candy through them.

No problem. We can got to Brighams. He knows where there store is in Belmont. Again, not so much. Brigham’s much like Fanny’s was taken over, mismanaged and disappeared a decade ago, too. I continued to tell them we should just by something at the airport and save me all this driving around.

Speaking of driving around, found out my mother is afraid of driving on freeways. Every time we enter the freeway, she crosses herself. Every time we come up behind another car, she clutches at her armrest, gives a scared intake of breath, and slams on her chicken brake. I tell you, that doesn’t drive the driver crazy at all. Not ever a little bit.

We end our chocolate quest and head to Reading. Took the freeway. Applied the chicken brake only a couple of times.

Natalie had suggested we all attend the movie “The Old Women” starring Kevin Kline and Helen Mirrin as part of the evening’s entertainment. As a bonus, the director would give a talk after the show. This was almost enticing. I did kind of want to see the film starring two actors I enjoy. The director talk would be a bonus.

Well, the more I drove, the more I just wanted to crash when I got home. My father was already done for the day and wasn’t going. Helen was coming down with a cold so Steve was leaning towards not going so he could take care of Helen.

At this point only my mom was up for going. It was suggested, that she and I go alone to the movies. They don’t know me very well.

The other factor effecting that decision was time was running out to actually go. Natalie was out doing errands and still hadn’t returned home. When my parents and I came back, Steve and I took the Fiero out to get pizza from his favorite local place.

Time ran out. Natalie returned but didn’t want to go since no one else wanted to go. The suggestion was made that Steve and I take my mother, which I almost agreed to do just so Steve wouldn’t be stuck with my mother. I couldn’t let him take that bullet.

Well, my mother said she was too tired to go, too. But maybe Steve and I could go and report back to her on what happened at the theater. Steve and I nixed that idea immediately.

Turned into a quiet night after a day of driving.

[Drunk Monk]

err, i mean the money.

there's this surreal delay between DOOM posts and fb pix. it's not like being on lsd tho...

[Greg_phpbb3_import1]

How do you know? Ever been up for thirty hours, then had to make your brain do things it knew wasn't right?

[Drunk Monk]

dm did that all the time. perhaps not in the land of ire, but dm's youth, sleep dep AND lsd were the soup de jour (et la nuit). alas, what times where those....

[Greg_phpbb3_import1]

Ireland, here we come.

The day started with rain, interrupting my walk around Lake Quannapowitt. It didn’t last long and I only waited about a half an hour before starting my two hour constitutional. I do like the walk past the churches and the geese and the small cemetery. It would be a hundred times better if it were farther from the encircling roads. Although I do get my adrenaline up crossing the roads in the rotary.

At 9, we drove over to Melrose to see my Aunt Eileen, stopping at the Honey Dew shop for muffins and coffee. Originally, it was going to be one muffin for Eileen. Might as well get two. You know you should have a muffin, Greg. Three Blueberry Muffins, then. Hmmm, that Banana Nut muffin looks tasty. Four. It’s the same price to get six as it is to get four. And that is the why obesity is at epidemic levels in the US.

We had a nice chat with Eileen. Since we’d been to the other cemeteries, Eileen figured we should go to my Uncle Jim’s grave as well, so off we went to the Wyoming Cemetery. No Howitzers this time at the grave site for the General.

The whole day was running around since we had appointments to do and a plane to catch. We went back to the Wadzinski’s and loaded the car, and by we, I mean me. I love the van because all the bags fit. I dread what will happen when we get to Ireland and it’s plethora of tiny cars.

As I loaded the car, I noticed a billfold on the floor in the back. Aunt Eileen had dropped her ID on our journey to the cemetery. One more stop on the way to the airport. One more let me see if I know a quicker way to the freeway tour.

We were having lunch at Durgin Park, the only place for Indian Pudding, with the daughter of a friend of my parents, Ellen Bartlett Wilson. She had seen one of the pics on Facebook and wanted to get in touch, just for a few minutes. A few minutes turned into lunch.

Durgin Park is always one of the nostalgia stops on the Boston Tour. I have even inflicted it on poor Cindi. Originally, we were told it was closed. Thankfully, that was just a base lie. I only got lost a little trying to find it. My father was his helpful self in offering driving suggestions.

Ellen brought her two sons, Jack and Tom who were delighted to hear stories about the good old days back in Burlington. Fortunately, the Raider-Patriot game was on over my shoulder. I also showed them some martial arts videos on the phone, of which they almost saw all.

Then the highlight for the day, getting on the plane. I dumped the parents and the bags at the curb outside the Aer-Lingus gate. It all went surprisingly smoothly. Except for the part where I missed our terminal while riding on the return shuttle from car rental area and got to ride the bus around the airport a second time.

Learning from my past experience on the SFO-BOS leg, I tried to see if I could get the parents their own row, while I sat somewhere else. This would allow my father to lean over and take the pressure off his ass.

At the ticket counter, they told me to ask at the gate. If they did it at the ticket counter there was a chance they would fill the now empty seat in that row. We put the parents in the wheel chairs and rolled them through the TSA. I’m getting used to the glares from people as we cut in line in front of them.

I now went on the quest to find chocolates for the friends in Ireland. I bought some really tacky American chocolates in a tin. I talked to the agent at the gate about the row situation. He talked to his manager who wanted to know if were paying for an extra seat. Oops. Well, the gate agent found a work around and put me on the aisle further up the plane. He told me to keep both boarding passes in case I was forced back to their row.

I also had to arrange with the gate agent to get the wheel chairs to take the parents down the jetway to the plane along with our six pieces of carry-on.

Your supposed to get the wheel chair people on first, but the wheel chair delivery people were late and the other passengers were already going down the jetway when we cut into line. I apologized to a lot of glares.

If I haven’t mentioned it, it is a great time trying to maneuver 5 carry-on bags down the narrow aisle between the rows of seats. I swear the rolling oxygen concentrator was trying to escape from me. Since people were already seated, I nailed many of them with the bags over my shoulder.

As we passed my seat, 9A, I put my camera case in the overhead and dropped my bag on the chair while I helped my parents to the back of the plane. I explained to them for the millionth time they were to sit together until the plane took off and then move apart to avoid any more unpleasantness.

Since, I was at the back of the plane, I had to wait until everyone was seated before I could return to my seat.

Guess what happens when you leave a bag unattended on a plane in these post 9-11 times?Sure enough, the people in my row thought someone left a bomb on the plane or at least a suspicious unattended bag.

They called over the intercom about the bag on the seat. I told the stewardess near me that it was my bag. She called to the front of the plane to explain. I guess that didn’t calm their fears because the stewardess at the front of the plane met me halfway up the aisle with my bomb, I mean bag.

Ireland, here we come.

[Drunk Monk]

...but what is indian pudding exactly? can i have it if i don't eat my meat?

[Greg_phpbb3_import1]

Made from real Indians!

No one but my father knows about Indian Pudding. It's like a thick sweet oatmeal and the only place to find it, that he has found, is Durgin Park. You can eat it if you don't meat.

And then I got the joke . . . .

[Drunk Monk]

Made from real Indians!

East or Native American?

And then I got the joke . . . .

New album coming soon. I'm just getting ready.