That Dadblasted Seaweed Song

A few weeks ago following Wednesday evening church service, Duckie and I lingered in the parking lot (as Baptists often do) to discuss our mutual obsession with un-Top 40 music.  Bopping from topic to topic -- Eric Whitacre, Il Divo, The Muppets -- we discovered that we shared a passion for Celtic music. 

"Have you ever heard Dulaman?" he asked, completely unaware that I had been blasting it in my Mazda every morning like a pretentious college kid who blows out his Bose speakers listening to Ben Folds.  Wwwwwow, I'm a dweeb. 

He then proceeded to tell me that he was in posession of a copy of the choral sheet music for the song, complete with pronunciation guide and translation.  He brought it to me the next week, wearing his biggest kid grin like he'd just made his first peanut butter-and-jelly sandwich.  I was moved.  Share your music with me, and I'm your golden retriever for life.

The stupid song is about seaweed. 

Here I was taking cues from the rousing accompaniment and the heart-hammering chants, thinking that the piece was the record of some epic battle or raging love affair.  Nerp.  Seaweed.

"Dúlamán na binne buí, dúlamán Gaelach

Dúlamán na farraige, b'fhearr a bhí in Éirinn"

Which translates:

"Seaweed from the yellow cliff, Irish seaweed

Seaweed from the ocean, the best in all of Ireland"

 

Which begs the obvious question.....  Irish sushi?

Best. Early. Present. Like, EVER.

So, the Queen of Cakes brought me the most bestest Black Friday prize today: a brand-spanky-new DVD Leap Year!  Eek eek, I love you, CuppyCakes! 

I heart this movie because holding it in my hand is like owning everything charming I've ever imagined Ireland to be.  Heck, it's like owning a permenant Irish passport I can keep under my bed like a picture of David Cassidy .  Not to mention that the delicious Matthew Goode who steals every scene he's in with his fiddle-dee-dee, chihuahua-on-yer-duvet wit and those smashing soulful eyes of his.  Om nom nom nom.

Turkey Day with Bob Cox

After much chewing, chatting and tooth-picking, I can reflect upon the past twenty-four hours fondly and call it a drowsing-yet-satisfying success. 

Phrase of the day:  "DON'T TOUCH IT!"  -- attributed my husband's uncle, the original Ouachita Mountain Bobcat, whose actual name shall not be violated in writing.  Not that you couldn't keep a secret; he just likes to go by "Bob Cox" whenever he's in mixed company.  It's his way of "staying off the grid", he says.  Not like drawing a government check diminishes that kind of anonymity, right?  After all, one must always be on guard and prepared for the fall of modern man. 

I somehow, toward the end of the meal, became the designated pie slicer.  Lemon, chocolate meringue, turtle cheesecake, all the stars were out.  Uncle "Bob" leaned over grandma and I, eager to bestow his wheezing breath upon the portions displayed below.  "What can I do fer ya?" I piped in the local brogue.  "Iiiii think I'd like yonder piece of lemon, please," he said, decided only at the last possible second. 

I carefully split the pie, carefully beginning with the DIVINE shortening-laden crust and inching my way toward the precisely-congealed center.  As the piece I had so carefully cut began to lean over and give way to the weight of the meringue on top, I began to reach over and catch the wobbly confection when the Thundering Voice of Zeus hollered:

"DON'T TOUCH IT!"

And now I know better than to stick my clean finger into the man's holiday pie.  The very same man who relocates his sleeping quarters whenever the ticks take over his previous one.

REALLY?

Really.

um, MOUNTAIN LION.

So apparently my early morning walking career is kaput.  Husband-Dear refuses to let me roam far from the house on foot due to the current MOUNTAIN LION problem in Lumberton.

At the little butcher/grocery/hunting gossip hub on the main drag in town, there's a fresh computer-printed picture of the most impressive tooth-and-muscle machine I've ever seen this side of the Ozarks.  Being the kind of town that has grandfathered in permission to host all manner of picturesque herds and horses, you could see why a MOUNTAIN LION could be a cause for concern -- not to mention the sweet, chewable little children who like to play in the road next to the woods around twilight time.

So I guess I'm back to stealing a little stroll time during what brief daylight hours I have to enjoy while unshackled from working normal business hours.  Pleh.  Guess it's back to morning yoga in the library.

City Park, 6:10 a.m.

I awoke this morning to the shocking realization I had actually been asleep.  How utterly refreshing.

Out the door and pounding the pavement at 6 a.m., I watched my breath escape in curling puffs of fog as I ran very, very gently down the road toward the city park. (Gotta watch the knees.)    One of my favorite sights has become the billow of steam rolling off of the sawmill on the edge of town, visible from my front stoop.  It's become a daily reassurance to touch upon.  If logs are rolling, the world's still spinning and everything will inevitably go until it.... stops.

I make it to the park, kick it into gear and cut through a couple of laps, eyeballing my surroundings as I go.  I spot an old-school swingset.  I flick water off the plastic seat with my purple mitten, plop my 28-year-old bum down and fling my legs back with abandon as the sun rises reluctantly.  Creak, creak, creak, creak.  This is the sound of innocence to me.  
 

  

Playlist For Adjusting to New Medication, Part 1

1.  "Fortunate Son" - Creedence Clearwater Revival
2.  "Rainy Day Women #12 & 35" - Bob Dylan
3.  "Dance in the Dark" - Lady Gaga
3.  "Soul Cake" - Sting
4.  "We're Not Right" - David Gray
5.  "California Dreaming"  - The Mommas & Poppas
6.  "Sing Me Back Home" - Merle Haggard
7.  "Landslide" - Stevie Nicks
8.  "Night Fever"  - The Bee Gees
9.  "Get Back"  - The Beatles
10.  "Wild Horses" - The Rolling Stones
11.  That weird Saturday morning Indian music show on the public music station.

"LET'S ROCK!"

A Brief Haiku On Congestion

I sneeze and wheeze and
snot; where is this stuff coming from?
My nose is blown.

"Lumberton", 5:55 a.m.

The acid-ochre sunrise.  The friendly pit bull mix.  The not-so-friendly shepherd mix.  The glowing warmth from the lamps of early-morning trailer dwellers.  Sleepy-eyed drivers at the helm of lazily-turning log trucks.  The fragrant steam from the sawmill.

The unfortunate former cat in the bushes, roadside.  The squirrel that came out of absolutely nowhere.  The security light shadowing the horses' barn.  The aroma of meat smoking at the smalltown grocery. The rustle of umber leaves.  Their syrupy smell as i crush them underfoot.

The calm in my limbs as I climb the next hill. 

When the going gets tough, the tough....knit.

I'm so grateful that it's sweater weather out.  I could knit myself a full-body cocoon and hang in a corner for the rest of the day. 

See mercury falling...

I'm so thankful that the first of November is one of those smoggy-foggy days ripe for the imagination, being thick with memories of Niagra in early June, Arlington Park-in-the-dark, or of Cohen brothers' movies I've visited over and over. 

Autumn is easily my favorite season in Arkansas for its tendency to draw out that perfect mood that proves fertile for songwriting and storytelling.  The frosts and mists and foliage aflame are like God's little compensations for the daylight hours growing shorter.  I'm thankful for such beauty that forces me to stand still in awe of such revelation. 

On the lighter side, Halloween in a struggling milltown is fabulous.  Feeling a bit under the weather, I opted to stay in and get rid of all the extra calories in the house by handing them out to younger hips who could afford them.  And oh, I was richly rewarded!  I was treated to a parade of pirates, princesses, razorbacks, angels, demons, baby demons and two precocious young souls dressed as Axl Rose and Slash.  The only hand that could've beaten that for my money would've been Mic Jagger and Keith Richards.  But who sells candy cigarettes anymore, eh?