BREAKING NEWS IS BROKEN!

        Freedom of the Press is a fundamental right of the US Constitution revered, celebrated, and a source of pride for thinking Americans.  That said, there have had to be some regulation to curb some of  the "yellow journalism" that tabloids still seem to conjure. And I believe more is needed.

      But in these days instant communication becomes the curse of "news-tainment", alleged news stories that are promoted by teaser trailers on tv which amount to nothing more than thinly disguised product or business advertising and self-promotion of the broadcasters who call themselves "journalists." Any incident becomes the trigger for an all-day marathon of constant updates, interrupting all other programming to keep us all informed of a minimal change of the situation.  The 24 hours of "news" available on television, radio, and the internet, and of course, the social media sites that post instant photos and personal commentary, flood the ears, eyes, and minds of us all with often irresponsible mis-information that becomes imbedded as "reality".

      I write as I - as millions of others no doubt - have the tv on with the continuous coverage of the situation in Boston and Watertown because of the Boston Marathon bombing.  But this concept has been emerging in my consciousness for a very long time.  The local stations in my area of Greater Philadelphia are supposed to be part of a major broadcast market such as New York, Chicago, LA, Washington and therefore the reportage and reporters are considered to be of a higher caliber than somewhere in the middle of a rural area.  They are affiliates of national networks such as ABC, NBC, and CBS, and others.

     Many of the people I know well as friends and family have for years complained of the nonsensical and laughable 14 hours of coverage for a 2 foot snowfall - a huge "team" of reporters all over the city with yardsticks measuring snowfall, sinking into snowdrifts, interviewing people coming out of convenience stores or stuck on an icy road.  WHO CARES?  No one I know.  Why does anyone need the live broadcast of a  press conference when a local professional athlete changes his shoes or a lottery winner receives a payment?  A car accident occurs on a city street? Those moments seem to be improving as complaints to the stations apparently have gotten the attention of the program directors who no longer stop programming but give hourly updates and/or show a concurrent silent video with information crawling underneath  - however, other incidents, such as this day about Boston, purport to be critical information for the public, and this is the crux of my concern and frustration.

     Recently, there was a shooting at the Courthouse in my hometown.  I, as many of my friends, was riveted to the television for information regarding casualties and other pertinent information for people in the immediate vicinity.  I was appalled at how quickly the reporters lept into ridiculous assumptions, false information, and all with constant and absurd chatter asking each other inane questions and then repeating it all for hours.  All three local channels made much drama of a situation that needed no embellishment and then later promoted themselves as being "on the spot".  One of the stations posted a photograph of  "the shooter" supposedly obtained from the attorney for the individual.  REALLY?  Guess what, the photograph turned out hours later to be of the son of the shooter.  6ABC later promoted itself as being "on the scene and it was chaos."  Yes, it was chaos and most of it had to do with the jockeying of reporters and people walking down the street wanting to be on camera.  Street interviews were broadcast with a man who was driving by and heard at least 20 shots fired.  Another man's sister was in the Courthouse for jury duty but had called immediately to say she was fine.  Comments about police cars driving up and officers getting out of cars. And on and on.  MOST of the initial information given over several hours of constant coverage turned out to have very little relationship with the truth. Reporting on who and how many were shot, killed, or injured in what part of the building and by whom was all wrong in the final analysis. It came on the heels of the horrendous day in Newtown, Connecticut with equally and continuously dreadful reporting of wrong information.

     TODAY, a Russian-speaking broadcaster has spoken to the suspect's father in Russia who gave her his son's phone number.  She has been calling the suspect's phone number but it has been busy - so, she's going to say what to him if he answers?  Another reporter discovered the suspect's sister and was interviewing her before the FBI did.  There have been interviews with people who know the suspects, and with residents of the town giving information on what it's like to be in lock-down in the city, a press conference with an uncle who had no communication with his suspect-nephews in several years. The rampant speculations of reporters CNN, FOX and other "news" outlets in recent days since the bombing have been shown to be nothing more than rumor-propellant designed to be "exclusive" and "first".  How does all of this serve the immediate need to keep people safe and accomplish the arrest of the suspect?

     Answers - anyone?  I am torn between wanting transparency in the information that is available and responsible reporting that perhaps requires curtailing of instant information.  What public need is served by bouncing around multiple reporters pointing down streets repeating the same "information" and "perhaps"-type speculations over and over.  How is it useful - and reasonable - that media personalities self-promote themselves into interviews before law-enforcement personnel?  Why not just regular updates when there is credible and useful information from those who are coordinating the investigations and the search for the suspect?

     Yes, we all want to be sure that law-enforcement is appropriate and we all want to be sure that we have all the "facts" of any given situation.  But what I'm seeing are talking heads giving miscellaneous details about the immediate moment that is not factually relevant to current and future safety.  "Look, there's a resident taking trash out", "Look, a police car is leaving, a police car is driving in, a resident is shooting video from the roof of his house" doesn't seem to me to be nail-bitingly helpful to anyone except those who are happy to have their own faces projected into my living room.  OH, at 3 pm they are signing off - for now - having been reporting non-stop since probably 6 or 7 am.  OH, wait, the local station now has a "special edition" of the local news about the situation in Massachusetts because why - because, of course, it's their turn to show me their faces.  OK, time to turn it all off.  Within the coming weeks, there will be several documentaries, special investigative news shows, and next year the Lifetime Channel will air a docu-drama movie with the script highlighting mostly the rumors supplemented by terrible acting.

Meanwhile, I'll get an update later, on Facebook no doubt.

   
   

Antipodean Adventures

Dear Readers,

Much has been bubbling through my brain and fabulous images have been flowing through my camera lenses over the last days and I look forward to gathering all the threads together here when I get home. I am currently graced with the sublime views and experiences of the stunning geography that is New Zealand.  Many blessings and much gratitude must be bestowed upon my amazing Kiwi friends for their hospitality and more than gracious generosity in allowing me to wander with them through the sites and sounds they know and love.

I will share all soon so please watch this space!

Of Mice and Me

The best laid schemes of mice and men
Go often awry...   

 (from Robert Burns' To a Mouse)

     Neither Robert Burns nor John Steinbeck be I, but I do converse with mice; well, ok, I just yell at them in language that is perhaps, not so poetic or prose-like.
 
       Following on from my previous post "Falderal and Fa La La", I am happy to report that the meeces have departed my humble abode.  However, they left far many more gifts than I had first realized.  I have spent many recent days relocating the contents of two rooms from upstairs (not finished with that yet) to downstairs in preparation for some internal demolition in the coming weeks (Favorite Oldest Daughter is coming to tear down the wall that separates the two rooms, yikes).  I have also tried to make space upstairs and down for estimators to come in to measure for some new windows and electrical work. 

      The downstairs work was more painstaking in some ways because of keeping areas clear to walk around in and of having to vacuum and scrub down areas where the little beasties left evidence of their habitation.  Thankfully, I had gotten it all done - except for some more relocating of stuff - and today was the day I was going to put extra blankets and pillows into those plastic bags that the air is vacuumed from for more compact storage, rearrange some things in my sewing area and get started on birthday gifts for my soon-to-be 8 year old triplet nephews.  Surprise, surprise surprise...
 
       I put several blankets in one large plastic vacuum cube and then remembered some quilts and blankets I have in a high-boy dresser downstairs.  I decided to put them all together and free up the drawer space.  I can pile the storage bags and cubes on the closet floor downstairs.  When I pulled a quilt out of one of the upper drawers, I was shocked to see leftover lentil bits and other unmistakeable leavings.  Guess who had come to dinner?  Of course you realize that I had to go through all drawers, remove all contents (carefully cleaned and folded summer clothes, et al), take the drawers upstairs and outside to shake out, wipe out, disinfect, and load up the laundry room floor.  Then I went through the closet and after thinking many angry thoughts in blue, I started to empty hanging shelving (inexpensive cloth and flimsy bowed cardboard) most of which I have just thrown in the trash.  It's time to rethink storage!   

      I did have a moment to laugh.  The exterminator distributed lots of material in the attic and in sealed containers on the main floor and in the basement.  It consisted of green bricks of bait designed to drive them out of the house by a fierce thirst.  I found a very seriously gnawed green crayon in one of the drawers.  Fascinating - can mice see in color?  SO, a breath, and then forward momentum.    

      OH WELL!  There is good news.  In the midst of relocating the contents of two rooms I have also been culling and clearing.  Certainly this was not the day I had planned to do more of that but it has been a liberation of sorts.  Much more is going out for trash or recycle than I had planned (say thank you to mother, children o' mine), much more will follow.  No sewing today but far less stuff in the house.  Ah, there's the dryer buzzer...next load.  Stay tuned, one charming friend suggests my meeces will return some day.  OH YEAH?  Well, I have the exterminator on speed dial....

      Anyone want a high-boy dresser? 
 
 

Falderal and Fa La La

       'Twas the 8th Night of Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring except that damned mouse...and its happy little companions.  I had discovered very slight evidence of its presence when I returned in October from my two months' stay in Virginia.  I went online to figure out the best course of immediate action knowing full well that an exterminator was the likely conclusion.  But in the midst of returning home to all sorts of errands and busy-ness, making an appointment to hurry up and wait for an estimate and later treatment was not appealing and besides, there was only the tiniest bit of, um, indication of possibly maybe perhaps a small problem (I can hear you whispering "denial" at me).  I was also getting ready to be away again for several weeks over Thanksgiving and Favorite Oldest Granddaughter's 8th birthday.  

       I scrubbed everything down with an ammonia solution in some places and a solution of oil of peppermint in others (per internet instructions).  Then I went to the hardware store and bought some sort of pouch thingies that were supposed to  repel and drive the little hummers away. I distributed them around in the place where I had seen the wee little gift it left on the kitchen counter and in several places downstairs in the finished basement.  In so doing I discovered a long forgotten plastic bag of foil wrapped chocolates that I had used to decorate a Christmas cake two years ago.  There had been maybe half a dozen pieces left in the package on the metal shelving unit.  That had been shredded to nearly powder so I cleaned that up as well and made certain (I thought) that everything else was bagged, cannistered, and otherwise protected. 

Off to New York went I.

 
       Home again and all was well, mostly.  No gifts on the kitchen counter and all else seemed normal.  I have been in this house for four years and other than the cricket army that arrived two years ago (a new door fixed that), I have had no serious issues with any other critters.  On with the the march toward Christmas!  Did I imagine that noise in the attic?
 
       After unpacking and taking the luggage to its place in a closet downstairs I happened to notice one of the packets designed to chase the meeces away had been nibbled.  So much for repellant! Upon further investigation, there was a smattering of little gifts around the sink in the laundry room.  I checked the shelving where I keep canned goods (and the previously mentioned but now gone chocolate) and nothing seemed amiss.  ("SEEMED" - might that be a clue of continuing denial?)
 

 OF COURSE the little creatures have been plotting in the attic!  More gifts on the counter upstairs in the morning, more scrubbing and a call to the exterminator - which was actually me leaving a message for a return call.  Christmas was approaching - family arriving at my sister's for the weekend before Christmas kept me running and busy for days ahead and during.  It occurred to me on the Saturday before Christmas that I hadn't heard back from the vermin-ridder.  But, no more counter gifts appeared after the again thorough cleaning and the faint creaking in the attic of course was just the wind.  More busy-ness - films to see, dinners out to enjoy, the New Year was approaching.

       On the 8th Day of Christmas the New Year brought to me, a new way of watching my tv!  I had purchased several streaming devices and began to install them.  The cost of cable service (mine is actually fiber optic) was growing in inverse proportion to my interest in and relevance of real time programming.  With advice and demonstration from Favorite Oldest Son-in-Law in New York who has NO cable, only internet tv with an impressive but intimidating array of program options, I decided to follow suit - partially.  It was also helpful of 8 year old granddaughter to explain and demonstrate how it all worked! I successfully installed said devices, though far from the breadth and depth of Favorite Oldest Daughter's house, and removed two of three cable boxes for return (and therefore reducing monthly costs).  I am keeping one for those rare moments I want to watch broadcast tv.  Except for completely cutting off all my internet service in the house for about two hours and scrambling to try different wire plug in configurations until I restored it, I managed to hook up all the devices with only a small cloud of  #$%&@!!* for which, thankfully, no younger ears were available to experience.  Ah, to settle in for a quiet evening of old UK tv episodes, a glass of wine, and the faintly discernible windy creaking in the attic which became significantly louder into the night.  Hmmm, I think I have to now call it scurrying! THEN camest the morning...

       LOTS of gifts in the kitchen and downstairs - oh, those two bags I meant to move off the shelving, one with adzuki beans and one with lentils - but then, they'd been there all this time and not bothered - it's quite fascinating to discover how far those beans can travel.  OH NO - it appears that my little housemates were doing lines of coffee having discovered how to get at the coffee pods in the dispenser and nibble holes in the bottom. It is well past time to make another call!  Found another company who answered the call quickly and

      eviction proceedings commence early on the morrow.  Color my housemates soon to be GONE.  And by then, an Epiphany!



    

Angst-Giving and Norman Rockwell

  Those of us in the American "Baby Boomer" generation and older can probably remember the lovely and nostalgic Norman Rockwell Thanksgiving cover for the Saturday Evening Post magazine.  It is a classic depiction of a happy and very white family sitting down to a family feast designed to inspire Thanksgiving for all of God's graces and the highest form of family love and togetherness.  And I can honestly say that it represents Thanksgiving gatherings of my childhood - well, that is, it represents a lovely moment-in-time and those lovely moments usually lasted as long as it takes to look at the painting.

   Seriously, did any one really have a whole day like that?  In my family, in whichever configuration of the year that included grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins, there was a huge amount of required "traditional" food (turkey, bread stuffing, mashed potatoes, candied sweet potatoes, creamed pearl onions, green beans (just plain, the casserole dish came later), jellied cranberry sauce (why do they call it a sauce?), fresh baked rolls with butter, and pumpkin pie.  Dinner was always late (sometimes very late) getting to the table as there was always so much to prepare, people arrived early or late, the kids' table impeded movement, and we were hungry and boisterous. 

   The combining aromas of roasted fowl, cinnamon and brown sugar, pumpkin and gravy were as an aphrodisiac of sorts. FINALLY we said our prayer of Thanksgiving - Grace - and oohed and ahhhed as the huge browned bird was processed in and placed on the table to be carved.  Passing of bowls from one direction, the chinking sound of serving spoons and cutlery on china, ice and water pouring into crystal (or lesser glass depending on one's age and table status) were the background music as everyone settled in and began to devour - politely more or less - the banquet set before us.  And then...something triggered a response from one of us kids or a tolerated relative would make a comment that more than triggered a response from another more entitled relative that would then provoke a louder discussion.....and the ensuing "discussion" continued while the food was consumed, the pie and coffee or milk served, clean up begun, coats put on and cars driven away.  Then there was the endless dissection of the event by the "adults" until Christmas, when we all began again.  I do remember one near fist fight at my grandmother's dinner table...and we laugh about it, now.

   And then there are the precious origins of this feast of "Thanksgiving" for the hosts of those who had traveled far to settle in this wild land.  I know that my First Nation friends bear in their bones the memories of all the later "-ations" they and peoples of color who followed suffered at the hands of those who themselves were said to have been escaping persecution.  Intimid-ation, discrimin-ation,  annihil-ation, recrimin-ation, subjug-ation, degrad-ation.

   In this age, overloading on football and 'way too much food are the prevailing hallmarks of this holiday.  Followed immediately or simultaneously by retailoholism by shopping online and in those chain stores who will be open today.  Our culture exacerbates the expectation of over-eating, over-drinking, and over-spending. Seasonal decorations that begin creeping in before Labor Day and TV ads determine our needs and greeds.  When juxtaposed against the reality of so many homeless, hungry, un- and under-employed as well as those who are grieving, depressed, alone, and/or seriously ill, Norman Rockwell's idyllic scene becomes a caricature of the time that never was.  BUT WAIT....there is still hope in that lovely image...

   Whatever your life circumstance, this mark on the calendar offers a chance to remember a moment-in-time that gives you pleasure, soothes your soul, makes you laugh, warms your heart.  Find a moment to give thanks in whatever way lightens your burden - through prayer, a phone call or text, an email, a donation to the ringing Santas at the grocery store. 

   For myself, I am grateful that I feel wanted by those I love and for having more than I need even if not all that I want. 

   I am thankful for the friends who are like family and even more so for family who are my friends.

   MOST OF ALL, I am thankful for the gift of happy memories, even of Thanksgivings-gone-wrong, and most especially for those who have been with me in the most difficult moments of life.  I can set aside grief of the past for today.

   Everyone has a story with a beginning, a middle, an end.  We have good days and bad, ordinary and outstanding.  Today is just a day, but it is in what we make of it that will tell the tale in days to come. 

   Thank you, Norman Rockwell, your painting is food for thought.

Sandy 2012

Sandy 2012

The storm has gone, the rivers rized,
the ocean blew away the prize 

of Atlantic City and the beaches
in a way I hope will teach us
not to mess with Mother Nature and,
believe it when they say Escape Her!

 

Now to clean up and assess it,
and give thanks for all who met it
and helped the rest of us carry on

through the night and into Dawn.

 

 

      It was the proverbial "dark and stormy night" with much anxiety all around.  What would we find in the morning?  Thankfully, I and my family and friends are all ok.  No damage of siginificance, not even power lost for most of us.  Very many others have had significant, life-altering damage, injury, and even death. 

 

     It is far too early to know what the long-term effects will be but as in all such disastrous times, there will be tragedy, comedy, and triumph to be seen.   For now, gratitude for what didn't happen is foremost in my heart and mind.

 

 

 

All personal content and photos are the property of Leeosophy and ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

The Storm Before the Calm

       All the feverish activity of preparation is nearly over.  The rain has started, the winds will steadily increase as the day progresses and remain at hurricane force for several days if the storm stalls as predicted.  Hurricane Sandy along the east coast with a nor'easter nested inside combined with a winter storm on our western edge portends disaster heading directly our way.  A storm of unprecedented, historical, and "monster" proportions, nicknamed "Frankenstorm" by the media is moving in.  With a projected range of nearly 1000 miles in breadth, the forecasters have already decided that the damages will be in the billions and power outages could last "weeks". 

       SO, the table, chairs, and flower pots in the yard have been secured.  The car is filled with gas (in case I have to leave and IF the garage door battery backup works!), extra water, lantern and radio batteries, and non-perishable food have been obtained.  The bottom row of books on several bookcases and a variety of other things such as the doll cradle and other toys always awaiting the visits of my granddaughters have been placed up off the floor in the fnished basement.  My important papers are stored securely and the really important papers and other stuff are in the computer bag I'll grab if I have to leave. 

       Today I am just doing more normal things around the house.  Exchanging summer clothes for winter, setting aside things to give to the eventual charity pick-up, and continuing the never-ending attempt to organize my various needlework projects will occupy some of my time over the next few days.  I have books to read, those (many) projects to work on, and even some writing to do - none of which will require electricity.  I also have a gas stove and a blessed French press so I won't even have to go without my coffee!  I am well aware that I am luckier than many who will be in the path of this storm along with me. 

       I'm not a fan of or believer in an "interventionist" God who sits by a chess board moving human pieces around and decides who gets slammed and who doesn't, but no doubt as the winds howl and the roof rattles, habits of a lifetime will find me in intercessory prayer.  At least I'll have someone to talk to in the midst of it all.  And therein lies the Calm....  Peace, safety, and Calm to all of you who will share this time with me, one way or another.  Stay tuned.  I expect to be back soon.  I may even tweet, if I'm certain of enough battery power for the phone.  That would be, of course, @leeosophy.

³⁹ He got up, rebuked the wind and said to the waves, “Quiet! Be still!” Then the wind died down and it was completely calm.  

     

Heading Home

       The colors of the leaves are slowly changing here in central Virginia.  There are some cool days and some warm, some nights are chilly and some even cold.  Autumn is upon us.  The sunny days are filled with the noises of cows, flying birds, and birds in the trees - angry and otherwise - interrupted on Saturdays by the occasional report of a shotgun somewhere in this neighborhood of wooded acres, farmland, and hunters planning their upcoming seasons.   Loud pickup trucks whiz past the driveway of this multi-acred homestead at frightening speeds for a narrow and surprisingly busy twisty-turny road. 

It's a drizzly gray day as I write, the car is packed with all but overnight essentials.  Capt Mommy (also known as Favorite Youngest Daughter in these pages) and Officer Daddy are on their way home from a lovely 10th Anniversary trip.  Favorite Youngest Granddaughter has just awakened from a morning nap and I hear the voice recording for "Thumper" the rabbit speaking.  Li'l Bit - as Mommy and Daddy call her - is still playing contentedly but it's nearly time for her lunch.

Silly is Fun!

       This time tomorrow, if all goes well unlike the trip here, I will be halfway home to my small nest on postage stamp sized acreage, with no cows, or shotguns (that would mean something VERY different there than here!), but lots of birds and changing leaves. After nearly two months, there will be no more toddler schedules to keep, no more room monitor static in my ear overnight, no more daycare shuttles.  Peace, quiet, solitude - I'm missing her already. 

       Yet there is much to do when I get home, people to see - Favorite Triplet Nephews, Favorite Sister (I only have one), Favorite Aunts, friends (all are Favorites!) for lunch, gym to go to (oh joy, oh rapture), and even some meetings for some upcoming consulting.  Oh yes and a few (dozen) needlework projects to work on (please note I did NOT say finish though that is the ultimate goal). 

       Tomorrow will give me many miles to go before I sleep.  But for this moment, the woods are lovely dark and deep,  the deer pass by, Li'l Bit smiles, and all is good with today.

Feeding Acorns to Zebras

       It's one of THOSE weeks.  The kind that has a date of dread and the anticipation of that date is usually as bad as or even worse than the actual date.  I know from the 1st day of September that it is coming and I watch the calendar more closely than usual; I suppose because I don't want it to sneak up on me as on the original day.  The date is an anniversary of one of several painful life-exploding events I have experienced and it still takes my breath away 5 years later.  I do know from those all-too familiar experiences that, as each year passes, the threshold of distress on such dates is lowered but never goes away completely.  I have also learned that despair is useless; the world keeps on spinning with or without my participation and there is more than enough despair in the world. And besides, if I just keep hoeing my woe, I'd have missed the chance to feed a zebra an acorn.  

       The days are moving swiftly as fall and summer collide.  Frosty mornings and toasty afternoons challenge thermostats and clothing decisions.

A chilly rainy morning on the way to Pre-School

       My sojourn at Favorite Youngest Daughter's house is only a couple of weeks from ending.  FYD is traveling for work, her hubby works nights, and I get to play with Favorite Youngest Granddaughter when she is not in pre-school.  When she is, I get to play at the local quilt shop where I have learned some new techniques (the term "skill" does not apply to this errant quilter), I have done a fair bit of reverse quilting (that is a nicer way of saying "ripped it out and started over"), and have whittled away a bit more of the Favorite Spawns' inheritance.  But it does keep one busy and focused and less likely to wander off into an unpleasant and isolating cloud of self-absorbing emotion.  Bright colors also chase the clouds and my local friends are no longer surprised with the combinations I choose!  But other friends express surprise with my occasional domestic meanderings.

One of a few works-in-progress

And yet another

       The surprising truth to some is that I'm a closet homebody!  It's a surprise because it seems I'm rarely home and hardly doing anything domestically inclined but that has more to do with how things are than how I would have them be.


       But to use a phrase I don't actually like, "it is what it is", and I am impelled by my genetics to do what I can with what I have and keep moving forward.  (NO, I don't make lemonade!)  There are so many important things that need to be done in this world to end starvation, enhance civil rights, stop wars, reduce energy waste, improve ecology, and on and on.  I get requests to sign petitions, save dogs, and donate to a hundred worthy causes (and a thousand un-worthy) on daily basis. There is a critical election in this country just over a month away and the economic worries are endless.  Thankfully I have friends in high places who do very important things all day and even at night.  They write great news articles and blogs and make speeches articulating what I think so much better than I can, so I'm happy to let them.  And I attend to all that I am able to do.  At the moment I'm coasting into the early autumn, a rare peaceful time in a month often fraught with angst.  I will be home soon and running hither and yon attending to all sorts and conditions of humankind, known and unknown, solvable and not.  Hopefully my attempts then will prove useful in some small way to someone.

       In the meantime I have a few more chances to spend time with my favorite zebra feeder and that, my friends, is better than any balm Gilead ever had.

My Favorite Zebra Feeder

 

All content to include text and personal photos prior to and subsequent to this post 

is the sole property of the author with ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. 

KILMAINHAM ~ EireLandings ~ The Journey

Patriots Inn, Inchicore Road, Dublin

        We rolled back into Dublin on a gorgeous, sunny afternoon; a perfect spring day.   On a peaceable tree-lined street, in the midst of everyday hustle and bustle, an attractive looking façade of a pub took my attention.   As always camera in hand, I took a photo of the sign above the entrance.  As we turned a corner, I kept reading it over and over; it took a moment for the caption to sink in:

       “This old pub standeth on sacred ground surrounded by the high walls of Royal Kilmainham Hospital by the ancient cemetery of Bully’s Acre and the dungeons of Kilmainham Jail.  The Patriots Inn has been closer to the pulse of Irish History than any other contemporary pub.”

 

       For me it was a truly heart-stopping moment as we turned the corner to our hotel and found, directly across the street, the infamous Kilmainham Jail.

 

 

       We were free for the afternoon so after a quick check-in at the hotel, Favorite Daughters and I went across the street to see what we could see.  I’ve known about the jail from the time I was a child and learned about the Easter Rising of 1916 in Dublin, yet another attempt on the part of the Irish to throw off British rule.  But the emotional connection to the jail for me came from my first visit to Ireland in 1985 when I heard the song “Grace”, new that year.  It’s based on the true story of one of those who was part of the 1916 Rising – more on that in a moment.

 

       I was not familiar with the Royal Hospital at Kilmainham, now comprising the beautiful grounds and buildings of the Irish Museum of Modern Art.

 

Royal Kilmainham Hospital
Bully's Acre
Irish Museum of Modern Art

       I was also not completely familiar with Bully’s Acre which is the location for the former military hospital.  It is replete with the history and interments of Ireland’s heroes, princes, monks, knights, and paupers.  Legend has that the great Irish chieftain Brian Boru’ camped here before the important battle of Clontarf in 1014 and that two of his sons are buried there.  

       A personal aside is that while at the IMMA/Royal Hospital, I saw a plaque with a short history of Bully’s Acre.  The plaque mentioned another great Irish rebel, a protestant at that, Robert Emmet, who may have been briefly interred there after a failed uprising in 1803.  Although executed elsewhere in Dublin, his body was sent to Kilmainham Jail for claiming or to be buried on the hospital grounds.  His remains mysteriously disappeared but are thought to have ended up in an Anglican church in Dublin. Emmet failed to capture Dublin Castle and is said to have the nefarious distinction to be the last person the British courts sentenced to and executed by the barbaric means of hanging, drawing and quartering. 

 
       What drew me immediately is that my maternal grandfather’s name was Robert Emmett Sullivan, born in the US in 1895.  He mysteriously disappeared in 1941.  We know very little about him or his family but I was definitely struck by the name of the famous-in-Ireland hero and it gives us something more to ponder as we continue to search for more information.
 

        So here we were on a street of irony – on one side of Inchicore Road, a fine-looking military hospital and cemetery honoring those who have gone before, now peacefully housing artful collections of contemporary paintings and sculpture; and on the other, just a short walk, really, the infamous jail known for its appallingly miserable conditions and intentionally dread-filled physically and psychologically abusive treatment of inmates, including children at times, from its inception to its bitter end.  The street where two state facilities had opposing missions.  One existed to care for and celebrate the lives of its residents and the interred.  The other existed to punish and denigrate the lives of its interned.

 

It is no coincidence that many such places in Europe
and elsewhere arose amidst the many Rebellions and Revolutions
of the late 18th Century



       We did not have time to tour the jail but we did take time to go through the three exhibit floors of the museum.   Having immersed myself in Irish history in preparation for this trip, learning more each day we traveled, having read yet more since my return, I hardly knew where to start when approaching this piece.  Kilmainham Jail stirred my heart. 
 

       I worked in a variety of positions in the criminal courts and prisons for more than 15 years, personally with thousands of prisoners from petty offenders to drug dealers, rapists and murderers, male and female.  I ran support groups for HIV/AIDS inmates and inmates who were victims of domestic violence.  I led dozens of workshops on sexual assault with the general population of inmates and with small groups of sex offenders.   I’ve been in prisons in several US states and have toured one of our lesser known but equally infamous, Eastern State Penitentiary in Philadelphia.   As bad as some of our jails and prisons are in this country, nothing I’ve seen here meets the awful truths of Kilmainham.

 



Inhuman isolation of prisoners was a
hallmark of this cold and grim institution



 

Down to the Dungeons

 

        There are billions of words already written more eloquent and accurate than mine at easy access for anyone who wants to know more.  Yet of the 128 years of its existence, with so many eras from which to choose, the period that speaks the loudest to me is the time of the Easter Rising in 1916.

 

Interior Exercise Yard

       Perhaps it is because it was in the living memory of those elders of my family who spoke of it when “The Troubles” in Northern Ireland of the 1960s,70s, 80s and beyond were in the headlines along with Viet Nam and our own unsettled cities and towns wrestling with civil rights, riots, and assassinations. Or maybe it seems a romantic notion to fight and die for one’s beliefs, that is, until you look closer. 

       Mostly it is because of the long history of rebellions and risings in this land of my ancestors who fought, killed, and died to have their own country for themselves without the interference, imposition, and subjugation of a predator nation hell-bent on building its own prosperity on the backs of the native peoples.  And, by the way, that particular nation didn’t treat its own working classes altogether well, either.  Hmmm, doesn’t seem to be a unique history after all.

 

       The Easter Monday event in 1916 was meant to be a national uprising but ended up as 2500 armed insurgents holding the General Post Office and other public buildings in Dublin for 5 days after declaring the Proclamation of the Republic.  It was quashed swiftly and severely and might have been just another nuisance rebellion that went the way of so many others over so many centuries.  But 14 of the leaders were immediately court-martialled and their executions were exceptionally brutal. 

       James Connolly, for example, was badly wounded during the Rising, so badly in fact, he had to be strapped to a chair to be shot by the firing squad.  Public opinion, not only in Ireland but around the world, even in Britain, suddenly turned and saw these men as martyrs in what became a War of Independence.  The day of The Republic was nearly at hand albeit not for the entire country. 

       One of those leaders who escaped execution was the American born Eamon de Valera who became Prime Minister of the Republic and later, President.  He was one of the lucky ones and the last prisoner held at Kilmainham being released in July 1924.  Michael Collins became Chairman of the Irish Free State and Commander-in-Chief of the Army and then was shot to death in an ambush in County Cork in 1922. 

 

       The most poignant story of the Rising, for me, is that of Grace Gifford and the tubercular poet Joseph Plunkett.  Their early personal and family histories seem to belie the trajectory of their lives.  I mentioned the song “Grace” above – its lyrics are based on the last message that Joseph sent to Grace and their last meeting.  They were engaged and supposed to be married on Easter Day but because of the scheduled rebellion, the wedding was postponed though not for long.  They were married a few hours before he was executed by firing squad and she herself was later imprisoned there briefly.  The song is haunting and although the lyrics follow here, it can also be heard at: YouTube: Grace

 

 

GRACE by Frank and Sean O’Meara
As we gather in the chapel here in old Kilmainham Jail  

 I think about these past few weeks, oh will they say we've failed
From our schooldays they have told us we must yearn for liberty
Yet all I want in this dark place is to have you here with me.

Chorus**:
Oh Grace just hold me in your arms and let this moment linger

They'll take me out at dawn and I will die
With all my love I place this wedding ring upon your finger
There won't be time to share our love for we must say goodbye.
**

Now I know it's hard for you my love to ever understand

The love I bear for these brave men, my love for this dear land

 But when the Padhraic called me to his side down in the GPO

 I had to leave my own sick bed, to him I had to go
**

Now as dawn is breaking, my heart is breaking too,

On this May morn as I walk out my thoughts well be of you

And I'll write some words upon the wall so everyone will know

I love so much that I could see his blood upon the rose.

[emphasis mine, refers to Plunkett’s most famous poem, “His Blood Upon the Rose”]

 

       Perhaps to some readers it all seems a bit soap-opera like and overly sentimental.  And while I was captivated by the tune and the lyrics 25 years ago, I was stunned by the connections I made in Kilmainham on this trip to the very real people who inhabit the story.

 



On the third shelf down on the far right is the notebook that
Joseph Plunkett used to send his last message to Grace. 
Grace herself donated it and other articles for the Kilmainham Museum





       It is far more than the mere romantic emotions that connect me to that time and those people.  It is the very real questions that arise for me, today in my own time, in my own country: 

 

-When is a Patriot a Traitor; when does a Hero become a Villain?

-What does it mean to “Take Our Country Back” - from whom and for what? 

-Is it the intent of those who chant such slogans that all First Nation people rise up to reclaim their ancient patrimonies?

-Is a Patriot only one who agrees with your “cause”, or ideology and those who do not become worthy of execution?  

-When do my individual rights and freedoms cross a line to deny you yours? 

-When is my belief system rational and yours extreme? 

-How can I "take my country back" without stealing it from you?

-Whose God is the most faithful; what is heresy?

 

 And, who decides?   



Looking over the walls toward
the Kilmainham Courthouse
 



       The old saw of “who doesn’t study history is doomed to repeat it” has been replaced – it is now “those who do study history are doomed to stand helplessly by while others repeat it.”  I am not the one with the answers to the questions, nor the one with solutions.  But what I do believe is that those who purport to be in charge of  ______  country, city, economic system, etc. (fill in the blank for yourself), seem to stand shoulder to shoulder with their nemeses and all look over Kilmainham’s walls each seeing superiority of their own needs, wants, desires, and rights, and the lack of same for the other. 

                   

       Those who led the Rising in 1916 live among us today in the hearts and minds of anyone who wants justice tempered with mercy, as well as health, home, and the fulfillment of basic human needs for all. But it seems their actions may have been in vain.

 

       The world is still filled with hatred and prejudice carefully cultivated and manipulated by some to keep the many breathing despair and frustration in intentional communities of “us” vs “them”.  When we, wittingly or un-, give the “some” the power to create our mindsets, our opinions, and even our actions for their own purposes and satisfaction, we lose our individual perspectives and therefore the ability to give thoughtful response.  We then fall into the easier thoughtless reaction which begets thoughtless reaction which foments more despair and frustration.  It's a trap and I fell in!  BUT STOP….breathe…

More than just the name of a champion horse,
it is a mantra for life!

 

 

       As I reviewed the postings I have written about my brief time in Ireland this year against the stark realities of Kilmainham as a symbol of yesterday and today, I felt lost in a maze of my own creation.  How do I write an ending to this series to balance the beauty and spirit of a place against the knowing that much of what I saw was carefully constructed by the tour company and the guide?  After all, I came to intentionally see the beauty and the spirit of this land and its people and I did. And if you came to my hometown, I would take you on a tour of the best places, avoiding “those” places that are sad, miserable, and even dangerous at times.  I wandered off the track and into Kilmainham.  That experience has been simmering in my heart and head for the last several months and I have yet to figure out quite what to do with it.

       When I am in my everyday life it is easy to get sucked into the vortex of helplessness and hopelessness, anger and frustration with so many people of the world in dire circumstances.  But we all need to breathe in the fresh air of the Spring that always comes after the winter.  I cannot fix the world, I can only work on my participation in it and give my best thoughtful response to it. I must seek opportunities for the development, care, and feeding of my own Invincible Spirit.

Flying Home from Dublin





       My journey through Ireland has ended for this time.  My journey through life continues.  There are more questions than answers, more insights and more dilemmas, moments of helplessness, moments of determination.  Each day becomes another, and the Spring always returns.

 

 

And there will always be more to say...    

      

      

  I do want to acknowledge Globus Tours, and particularly Carmel and Donal, for an extraordinary adventure.  Their planning, timing, intinerary, and accommodations far exceeded my expectations.  I could do it all over again!