10 - Tales of the Poor Old Woman

Late on Saturday afternoon, Chelsea was stretched out on the dining room floor with her head propped on a pillow and James Joyce’s ‘Ulysses’ firmly grasped in her hands. She squinted as rays of sunlight angled through the kitchen window and shone in her eyes.

She stopped between chapters and looked up toward the sun as it hung low in the winter sky. She closed her eyes for a moment before opening them again.

It was an unusually warm day, she thought, especially for late January. Her mother clothed her in a long brown corduroy dress and a soft lamb’s wool sweater. Chelsea felt especially warm, but quite comfy, too.

She turned onto her belly and propped herself on her elbows. Aunt Meg and her mother sat in the living room snapping green beans.

“Hello!” she called out.

“Hello!” her mother replied.

“Do you need any help?”

“If you’d like.”

“I would like it very much.”

She placed her novel facedown on the dining room floor, holding the place where she paused between chapters.

“Here,” said Aunt Meg, “snap this pack of green beans for us.”

Chelsea on the couch between the two women as Aunt Meg put a large catch-pot between Chelsea’s feet. Chelsea placed a pile of green beans in her lap and began snipping the ends of the beans with a small paring knife. Then, she snapped each bean in half and deposited them in the catch-pot.

 “Just snap them once,” said her mother.

“I am.”

“It’ll be easier if you press with both thumbs,” said Aunt Meg.

Aunt Meg demonstrated proper bean-snapping technique, but it didn’t apply to Chelsea’s tiny fingers. They were much smaller than the fat string beans. Instead, Chelsea used both hands to snap each bean in half. It was a slow but workable solution, even if Aunt Meg finished three bunches of beans in the time Chelsea finished half of one.

“I think we’re done as soon as you finish up,” said Aunt Meg.

“Already?” Chelsea furrowed her brow.

“There’s still a lot to do while the green beans soak in ice water. For one thing, we can check the winter vegetables.”

Aunt Meg watched as Chelsea fumbled with the last few string beans. Aunt Meg offered help to her niece, but Chelsea insisted on doing it alone. After Aunt Meg took the finished beans into the kitchen, she took Chelsea by the hand and led her to the greenhouse out back.

“What are the winter vegetables?” asked Chelsea.

“Anything, really, but I grow potatoes, carrots, peas, and beans in my greenhouse.

The greenhouse sat just behind the horse barn, its glass-paned walls were covered in condensation. A gust of hot, wet air greeted Chelsea as Aunt Meg opened the door.

“It’s so hot.”

“That’s the Lord’s solar heater at work.”

Chelsea peered up towards the sun. Outside, she barely felt its warmth; within the greenhouse, however, Chelsea felt even hotter than she had in the dining room. She removed the heavy wool sweater, leaving only a plain short sleeve t-shirt on her back. Inside the greenhouse, it was more than enough.

As green as Irish hillsides in late spring, the greenhouse plants were verdant and lush. Crates of carrots, peas, and beans showed their leafy green heads. A tower of tractor tires sat at the back. It, too, wore a leafy green crown. Aunt Meg dug her hand into a mound of newspaper and hay at the top of the tire tower.

“Make a basket of your dress,” she told Chelsea. Chelsea held her dress at two points. Aunt Meg dropped tiny potatoes into the folds of Chelsea’s dress. She filled the pockets of her own apron with potatoes, too.

“Why don’t you grow potatoes in a garden like Grandpa? He has lots of potatoes.””

“We have lots of potatoes, too. Instead of growing potatoes in the ground like Grandpa, our potatoes grow up.”

Aunt Meg tipped the top two tires backward, exposing the root system growing within the tires. She dug into the peat and retrieved a handful of white fingerling potatoes.

“How do potatoes grow throughout the stack of tires?”

“The potato is a tuber, which is like a root, but each potato bulb stores nutrients to help feed new stems and buds. See each of these eyes? Those are leaf scars called nodes. New stems can grow out of the nodes and produce new potatoes.”

“And they’ll keep growing like this?”

“They die back, but they still grow year-round, more of less. That’s because we cultivate our garden.”

Chelsea furrowed her brow again.

“We use compost like decaying plants, leaves, and old newspapers, to create rich peat moss to feed the tubers.”

Aunt Meg took a scoop of white granules out of a feedbag that sat beside the tower.

“Also, we mix fertilizer into our peat before adding it to the tower.”

Aunt Meg dug her hands into the peat moss to mix the fertilizer and peat. She added another tire to the tower and added peat until the stems were mostly covered.

“I think that’s it,” said Aunt Meg.

They went inside and dumped the harvested fingerlings into the kitchen sink. Aunt Meg carefully scrubbed the potatoes with a brush until they were clean. Then, she scrubbed her own hands, making sure to get beneath the dirt-caked fingernails. She did the same for Chelsea, too.

“Potatoes again?” groaned Korrit.

“Potatoes again?” mocked Aunt Meg, “of course Potatoes again. Consider this tiny tuber a record and reminder of Irish history.”

“I know, but it’s boring. It’s all boring.”

“What would you like to do?”

“I don’t know,” said Chelsea, “I think I’ll return to my book.”

Chelsea curled up on the couch with blanket and book. Then, she returned to her reading.

“I have an idea,” said cousin Stephanie. She whispered into her sister Colleen’s ear.

“That’s fantastic!” exclaimed Colleen.

The girls scurried upstairs to their rooms. Their shoes clip-clopped on the steps as they returned downstairs.

“We’ll demonstrate our clog dancing for you.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” said Aunt Meg, “you’ll scratch the wood on the living room floor.”

“We can do it in our bare feet,” said Colleen.

“It won’t be the same. How about we clog on the carpet?”

“No clogging at all.”

“How about we use our flats?”

“Why don’t you put on your ghillies instead?”

The girls scurried up the stairs and back down again, carrying soft, flat shoes, that looked like ballet shoes, only black with shoestrings. The girls tugged them onto their feet and laced them up as everyone cleared space for the girls. Colleen looked to Chelsea.

“Can you turn the radio on?”

Without moving from her place on the sofa, Chelsea arched backwards and turned on the radio. And tuned it to an Irish folk music station. Colleen and Stephanie whispered between themselves for a moment. Upon agreement, they readied themselves for dancing.

“We’ll start with the traditional Ceili,” said Stephie, “it’s usually performed in four pairs, like a quadrille, but since there are only two of us, it’ll only be two of us.”

After a light laughter lilted about the living room, everyone fell silent and waited for the dancing to begin. 

“One, two, three, four,” the dancers counted in unison.

Then, Colleen and Stephie began to danceTheir nearest hands came up and touched lightly. They held their outside hands firmly against their hips. Their ghillies scuffed and stomped on the floor as they circled about in a fashion similar to any common square dance or reel.

“Mother,” said Colleen, “this just won’t do. “Can we clog on the porch?”

“I guess that would be fine.”

The girls nodded enthusiastically and quickly donned their clogs. As they walked to the door, the firm leather taps clicked against the living room floor. The girls were mindful of this, so they tiptoed softly to the door. The rest of the family followed them to the front porch.

“Here we go,” said Colleen.

“One, two, three, four.”

The two girls filled the porch with the sound of double-steps, brush-ups, rocks, and stomps. Their heels clicked energetically as the girls rhythmically tapped out a precise percussive beat.

“This is Celtic history, too,” Aunt Meg told Chelsea..

“I know.”

The Ceili, as well as any number of other traditional Irish dances, had been with the Irish for as long as Irish history itself. The dancers not only used the dances for relaxation and entertainment, but to tell the stories of ancient Vikings and Monks and Celts and even the Tuatha.

As moon rose high in the sky, everyone in the Pyle’s farmhouse began winding down. The girls settled themselves into their respective sleeping bags, still chatting throughout the night with their cousins.

Early on Sunday morning, the two clans woke early and enjoyed a hearty breakfast of eggs and chicken stew. After that, they headed out to the early Catholic Mass. After Mass, they convened in the church parking lot.

“I think it’s time we head back to Kilkenny,” said Mrs. Cahill. Korrit and Chelsea and Colleen and Stephie and little Eric all groaned in unison.

“Come now,” said Mrs. Cahill, “you’ve had a full weekend and it’s a long way to County Kerry.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Colleen.”

“She is right,” added Aunt Meg, “you’ll see each other again soon. That, I promise each and every one of the lot.”

“Anyway,” concluded Mrs. Cahill, “tomorrow will be another day.”

After a long, sad good-bye, the Cahills and Pyles parted ways. It would not be long, however, until they saw each other again. That was just the way of things.

Although it was only a short two-hour drive for Mrs. Cahill, the ride for the girls seemed much shorter as the softly bounding county roads quickly lulled them both to sleep.

“Alright, we’re here,” said Mrs. Cahill.

“Already?”

The girls were glad to be home. They shared stories with their sisters and father. Meanwhile, Mrs. Cahill, found her way to the bedroom and caught up on her beauty sleep, too.

  Indeed, tomorrow would most certainly be another day.

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