Magi

Natives, Slavs, dark Irish, moan

for elsewhere, sigh like an accordion―

they hover with snake eyes,

offer melancholy and vodka.

Smoke rises from their pipes,

twists the many places before

with all the next stations―

part boxcar, part gypsy wagon.

They swaddle in babushka, braid bone

in my hair, rock me in peat and hay,

croon lullabies of painted roses.

I am colicky―sleep takes a long time.

I dream of conjurers, hypnotists

whispering  a distant star―

a scent of madness and resin candles,
the raven-smooth face of the Black Madonna. 

tk/March 2014



R.A.D. Stainforth melts my words like candle wax... 

Join Magpie Tales creative writing group.

*The Sleeping Gypsy, 1897, by Henri Rousseau

My DNA results...accidentally on purpose...

Last week the results from my mtDNA (maternal line) test arrived. My maternal Great-Great Grandmother was said to have been full-blood Cherokee. Like most Native American roots, it's hard to document on paper. Family Tree DNA already had my sample, so all I had to do was order an upgrade.

After eight weeks of anticipation, the results finally came in, not only confirming my Native American heritage from my mother's line, but also an unexpected percent of Ukrainian!  My main maternal links in order of percentage are: English, Irish, and Native American.

The Ukrainian connection explains a lot...my love of winter, melancholy, poetry, Russian icons, vodka...and maybe even why I recently bought a vintage student accordion, which I am slowly learning how to play. I find this all very fascinating.



* I snapped this pic accidentally on purpose

mashed tater season

For reasons unknown, I never make mashed potatoes in the summer.  So this time of year, when the cold weather rolls around, my Scots-Irish DNA craves comfort food, and shifts into full-blown potato mode. When I was a little girl, I loved mashed potatoes so much, I often chose them for dessert. (What do I mean, when I was little? I still do this.) I'll be posting a few variations on the glorious mashed potato in the following weeks, so stay tuned. This one is simple and marvelous...

Brown Butter and Sage Mashed Potatoes

Boil 3 pounds red new potatoes in skins.  Meanwhile, melt 1 1/2 sticks unsalted butter in a small skillet over medium heat, add 1 cup chopped fresh sage and cook, stirring until the butter is golden brown, 4-6 minutes. Drain the potatoes and mash with butter mixture, 1/4 cup whole milk; season with salt and freshly ground pepper.

(I knew this great vintage fork would come in handy some day.)

salley

Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet;
She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet.
She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree;
But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree.

In a field by the river my love and I did stand,
And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand.
She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs;
But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.

William Butler Yeats


I love this Yeats poem so much because a "salley" happens to be a willow tree. Salley is an anglicisation of the Irish "saileach", meaning willow, i.e., a tree of the genus Salix. Willows are known as "salleys" or "salley trees" in parts of Ireland.  This poem was subsequently set to music by Herbert Hughes to the air "The Maids of the Mourne Shore" in 1909.

'Tis my Scots-Irish I'm a-feelin', stretchin' its bonny legs and doin' a fancy jig. Your DNA doesn't have to be tingling to enjoy this song. Everybody is Irish this week. And please don't forget to send a big chunk of your good Irish energies and prayers to our dear friends in Japan.

photo borrowed from Google images

the wearin' o' the green

When I was in elementary school, it was not such a good idea to

show up on March 17th, wearing anything other than green. All

three hundred some students would take much pleasure in delivering

their hardest, twisting pinch. This odd practice taught me, at a tender

age, that you get pinched if you're a nonconformist. I also found out

that pinching gives you bruises, so you actually can have some green

on you, if you forget to wear it.

.

Pinching those not wearing green on St. Patrick's Day is a long

standing American tradition, having really nothing to do with St. Pat.

It does, however, involve the Irish and Leprechauns. It's thought

that the pinching started in the early 1700s, in the Massachusetts

colony. It was believed, if you wore green, it made you invisible to

the Leprechauns, who were known to pinch anyone they could see.

.

My mother, never big on holidays or traditions, certainly did not

promote the "wearin' o' the green". WE don't WEAR green on

St. Patrick's Day. She would say, with more than a little disdain.

WE'RE not Irish! Well, it only took a few years of coming home black,

blue, and green from school on St. Paddy's, for me to learn to look

lively, and be sure to wear green on March 17th. To this day, I

proudly wear, not only green, but my favorite shamrock brooch, as

well.

.

The amusing thing is, while I was doing genealogical research

several years back, I found that my paternal line, although

originating in Scotland, spent several hundred years in Ireland

before migrating to America. I also found a paternity issue in my

maternal line, which proved to be quite interesting. As it turns out,

my mother is, after all, of Irish descent, with a little Cherokee

thrown in for good measure.

.

.

This is a Theme Thursday post.

merry christmas

The light of the Christmas star to you

The warmth of home and hearth to you

The cheer and good will of friends to you

The hope of a childlike heart to you

The joy of a thousand angels to you

The love of the Son and God's peace to you.

Much love, willow ~~xx

.

Irish blessing, my photo

Irish Madness

Wildeve, was kind enough to send me this great book by Patrick Tracey. There were some unusual synchronicities, which she took as a sign, to pick up a signed (no pun intended) copy, from one of Tracey's book signings, for me. I love when things like that happen. After I read it, I knew exactly why she was prompted to send it.



Winner of the 2009 PEN New England Award, Tracey's book follows his journey to Ireland in search of answers to his family's struggle with mental illness. Two of Tracey's sisters developed schizophrenia, and his mother was troubled until her death, with the burden of realizing she passed the illness genetically on to her family.

In a London pub, Tracey randomly meets a doctor, who tells him of a genetic clue to the cause of schizophrenia in Ireland. The link was found in blood samples taken in County Roscommon, home to Tracey's ancestors. This information inspires a quest to unearth the roots of his family's multigenerational struggle with schizophrenia.

Tracey takes off on an excursion across Ireland, in a renovated camper, searching faerie mounds, haunted caves and healing springs. He pours over historical records and visits distant cousins looking for clues and separating fact from the legends of Irish madness.

I connected with Tracey on so many levels. My family traces back to Ireland and also has the genetic link to schizophrenia, which has troubled members of my extended family for several generations. I was right there with him, curious and driven through the entire account of his quest. I started reading and couldn't put it down.

This book is both poignant and powerful. Although it didn't give me all the answers, it did give me some much needed peace. Thank you, Mr. Tracey. And thank you, Wildeve. It was a sign.

For more info on Patrick Tracey and his book, click [HERE].

Lean's Lemon?

I'm a huge fan of David Lean and own most of his movies; Bridge on
the River Kwai, Lawrence of Arabia, Doctor Zhivago, and A
Passage to India, but I had never seen this often overlooked
masterpiece, Ryan's Daughter. This film has often been referred to
as "Lean's lemon", but don't believe it!

Warner Home Video has done a marvelous job with the anamorphic
transfer and Dolby Surround. It's probably even more beautiful than
it was in the theaters in 1970. The sweeping scenes, shot on location
on the western coast of Ireland are breathtakingly magnificent.
Lean's signature pallet of neutrals peppered with bits of red, paired
with Oscar winning Maurice Jarre's fabulous score are enough to
merit adding this one to my collection, as well.

The film is set in Ireland during the 1916-21 Rebellion, with an
impressive cast; Robert Mitchum, in an unusually innocent and
passive role, the fabulous Trevor Howard, John Mills (who won an
Oscar for his fabulous performance as the local village idiot), Leo
McKern (you remember him from Rumpole of the Bailey), and the
lovely Sarah Miles.

This is a two disc special edition with it's original 206 minute running
time, so pick an evening to put on your woolly socks, pop some corn
and settle in for this brooding and stormy epic of a film. Just to warn
you, this movie starts out slow and builds, so hang in there, it's well
worth it.

Thank you so much, Michael (Shouting at Streetlights) for this
recommendation. It was absolutely perfect Irish film for St. Paddy's
week!

Things That Are Worthwhile

Don't you love the spunky Maureen O'Hara in her role as Mary Kate Danaher in the film The Quiet Man, demanding to have her "things" about her? I would venture to say that all of us can connect with the need to feel secure through our tangible possessions, especially now with the current economic conditions. God only knows how I adore my nest of "stuff" about me.

This topic sparked quite a lengthy conversation at the manor this past weekend. I think it's safe to say that most of us out there are in "hunker down" mode. The trickle down effect of the massive lay offs has effected all of us. Ms. Jane Doe loses her job. What does she do? She cuts back on the extras, like salon visits for her hair and nails, music lessons for the kids, entertainment and postpones the extra tweaking to the car. This in turn, takes its tole on the hairdresser, music teacher, the arts, and the local mechanic, and on and on. Yes,

it's scary times, indeed. Many out there are losing far more than just the "extras"; they are losing their homes, as well.

But is the sum of our life based solely on material possessions? Can money actually buy true happiness or a loving relationship? How can you put a price tag on a kind word, a moving melody, the scent of wet

earth in the spring air, or the love of a child? This brings to mind another great Maureen O'Hara movie moment from Miracle on 34th Street when Fred Gailey gives O'Hara's character, Doris, some heartfelt advice. You might recall my mention of it during the holidays, and it is surely applicable today.

Look Doris, someday you're going to find that your

way of facing this realistic world just doesn't work.

And when you do, don't overlook those lovely

intangibles. You'll discover those are the only things

that are worthwhile.

So, in keeping with this beautiful advice, we are honoring St. Patrick's Day at the manor by celebrating all those lovely, lovely intangibles. Kick up your heels with me, dear bloggy friends! A good Irish jig will bring a smile to your face! Kisses and cheer to all, be ye Irish or not!

May the road rise to meet you,

May the wind be always at your back,

May the sun shine warm upon your face,

The rains fall soft upon your fields and,

Until we meet again,

May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

~

traditional Irish blessing

Willow's Weekly Word

 

The Aran is a style of jumper, or sweater that takes its name from the Aran Islands off the West Coast of Ireland. The sweaters are distinguished by their use of complex textured stitch patterns, several of which are combined in the creation of a single garment. The word choice of "jumper" or "sweater", or indeed other options such as "pullover and "jersey", is largely determined by the regional version of English being spoken. In the case of Ireland and Britain "jumper" is the standard word with "sweater" mainly found in tourist shops. The word used in Irish is geansaí, a gaelicization of guernsey which has been re-Anglicised to gansey in Hiberno-English.

Originally the jumpers were knitted using unscoured wool which retained its natural oils or lanolin making the garments water resistant and meant they remained wearable even when wet. It was primarily the wives of Island fishermen who knitted the jumpers.

Some stitch patterns have a traditional interpretation often of religious significance. The honeycomb is a symbol of the hard working bee. The cable, an integral part of the fisherman's daily life, is said to be a wish for safety and good luck when fishing. Thediamond is a wish of success wealth and treasure. The basket stitch

represents the fisherman's basket, a hope for a plentiful catch.

Aran jumpers are often sold as a "fisherman sweater", suggesting the jumper was traditionally used by the islands' famous fishermen. It is sometimes said each fisherman (or their family) had a jumper with a unique design, so if he drowned and was found weeks later onthe beach, his body could be identified. There is no record of any such event ever taking place, nor is there any evidence to support there being a systematic tradition of family patterns.

This misconception may have originated with J.M. Synge's 1904 play Riders to the Sea, in which the body of a dead fisherman is identified by the hand-knitted stitches on one of his garments. However, even in the play there is no reference to any decorative or Aran type pattern. The garment referred to is a plain stocking and it is identified by the number of stitches, the quote being "it's the second one of the third pair I knitted, and I put up three score stitches, and I dropped four of them".

Misconception, or not, I find the romantic notion of the family patterns very charming. I'm sure some Irish wives and mothers were partial to certain patterns, and therefore particular sweaters were, indeed, associated with family groups.

I especially like this poem on the subject by Shirley GravesCochrane.

Irish Sweaters

"Ladies and gentlemen--
the sweaters of old Ireland!"
and down the runway come
Maeve and Erin and the other Dublin models
hips switching, eyes scorning
and Maurice, sheepish in his cowl.
"Each household had its special pattern--
you could tell a family sweater anywhere."

Aye--even at the bottom of the sea;
for grannies knit the shrouds of grandson
fishermen who never learned to swim
(to keep the agony of drowning short).
And long after the eyes were gone
and fish explored the geography of skull
the sweaters held and told us who they were--
Cormac and Tom and even Donovan.

See how the stitches knit the bones together.

info from Wikipedia

photo from Flickr

A Lark in the Clear Air

Dear thoughts are in my mind
And my soul soars enchanted,
As I hear the sweet lark sing
In the clear air of the day.
For a tender beaming smile
To my hope has been granted,
And tomorrow he shall hear
All my fond heart can say.

~traditional Irish song

Willow's Weekly Word

DOWN BY THE SALLEY GARDENS

Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet;
She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet.
She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree;
But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree.

In a field by the river my love and I did stand,
And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand.
She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs;
But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.

.

~W. B. Yeats

Did you know a salley is a willow tree? "Salley" is an anglicisation

of the Irish saileach, meaning willow, i.e., a tree of the genus Salix.

Willows are known as "salleys", "sallies" or "salley trees" in parts of

Ireland.

.

"Down By The Salley Gardens" (in the Irish, "Gort na Saileán") is a

well known poem by William Butler Yeats included in his book, The

Wanderings of Oisin and Other Poems, published in 1889. Yeats

indicated in a note that it was "an attempt to reconstruct an old

song from three lines imperfectly remembered by an old peasant

woman in the village of Ballysodare, Sligo, who often sings them to

herself."

.

The verse was subsequently set to music by Herbert Hughes to the

air The Maids of the Mourne Shore in 1909. In the 1920s composer

Rebecca Clarke (1886-1979) set the text to music.

I thought you might enjoy this recording of W. B. Yeats, himself,

reading this poem:

And here is the familiar tune, as well:



So, how's this for a Willowy Irish post?

PS~~
I stand corrected, Bloggies! This is not read by Yeats
himself, as I previously stated, but by Tom O'Bedlam
for SpokenVerse on YouTube. Mr. O'Bedlam (witty
name), you have a most divine voice! Thank you!

info from Wikipedia
photo from Flickr

What it Means to Be Irish

Scarlett: "I don't want Tara or any old plantation. Plantations don't

amount to anything when..."

.

Gerald: "Do you stand there, Scarlett O'Hara, and tell me that

Tara, that land, doesn't amount to anything?"
.

Scarlett nodded obstinately. Her heart was too sore to care

whether or not she put her father in a temper.

.

Gerald: "Land is the only thing in the world that amounts to

anything," he shouted, his thick, short arms making wide gestures of

indignation, "for 'tis the only thing in this world that lasts, and don't

you be forgetting it! 'Tis the only thing worth working for, worth

fighting for, worth dying for."
.

Scarlett: "Oh, Pa," she said disgustingly, "you talk like an

Irishman."

.

Gerald: "Have I ever been ashamed of it? No, 'tis proud I am. And

don't be forgetting that you are half Irish, Miss. And to anyone with a

drop of Irish blood in them the land they live on is like their mother."

Since we're coming up on St. Patrick's Day, I thought I'd post a few

fun Irish blogs leading up to the 17th. 'Tis my Scotch Irish DNA I'm

a feelin', stretching its bonny legs and doing a fancy jig!