End of an era.


Paddling at Santa Cruz on Memorial Day.

It’s the final week of May here in beautiful California, mild and sunny and relaxed. We had a nice Memorial day weekend of visiting with family, working on things around the house, and exploring the seaside boardwalk of Santa Cruz. I repainted my childhood rocking chair for the kids, from a tired brown varnish to a lovely blue-green.  The weather has been so good, I was able to do it entirely outside, leaving it to dry at night and putting on additional coats and touch-ups as time allowed. I’ve also been working on my patio garden a lot lately, which is now complete with an array of “old lady” flowers like petunias, pansies, lavender, sweet peas and geraniums, plus a few herbs and tomatoes.  Next step is getting a table and chairs so we can go out and enjoy our morning coffee or evening glass of wine.


Old becomes new.

I’ve tried to take some extra time these last few days, to stop and play with my kids, snuggle on the couch, go to the park, give them extra kisses, bake cookies, and enjoy doing some of the things that take a bit more time and attention than a normal day typically allows. As of Monday morning, I will be starting a new, full-time, awesome job. I’m both reflective and anxious, and ever so aware of what a huge change this will be for me, and us, as a family.

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The Care and Keeping of an Irishman

First things first – I’d like to take a second to thank everyone who reads “View from an Irish Back Yard” for helping me to reach 100,000 views in the last seven years of blogging. It’s been fun! And you helped me get there. Now raise a glass to the next 100,000! 🙂

Now, on to the real post.

Frank and I have been “together” since late 2006, but actually “together,” as in living in the same town and being engaged/married for more like seven years (since this blog started!). I love how, at this stage of our relationship, I am finally able to cautiously predict some things and anticipate what surprises might make him happy.

Irish care package

Irish care package

At the heart of himself, Frank is – and always will be – a proud 100% born and bred Irishman. Being married to a Paddy brings its own unique set of rules for this American girl, and I am learning more of the delicate complexities every day.  Below I will outline a basic day’s routine to serve as a resource to other “mixed” Irish/American (or Australian, or Canadian, or whatever) relationships, with tongue planted firmly in cheek, of course. 🙂 *Disclaimer: this is of course another sweeping generalisation based on my own personal Irishman, and not to be taken too seriously for feck sake.

Lyon's tea for Christmas, from a wife who really knows her husband.

Lyon’s tea for Christmas, from a wife who really knows her husband.

1. Rise and shine.  Well, rise anyway. My sleepy giant does not like to be roused too early, or too late – give him at least half an hour to get ready for work.  Bring him a hot cup of tea with plenty of milk – Lyons is preferred, Barry’s a close second and, in a pinch, Trader Joe’s Irish Breakfast.  Yes, he can tell the difference. Do not disturb him while he listens to Ray D’Arcy’s live broadcast on his phone.  As he wakes, you can chat politics and current events from “back home” with him.

If it’s a weekend, a Full Irish Breakfast – or as near as you can manage – is a great idea (especially if beers were consumed the night before).  But you will have your work cut out finding rashersblack pudding (a.k.a. blood pudding) or white pudding.  You can make do with a couple pieces of American bacon, a couple breakfast sausages, Heinz baked beans, sautéed mushrooms, a fried egg, and toast.  Frank isn’t keen on the fried tomato, but that would be traditional.  For other breakfast variations, you can serve potato boxty, scones with butter and jam, porridge, or Kellogg’s Crunchy Nut Flakes.

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My shout out to working moms, or moms who work, or pretty much every mom I know.

Freelance writing for a stay-at-home mom is a tough gig, let me tell you.  I’ve tried to keep my pinky-toe in the water for the last several years, and I have been blessed by some really understanding editors who are still eager to receive my work, even when it’s sporadic.  Lately I’ve been pretty busy with multiple assignments again, and I find myself daily having an inner battle of excitement (to be doing what I love) and frustration (because life with little kids doesn’t often go to plan).


It’s been a good lesson in time management, patience and, above all, honesty with myself.  And here’s the deal – blogging (for me), isn’t really writing.  It’s not hard to punch out a bunch of paragraphs about my life on my own time and without anyone expecting perfection.  Blogging, for me, is a bit self-indulgent. It’s the result of a random spark of inspiration and a child’s coincidental nap time (like right now).

But, writing as a job is really hard work.  It takes constant practice, trial and error, and a rubbery thick skin, to maintain. Hoping to improve one’s writing is all that and an extra shot of dedication, plus having the time and headspace to pitch your stuff and get yourself out there.  Trying to write for the last six weeks has driven me to the edge of my own sanity, and I wasn’t even working on anything very difficult. Of course, my elation at being asked to write a few things was quickly snuffed by a toddler who stopped sleeping, a 5 year-old who was constipated, a husband who had to work longer hours, and a dog with skin allergies. Now nearing the end of this little run, I’m finally breathing again, but am also looking back and wondering if I should keep it up or just get a desk job? Regardless, I know my kids and I need more breaks from each other.  A lot more.

 So while I’m mulling all this over, I’d like to tip my hat to some other moms I know who are trying to do stuff they love while caring for families of (mostly) small children.  We are a long-suffering breed, ha ha, who try to find snip its of time to work when our significant others are home (evenings and weekends) or during those few blessed moments the wee ones are sleeping, in school, at a friends’ house, or with a babysitter.  While I fill that space with writing (or staring blankly at the screen), the ladies mentioned below use their time in other fascinating creative pursuits. (And I’d like to remind you, dear readers, that there are weddings, christenings, birthdays, holidays and all sorts of things coming up that serve as an awesome excuse to patronise one of these good women.  Keep that in mind, and keep reading!)

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I’m having a stand-off with a bag of salad in my refrigerator.

About a week ago, I finally got serious about going on a much-needed diet. I’ve been carrying an extra 10-15 pounds of baby-belly weight around the world with me, and I was running out of excuses. No more, “I have to keep junk around for the kids,” or “I’ll start after the holidays” or “It’s too hot/cold/rainy/snowy to exercise” or “crunchy vegetables make my dental work hurt.” Maybe it was my recent trip to Victoria’s Secret to redeem a  “free panty” coupon, when I found myself hijacked into trying on sports bras in the dressing room, a shop assistant coaching me to “jump up and down to test the support” while I was in there. Looking at myself, I rather felt like a squeezed balloon.

Whatever it was, I decided it was high time.


I’m lucky, I know, I’m not as heavy as I could be. My habits aren’t appalling. There are certainly many, many, many people the world over who struggle with a bigger weight problem than I am currently addressing. But sometimes, it’s the lesser amounts of weight, on the more petite folks like myself, that is harder to lose. And, even after just a week, I already know these 15 pounds will be a lot harder to shed than even I expected. I sure wish I could put them in a bag and give them to Goodwill.

I’ve never been much of a dieter, aside from a stash of weight loss pills (now off the market) I used to take in high school to make my already thin body even thinner. My parents used to diet about twice a year, drinking shakes for breakfast and lunch like Tommy Lasorda, and I watched their weight go up and down with seasons and life changes and good and bad times. Even when I have needed to lose weight, I’ve always been on the sidelines, watching some wonder drug or machine or plan advertised on TV and think, “Man, if only it was that easy! Wouldn’t it be great if that really worked?” Because I’ve always known, deep down in my gooey chocolate core, that dieting would be much harder than that.

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The Wind Cries Mary(ann)

The last time I saw Jamie Cullum in concert was October 2006, at The Murat Egyptian Room in Indianapolis.  It was mere days before I was to meet Frank, and I was definitely in a bit of a funk. It had not been a kind year, in love terms, and the lead up to the Heartland Film Festival was always stressful. But I was beyond thrilled to be seeing Jamie play, for it was him and the tenuous balance of youthful angst and timeless romance his music evoked that I had come to depend on for salving my bruised heart.

Jamie at the Egyptian Room in 2006

Jamie at the Egyptian Room in 2006

I still remember that night vividly.  It was a smallish concert of a couple hundred people at most, and many of whom were not very familiar with the British pop/jazz singer/pianist. I remember elbowing my way to the front of the stage, since it was a standing concert, only to be bullied back a row by big grouchy bald men with telephoto lenses on their expensive cameras.  “I’m only 5’1″,” I complained, but they wouldn’t budge.

When Jamie came on, he was sipping a Guinness, energetic, friendly, ready to give us all a show we wouldn’t soon forget.  He sang all my favorites, all the melodies and words I knew off by heart, and he threw in surprises and stories and jam sessions besides.  He talked about our city, and how we should support great little music shops like LUNA. I was frustrated with much of the drunken audience, though, and blushed, crimson with embarrassment, when someone yelled up at the stage, “Welcome to American, motherf*cker!” Or, perhaps worse still, when the crowd sang along with his tender reminiscent song, “Photograph,” only to change the line “…from her mum” to “…from her MOM!”  It was as if the ignorant American twenty somethings needed to loudly correct his pronunciation just to prove an inane point.  But never mind.  I was not among them.   Continue reading

Food Focus

Just so you know, in the last couple weeks, my siblings and I have been working to launch a new, all food-related blog.  I may continue to post recipes and such from time to time on here, but for the most part, I will be saving them up for this new venture. Meanwhile, I will continue to use this more personal space to post about family, home (be it Ireland or Cali), hobbies, etc.

Hope to see you over there! 🙂

Food from the Wandering Four
(A new blog by siblings Bonnie, Caroline, Maryann and David)

Laggardly Pursuits

10929232_10153049229242915_2305852825431911778_nI am, for all intents and purposes, an introvert.

I like people, and I’d like to say I make a good friend, but it’s hard for me to make the first move.  One exception to this introversion is when I am the one in control of the situation, i.e. if I am the host, charged with introducing people to each other, making others feel comfortable in a situation, etc. I think I’m good at that. But in a way, it takes the focus off me.  I don’t like having the attention on me. (Funny, because I’m pretty brave about talking about myself on a public blog space! Ha!) But, even as a kid, I loved having a birthday party, but hated the part where I had to open presents or blow out the candles.  It’s even more acute now.  “Dear God, please don’t let them sing the Happy Birthday song to me,” I think to myself.  “I never know where to look.”

So.  I’m in a new town.  And everyone here is a stranger.

This morning I went to the 10:30 a.m. service at a local church, only to find out that this particular Sunday was a “fifth Sunday,” where there was only a 9:15 a.m. service followed by a hearty potluck.  I stood outside in the lovely sunlit courtyard, awkward, shifting my weight, trying to figure out what to do.  There was a sign directing “visitors” to a basket of name tags, only there weren’t any left.  No matter, I hate name tags.  I hate showing everyone that I’m new, that I don’t know how things are done yet, that I don’t fit in.  I circled the courtyard, hesitating outside the fellowship hall, wishing inwardly that I would meet a friendly face.  If only my old friend Porter from back in Indianapolis was a verger here.  I tried not to tear up.  It’s kind of been a rough weekend. I didn’t go in. I resolved to try again next week.


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