Trust Tommy

Today’s post is a guest post from Dad, who reminisces on his own dad (my grandfather) and gardening.

***

All the children’s tales begin with “Long, long ago” or in the Irish Storyteller way “In my father’s time”, so maybe its appropriate that I start some reminiscences about my childhood and my parents in this way.

Yesterday morning “I took a notion” to do some gardening/outdoor work. I have to admit, though, that what I mean by this is not what my father would have called gardening. Nevertheless, I think that if he were still around, he’d approve. It was just a general tidy up outside – sweeping paths, raking stones on the driveway, collecting leaves and pulling grass that grows on the paths (but strangely, is prevented from growing in the lawns by winter frost).

But in his case, gardening was about vegetables. He dug and re-dug the plots allocated to the different vegetables with steady determined ease. It’s not accidental that quite a few of the photos we have of him are with spade in hand.
Why spade? He used both spade and fork for digging. The fork, if the ground had been recently tilled and the “going was easy” but I do remember a lot of use of spade also, probably due to heavy soils which would compact quickly between growing seasons. Also, grasses and weeds – which don’t seem constrained to growing seasons – crept in, requiring the cutting action of the spade to break the ground.
And of course he was a good judge of a spade. I found it intriguing to listen to men used to gardening speak of the qualities of a spade. Lightness of course came high on the list, but also the length and thickness of handle, not to mention size and shape of base which in turn affects the weight of the soil lifted.

In fact, I saw and experienced evidence of the same phenomenon with pitchforks. (For the uninitiated, this is a two pronged fork – or “two grained” as we used to say – used in “saving” hay. Once when I asked one of my sons to bring me the four grained fork from the shed, he asked “why, what other kind of fork is there?” and I, amused, had to explain about the hay fork.)
Making hay the traditional way requires a lot of manpower since, due to the vagaries of Irish weather, time was always of the essence. A “meitheal” of men would come together from neighbouring farms and set about “saving the hay” a term which itself expresses the urgency of the task in hand. When the men would return to work after a break for tea or sandwiches and pick up their forks again, they would do so carefully, picking “their own”. Often it might actually be their own, which they brought with them, but even if not, they would have begun the day measuring the the feel of it – especially its weight and the thickness of the handle – before claiming theirs for the day. I’ve even seen men restart work only to stop, look down and say “this isn’t my fork” and go looking for the “thief” who had theirs.

But back to my father and his spade. It was long handled. None of this modern short ‘D’ top handle… I’ve never quite figured out how one could use this latter short spade for any length of time since it involves bending the back continually. Of equal or even greater importance was the flattened protector part of the base where the foot pressed to drive it into the ground. If this wasn’t flat enough it would hurt the foot, or damage valuable footwear.

I was commenting to Tommy recently how my Dad tried hard but failed to get me interested in vegetable gardening. While I did help him periodically, in particular if anything interesting was being sown, the bug never really bit me and in my mid fifties now, it seems I’m permanently immune. At least to that particular variety of gardening bug. However, alas, a different strain has taken hold and I have found myself looking forward to the simple jobs in the yard and garden and, unlike many people for whom trimming hedges and maintaining lawns is a necessary evil, I actually enjoy it.

Tommy and I were pondering whether it’s an age related condition… “late onset gardening bug”, or the likes but most importantly, he also feels quite immune at this stage of his life. We’ll just have to see how he is in forty years… perhaps medical advances will protect him, but if not, he’ll feel that invisible hand drag him out, and then before you know it, he’ll be reminiscing – “in my father’s time”.

Photo owned by Rev Stan (cc)

One of my earliest memories is John teaching me how a rook moves. I think that I’ve known how to play Chess for maybe 8-odd years. I measured how much I was improving by how easily (if at all) I could beat family members. After a couple of years, late one night into one of our chess marathons; I managed to beat John. After that I started playing Dad until I could beat him. I couldn’t (and still can’t) beat Patrick. Mum didn’t play chess.

Then again, just because you beat someone doesn’t make you better them. Ssshhh, 8-year-old me didn’t know that.

I was on the chess team in my primary school, playing board #4 and sometimes 3. We got to the finals at least one of my two years of playing, if my memory is right. I also played in Limerick mini-competitions throughout the years, even into secondary school.

The main flaw in my playing style was (and still is) the fact that I move too quickly, without looking at other options, often missing opportunities or dangers which would cost me dearly. I’ve tried to fix that as I’ve grown older. Patience in all avenues of life was always an issue, but I survive :)

So many people ask what the appeal of chess is. I think it’s quite simple actually. It’s actually kinda relaxing. Maybe it’s the atmosphere of quietness and being reserved during matches. You settle down and focus on your pieces. You become a general in charge of your forces as you lead them into an epic war against the other player.

Yeah, totally relaxing!

Anyone else got any chess-related anecdotes?

The sunlight was so brilliant that day, you could’ve cut it with a butter-knife. It was June, and I was in the car with John, driving home from a weekend with my cousins. We had just left when John turned on the radio, switching it to CD mode. “I made a new one” he called over the roar of the air passing outside the open windows. Without looking down, he adjusted the volume so that it could be heard. I wasn’t sure what to expect, having recently been introduced to The Blizzards, and not liking them.

Piano playing filled the car, but I quickly realized that this wasn’t a Debussy concert. Before long, drums entered with thunderous energy. The female’s vocals seemed jumpy and restless, but I was sold. The diehard drumming monkey inside of me loved this. The drums weren’t some refined background noise – this band (whoever they were) brought percussion to the forefront. From what I could make out, there were two people in the band – a woman and a man – drums and piano. Their style was incomparable to anything I’d heard before – they certainly weren’t gonna draw any ‘pff, Foo Fighters, Coldplay, Green Day.. they all sound the same’ complaints from my corner. As I write this, over a year and a half later, I still can’t equate them to any band I know, and my music tastes would be a lot broader in 2010 than June, 2008. Then again, how many bands do you know whose genre (as I found out later) was ‘punk cabaret’?.

As we drove through Nenagh — stopping in Dromineer for icecream and a rare good look at Lough Derg — we played through the CD. While each song was different, an underlying style could be felt (rather than heard) throughout the album. Each one shared common elements that you only subconsciously registered. All through the journey, John refused to tell me who they were. I was dying to know – dying to get home, get onto my drums and try and accompany this drumming legend through some of the simpler songs — I could tell even without being near a pair of sticks that this was some of the most impressive drumming I’d ever heard. I made a desperate attempt upon getting into the car in Dromineer to find out the name of this mystery band that would have worked if John hadn’t threatened not to put any of the songs onto my laptop. A grievous threat, and one that made me withdraw my finger from the trigger (uh, CD eject button).

When we arrived home (which took longer than usual because we took the scenic route (for once, not a euphemism for getting lost) back from Dromineer), I badgered John until he copied some songs into my iTunes library. I found out that the band who had received my unrestricted love for the past two hours were none other than The Dresden Dolls.

I quickly set to work on learning the drums. I credit the band for being the single biggest influence on my style and also the one that’s taught me the most. Tommy’s Dresden Dolls addiction became fodder for family slagging (I ate, slept and breathed them) but in an ironic twist of fate, I’m the only one out of myself, John and Patrick never to have seen them perform live.

As with most of my obsessions, it fizzled out in the end — although it did last for a good 8 months. Through Spotify, I’ve become reacquainted with them over the last week or so, and they continue to bring forth fond memories from the depths of my subconscious. If you ever meet me and I seem to have a vacant smile on my face, I’m probably thinking about that afternoon in June, 2008.

Dresden Dolls Day, anyone?

Except that I was never the world’s number 1 fan of U2. Sure, they’re okay, but best band ever? Nah mate.

The song brings me back a few years to when we lived in Tipperary. During one summer, John got his first Apple desktop machine and I started with a new physio. Hardly a fair pairing but whatever :) This particular physio had an expansive music collection, and for the time that I saw her for the summer months once a day, I’d borrow a CD, copy it to iTunes on the iMac, which John had agreed to let me use. I build up a hefty music collection including most of U2’s stuff.

As I got older, I began realizing that I never listed to half of the music I’d copied over and started deleting this. This also coincided with me finding out my own music tastes and realizing that The Beegees weren’t a part of that. Sorry guys.

That was 5 years ago, and I’ve since been promoted to my own laptop. The iMac is still with us, albeit in a bad form. Someone thought deleting system files was the way forward, so not much works on it. I tried installing Snow Leopard on it but that didn’t work so I have to find a copy of Leopard.

Until that time, a time where any of us have use for it, and are willing to buy a new mouse for it, it resides in the Retirement Home that is the Study, cruelly-yet-humorously named Grandpa Simpson.

Here and here.

The A-Team is getting a silver-screen adaption. One of my favourite childhood TV shows is getting its debut in cinemas everywhere.

The television show, which debuted in 1983, followed a group of Robin Hood-style mercenaries who travelled America helping people in need, usually people in a business in danger of being seriously harmed (never killed, as this was a show aired before the watershed) by rival businesses, and losing their business.

Despite being imprisoned for a crime supposedly committed in Vietnam, the men ‘promptly’ (love it!) escaped prison to the Los Angeles Underground, and from there began helping others in return for a fee. I remember in one episode it being $90,000, and that was about the norm. Pretty hefty.

The show was pretty formulaic. No, it was very formulaic. In a show lasting an hour, even the quarters were mapped out, the first 15 minutes gave the premise – people in need of help and the A-Team showing up, usually after breaking “Howling Mad” Murdock out from the mental institute. The second 15 minutes showed the first run-in the team had with the baddies. The third 15 minutes showed them hatching a plan to save the day, which usually involved building some big machine and B.A using a blow-torch. Finally, the finishing quarter was defeating the baddies, complete with slow-motion shots of the goons being thrown into a dumpster. After that, the US Army would show up, having been tipped off by someone or other, and the A-Team would escape by the skin of their teeth, after receiving their not-altogether-very-nominal fee.

The show’s characters became the subject of cult followings:

Col. John “Hannibal” Smith (played by the late George Peppard), who was the leader of the group, becoming known in popular culture for his cigars, unorthodox but effective plans and his catchphrase “I love it when a plan comes together” (a phrase which Dad still uses sometimes).

Sgt. B. A. Baracus (played by Mr. T, a role which springboarded his career), the grease-monkey of the team, responsible for driving and mechanics. If you open the dictionary and look up ‘badass’, there’s a picture of him. Known for his jewelry, bad attitude and mohawk.

Lt. Templeton “Faceman” Peck (played by Dirk Benedict), was the smooth-talker of the group, responsible for conning people out of the materials or objects needed by the gang, which ranged from wings or clothes to helicopters or tractor engines. Known for being the smooth-talking womanizer and a sneaky bugger to boot.

Finally, Capt. H.M. “Howling Mad” Murdock (played by Dwight Schultz) was the pilot of the group, and the one who was certified insane. Many a time, the premise of the show involved breaking HM out of the mental home where he voluntarily committed himself. Known for his inane ramblings, his imaginary friend Timmy, and not getting on with BA because of his wackyness. Is responsible for my undying love of black converse.

The film has a release date of June 11th (one day after my birthday!). It will star Liam Neeson (one of my favourite actors ever!) as Hannibal, Quinton “Rampage” Jackson as BA, Bradley Cooper as Face and Sharlto Copley as Howling Mad Murdock.

Photo credit: www.slashfilm.com/. From right to left, Cooper as Face, Jackson as BA, Copley as Murdock and Neeson as Hannibal

Alan Silvestri will compose the film score, Joe Carnahan directs while according to writer Michael Brandt, the adaptation will be more in vein of Die Hard, The Bourne Identity, and Casino Royale. Original stars Dwight Schultz and Dirk Benedict have confirmed a cameo, while Mr. T admitted in an interview that he’d turned one down.

*buckles seatbelt* This is looking goooooooooooood! :D

And yes, the film is in 3D. :)

This post, originally posted on February 19th, 2008, less than 2 months into my no-chocolate year. John took it upon himself this year to make me eat chocolate. He failed. In honour of this, and of his efforts, which were undeniably good, here’s a reblog of his most dastardly attempt:

Sit back, relax, and attend the tale of the chocolate shampoo.

Yes. You read that right. Chocolate shampoo.

I finally got up about two hours ago, and hopped in the shower. I reach for the green shampoo but it’s empty. I grab the lynx shampoo and click open the top. I pour some onto my hand and a brown cascade flows onto my hand.

Anyone else would think that’s poo, but you guys know Trust Tommy better then that. No, this is John’s latest (in a string of) attempts to force me to eat chocolate.

I look at it.

No. Impossible. He couldn’t. That’s..

I can wonder all I like, but the truth is that, yeah, John replaced my shampoo with chocolate.

It hasn’t touched my hair of face. It’s merely dripping down my arm.

I close the lid and run the shower again, getting it off. Then I pour half of the chocolate down the drain.

I decide on my method of revenge. I get dressed, grab the bottle and head downstairs. John is innocently eating breakfast.

Nonchalantly, I approach him.

“Funny,” I say, in mock concentration, trying to keep a straight face. “When you buy Lynx shower gel, it’s usual for it to contain gel, right?”

By now, I’m right beside him.

“Yeah” I continue. “I’d be almost certain that’s the case”

John smirks. The smirk is quickly replaced with a look of alarm when I lunge forward and pour the last 1/4 of the bottle’s contents all over him.

Revenge is sweet. Hell yeah!

**

And you know what? He had the cheek to send around a photo essay!

As always, peeps, click for bigger versions

People I never really had.

I read blogposts by different people (mainly from IrishStudentBlogs folks) about their experiences with their grandparents, and I try to imagine what my interaction with mine would have been like. The only grandparent I have living memory of is my mum’s father, and I don’t think he ever left the house while I was alive. We certainly never had the relationship that the movies portray – going fishing, watching Countdown or whatever.

Of course, Patrick and John knew our grandparents longer than I did, what with being older, so they probably know more about them. My only mental picture of them is from what Mom or Dad say about them. I know my dad’s mother was a teacher, and that my mum’s dad built the house they lived in himself, but they’re only small snippets of information – not much.

Because of that, I think that my siblings and I (probably me more than the other two, being younger), sort of ‘adopted’ people in our lives into the grandparent role. My dad’s uncle used to live near us when we lived in Tipperary, and he’d sometimes call up to our house for dinner and he’d tell us of things about his time as a missionary. I distinctly remember thinking that he was a grandfatherly figure – grey hair, thick glasses – a quintessential old person, in my 7 year old eyes.

We also had a ‘grandmother’. She’s married to my dad’s cousin and also lived near us. She was an epic cook, and to this day she always comes to our house around Christmas (it should be soon enough this year, actually) and do a load of baking. It became a sort of tradition around Christmas, which I think is nice, even if I’m not a fan of mince pies. When we lived near her in Tipperary, she’d always be the one who’d mind us if Mom and Dad were away. I always got the feeling that since her kids were practically grown up by the time that we’d be asking her to collect so and so from school, she assumed the role of mother unto us. She was a person willing to take on the role of ‘Mammy’ unfalteringly, when we needed her.

A couple of different things have occurred, which have led to no-one in my life today really assuming the role of ‘grandparent’. Firstly, dad’s uncle passed away a few years back, and since we now live in Limerick, our ‘grandmother’ doesn’t take on many psuedo-mother duties. Also, John and Patrick are now away at college, leaving me effectively an only child. Finally, I’m 15, which means there’s less babysitting and emergency collections from schools needed.

So whenever I read blogposts or hear people talking about grandparents, I often find myself wondering about what might have been…

Today, my Dad was having minor surgery on his hand, which puts it out of action for a while. I decided to go along to the procedure, which was done with only local anesthetic. Partly because I’d never been at a surgery before where I wasn’t the patient and partly because, as I pointed out to the nurses, someone had to hold his hand and squeeze his fingers reassuringly :-)

After waiting in the waiting room for a while, the nurse finally came and found us. I was asked if I wanted to come into the procedure room. I’d never seen a surgery done before from a third-person perspective before, as it were. Yet, I didn’t want to get under anyone’s toes or anything. After responding with a nonchalant ‘well, if I can, I’d love to’, which I hoped didn’t betray the fact that I really wanted to, I was allowed in with Dad.

I never thought of myself as squeamish. I’ve seen enough scars and blood (on House, if nowhere else) to last me a while, and it never seems too bad when you cut yourself – kind of Monty Python, tis-only-a-flesh-wound story. So, as the doctor began the procedure, I felt fine. I didn’t feel faint, or squeamish or anything. In fact, I craned my neck so hard that a nurse commented that he seems to be enjoying watching!. Dad seemed fine too, discussing his favourite running locations with the doctor; listening to their conversation, you wouldn’t think one man was operating on the other. That’s something I’ve noticed about these sorts of professionals, dentists especially. They can work their way around your mouth and still ask you about your son, who must be, what, 3 by now? Why is it so that bus drivers get the sign requesting that they not be disturbed? Dentistry requires more training and a defter hand, I’d imagine. So how come dentists can manage witty banter and any bus driver I’ve seen always has that pained, concentrated face?

It was about the time that Dad was getting the stitches in that I began to avert my eyes, unable to watch the rhythmic in-out-in-out as the needle went back an forth. Yes, that made me squeamish. Sure, my stomach was doing some Swan Lake somersault routine, but I certainly wasn’t faint – I wouldn’t have even called myself sick.. It was more that this particular part discomforted me. We’d even passed the scalpel stage like. Furthermore, this is the kid who spent many a happy evening mesmerized as an awesome scarf was knitted in front of my eyes, and I don’t love that scarf any less than I love Dad. Why was this different?

The nurse, who can probably spot a faint person from 30 paces, asks if I want a drink. I assumed she meant that she’d leave and bring one back, but she meant that I would leave and quietly faint in another room and not worry Dad. (Or so she thought. I was nauseous, but totally conscious). She came over and grabbed me in her pincer-like grip. Keeping a firm hand on me, she led me to what I later found out was called ‘The Armchair Room’ for obvious reasons.

A nice cold glass of water was brought forward, and the nurse sat down beside me. I got the distinct impression that she was engaging me in conversation because she was afraid something awful would happen if I was left quiet, or alone. When any lulls emerged in our conversation, she’d immediately ask another question, probing me to continue talking and remain here and now. I reiterate, I felt fine. Especially after having the water.

We continued small-talking. I found out that she had a kid about my age, who was big into trad music. I told her about drumming, and told her that I was probably the most musical one in the family, because my older brothers were more into computers. I sincerely doubt John or Patrick could be considered ‘more’ into technology, but I was just chatting, not exactly expecting to be taken up on usage hours.

Your brothers… they weren’t the ones who did that software company thing were they?

“Er, yeah, that was them” I smile.

Her face brightens up. “And I only got that from you mentioning that your older brothers were into computers!”

We talk about it for a while (were they really only in secondary school?) and she continues to be in genuine awe. Not about what the two did, although she was mucho impressed about all that – but that she’d managed to guess who they were. Had she seen the name Collison from Dad’s file?

After a while, I was relieved when Dad came out, sporting a bandage, but none of the cool effects of anesthetic. I was planning to use his stupor-ed state to ask for all those things that he’d never agree to normally.

I mean, come on, pizza for breakfast.. how bad can it be?

Life is full of firsts. First day at school, first time riding a bike, first time eating chili so hot you can’t taste anything for a week.

I remember my first day of primary school. It was the one year -ever- that the my brothers were in the same school as me. Patrick had scampered off to the USA by the time I hit secondary school. I remember Mom lining us up in our uniforms outside the house and taking a photo of us. Knowing Mom, she probably has the photo still stored somewhere, I may attempt a rescue mission, and scan it up here. I’m told the 5 year old me looks no different to today’s me, I’ll leave you to judge.

My first time riding a bike is less clear. I recall several attempts at riding without stabilizers. I suppose the first time I remember managing such a two-wheeled feat was in Sligo when I was about 7, possibly even later. I spent the day with Dad and John learning how not to fall off. If my memory serves me right, I had everything down save for stopping, which, in hindsight, seems like a rather large omission on my part of my mentors.

It was never a problem until one evening, when I decided to ride around the estate for a while. John and Dad were busy doing something so I went out on my own. There were some other kids rollerblading around as I blocked out everything except little jerks of the handlebars, left peddle, right peddle, repeat. I remember cycling down a path which intersected with another one, before coming down into the car parking space. I was facing the cars when I glanced up and saw a girl rollerblading down the perpendicular path, and I looked ahead, noticing we’d reach the intersection at roughly the same time, and that would be a nasty collision.

Now, I would say that my 7 year old self saw things slightly differently than they actually were. It wouldn’t surprise me one bit if the girl was in fact 10 feet further back than I thought, and there was never any danger of us colliding unless. Nonetheless, I felt it apropos to yell out ‘WATCH OUT!’ in a highly theatrical voice, like I was some noble super spy giving his life to save the world from total destruction. I flew through the intersection as the girl no doubt looked perplexed at this eejit with a Messiah Complex flew down the path toward the parked cars.

Photo owned by roland (cc)

Oh yes, the parked cars. I glanced up a second time, because, y’know, the first time’d done so much good. I reached for the brake and tried to pull it, but the damn thing was stiff and the adrenaline pumping through had made my hands all slippery. I ended up colliding with this guy’s BMW (at least, I think it was, 7-year-old poetic licence may be at work though). Luckily, I suffered no lasting damage, the girls raised the alarm (once they’d gotten over their fear at this lunatic who crashes into cars, no doubt) and I spent the evening inside with TV and hot chocolate.

And who says chivalry’s dead! :)

The third first, the chili, was actually an olive that John fed me. He knew of my love for olives, and also my dislike of anything even remotely hot, and I ended up drinking half of Limerick’s water supply in one go. It was too late, though. Tommy’s taste buds were gone. Dies irae – dies illa, Kyrie eleison, Yitgadal v’yitkadash, and so on.

Reading over this post, I dunno how I ever managed to ride a bike ever again!

I’ve always loved it. When I was growing up though, I favored Monopoly – I was the shoe and I was going to take all your money in a serious of carefully calculated risky ventures, that was how it worked (in my mind, at least). Unfortunately, there were two problems: Firstly, monopoly games take a long time – if you finish one in 3 or so hours, you’re doing well. Secondly, Mom and Dad always preferred Scrabble. So did John and Patrick, actually, I think it was just a case that they’d give into my ‘Ah go on, just one game’ pleas. John was actually a sneaky player. He’d present you with a property swap that seems fine, and yet two turns later there’s a hotel on Shrewsbury Road and you’re out 2,000€. Oops. And people say I’m crazy when I call him a con man…

Scrabble has a fairly long history with our family, too. When Mom was expecting John, and was in hospital, Dad was with her, leaving Patrick at home with a babysitter. They wanted to play Scrabble together but didn’t fancy going home to collect it because it’d mean having to explain to Patrick that no, they’re not home yet, before leaving again. So, they bought a new set. This was 1990, and we still have that set. We still have both sets, in fact. We added some of the letters together, which makes for interesting games – there are more vowels than usual, causing you to adjust your game style accordingly.

Photo owned by therichbrooks (cc)

Over the past two years, when we’ve gone to France in July (when it was just myself and the parents) we’ve brought the Scrabble with us, and played games over dinner each night. These were an awesome sight to behold – three contestants, barely talking, staring furiously at their racks to try and rearrange XDERFUI into something that could earn them points. These games were ferociously competitive, and many of Mom’s more inventive words were rebuked and disallowed, after checking the Scrabble dictionary.

Do the Collisons ever do anything just for fun?

Doesn’t look like it. Not even Scrabble is safe territory any more.