What is she thinking?!!

 

.Grandma with a Grandmother's Garden quilt This is not an easy pattern!

Wilma Kindling stabbed at the new quilt she was making for her grand-niece Jessica.  Wilma was steaming as muttered with each stitch.

“This is her eighth child in nine years!  What does that jerk Jimmy think…” she grew silent as she quilted.  Jessica was having babies at a frenetic pace and Wilma simply had put an end to this.

Wilma was momentarily stunned as a cunning plot came to her. The solution was clearly visible.  “Jimmy needs to have a vasectomy!”  It would not be difficult to arrange.  Not difficult at all.

Source: julos

 

Wilma and her friendly veterinarian Dr. Fred met every Thursday night for some wine, cheese, and wild sex.  He hated Jimmy as much as she did, as Jimmy always showed up every Thursday night just as the wine was being polished off.

Dr. Fred could bring some anesthesia and supplies he uses to neuter pets, only they would give Jimmy the “Ol’ Snip Snip”* instead. 

Wilma would help with the stitching (she was good at that) and be clapping after the surgery was complete.  She and Dr. Fred would then drive the drugged Jimmy home and drop him off at his doorstep.

Such a simple plan!  Wilma was eager for Thursday.  She picked up the phone to call Dr. Fred.

*My farmer father called the human sterilization process "the ol' snip-snip".  Removing animal testicles was simply called castration.  Just so you know.

Many thanks to Delores who created the Wednesday Words back in 2010?  I don't know if I posted this back in 2015....

The Games Cows Play

 

Future Queen of Queens

Switzerland, oh Switzerland, how lovely are your peaks.

People contemplate Switzerland and immediately envision snow, mountains, cheese fondue, watches, chocolate and lots of other stuff, just like every other country. But, one is discounting a key factor in Switzerland's economy:
                             Bovines

Perhaps one of the strangest festivals involving cows is Annual Cow Fighting, beginning in March, lasting through September. Cows will spend the summer roaming and eating in the pastures, making delightful creamy milk that turns into magical cheese. So they have some time to fight.

All cows are naturally bossy and territorial, loving a good cow fight. Locking formidable horns, wrestling around a bit, until the loser gives up. Being muscular and easily riled, this breed appears like it could rip guts out. 

 Mooing loudly and apparently scary, the battle is mostly push and shove. When one feels like she won this event, they both walk off the field, apparently to do something involving grazing.

 

 

Hérens  breed is the cow of choice because they are particularly feisty and temperamental breed. This breed battles well, with its owner hoping to capture the prestigious title, Queens of Hérens.

From March to September, battles are held all around Switzerland, attracting tens of thousands of spectators. the final tournament will result the crowning of the Queen of Queens. The prize is one of those humongous ornate cowbell. Then any offspring will be sold for a big hefty price at an auction.(Big prize!)

 

 

YouTube, cows are paraded through town, showing their

large cow bells.

 

So there you have it. Switzerland is not just tourism, but this country celebrates the amazing products made in Switzerland. Here, cows are recognized for their contributions.  And the cow battles must be amazing.

 

This was posted in September 2019, we had just returned from visiting grandsons and their parents.  We did not witness this event, sadly. Maybe next time? This is exactly the non-tourist events we enjoy. Forget about listening to another entertaining events, or horn blowing, I'd rather see fighting cows anytime.

 

Who wouldn't? 

This was re-posted in 2022. We just watched a documentary on strange games from different countries and saw some of the strange habits of people with lots of free time after work is done.

 

Switzerland is an amazing country. Our daughter's family live in Bern; they have two sons, ages 13 and 8.  We tell our daughter that we come to see the adults, but they know the truth: We go to see our gr-sons.

Family Patriarchs are not saints.

 

Incredibly, family patriarch and provider of his large clan Martin Van Buren Shive spoke, said, and did every blessed thing the stories passed down insisted.

The bastard was a spiteful old sinner…cranky does not begin to describe his temper…words that son of a bitch could say…his wife would weep at the vile vernacular when Martin exploded in one of his rages…

 

 

Many more true tales hovered about.  Subsequently, at Martin Van Buren Shive interrment, over six hundred town residents gathered around the grave to hear final words from the Baptist preacher.

 

Then, one by one, each passed by the mound of dirt, either to toss black dirt or to spit on it.  Some spoke words in their own vernacular, expressing heart-felt wishes.  One frequently used phrases were “May you rot in hell" or "Thank you for all you did for our country" or....

   .

My great-great-great Grandfather was Martin Van Buren Shive. The Christian name is a family name, why I don't know.

 Apparently my description of this patriarch of the family is accurate according to my aunt who told all sorts of random stories. She also said that he was one mean sonofabitch. 

To give him some praise is that he fought in the battle of Bull Run , Shiloh, and more battles during the Civil War . He eventually was injured in the leg, sent home to Illinois. He lived in constant pain, which might have contributed to his personality, or if he was always a sonofabitch.

600 people did not show up  to his funeral.  More like 50. 

 

We do not know if the community hated his guts or if they actually treated him with the respect a Civil War veteran deserves. Whatever.

 The Wed. Words above were provided by River back in 2016. . The underlined and italicized words are the gems. This writing challenge was created by Delores, who has since passed the baton to others.  Check back with River.

An Idiot by any other name is still an Idiot.

My father-in-law was a child in Ireland during the Depression.  He was surrounded by first cousins, uncles, aunts...As an adult, the only Gaelic words he remembered were swear words. 

County Longford...where my father-in-law lived.

The Irish words for “idiot” are eedjit, amadάn, and amaid. Amάdan means “fool” and amaid means “foolish woman”. Obviously, these are more formal Irish.  

But, eedjit?

Eedjit is the every-day-Irish word for idiot.  Chances are it was changed to “eedjit” by the Irish to refer to the English word “idiot.  

Here are some thoughts from another site:

Eedjit is one English man, so……

Sure and, Eedjits is more than one Englishman….

Dinna ye know: Eedjit is bein’ one sandwich short of a picnic….

Eedjits was stolen from the Scottish language, Eejits.  And I bloody well know…

Hard tae swallie, bein’ an eedjit is official, dey up and put it in de Scottish dictionary…

              

           póg mo thóin: what does this mean??

                                        

St. Patrick and Eoin Colfer

.

 

In Ireland, March 17^th is a Holy Day, celebrated with a special Mass and city parades.  This day usually falls during Lent, and drinking is minimal during this time.  But, the moment Lent is over...

St. Patrick changed the history of Ireland back in the 400s AD.  Through his understanding and compassion for the Irish people, Patrick converted the culture of druid pagan to Christianity.  Here is a web site about St. Patrick: Just Who Was ST. Patrick?

This post is in praise of an ingenious series of books by Eoin Colfer:  Artemis Fowl.  What is so great about this series?

The setting is Ireland, and the main character is the human evil genius child Artemis Fowl.  The son of a wealthy family, the twelve-year old Artemis has turned his brilliance to capturing a leprechaun, one Holly Short, captain of an elite squad of LEPs.

 

The Fey world is alive and kicking in this series.  The leprechauns are not naughty little mischievous gold stealers/hoarders.  Oh, no.  The leprechauns are an elite squad of top-notch covert operators whose missions are all directed at keeping the humans away from their world.  

 

A message written in Gnomish

There are other members of the Fey world, some very unsavory and some cooperative assistants.

 

This is a student rendering of the world beneath Ireland...

The list of Eion Colfer’s books in this series is long and delightful. There is a marvelous web site where young readers will truly enjoy themselves.

 Go to this site when you have time to spare!

This series delighted me, as an Irish person, but mainly as a teacher.  

 

It is difficult or even nigh impossible to find titles like these that will engage reluctant readers.  Boys especially are reluctant to venture into books at that middle-school age.  The Artemis Fowl series was a hit.  Each page has a line of ‘gnomish’ symbols that can be interpreted to give a message to the reader.

 

While this is not a typical St.Pat's Day post, this is a book series that captured many readers.   

New Leprechaun Gold

 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hill_of_Tara

For seventy years, Liam had chased every rainbow to capture a leprechaun and his pot of gold. Knowing that this would be his last rainbow, Liam slowly hobbled to the Hill of Tara.  Gasping in surprise, there sat his leprechaun.

Liam threw his rope and wrapped it around the green fella. “Ha!  I’ve caught you at last! Give me your όr (gold), you rόgaile (rascal)!”

The leprechaun sighed. “Have ye caught me at last, Liam? Been lookin’ for the όr all yer life, fear (man). I’ll give ye the gold.”  

 

 With that, he pulled out the latest Apple phone with all the doodads that anyone could want. He typed in something official, texting in some account numbers. “Here you go!” and handed it to Liam. "Yer gold is ready. Get it when ever you want."

 

“What?  WHAT? Bitcoins? Really?” Liam gasped.

“You bin livin' in the past, boyo." the little fellow stood up, brushed himself off, and explained.  "ONE coin is worth about $68,000 USD.  Ye have der enough gold there to buy yerself a small country." With that, the tiny man disappeared. 

 

Liam whistled after he figured out that he was indeed a very rich man.

 

The wee man left a wallet filled with ₤1,000 as an extra gift, which in American dollars is roughly $4,000.  Liam hobbled over to it and headed to O'Flanagan's Pub.  

 

No more End of the Rainbows. Hoist a pint with me, lads.  I am a-buying.

John Cleese and the Life of Brian

 

 

 Life of Brian

Cancel culture set its sights set on comedy. Unfortunately, it had a major negative impact on movies and comedic performances. But Monty Python’s John Cleese refused to bow to the woke/trans populations and remove this one joke from a classic movie.

Offensive in today’s environment?

The hilarious scene features a man claiming that he is a woman and that he can have a baby.

Cleese was currently working on a stage production of Monty Python’s Life of Brian, a 1979 movie about a man who is mistaken for Jesus Christ.

However, actors in the stage version had allegedly told Cleese one scene would need to be cut out of the reproduction because it was offensive in today’s environment.

The scene in question features a character named “Stan”, who wants to become a woman and have babies.

“I want to be a woman,” Stan declares. “From now on, I want you all to call me Loretta.”

Cleese’s character Reg looks at him and bewilderingly asks, “What?”

“It’s my right as a man,” Stan fires back at Reg.

“It’s every man’s right to have babies”

The scene goes on and gets even funnier and more prophetic.

When asked why he wants to be a woman, Stan said because “I want to have babies.”

“You want to have babies?” Reg replies.

“It’s every man’s right to have babies if he wants them,” Stan yells.

When Reg informs Stan that he “can’t have babies,” Stan plays the victim card and tells him “don’t you oppress me.”

“I’m not oppressing you, Stan, you haven’t got a womb,” Reg replied. “Where’s the fetus going to gestate? You gonna keep it in a box?”

Other characters in the scene agree that Stan can’t have babies but do believe he should have the “right to have babies.”

“What’s the point of fighting for his right to have babies when he can’t have babies?” Reg responded.

Another character answered that “it is symbolic of our struggle against oppression.”

Reg then said Stan has a “struggle with reality” for thinking he can give birth to a baby.

Monty Python is “transphobic”

Of course, critics claim the scene in the movie from 44 years ago is “transphobic.”

However, conservatives argue that it’s prophetic.

But despite the controversy, Cleese had confirmed he would not be removing the scene from the upcoming stage show of Life of Brian.

“A few days ago I spoke to an audience outside London,” Cleese wrote on Twitter. “I told them I was adapting the Life of Brian so that we could do it as a stage show ( NOT a musical ). I said that we’d had a table reading of the latest draft in NYC a year ago and that all the actors – several of them Tony winners – had advised me strongly to cut the Loretta scene. I have, of course, no intention of doing so.”

Cleese went on to say about the actors in the upcoming production that “these were absolutely top-class Broadway performers and they were adamant that we would not get away with doing the scene in NYC! I asked them, ‘Are Python fans not going to come because we’re doing a scene they’ve been laughing at for 40 years?'”

Cleese is exactly right.

Variety.com 

 This is a copy/cut/paste gem. We saw Life of Brian at 45 years ago, still laugh at it and the Monty Python geniuses. 

 

My Brother has died

 

Source: mimiwickett
 

Gray still sky over

Roiling silver sea 

Soaking gold to slate

Slabs of sand.

Satin rocks, ancient rocks

Worn and beaten

Smooth by

Merciless waves.

My brother is dying.

 

Her whispers cast

To deaf waters.

Salt to salt,

Whispered over and over.

Three speckled rocks

Chosen by grace.

One rock resting

in a noisy room,

Whispering silently

 

My brother is dying...

One rock for bedside

Where whispers and tears merged.

One rock more--

At last, gazing at my

Blessed brother, eyes closed, 

In steel gray casket.

Tucking a smooth

Ocean stone into icy hand.

 

My brother has died.

Tears to tears,

Sea to earth,

Cold hand to warm,

Words silenced,

Whispers lie heavy
in the heart. 

 

 

 This was written shortly before Robert died. I often found myself sitting by the computer when it was dark and tried to compose something that would have meaning for others.

Robert and I were born in 1951, he in January and me in December. He was diagnosed with a incurable brain tumor in 1995.  So hard to think about even now.  Stacking of rocks is symbolic of many things...mourning...remembrance... a message...religion...love.

 

 

Die, you stupid mouse. Die.

1987: We were hurrying through an Irish downpour rain.  Three children in the car crying, “The movie starts in five minutes…”  Tears and desperation flowed.  Down my face. 

A parking place, had to find a parking place.  Dammit.  There’s one, but it’s a tight one, and I’ll have to parallel park with traffic behind me.  “Quiet, kids, let me get parked.”  Lord, help me!  I hate parallel parking…

Zip, Zang, and I was in the spot.  Perfect.  The kids leapt out the passenger side onto the concrete.  Me?  I had to crawl out into traffic, where a river rampaged down the gutter, and cars sprayed me. 

On a pelting run, we made it to the ticket window, and paid the snotty teenager who said, “Movie’s already started, ya’ know…”  Pushing the kids ahead of me, I whispered all sorts of mild profanity in response to the teenager.  

We found our friends and settled into watching “The American Tail”.  A poor Eastern European family of mice were emigrating to America.  They got separated, with poor #@^& boy, Fievel, trying to find his way back to the family.  Fievel was befriended by unlikely carnivores, chased by likely carnivores.

The key song, “Somewhere Out There” is sung as a duet, with Fievel in one part of the city and his saccharine sweet sister in the other.  My mood softened a little, but not enough.

 

I watched the movie with a jaundiced eye.  A cynical heart.  Still cold and wet from my traffic shower bath, I saw that mouse, @*#% Fievel, escape certain death time and time again.

 

Inevitable reunion ended the movie with music swelling and my kids laughing happily.  All I could think was, “Why didn’t they kill that #@$* mouse?”

 

Fast forward to 2012:  I still think that Fievel should have bit the dust in the first 30 minutes.  The sister would have made a much better lead.  Fievel didn't have a brain in his mouse head, or an ounce of common sense in his furry mouse body. His survival was a matter of luck.

 

From one world to another

  

In 1985, we moved to Ireland from the Mojave Desert, California.  This was a time when a flood of Irish young people were heading to America.  For some Americans to move to Ireland was a big confusing; we were an anomaly. 

 

My husband with Mary and John at Saddlebutte State Park

 in the Mojave Desert

 

As we settled in, we went to the local school where our children made friends.  First, they needed to be outfitted in the school uniform. 

This thrilled me.  I loved school uniforms—no fights in the morning about style and matching colors. 

Our three children and I went to Dunnes Store where the uniforms could be purchased inexpensively.  Every mother in the community was holding up gray slacks and light blue shirts to their squirming children.  My own squirming children submitted silently.  Except…

 

Mary playing in the woods around our home in Ireland

In moments, my four year old Mary disappeared.  I did not panic and chase around screaming her name.  I just waited and listened.

Mary had a high-pitched voice that could carry above any noise.  Soon I heard her.  She was singing the latest Celine Dion song, “Power of Love”.

Mary really irritated her brother John.

There she was, in front of a tri-fold mirror, belting out the lyrics, surrounded by amused Irish mothers, also shopping for school uniforms.

 

“…For I am your WOOOOMMMMAAAN….and you are my MAAA..AAAA..N.  Whenever you REACH for me….I’ll do all that I CAAA..AAAN!...”

 

She was on-key, I’ll give her that.

 

When a Child Disapears

 

under the ice
This is not a photo of a person under ice, although it sure looks like it.

Tim, good to see you. Such a pretty girl...How old did you say? 

Father, not sure who she is, what her name is, twelve years old.

Do they know yet what happened?  

They?  You mean the detectives?

Who else would I mean?  Yes, the detectives.  Them.

They don't know. Some kid found her in the creek, under the ice.

She....Vicky? The girl in the ice?... That's her name, right?--Vicky, and must have floated downstream...

       Then the ice froze over her...Vicky, yeah that's her name...her folks had waited for so long...

How are Ken and Sheila--Vicky's parents, right? holding up?

Okay, I guess. Can't look at them.  We're taking food in for the family.

  The church always takes fried chicken and peach pie. For her, what's her name again? Vicky? That's the name, right?

I wonder if or when they'll ever figure out...find out what I did? God, I hope not.  I didn't mean to...the car swerved..Vicky... just appeared and...

You must, you have to tell them what happened.

      She was so scared...at the end...Vicky was crying

 She was scared before that...you could have saved her...Vicky would still be alive.

       Father Paul, I wasn't thinking...
     
Time to own up, Tim...Time to give Ken and Sheila peace. Vicky. Time for you confess. Time for you seek forgiveness.

       Scared...so scared.  I am so scared.

So was she, Tim. So was she.
 

Nothing nothing is more horrible and evil than what happens to some other Vicky, a little girl playing one moment then dead the next. We must be aware, speak out, react when we see something strange. Poor babies.

This was posted in 2020, so this might be remembered. There have been so many Amber Alerts lately.