A Bit O' the Irish

The story, as told by my father, goes something like this:

There were three brothers. Lads who were both close in age and heart. They were hard working men, but the tyranny of the English oppressed them. Being good Irish Catholics, they attended mass, the local pub and the secret meetings of the revolutionaries.

Close they were and true lovers of their country. So it was when one brother murdered an English gentleman that the three brothers set out for America, never to return to their beloved Isle.

They settled in the east, eventually moving westward. One married and sired five daughters before committing suicide. It was a black mark upon the family name and it was only whispered about. The daughters lived well into their nineties producing children of their own. One of them was my great-grandmother.

The name of the murder was never revealed, and we have no clue as to which brother had actually committed the crime. The Irish temper, however, continues in our bloodlines to this very day.

And that me friends, is a bit o’ the history of me family, at least according to me Da. It may all be malarkey for he is a great teller of tales.

Ripped Bodices, Lit Snobs, and Tonka Trucks

Yesterday an elderly lady asked if I, “liked hot books?”

“Not really,” I laughed.

She went on to describe this book. I stood smiling at her, wondering what this grandma type lady was doing reading such racy material. She assured me it was a very interesting story. It was well written and she was certain (very certain) that few of today’s writers could write such a stirring tale.

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I’m a lit snob. That’s right, I am. I love old books. I love moralistic books. I love em’ long and wordy. This is a subject I’ve written about before, so I won’t bore you with further supercilious details on this topic, but I did chuckle when she offered to bring me the book.

She was certain that I’d love it.

I can see the cover of that paperback in my mind; torn bodice, six pack abs, lusty looks passing between the two main characters – snicker.

I’m hopeful she’ll forget she said she’d loan it to me. I don’t want to hurt her feelings, but honestly, I don’t want to read the book. Not to mention, I really don’t have time to read right now. I’m up to my ears in homeschool, work, housework and writing.

The last book I read was yesterday and it had bull-dozers and dump trucks in it. It was a real page turner; just ask Master Smiley who is here during an Army drill weekend. The Tonka Truck book was filled with shovels, gravel, dirt and pop-up pictures. Master Smiley insisted we read it, over and over and over again. No ripped bodices, no heaving bosoms, just hard hats, pipes, scoopers and planks. It’s the perfect read when you’ve got a snuggly little nephew sharing the sofa with you.

Maybe I’ll offer the Tonka book to my elderly friend.

Pink Soap makes You Smell Good

Below is my "fiction" entry for Scribbit's April Writing Contest. Check this out and more at

Scribbit: Motherhood in Alaska

Pink Soap makes You Smell Good: A Story about Going Home

Many people have trouble retaining memories from their early childhood, but not me. Mine have been burned into my memory – leaving a scar that is forever vivid, forever burning. Returning home often resurrects melancholy memories of those who have passed while being warmly embraced by those who love you best. At eight-years-old I was being returned home for the fifth time and I felt none of that nostalgia for that place they called home.

The taxi sped me homeward as the snow swirled outside. Turning from my window, I looked at the driver who sat secure behind the taxi's Plexiglas shield. His hair, stringy and gray, hung to his shoulders and turned up at the ends. He drove as if he was alone, humming a gentle tune and chewing on his cigar.

Sliding my glance sideways, I took in the brown skirt and folded speckled hands of the social worker. I cannot recall her name, there had been so many, but I remember that her voice was kind, her eyes a dull brown. She had a certain smell that I couldn’t place, but now understand to be the smell of a longing for retirement. My gaze turned toward her window and I watched as white flakes whirled past, some splattering against the window in a suicidal race for the road below.

Home? What did that really mean? The social worker said that my home was with my Momma; a place so removed from any ideal of home that I nearly laughed out loud at the thought. I'd been in enough homes to know that the one bedroom apartment my Momma lived in with her fat, greasy boyfriend and four cats was anything but a home.

When I was younger, I had no idea that there were people who lived differently than we did. They didn't play in alley ways with forgotten syringes and bits of broken glass. Their neighbors weren't crack heads or prostitutes. They didn't have regular visits from the local police and children didn't race cockroaches on wilting summer days.

I suppose I should thank Momma for being an addict. If she hadn't been, I would never have known that there was life outside the projects. Because of her, I learned that mac and cheese didn't always come from a box, that pink soap made you smell good, and that hands were made for love, not for hitting. Without Momma's addiction, I'd never have owned a pair of black Mary Janes, worn a hat to the First Baptist Church on Easter, or slept, unafraid every night tucked between clean sheets.

Although they were making me return home, I knew it would only be for a short time. One way or the other I was getting out and the next time, I wouldn't be going home again.