Health and Happiness for 2010

Robert Burns just gets better and better with the passing of every year. Long may his songs live. Absolutely no one (including Eddi Reader whom I greatly admire) owns this song like Mairi Campbell accompanied by Davis Francis.



Video by Procrasticus

toast to time

Same Old Lang Syne-Dan Fogelberg



Video by kameiti1958

Go Lassie Go

One short year has passed. Thanks for being by my side - it's not quite the same but it helps. Here's to you Mom.

RIP Mary Travers

Before Emmylou there was Mary........

New York City 9/11/01

Eddi Reader -
New York City, Cambridge Folk Festival, August 2, 2009



Luka Bloom




In America singers singing, our world could be as one
In America brothers killing some poor mothers' son
But I thank God for New York City
A rainbow of faces walks alongside me, right beside me
In America, there's an old chief, I'm waiting to see
In America, there's an old chief, he's talking to me
But I thank God for New York City
A rainbow of faces walks alongside me, right beside me
In America

My people left our troubled shore
Broken hearted knocking on your door
Small green fields, I could not be free
And your hopeful music is calling me
How can I survive without the ties that bind?
How can I let go off all the pain I left behind?

I leave my Irishness at home
To be among you just as one
To walk across this sacred place
To find the dignity and grace
Of lovers where the eagle flies
Of buffalo under blue skies
I leave all sense of race behind
To be among you colourblind
To learn what history has done
And to find the love in everyone

I thank God for New York City
A rainbow of faces walks alongside me, right beside me
In America
I thank God, I thank God for New York City

Polk Salad Annie - Tony Joe White

Polk Salad Annie
Tony Joe White and Johnny Cash (from TV show 1970)



Folks down South have a way of talkin' makes understandin' a Scottish accent (not counting those from Glascow - yikes!) completely do-able. White and Cash together is pretty much perfection - two Southern boys having a whole lot of fun pickin' and singin' and makin' all us smile. I included the words below to answer "Say what?".

Note: Polk weed contains a lot of toxins/poison and can make you very very sick if not prepared properly. Only the very young leaves (never the berries, roots or seeds!) should be eaten (never raw) and they must first be boiled three separate times in clean water to reduce the toxins. My grandmother would fry spinach leaves in bacon grease (called it a wilted salad) which is very similar to how polk weed is prepared. In the past, poor families would cook polk weed as they had little else to eat. Fermented poke berries make an excellent ink and was used to write the Declaration of Independence, and the dye was used by the Native First People to decorate their horses. I'm not sure about dryin' an' smokin' it, or whether it make you 'more rested'. :)

POLK SALAD ANNIE
(words & music by Tony Joe White)

If some of ya'll never been down South too much
I'm gonna tell you a little bit about it, so that you'll understand
What I'm talking about
Down there we got a plant that grows out in the woods and the fields,
Looks somethin' like a turnip green. 'Except it ain't.
Everybody calls it Polk salad. Polk salad.
Used to know a girl that lived down there
And she'd go out in the evenings and pick a mess of it
Carry it home and cook it for supper
'Cause that's about all they had to eat
But they did all right.

Down in Louisiana
Where the alligators grow so mean
There lived a girl that I swear to the world
Made the alligators look tame

Polk salad Annie. Polk salad Annie
Everybody said it was a shame
'Cause her mama was working on the chain-gang
(a mean, vicious critter, sinful)

Everyday 'fore supper time
She'd go down by the truck patch
And pick her a mess o' Polk salad
And carry it home in a tote sack

Polk salad Annie
'Gators got your granny
Everybody said it was a shame
'Cause her mama was a workin' on the chain-gang
(a wretched, spiteful, straight-razor totin' woman,
Lord have mercy. Pick a mess of it)

Her daddy was lazy and no count
Claimed he had a bad back
All her brothers were fit for
Was stealin' watermelons out of my truck patch
Polk salad Annie
'Gators got your granny
Everybody said it was a shame
'Cause her mama was a working' on the chain gang
(Sock a little polk salad to me, you know I need me a mess of it)

Price of Freedom - Belated Independence Day Tribute

Many thanks to the absolutely fabulous Darrell Scott.



With a Memory Like Mine
Darrell Scott & Anthony Wayne Scott

I can see that train a-coming
Watch that big light shine this way
Hear that whistle softly blowing
Lord, it’s been an awful day

I watched them leave that Friday morning
It was in the month of May
I told my son to be a good soldier
But return again someday

He did return just one year later
And I’ll not forget the day
The baggage car is where he traveled
In a casket where he lay

Chorus:
Train man, keep your whistle blowing
Make it moan, make it whine
You make a man feel mighty lonesome
With a memory like mine

In that little country graveyard
On a dark and dreary day
They placed a flag upon the casket
And the casket in the grave

I couldn’t stand it any longer
And I knew not how to pray
I cried, Oh, Lord, I hate to leave him
All alone beneath the clay

Chorus

I can see him as a baby
I can hear him call my name
I can feel him under fire
And see him rising from the flame
Lord, if I could I’d trade places
I would gladly give my all
I’d wrap that flag around me like a blanket
And listen for the clods to fall

Chorus



American Tune is one of those songs one feels privileged to sing - it fills you up like few others. It is in my top 5. Paul Simon is the master bard of my generation. I always prefer the songwriter's recording of a song but Darrell Scott's interpretation of American Tune is mighty fine.

American Tune is a true patriotic song. A country with imperfections and mistake ridden but one of endless possibilities. Of sadness and self reflection but more than anything else, a positive belief to keep working and looking forward. Happy Birthday America.

Many's the time I've been mistaken
And many times confused
Yes, and often felt forsaken
And certainly misused
Oh, but I'm alright, I'm alright
I'm just weary to my bones
Still, you don't expect to be
Bright and bon vivant
So far a-way from home, so far away from home.

I don't know a soul who's not been battered
I don't have a friend who feels at ease
I don't know a dream that's not been shattered
or driven to its knees
Oh, but it's alright, it's alright
for we lived so well so long
Still, when I think of the
road we're traveling on
I wonder what's gone wrong
I can't help it, I wonder what's gone wrong.

And I dreamed I was dying
I dreamed that my soul rose unexpectedly
And looking back down at me
Smiled reassuringly
And I dreamed I was flying
And high up above my eyes could clearly see
The Statue of Liberty
Sailing away to sea
And I dreamed I was flying.

We come on the ship they call the Mayflower
We come on the ship that sailed the moon
We come in the a-ge's most uncertain hours
and sing an American tune
Oh, and it's alright, it's alright, it's alright
You can't be forever blessed
Still, tomorrow's going to be another working day
And I'm trying to get some rest
That's all I'm trying to get some rest.

Man Test

Many years ago upon returning from beautiful Ireland (sadly, they never were able to visit Scotland), my parents presented me with a gift from their trip. Not Belleek china. Not a piece of Irish knitwear. Something quite different and completely fascinating the likes of which I had never seen. With a twinkle in her eye Mother handed me a slightly irregular object about 9 inches long by 5 inches wide. The object was dense and dark, heavy but not too heavy, compressed. Obviously organic in nature, smooth but rough around the edges, odorless, clean. Puzzling. What the heck is this? I was baffled and then it came to me. OMG it's peat! I instantly loved it and my parents for carrying it all the way home.

The block was carefully wrapped in tissue paper and packed away (yes, in tissue paper - go ahead and make fun of me my Hebridean friends, it's a strange notion to be sure) and I completely forgot about it. About 8 or 9 years ago I happily re-discovered my little block of peat and placed in on a small china platter (alongside various rocks and minerals I had collected over the years) on my bookshelf in a place of prominence. (Crazy American, have you lost your mind woman - it's to be burnt not displayed!)

One day I got the inspiration to use the peat, but not in the traditional way. I would never ever burn my peat no more than I would purposefully break a piece of fine china. Instead, it serves as my "man test". When a man would come to call so to speak, I would hand him the peat and ask him what it was. It's a game I found immensely amusing. Nary a one figured it out. Nary a one is around today. :)

Muir's backside and Sacagawea

Derek MacLennan and his really awesome funk/fusion version of Bob Dylans 'All along the Watchtower' (Gaelic translation by Rody Gormans) Winner of Best Technical Direction at FilmG awards 2008 - Directed by Caty MacLennan
MacLennan's video has absolutely no relevance to the topic at hand, I just like it.



It's been ages since my last entry. Work and family duties have kept me dog tired.

When I started this blog, I began collecting the California quarter with John Muir's likeness. It's actually his backside on the backside of the coin, depending on how you see it. :))) I routinely check all quarters that pass through my hands, and it has been months and months and months since I have come across John. Until today. Today I found three! Eureka!

My count to date is now at a lucky 13. What is my eventual plan for these quarters? I am not quite sure; I just know they will come in handy. Someday when I finally set foot on the Outer Hebrides, I might simply give them to a schoolteacher for her kids. John Muir was a native of Scotland who loved California and made it his home. I envision the teacher giving each student a coin when they are learning about Muir - she could mention his legacy in both countries. Whether or not they would find it interesting I do not know, I can only assume. It just would be personally satisfying to share something tangible these kids might never otherwise have. Besides, my mother taught me to never visit empty handed - aways leave something small and thoughtful behind.



John Muir's quarter is the only coin I collect. However, the golden dollar honoring Sacagawea is really beautiful and meaningful so I might just have to collect a few of them as well. The US Mint just released a revised Sacagawea dollar with a different reverse replacing the standard flying eagle with a native woman sowing seeds in a field of corn, beans and squash (the Three Sisters). Very nice! I do not know when or if it will show up in the general circulation, as it is only issued by the Mint and not the Federal Reserve. Sadly, my bank will not be getting any. This lovely coin is only available for purchase from the Mint for an additional cost and for a limited time.

Sacagawea was the Shoshone First American who guided Meriwether Lewis and William Clark for thousands of miles on their arduous exhibition from North Dakota to the Pacific Ocean from 1804-1806. Her ‘husband’ was a French trapper hired by Lewis and Clark. She was an invaluable bonus! Her presence alone signaled their peacefully intentions with the natives. She translated/interpreted/negotiated with the tribes they encountered on their journey, including her own brother whom she had not seen since she was kidnapped as a young girl. She not only saved the party from being killed, her knowledge of native sources of food saved them from hunger. She bravely survived and assisted Lewis and Clark, all the while carrying her sweet papoose on her back. Her life's story is heart wrenching, timeless and inspirational to women worldwide. She was sold and bought like chattel, abused, neglected, loved, and ultimately respected and admired. She spoke Shoshoni, Hidatsa, English and French. By all accounts she maintained her dignity and self worth. She is a true American legend and much loved.

My niece Erin - the lovely & brilliant songbird

I am the auntie of 6 interesting young women of whom I am so proud. Each different than the other - all special.

My second (I'm the last) sister's daughter Erin is a talented singer and my very dear friend. Erin is exceptional, and I do not use the word lightly. We share the bond of a passion for making song - the polished driven contemporary pop singer with a vocal range and perfect pitch which resonates and the simple kitchen/back porch singer currently learning a Gaelic song from the 18th century. :) Surprisingly we have much in common. I am her self-acclaimed biggest fan.

It flows through our blood. My mother, her grandmother, had a lovely high soprano voice. It was full of vibrato and very operatic - truly amazing. She could have spent her life on the stage singing, but she never felt comfortable about her voice. She instead chose a life of service to her family. (One family holiday dinner, Erin stood up and sang for her grandmother – it still brings tears to my eyes it was so beautiful - the way it moved my mother. She has passed now, and I am sure Erin cherishes that memory.) The confidence my mother lacked, her grand daughter has in spades. It may be a generation or two until Erin’s gift is found again, it is that special. But then, I am her biggest fan.

Erin called a couple of days ago while stuck in traffic (how very LA) with breaking news she was releasing two original songs. Of course I was tickled pink she called considering her busy life. Although we long ago crossed the bridge from aunt and niece to friends, she still calls me Aunty and always ends with “I love you”. Nice! Anyway, she has been working, and I mean working, on this project for a long time. Thankfully, her abilities reach beyond voice and songwriting, to a shrewd sense of business. She also produced her songs, not a small feat. A beautiful girl with a kind heart, a brilliant mind and a ton of determination.

Her original (yes, she wrote them) music (2 songs so far) is posted on her revamped myspace page located at http://www.myspace.com/erinmorgado. Her voice...is completely amazing!!!! Opening the page, one can’t help but notice how pretty she is (the photos are a bit sultry so they don’t show the mischievous gleam in her eyes, but it’s there, trust me) - a super gorgeous revved-up version of my sister. Perhaps it would be better to not look and just listen, but marketing is part of the business, thus the photos. And it always helps to put a face with a voice.

Her technical singing abilities are obvious. She is a singer's singer. Unfortunately there is no video posted as I wish everyone could watch her sing. What I love most of all about my dear niece is she sings straight from the center of her heart. You can read on her face and it's a beautiful sight. There are a million talented singers – a really tough business to break into. It is the feeling Erin projects that makes her a great singer, and her Aunty Marty her biggest fan.

Leprechaun in lederhosen

I work in a school for higher education - specifically the doctorate degree in law. It’s a small program and my duties include assisting my friend the dean in the day to day operations, plus recruitment, admission counseling, attendance, tuition, exams, textbooks, graduation planning, keeping the faculty and students happy....the list is endless and occasionally includes plunging a toilet or two. We still do business the old fashioned way - up close and personal. I take great joy when a call comes in for my boss asking for her voice message machine, and I tell them they are speaking with it. I am without a doubt the shoulder the students cry on – the empathic listener, the go between, the boost when they are down and the raised eyebrow when they skip class. I remind them of the light at the end of the tunnel and how much I admire their personal sacrifice attending an evening program after working their usual jobs all day. Some have become my friends.

In the fall, one of our first year students was wearing a fancy fur sporran, which naturally made me curious as it is totally unusual and I had only seen pictures. (Now, I did not exactly ask to touch it at it as it is worn well, down there, and I have no interest of that nature in the man.) He had bought it while visiting Scotland (mainland - not the Hebrides) and decided it was handy for carrying stuff. In my opinion very few American men should wear a sporran, but on him it works ok (albeit a plain leather sporran would be more appropriate for casual wear, but no harm). He is a very quirky sort with an odd way of dressing/looking anyway – wispy long white hair held with a bandanna under a wide brimmed hat, full beard, suspenders, odd multi layering clothing, different accessories like a bright yellow coin purse made by women in South America…a culmination of all sorts of the unusual. The oddities make perfect sense because he is actually a roman catholic priest on some sort of leave-not exactly common knowledge. I guess when he took off the black pants, black shirt and white collar he went a bit nutty on the personal style expression. Early on, I shared with him my history with the church (raised in a strict catholic home, 11 years of parochial school, left the church on my 18th birthday…). Priests are somewhat regarded as demi-gods but not by me. As my Dad would say, they put their pants on one leg at a time like everyone else. One of our student librarians gives people nicknames, and she privately and aptly refers to him as the Leprechaun. I don’t know how he would react to such a title and I would never tell him, but I knew instantly whom she was referring to.

Anyway, he stopped by the office last week to say hello and as usual, I stopped my work to touch base. He said he was looking to buy one of those leather Bavarian shorts worn with suspenders. No disrespect to my Dad's ancestors, but good lord, not lederhosen! (Stereotypical visions of little boy embroidered short shorts crossed my mind.) I could feel my head and shoulders drop and my hand go to my forehead and through my hair in agony. Such was my fate to speak what he so desperately needed to hear. Without hesitating I told him absolutely NOT – to not even think of it. He already has his own style thing going, but there are limits. Get a pair of lederhosen and wear it to Oktoberfest and drink some beer and have fun, but that’s it. No lederhosen in Chico (leather shorts when it's 110 degrees? are you crazy?). No.

Then he said he was thinking about getting a kilt; how comfortable it would be. Are you kidding me!?! My answer was obvious (and no, he was not baiting me). I could not stop myself. Looking dead straight into his eyes, I told (ok more like scolded) him under no uncertain terms did I ever want to see him walk through the school doors wearing a kilt. Chico is not in Scotland, nor is he Scots! They make fun of Americans who do and he has to trust me on this. It would be ok to wear as formal attire at a wedding (kilt, jacket, hose, shoes and all is very handsome and appropriate), but not walking about town. No, no, no. If you have some sort of desire to feel the rush of air - wear it at home and in the yard, or go to a Highlands games in the Bay Area – knock yourself out. But no walking about town in a kilt.

After 25 years or so in the priesthood, the poor man just does not have a clue on how to fit in to secular society. One has to learn to check personal freedom from time to time. Even our college-age town transvestite dresses appropriately - simple blouse, skirt, heels, not too much make up - on a man way over 6 feet is quite unforgettable, but he pulls it off (of course it helps he has a pretty face and figure).

Why my otherwise intelligent student would want to open himself up to ridicule by wearing lederhosen or a kilt, I do not know. There is a time and place for such attire, and about town it ain't! Sadly, people might be judgemental and less likely to want to know the person he is inside. I am all in favor of personal style and rather like to see diversity, but there are boundaries (especially in the legal profession - especially if you hope to be employable). I could see he was a bit crushed, but it was for his own good and I told him so. (He actually said I was taking away his fantasy. What?!? This is his fantasy? Again, oh lord - they don't pay me enough for this.)

It was not easy to kindly give the hard truth knowing feelings might be hurt, but in good conscience I had no choice. Perhaps that is why he asked in the first place.

Guess I should now add “fashion consultant” to my job description.

super cute highland calfs

Seeing Simon's handsome photo was just too much to bear, so until I do a new post, here's some Highland mamma cows and their SUPER CUTE babies. :))


Stewart's herd on the Isle of Eigg.

Simon

Spring has sprung - bulbs are flowering, darling baby lambs are testing their legs, birds are returning/nesting, grey skies are lessening and the sun feels warm and promising.

Time moves on, but the Isles are in mourning.

Friday was the funeral of 21 year old South Uist son Simon MacMillan. Simon had recently joined the navy and made an unexpected visit home for Christmas when his ship dry-docked. What a wonderful surprise for his parents! That joy however, was short lived. On December 26th (Boxing Day) Simon was heading back home from a dance at St Peter’s hall in Daliburgh with a bunch of friends packed inside a minibus, when he got out to walk the couple of miles to his home. It was the last time anyone saw young Simon. The search was massive - 200 island volunteers participated as well as numerous divers, dogs, boats and helicopters - his father, his friends, his family searched and searched with no avail. Weather conditions were extremely harsh, thus hindering their efforts. How awful to sit indoors knowing he was out there somewhere! No doubt there were many arguments between his friends and their parents not to go off half caulked. Another tragedy would be even more unbearable.

Two weeks ago his body was found in a freshwater loch by five women, including his aunts. I was somewhat hoping it would be by loved ones and not the Coast Guard, but to find your nephew's body and take him in your arms is beyond comprehension. I do not know how one recovers. Simon's family had been living in the depths of the unknown. Closure helps but sorrow never goes away. Their boy/brother/nephew/friend comes home on leave and dies in a senseless accident. Life will continue - summer will follow spring and so on and so on, but it will never be the same.

To not make mention of Simon would seem wrong, for his death reached all the way across the ocean and into my heart. It is not out of the realm of possibilities my ancestral family knew, or knew of, his ancestral family. Paying respects is just what we do, regardless if his family ever knows.

Rest in peace Simon.

1. Black is the Color (virgin effort)

Because they asked, and I love my sons, I found some courage. Settling my psyche down to find my center was a lesson in itself, and one I did not quite fully achieve much to my dismay. I have so much respect for artists who do this for real. Despite being completely out of my comfort zone and nervous as heck, the results are acceptable enough for a virgin effort by a kitchen singer. I guess. Going back to re-do some notes is a possibility, but for now it will remain raw and flawed. I would rather not take it all so seriously. It’s just for fun anyway. :)

Natalie Merchant said I could sing one of her songs (thank you Megan). However, after two takes it didn't feel or sound right. So I switched, and tried my variation of a classic song I dearly love, the timeless and heartfelt Black is the Color. And it stuck.

The whole experience felt a bit surreal. There's a recording studio in town, but I choose the one inconveniently located way out in the middle of nowhere. (Likewise, it's always been Margaret's Hebrides and not John's Edinburgh.) The drive is about 12 or so miles down a lovely winding country road; the kind of road whereon the locals drive like maniacs and the new-to-the-area like cautious grannies. I had not been on the road since the wildfires tore through the canyon and up the butte walls last summer and it was wrenching to see the charred remains. The road follows alongside Butte Creek, past the historic Honey Run covered bridge, and further up the road over the steel bridge (the starting point from where I tubed down the creek so many years ago - a right of passage for all Cheekoians), past Centerville Cemetery, past the point where the road narrows and there is no longer a center line, and then down, down a rutted side dirt road to the studio. Settled amongst scrubby woodlands and a towering butte for a backdrop it is quite the picturesque spot and well worth the drive to get there and back.

All the Clouds

All the Clouds
by Kevin MacNeil (Love and Zen in the Outer Hebrides)

And it would be simpler to contain all the clouds
in a single jar unlidded
than to expect this love to be returned.
Just as the wind - breathless - carries a song
and never quietens its bustle to listen,
just as a bird's shadow streams over a lake,
just as our country exists and it doesn't,
and just as our world's original dawn
will never again equal itself, but rises blushing
that it be admired as a constant failing,
so you are here and are not here,
your face a brighter mist in my dreams gently fading.




'Ille Dhuinn, 'S Toigh Leam Thu perfomed by Julie Fowlis

Mairi's Wedding

http://www.youtube.com/allanshr

If you look really close you can catch a glimpse of my sister Nanci and I dancing together in the foreground. We were marking her birthday and she is, as they say, a hoot. The tape is kinda dark so we are hard to find. I am fairly certain I had a happy grin on my face all night. How could I not! We did a fairly good job faking the steps as we went along and no one seemed to mind our mistakes. (To the guy in the green shirt: I am sorry for bumping into you. The dance kept changing directions!) I'm taller than my sister, so she got to do all the twirling which suited me fine since after two drinks I couldn't/shouldn't be a doin no extra twirling anyhoo. The song is Mairi's Wedding, an obvious crowd favorite, and I know the words so I was one happy girl. Except singing while dancing was a bit tricky what with learning the steps on the fly and all. The happy couple at the end (you know, the ones dancing with abandon) were on their honeymoon celebrating. There was also this really old couple (they had to be in their 80s) on the dance floor (unfortunately you can't see them on the tape). They were so perfectly matched and lovely to watch. Warmed my heart that cold winter's night.

The Vatersay Boys are from the far southern isles of Barra and Vatersay and describe themselves as "five piece band playing traditional music with passion." One article I found said "...they have been creating a stir of madness and mayhem throughout the Western Isles and much further afield." Well, the "madness and mayhem" (what??) sounds a bit overstated :)), but I guess to a more sedate ceilidh dance crowd the Boys might be rough and rowdy. But I am no one to comment on ceilidhs (R. Stornoway pretty much blows his cork opinionating on the modern idea of ceilidhs). I just think The Vatersay Boys are fun.

Well, ok. I'll 'fess. There was a night we danced until the last song was sung. It was our darling niece's wedding not the ceilidh dance with Mairi's Wedding. It was not at The Ferry in Glasgow, but under the Rotunda dome in San Francisco. The band was not The Vatersay Boys, but a high end SF band which are probably famous. However, some of what I wrote was true. Nanci's husband wasn't there and I don't have a man, so yes she and I did dance together. (We also danced with the groom's buddy who had a certain appreciation of older women.) And we did laugh a whole lot and we did have a great time. And it could have been at The Ferry and it could have been the music of The Vatersay Boys, but it wasn't.

50 years in exile - The Dalai Lama

http://www.youtube.com/userLukaBloomVideos

As I Waved Goodbye - Luka Bloom

There's an ancient place, it's a city of grace
Where I lived as in a dream
Where the elders prayed and the children played
By the mountainside and stream

As I waved goodbye from the riverside
It was too much to take in
I could see the place, and imagine the face
Of the young Tibetan God-King

It's a bad old wind, should no good begin
From a hurt that has been done
When the line was crossed and the land was lost
Oh, the holy exiled ones

As I waved goodbye from the riverside
It was too much to take in
I could see the place, and imagine the face
Of the young Tibetan God-King

I can hear the cry of the geese that fly
Between the mountain and the moon
And the flags that blow in Himalayan snow
Are carried like a haunting tune

As I waved goodbye from the riverside
It was too much to take in
I could see the place, and imagine the face
Of the young Tibetan God-King

whiskey in the jar - x2

St.Paddy's Day is coming......
The original (Luke Kelly/Dubliners) and Thin Lizzy (Gary Moore and Eric Bell) versions. Love them both.


http://www.youtube.com/kellyoneill


http://www.youtube.com/Snegovic

Luke Kelly - Whiskey in The Jar
As I was going over the far famed Kerry mountains
I met with Captain Farrell and his money he was counting
I first produced me pistol and I've then produced me rapier
saying stand and deliver for you are a bold deciever

Chorus:
musha ring dooram doo dooram da,
whack fol my daddy o
whack fol my daddy o
there's whiskey in the jar

I counted out his money it made a pretty penny
I put it in my pocket and took it home to Jenny
she sighed and she swore that she never would deceive me
but the devil take the woman for they never can be easy

Chorus

I went into my chamber for all to take a slumber
I dreamt of golden jewels for sure it was no wonder
but Jenny drew me charges and filled them up with water
then sent for Captain Farrell to be ready for the slaughter

Chorus

It was early in the morning just before I rose to travel
up comes a band with footmen an likewise captain Farrell
I first produced me pistol for she'd stolen away my rapier
but I couldn't shoot the water so a prisoner I was taken

Chorus

There's some take delight in the carriages a rollin
and others take delight in the hurling and the bowlin
but I take delight in the juice of the barley
and courting pretty fair maids in the morning bright and early

Chorus

If anyone can aid me it's me brother in army
if I can can find his station in Cork or in Killaney
and if he'll go with me we'll go roaming in Kilkenny
and I'll sure he'll treat me better than my own disporting Jenny

Chorus

Gary Moore and Eric Bell
As I was going over the Cork and Kerry mountains
I saw Captain Farrell and his money he was counting
I first produced my pistol and then produced my rapier
I said "stand and deliver or the devil he may take you"

Chorus:
In the rain, you might do, you might die, yeah-yeah
Whack for my daddy-o
Whack for my daddy-o
There's whiskey in the jar-o

I took all of his money and it was a pretty penny
I took all of his money, yeah, and I brought it home to Molly
She swore that she loved me, no, never would she leave me
But the devil take that woman, yeah, for you know she tricked me easy

Chorus

Being drunk and weary I went to Molly's chamber
Taking Molly with me, but I never knew the danger
For about six or maybe seven, yeah, in walked Captain Farrell
I jumped up, fired my pistols, and I shot him with both barrels, yeah

Chorus

Now some men like the fishing and some men like the fowling
And some men like to hear, to hear the cannonball a-roaring
Me I like sleeping, especially in my Molly's chamber
But here I am in prison, here I am with a ball and chain, yeah

Chorus

Whiskey in the jar-o, yeah

In the rain, you might do, you might die
In the rain, you might do, you might die, hey
In the rain, you might do, you might die
In the rain, you might do, you might die, yeah

American Self-loathing

http://www.youtube.com/sofievm
(sound is out of sink with the visual, but no matter)

Another reason why I love Luka Bloom :)

Open up your arms
Let the healing begin
For those of us still standing
Let some light shine in
Shine on your hopeless days
Shine on your raging nights
Shine on the slip of a dream
Give us all new lives

Cry, and be still
Cry, cry the bitter tears
For the stolen years
Let's learn love songs
Sweet love songs

Songs that don't deny
What has been and done
Songs that throw some light
On each and everyone
Songs that reach across
Divides and barricades
Songs that civilize
And promise brighter days

Cry, and be still
Cry, cry the bitter tears
For the stolen years
Let's learn love songs
Sweet love songs

Songs that celebrate
When nothing has been won
Songs that agitate
For lives that might be fun
Why not? Why not?
Reach out and be a star
Why not? Why not?
We have come this far

Open up your arms
Let's learn love songs
Open up your arms
Let's learn love songs
Open up your arms
Let's learn love songs
Open up your arms

These thoughts follow Luka's lyrics because I figured if anyone from those dots on the map decided to scroll down the page this far, you have at the least, a curious mind. Anyway, at the risk of opening myself up to god-only-knows-what (thus posting this with a degree of trepidation), I propose the following because dammit, it matters. (I just 'finished' The Stornoway Way and it was fuckininspiring (profanity just applies) and those who have read it know what I am talking about, and those who have not picked up the book, do it. It is one of the most authentic and amazing works of art and life ever written. Pure genius.)

I never intended this little blog o'mine to be a tedious and boring political platform, or the rantings and ravings of some cranky malcontent. Others are much better at, and relish in, such writings. It's not my thing to be preachy or assume anyone gives a rat's ass/arse about my opinion. I would rather sing some songs. :)

That being said, my home is the U S of A. I am American born and bred, and despite all that is wrong, I still believe in my country. We come from every podunk corner of the world, every religious belief or non-belief, every language, every culture/background imaginable, you name it, we have it, we are it - our identity (if we have one) is as mixed up as we are. We are bits and pieces of everyone. Cohesiveness is an insanely ridiculous task. We are a very young, massive and powerful country and we make a lot of mistakes, many with profound consequences.

The Land of the Free and Home of the Brave is a mess and hated world wide. True. I see anger written about my country on the internet and it makes me sad. Americans are perceived as ignorant people who believe their shit don't stink. The thing is, we don't need others to hate us because we have plenty of self-loathing to go around. We hate us too. We like our neighbors, friends... and we love our country but we hate the collective us.

NPR's Dick Meyer explores all this self-loathing in his book Why We Hate Us: American Discontent in the New Millennium . You can check out an August 2008 podcast of him reading from his book at http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=93583575

There is a general negative feeling about the way we collectively behave. We hate the obnoxious, selfish, greedy, narcissistic, self righteous, rude, boorish, and belligerent bad behavior (especially in our leaders and celebrities - so called roll models). Our culture represents the worst of us, not the best. Where are the sources where we find meaning in life? TV shows, commercials, just marketing in general totally screws with values with false and phony pictures of happiness. It is absurd to think contentment is related to what toothpaste one uses or what cracker you eat or what car you drive! Turn on the TV any time of the day or night, and you will see bad behavior glorified and human misery considered entertainment.

In many ways we have lost sight of what is authentic. We lack confidence and trust in our leaders (in politics, industry, judicial system...) to effectively and sanely solve problems. In 8 short years, a bully and his buddies told bald faced lies, started a war, killed needlessly and ran this country into the ground. Electing Obama is just one step in the right direction. Why have we not demanded more of our media, politicians, Wall Street, Madison Avenue, the clergy....?

Why, with the massive increase in material well-being since WWII are we so discontent? 'Stuff' does not translate to real and lasting happiness. Meyer partially points to the loss of community since the social changes in the 1960s as a huge factor. Unlike just a generation ago, we willingly choose to move about and away from family - we no longer live in stable generational communities. Living amongst the familiar has it's own downfalls, but living among strangers makes one so very much alone and frankly, nutty. Warm human relationships are essential to happiness. ("...this is why we're here: human warmth..." Ah, there it is on page 210 in Kevin MacNeil/R. Stornoway's book - god love him!) Without warm human relationships, people have looked to the tv box and it's kin for companionship and guidance, and have bought into a false source of values.

The obnoxious and the loud are the news worthy. Not so visible are my countrymen who love and respect the planet and all the people, plants and animals on it. Many make conscious efforts to help those less fortunate, to make positive change, to tread lightly on the earth, and live within their means, but they go about it quietly/behind the scenes. And even the well meaning get sucked in to the madness, into the very seepage of the crap we despise. It is pervasive and so hard to escape. And I too am guilty.

There is no viable alternative to concrete changes. At the risk of sounding simplistic, we have to first be aware of and acknowledge where we are and how we got this way. Some folks' eyes need to be opened up to see the big picture. Cause and effect on a global scale. We don't live in a bubble! One only has to look at the very real economic crisis to see how actions profoundly affect the entire world. I am not sure we can stop the media machine, but we can control how it affects our individual lives. I am not the only one who is fed up. There is a shift in what we demand from our leaders - we have to also demand more from ourselves. Not buy into the garbage on tv and speak up against it. Teach our children real values and to be kind in every sense. Reach out. Forgive (I for one, have no room in my heart for hate) and move forward.

One person at a time. Perhaps one song at a time. :)

Love-making in St. Kilda

March was supposed to be all about Ireland, but you know what Robbie Burns would say about the best laid plans......


Views of Saint Kilda set to Oran Am An Iasgach
Sung by young Lewis Gaelic singer Calum Alex MacMillan. Music as soothing as this does not need translation. (Calum Alex is also in Daimh, a super talented and fun Gaelic pipe and fiddle band. There is some California connection with Daimh which someday I will investigate.)

I usually sleep like a baby. Fresh air coming in the opened window, comfy bedding, dog softly snoring, all's well. Not tonight. So, while the rest of my world slumbers, I have swaddled myself in a blanket and sit at the computer to find some of that Scottish poetry I am so fond of. After a bit of pecking on the net, I found the poem Love-making in St. Kilda by Donald Murray from his work The Dark Horse (Winter 07-08). Murray is from Ness in the Isle of Lewis. Not long ago I shared the story of Ewan Gillies (I forgot at the time to mention the St. Kilda Tapes), so the poem is a welcomed friend, wonderfully light and beautiful.

When a man makes love to a St. Kildan woman -
Her moans and sighs are like the cries of birds......

It can read in its entirety at http://www.spl.org.uk/best-poems/017.htm

An Gorta Mór - The Great Famine

My Irish family has been frequenting my thoughts of late. Correspondingly, Luka Bloom’s songs play in a continuous loop in my head. That man is something else! I have 3 of his CD’s and love each one. Much to my one son’s chagrin, his mother has to learn the songs as well. The melodies move into my son just like osmosis. Without effort or thought he can easily quote Black is the Color (well, it’s actually a Scottish song) and City of Chicago. I am completely in love with the sound and lyrics and can’t quite get enough.

I have written much about my love for the small branch of my Mother’s family from the Hebrides. They are special in a way my words fail to describe. The rest of her people are from beautiful and awe inspiring Ireland. For more centuries than I can comprehend, their feet were on Irish soil. They had a strong and ancient culture - chiefs of note and clan leaders. Ireland was home - it was everything.

Ancient Ireland was divided into four Provinces: Ulster in the north, Leinster in the east, Connaugth in the west, and Munster in the south. My family came from both north and south. The Heaneys (O’hEighnighs) were from the old kingdom of Oriel which merged with Ulster in the 12th century. The Callaghans (O’Ceallachains) were from Munster. The Reilleys and Gallaghers were most likely from the northern Ulster region. Nowadays my family surnames are everywhere.

I cannot blog about them without first mentioning the events that changed everything. My family and their countrymen were the Disposable People. We have all heard of the Irish Potato Famine (1845-1852). For the millions of us of Irish descent, the Great Famine/An Gorta Mór is not just some period of time to be studied in a world history course and then forgotten. It is the very real history and tragedy of our family. In a nutshell, the blight invaded and spread and destroyed the crops, the main source of food. Things just compounded and worsened. Unable to pay the rents they were evicted from their homes and had to live out in the elements. There were outbreaks of cholera and typhus. One could stay and die of starvation, disease, freezing cold... or board the ships and immigrate to America. (Yes, America held out her arms to those who desperately needed her.) It was not much of a choice.

Their skin was literally hanging on their bones. Death was all around. Life was bleak. With just the clothes on their backs, they boarded the coffin-ships not knowing what the future held. Perhaps their children would survive the voyage, perhaps not. Hope was all they had.

Much has been written about the response from the government to this crisis. Although the potatoes were completely ruined, other sources of food existed but were not made readily available. Food aid was eventually sent, but one had to purchase the grain. And how exactly were these poor souls supposed to come up with money to do so? In the end, a million lie dead and a million immigrated. Ireland’s population was decreased by an unbelievable 1/3.

Time does help us heal. But for many, the genocide of Ireland’s people continues to be a sore and open wound. I for one, have no room in my heart for hate. Forgive yes, for those who failed to feed are long dead. But forget, no.

They may have been disposable, but they survived and thrived and built a new home in America. In the history of my family, it has been but a drop in the bucket of time since they arrived. For me, I am happy to focus on the truly inspiring strength of the human spirit of the Irish immigrants - my family of whom I am so proud. We will continue to sing and teach our children the songs from Ireland. Their legacy is alive and well.



Luka Bloom - City of Chicago/Cathair Mhór Chicago
Sung in Irish Gaeilge. The piece at the beginning is from "The field" with Richard Harris and Sean Bean. (written by John B Keane)
http://www.youtube.com/96cambridge

Thiar i gcathair mhór Chicago,
Is an oích' ag dul faoi scáth,
Tá daoine ann ag smaointiú,
Ar na sléibhte i nDún na nGall.

An tráth sin, lár na haoise,
Le linn an Ghorta Mhóir,
Pianta gránna ocrais --
D'imigh milliún lán le deor'.

Gan saibhreas ar a n-intinn,
Gan ghlóir ar bith taobh thiar,
Ag streacailt 'is ag caoineadh,
Báid Bhána ar an mhuir.

Thiar i gcathair mhór Chicago,
Is an oích' ag dul faoi scáth,
Tá daoine ann ag smaointiú,
Ar na sléibhte i nDún na nGall.

Ar roinnt acu bhí saibhreas,
Roinnt eile, clú is cáil,
Bhí anró ann gan ghearán,
Is cailleadh ar an máigh.

Ag siúl ar fud na tíre,
'S ar bhóithre iarainn leo,
Ag scaipeadh cheol a gcroíthe,
'Tabhairt sochair dá gcuid bróin.

Thiar i gcathair mhór Chicago,
Is an oích' ag dul faoi scáth,
Tá daoine ann ag smaointiú,
Ar na sléibhte i nDún na nGall.

..hear the porridge bubblin' ...

The time is right to pay respect to my Irish family roots, many of whom were from the land around Donegal County.

Jim McKee performing Homes Of Donegal (http://www.jimmckee.ie)
Adapted from lyrics by Seán MacBride around 1955.
Melody much older - 150 years or so.
Paul Brady performs this as well and he's wonderful, but I rather like this young man Jim McKee, who also plays in the White Hare Band.



Missing verse:
To see your homes at parting day of that I never tire,
And hear the porridge bubblin' in a big pot on the fire.
The lamp alight, the dresser bright, the big clock on the wall,
O, a sight serene, celestial scene, in the homes of Donegal.

Over across the sea, they eat a dish called porridge. I am pretty sure it’s a general catch-all term for hot cereal, but I could be wrong. Porridge is a word we see in books (Jane Austin’s characters eat porridge) and stories (Goldilocks ate porridge) and in old nursery rhymes (please porridge hot, please porridge cold) originating from England. But porridge is just never ever used in American English language. If I asked my sons if they would like a bowl of porridge, they would look at me sideways and say I was taking my interest in the old country a bit too far. And I would be hard pressed to disagree. Americans use the phrase a bowl of oatmeal, or bowl of Cream of Wheat.

In the American South they eat a hot cereal called grits or hominy. Grits are coarse grains of dried corn kernels. The texture is well....gritty, but the taste is somewhat palatable if you doctor it up. The First Americans made grits and taught the recipe to the settlers. Grits are only marketed in the South. California was once 'owned' by Mexico so we have a lot of Mexican heritage/culture. Grits are pretty much the same thing as masa, with masa being ground a bit finer. Tortillas and tamales are made from masa, which in my opinion is how grits should be used. On a side note, if someone tells you to “kiss my grits” it’s not a good thing. After commenting on their hot cereal of choice, some Southerner might just say such to me! :)

By whatever name, it’s a perfect rainy day meal regardless of which side of the sea one calls home. I would be very interested in learning how the Scottish and Irish cook their porridge. There are many variations, but here’s my basic recipe for one serving.

Cook your oats or Cream of Wheat in a bit less water, or milk than usual. Personally I think runny oats are kinda yucky and the butter some people add is completely unnecessary. Use whatever type of oats you have in the cupboard (rolled, stone cut...).

I keep a bag of unsweetened blueberries (grown up in Washington State) in my freezer. Some people prefer the pretty little wild blueberries, but the larger sized blueberries are just fine. We have a warehouse store called Costco and they sell everything in large quantities and at very low prices. Take some blueberries (1/2 cup or so) and nuke them until they are warm and juicy. Don’t fret about the berries if a few turn to liquid. Remember, you decreased the amount of liquid used in cooking the oats. Blueberries have the best antioxidant properties, but of course you could use blackberries or raspberries. Wild blackberries grow locally along the moist riparian zones and are best eaten right off the vine. :)

I like to add just a smidgen of raw organic blue agave nectar. Yes, from the same agave plant as tequila but without the kick. I visited a tequila “factory” in Mexico years ago. Factory just meant a shed with a fire pit and a press. They heat/cook the huge heart of the plant in the fire, and then extract the pulp in the press, which then gets fermented. The floor was all sticky from the agave juice. The whole process from harvest to finished product is very labor intensive. The agave sweetener is somewhat similar to honey, but is thinner and does not crystallize. It's very nice in a cup of tea. There are different strengths; the dark amber is the most flavorful. It is much sweeter than syrup or sugar so less is needed. Always buy the raw organic. I don’t know if it is available overseas. If anyone wants some, I would be happy to slow-boat over a bottle.

Add a couple tablespoons of unsalted sunflower seeds, or almonds or walnuts. You could roast the nuts first in the oven for a few minutes, but it's not necessary. If you don’t have berries, put in a couple tablespoons of raisins and skip the sweetener.

A word about almonds (actually a seed, but known as a nut). Surrounding my community in addition to rice fields and olive orchards are acres and acres and acres of nut tree orchards – mostly walnuts and almonds. It’s big business and vital to our economy. In the Spring when the orchards are in full pink and white blossom, it's a wonderful site to experience. And the fragrance is so sweet. Harvesting is done by shaking the living daylights out of the tree, until the nuts fall off. Poor little trees, they get quite a beating from the shaker machine. I mention the shaking because it is very significant when one speaks the word almond. Once the nut is shaken off the tree, the letter L is removed or "shaken off" the word. So, one might have an almond tree, but one eats amonds (pronounced with a short a), not almonds. :) I kid you not. It is a surefire way to spot a local from a transplant. Those good-old-boy-growers will give you no respect if you pronounce the L.

Stir it all together. I suppose you could add some milk but the blueberries have plenty of juice for my taste. For a treat, add a tablespoon of dark chocolate chips to your bowl. Yum!

Lon-dubh fly

No two ways about it - I am heartbroken. Julie Fowlis is performing tonight in Berkeley at Freight and Salvage and I cannot go. At this point, the reasons/obstacles no longer matter. The one shining light is that one day she will come back. Next time will be different.


http://www.youtube.com/MRFHM

One time listening to her sing, and I already feel better. Such is the power of song.

...so far from St. Kilda's rocky shore

Ewan Gillies was a real person who left the very remote and beautiful St. Kilda (Hiort - 40 miles west north/west of North Uist). He found gold in California, but....


(St. Kilda was evacuated in the 1930s)

Ewan and the Gold ©Grian Music
Lyrics and Music By Brian McNeill / Back O'The North Wind
Performed by Dick Gaughan
http://www.youtube.com/user/DonegalRaymie201

You caught the line they threw you,
You helped to make her fast
You heard the sailors talking in the rigging
And when the captain said he'd take
Another hand before the mast
You knew you were halfway to the diggings
So you rode the ocean swell
To Bendigo and living hell
In the camps and the creeks of Castlemane
For like a million other souls
You were haunted by the gold
And you'd never know a peaceful day again

And tell me Ewan Gillies did you still believe the dream
When the hard men of Victoria bought and sold you?
When you had to sell the farm that you'd sifted from the seams
Did you curse the tale the sailor laddies told you?
And did you fight against the call of the island
You knew would never hold you?

For all the gold Ewan Gillies ever found
Could not buy him peace or freedom
From the memory of the sound
Of the waves on St Kilda's rocky shore

And when the dream was done
You'd lost your children and your wife
And every single thing you'd ever had
But you told your friends the gold
Was still the centre of your life
And they told you one and all that you were mad
So you wandered through the years
Never stopping once to rue
And St Kilda heard your footsteps as you passed
Old Glory even put you
In a coat of faded blue
Till the older glory claimed you back at last

And tell me Ewan Gillies did you give the Lord your thanks
When he showed you where the gold and riches lay?
Or did you bow your head in prayer on the Sacramento banks
And ask him should you go or should you stay?
And did St Kilda call you home across the mountains
At the dawn of every day?

For all the gold Ewan Gillies ever found
Could not buy him peace or freedom
From the memory of the sound
Of the waves on St Kilda's rocky shore

So once more you made the journey
To that bare and barren land
To end your days among your kith and kin
To a winter when the devil
Held the island in his hand
And the shadow of starvation rode the wind
For it's hard upon St Kilda
For the folk to keep their pride
When every season brings them to despair
And to hear you tell the tale
Of a different ocean's tide
Made their bitter burden harder still to bear

Though they knew you for their own you were forced to stand alone
In a solitude that no one could endure
They made your home a living grave until the bravest of the brave
Was forced to leave the poorest of the poor
So you reached out once again and took hold of
The bonnie golden lure

For all the gold Ewan Gillies ever found
Could not buy him peace or freedom
From the memory of the sound
Of the waves on St Kilda's rocky shore

When first I heard the tale
Of Ewan and the gold
I was filled with bitter anger and with tears
To hear a traveller return
And be shut out from the fold
Drove a shaft into the deepest of my fears
For God made Ewan Gillies
And God gave him wings to fly
But only from the land where he belonged
But I'd fight with God himself
For the light in Ewan's eye
Or with anyone who tells me he was wrong

For there's some who use their dreams to tear themselves apart
And some who never find a dream at all
But how many find the courage to look deepest in their hearts
To find a dream they can follow till they fall
And when my heart cries out to wander I can hear him
Answering the call

For all the gold Ewan Gillies ever found
Could not buy him peace or freedom
From the memory of the sound
Of the waves on St Kilda's rocky shore

And on the island the greatest story ever told
It was always Ewan Gillies,
California and the gold
So far from St Kilda's rocky shore

To a Mouse

Scotland's favorite son Robert Burns would be 250 years old this year, so there is a lot of buzz about the dear man. And for good reason! He was a prolific and gifted writer/philosopher whom we continue to admire and respect; one of Scotland's literary treasures. Hopefully all the hoopla surrounding the anniversary of his birth will spark a renewed interest in his poetry beyond Scotland, as well as bring some tourist money to their country.

On a side note, I read there is a feature film in the works on the life of Robert Burns and apparently Gerald Butler is playing the lead. No offence to Butler who is a fine actor (like the character Christine I was completely taken by him in the Phantom of the Opera), but he's just too over the top Hollywood handsome for the part. Butler does not have to say a word for one to want to jump his bones. It's distracting (albeit in a nice way) and completely misses the core essence of Rabbie Burns. Burns was a nice looking man yes, but it was WHAT he said and HOW he said it that reaches women even in the year 2009. Burns "dearly lov'd the lasses, O" but he was so much more than a poet chasing skirts as he is often portrayed. My pick to play him would be James McAvoy, who is perhaps the best actor of his generation. McAvoy has amazing depth and believability and physically just looks more like Burns. (I was completely smitten, as I think all women are regardless of age, by James McAvoy in Becoming Jane.) Perhaps they offered him the role and he wasn't available. Too bad. It is a cinematic movie after all, not a documentary, so they will undoubtedly focus on Burns' womanizing and not on his amazing writing. I do not envy Gerald Butler, as he has big shoes to fill so I will get off my soap box and wish him well.

But I digress...to my main reason for this post.

To A Mouse presented by David Sibbald of www.robertburns.plus.com set to photos of Scotland. (Seeing the Twin Towers and aftermath rubble is a bit heartwrenching.)



It helps to read along. :))

To A Mouse by Robert Burns
On turning her up in her nest with the plough, November 1785.

Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty
Wi bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murdering pattle.

I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth born companion
An' fellow mortal!

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request;
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss't.

Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's win's ensuin,
Baith snell an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!
Now thou's turned out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld.

But Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!

Still thou are blest, compared wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But och! I backward cast my e'e,
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!

At first glance and beyond, the old Scots dialect is a foreign language difficult to dicipher, but it is also oddly somewhat familiar. Once you get accustomed to the sound, it flows so beautifully and you cannot imagine Burns' poetry written or spoken any other way. Professor Stacy explains this insightful poem for those of us who speak in American dialect. His lecture is wonderful as I think even Scots would agree.



Ok, so on a much less serious note, and because I really, really, really love a good laugh, here's Craig Ferguson:

The Master Boat Builder and the Rose

Since the same master Hebridian boat builder has shown up three times, it is only fitting to make note. I guess I should have expected to find familiar names and such (e.g. the poem The Scarecrow twice referenced, the lynch-man Patrick Seller...) while doing research of a sparsely populated area, but it still feels a bit strange when it happens. Strange in a nice sort of way. Leslie Riddoch writes about him in her book, but then she interviewed lots of local people as she bicycled across the Outer Hebrides so I did not fully appreciate his significance.

In one of my favorite books so far, The Sea Room, Adam Nicolson writes extensively about the kindness of his friend the shipwright. Designing and building the perfect boat for Nicolson was not such a big stretch. Mentoring an outsider like Nicolson was quite another thing. As Nicolson sailed out from the bay into the unsettling waters of the Minch, "there on the headland by the Norse seamark, a tall, lichened stone pillar, stood a man. He was waving to me. I waved back, and then I realized. It was John MacAulay. He must have run a half a mile to get there...this was his farewell, a shipwright saying goodbye to his boat." (at pg. 25) Generations have sailed and navigated the challenging waters off the east coast of Lewis. Generations of respect. I had to stop and put down The Sea Room and thumb through Riddoch's book. Yes, it was the same person. And now, while looking up a completely unrelated article about some ancient bones recently uncovered in a kist, who should I run across but the very same man. He would be John MacAulay of Harris.



Rotting away on the shore of Valtos Harbor, on the east coast of Lewis, was one of the last remaining original Western Isles "double-enders", the Rose. Some ninety years old. The local historical society rescued her and who else but Mr. John MacAulay has the pleasure of restoring her. Not a difficult decision - who better to put your trust in to do the job right, but in the hands of MacAulay. It is a testament to the fine craftsmanship of the original boat builder the Rose survived at all. It will be a testament in another 90 years to the craftmanship of MacAulay in preserving this treasure.

The Rose will never again carry wet seaweed or peat or sheep. I can only hope they will celebrate the restoration by putting her in the water once again.



The Only Rose (Runrig)

Between the shifting shadows
In the no-man's zone
There's a bar at the end of the street
Some poor country music
One or two sixties songs
This is the place where the night owls sleep

Oh, loneliness
You're a hard earned crust
You're the night at the end of the day
'Cause you pay your dues
On the road you choose
With the price you have to pay

Down the neon aisles
And the twilight miles
Where the world takes comfort in shame
And all I can hear
Is a voice in my ear
And its calling out your name

Still the silence glows
The four winds blow
And a dark moon rising above
To rest by your side
In the heat of the fire
In the sleep of the night of love

When darkness hangs
On the dirty city
Winter falls on a foreign town
And it's all I can do
To be with you
Tonight as the sun goes down
But I would cross
The ocean wide
I'd walk the mighty foam
If I could lie
In your arms tonight
You're the only rose I know

The lovely youtube video of the sea and sky and dancing dolphins and The Rose was pulled off the air. So, here again is the Divine Bette without the scenes.


The Rose
Written by Amanda McBroom
Performed by Bette Midler

Farewell you lonely travelers all

Farewell
lyrics: Richard Thompson
vocals: Mary Black
guitar: Declan Sinnott
bass: Molly Mason
fiddle: Jay Ungar and Aly Bain
electric slide: Jerry Douglas



Farewell, farewell to you who’d hear
You lonely travelers all
The cold north wind will blow again
The winding road does call

And will you never return to see
Your bruised and beaten sons
Oh I would, I would if welcome I were
For they loathe me every one

And will you never cut the cloth
Or drink the light to be
And can you never swear a year
To anyone but we

No I will never cut the cloth
Or drink the light to be
But I’ll swear a year to one who lies
Asleep along side of me

Farewell, farewell to you who would hear
You lonely travelers all
The cold north wind will blow again
The winding road does call

Winter temps in the Isles

Patty Griffith, composer and artist - Rain

We are having an unusually warm winter in my neck of the woods. Global warming I guess. For the past week, day time temps have been around 70°F. Yep, that's not a typo. 70°F. It's Spring in January. The birds are all a twitter. The nights dip down to freezing, but no rain. Zip. Nadda. I feel a bit guilty about enjoying how lovely it is to feel the warmth, when we desperately need rain. A friend of mind drove north past Mount Shasta and she told me the mountain looks bare-just a small amount of snow near the top. A mild storm is expected to come in off the Pacific the day after tomorrow and any precipitation, however small, is welcomed.

Not a day goes by that I don't think of the little Hebridean islands' landscape and weather, as they are so intertwined. Sometimes when I am driving about town the familiar photos come to mind. I wonder what the day holds on the islands. The gray sky and gale force winds, the rain and snow, the surf, the openness.... and the people in the houses scattered about the rocky land. Pretty fantastic and real images. I don't talk about it much, as no one would quite understand.

Today's weather report for Isle of Skye: Mostly cloudy to cloudy in the evening, becoming dense overcast after midnight. Patchy light fog in the evening. A chance of a mix of snow and rain in the evening, then a mix of snow and rain likely after midnight. Low 1°. Wind chill down to -5. Wind west around 25 mph, gusting to 37 mph. Chance of precipitation 80 percent. Precipitation (liquid equivalent) mostly between 5 and 10 mm. Little or no snow accumulation expected.

Skye's weather is famous for being changeable, and I imagine it is pretty much really, really cold throughout the islands. Winter in the Hebrides is serious. And on flat South Uist where my own Margaret lived with no mountain to block the winds off the sea, winter was/is a force to respect. You would not ever think of turning someone away at your door; a visitor might very well stay a while to keep warm and dry. Hence, playing music, singing and storytelling were/are a way of life. One would never send anyone back out into the elements without first a hot cup of tea and a bite to eat (strupak). It is much more than just being polite, it's common sense. The islanders have all the modern electronics, some more than I as I still use rabbit ears, but when a storm takes down your electric power, it's back to board and card games. They are probably the best read people on the planet. And, of course there's gotta be a whole lot of lovemaking going on as well. The schools must have a plethora of birthdays to celebrate in the Fall.

I try to imagine what "Low 1°. Wind chill down to -5" feels like. I suppose it is much like the heat. Hot is hot. Temps can climb to 115°F every summer, but I feel no substantial difference after say, 105°F. It's just hot. One just gets used to the extreme. Perhaps freezing cold is the same. Cold is cold. Hot and cold - opposites but the same. Interconnected. Yin and yang.

Tomorrow the 'dark cloud' lifts from my country. Barack Obama will be sworn in as our 44th President. So many hopes, from all around the world, rest on his shoulders.