by Alice Taylor
Then back to business. Hard to believe that I am a regular reader of books on feng shui, which is the art of decluttering. One of the little gems that I’ve learnt is the necessity to have a container on hand when sorting: you need a deposit box for things that must not return from whence they came. So, to be sure to be sure, I placed a large box beside the table. Into this would go contributions for the hospice, which has a collection point at the end of the village. I tried to apply the ‘when in doubt throw it out’ strategy rather than the ‘that could come in handy someday’ philosophy. At the end of the sorting, the hospice box was almost full, but I still had a miscellaneous collection of no-fixed-abode articles. This is the rock on which you could wither when decluttering, so before the Scrooge in me surfaced, I caught them all and landed them into the box.
Then began the big return. The press was cleaned out, polished and lined with special lavender-scented drawer liners. There was a lot of depositing and withdrawing while I worked out the best location strategy: the Christmas section, the garden section, the posh-use section, the non-iron section. Then the place mats, greatly reduced, and the thinned-out tea cosies. As the press began to fill up, it took on the look of a nun’s cupboard. I felt my halo settle firmly over my head.
Tidying a press is good for mind and body. The feng shui experts tell us: tidy your house, tidy your mind. Begin with just one drawer and make a good job of it. The rest will follow on. My mother had the philosophy that if you were having a bad day or if the day was wet and dismal you should tidy a press for therapy. She had never heard of feng shui, but, wise woman that she was, she had figured it out for herself.
Another plus to press tidying, which you will not find in any feng shui book, is that it is a wonderful colonic cleanser. All the bending and stooping is great for irrigation purposes! When the press is done, you finish up with a clean mind, a clean colon, plus the clean press! As I viewed my tidied press, wallowing in a glow of self-satisfaction, I determined that it would never again slide back into its former state of confusion. But it probably will …
Chapter 3
Goodbye, Kate
and Lolly
The day we buried Kate was an overcast, miserable day. The sky lay like a sodden grey sheet over Innishannon. Paddy, my good friend and neighbour, already had the grave dug when I climbed up the stone steps into his hilltop garden. All was shrouded in a clinging mist, and raindrops slithered off the overhanging trees onto the freshly dug brown mound of heaped earth. The grave was deep, short and solid and in an odd way strangely comforting. This was to be Kate’s last resting place. Going down into the red earth of Farnagow overlooking the village would be her final journey.
We went across the yard to the grain barn where we had laid Kate’s body the previous night on coming home from the vet. When we opened the door, the rich smell of newly milled grain encompassed us. Paddy carried her across the yard and up the steps in the tartan blanket that Gavin, the vet, had wrapped her in the previous night. Over my arm I had a big old Kerry Woollen Mills blanket belonging to Aunty Peg, who in her day had loved dogs.
We transferred Kate into the Kerry blanket and wrapped her up firmly. She seemed to have grown in death, and her long limbs, that in life were fluid and flexible, now extended rigidly. We eased them in against her body and wrapped the blanket around her. Then Paddy lowered her gently down into the deep, short grave and shovelled the soft brown earth in over her. Gradually the blanket disappeared and the earth formed a second blanket. Slowly the earth drew level with the green turf. She was resting beside her lifelong companion, Lolly, who had been laid to rest under the same rowan tree a few months earlier.
Ten years before, Kate and Lolly had bounded into my world full of youth, exuberance and the joys of life. They were large dogs, jet-black and breathtakingly beautiful. Their stance alone breathed fine lineage. Lolly, with her upright, elegant head and long, widespread, muscular legs, had the bearing of a mountaintop deer. Kate had the typical Doberman hump, but nonetheless bore the look of well-bred superiority. These were two ladies of substance with blue blood flowing through every vein, and papers to match.
At the time, I was battered and stumbling along the grief road after a sudden family death and trying desperately to rebuild my broken world. As if sensing my vulnerability, Kate and Lolly immediately took charge of the house and garden. By day they patrolled the yard and garden, quickly establishing the whole area as cat- and rat-free zones. Come darkness, they retired to the kitchen and stretched out in their baskets by the Aga. At the first indication from me that bedtime was approaching, they headed for the back door and scoured their outside territory for unwelcome guests.
On returning indoors, Lolly headed for the stairs and settled into her overnight resting place outside my bedroom door while Kate, having inspected the upstairs corridors, took up her station inside a front bedroom window from where she surveyed the village street. A few hours later, she could be heard thumping down the stairs to her bed by the Aga. By then she had satisfied herself that the upstairs territory was to her satisfaction, so she handed responsibility for that area over to Lolly and went downstairs to her own territory. Kate was the older of the two and the boss.
Over the following months, they inadvertently introduced me to my strongest weapon in coping with grief. Because Dobermans have in their breed greyhound genes, they are constantly on the move and prone to racing, simply for the sheer joy of the speed involved. The result was that in a short time they turned my fine lawns into ploughed fields. Drastic gardening action was required. The lawns had to go! They had to be dug up and replaced by meandering flower beds and wandering paths, all of which had to be immune to destruction from two large, energetic dogs in full flight.
So began the Big Dig, during which I discovered the amazing healing power of digging the earth. During the following months, the dogs and I transformed the garden. As the lawns disappeared, the constant digging calmed and sustained my spirit. Plants that previously had to restrain themselves in limited space were now able to stretch out in a new-found liberty. Gravelled runways were laid down along Kate and Lolly’s already formed paths, which resulted in a criss-cross maze of unplanned pathways which moved in a series of unexpected twist and turns, resulting in a far more interesting garden than previously. It was a dog-designed garden! Garden furniture had to be of the solid variety or it would otherwise be upended by dogs in flight. One day, Kate and I happened to be at the top end of the long, sloping garden, when something down at the bottom end caught her attention and she took off, literally sailing through the air like a deer in full flight over shrubs, steps – anything in her way. It made me realise what a powerful animal she was. She tried to dominate Lolly, and when she went a step too far I had to intervene as arbitrator, with the kitchen brush as a threat. To her credit, she never challenged my authority and always backed down without even a growl in my direction.
When a visit to the vet for their annual injections came around, Paddy, who is a farmer, would come with his van and they would jump on board. They loved Paddy, who often told me that if reincarnation was a reality he wanted to come back as Kate and Lolly, as he believed they had the Good Life. On arrival at the veterinary clinic I was always glad of the notice instructing owners to bring their cats in a basket and dogs on a lead, otherwise I feared a bloodbath in the waiting room. Kate and Lolly did not like cats or small dogs, and we always had to hold them firmly under control with strong leads. However, to my relief, they invariably ignored the waiting clientele as if they were beneath their attention. And when Gavin, the vet, opened his surgery door, they paraded into his inner sanctum like military veterans and took their injections like old soldiers. He always remarked how amazingly docile they were for such formidable-looking dogs.
Over the years, Kate and Lolly became part of the fabric of our home and family, and everyone loved them. They gloried in all the love and attention and were part of every family gathering. For Christmas parties they sported two brigh
t red collars with two big red bows. Once the winter fire was lit in the ‘seomra ciúin’, as we call our family room, they abandoned their baskets by the Aga and stretched out in front of the fire. In full stretch they covered such a large section of the floor that we had to step carefully over and around them.
Then a family event came to test them in a new way. A baby grandchild arrived on the scene, and, as the parents were awaiting the completion of their new house, which was just around the corner, they moved into Kate and Lolly’s domain. We all watched developments with caution. Kate and Lolly were mildly curious, but no more. When, however, little Ellie got on her feet and toddled around them, they were at first a little nervous and bemused, and then gradually accepting. As Ellie grew firmer on her feet, a loving bond formed between her and the two dogs, and they shared the same floor space. When eventually they all made it together out into the garden, Ellie learned to stand back in case Kate would suddenly take off and knock her sideways. One of Ellie’s first sentences was to declare, ‘Kate is rough.’
Lolly was Ellie’s favourite, as indeed she was mine. She was a gentle, loving, docile dog and maybe the fact that Kate was inclined to dominate her made me more protective of her. Suddenly, in midsummer 2014, Lolly developed a lame leg, which necessitated a visit to Gavin, who prescribed medication. When, after a week the leg had not improved, he advised an X-ray and further investigation. There was something in his demeanour that alerted me to the fact that he felt that all was not well with Lolly.
When the phone call came, the news was bad. Lolly had a cancerous tumour in her hip joint, and the bone was in a bad way. It was up to me to decide on a course of action. Very kindly, Gavin suggested I take a little time and said that he would ring back. There really was no choice. Dobermans are free spirits, and one could not imagine Lolly hobbling around on three legs with no guarantee that the cancer was not progressing.
Paddy and I collected Lolly’s body, which we could not bring back to our garden where Kate was waiting for her return. So we took her to Paddy’s farm at Farnagow where we laid her to rest under a newly planted rowan tree in their garden.
When Lolly did not return, Kate went into deep mourning and stood in the garden with bowed head and refused to eat. And on every visit Ellie enquired, ‘Where is Lolly?’ But gradually life returned to normal, and we all got used to life without Lolly. Kate recovered and then took centre stage and lapped up all the extra attention.
However, Kate’s days too were numbered, and when she developed a lame leg it sent out red-alert signals. She did at first respond to treatment, and I thought that we were out of the woods. Then, one night when I left her out for her nightly run, she spotted a cat and took off at high speed. When I returned to let her back in, she was clung to the ground in agony. A dreadful pain-filled night ensued and a return visit to Gavin for an X-ray. An enormous fracture showed up. Her age and the condition of her bones were stacked against her recovery, so the inevitable decision had to be made again.
Now Kate and Lolly are both resting under the rowan tree on a hilltop overlooking the village. For ten years they had filled our lives with exuberance, love and delight, for which I am very grateful.
Eventually I will contemplate interviewing replacement candidates – a huge challenge for me and the potential replacements. They will have huge paws to fill!
Chapter 4
Poor Me
It was raining. Would it ever again stop bloody raining? I was having a ‘poor me’ day. That can happen in January. I am not a January person. I dragged myself out of bed but it was too wet to go for a walk and I was too lazy to begin taking down the Christmas decorations, which by now, like myself, were beginning to look the worse for wear. I could write, but was not in the mood. Could paint, but did not have the motivation. Could read, but did not have the inclination. I dragged myself around the house for a few hours like a wet blanket. Needing a good kick in the ‘you-know-where’, I peered out through the front window and gleaned from the lack of wipers in action on passing cars that the rain was taking a break.
I forced myself out the back door. The backyard was covered in a dark green slime after weeks of non-stop rain. Not a cheerful sight. But in the tubs the daffodils, God bless them, were thrusting their green noses above the ground. Now, with no dogs around, they were safe from being upended by nosey Kate. Still, despite these misdemeanours, I missed Kate and Lolly so much. Dogs know when you are having a bad day and love you into a better place.
In the yard, I checked the roses planted at the bases of a home-made arch that I had cobbled together last summer. A strong black pipe arched from one big tub to another. My grand idea was to create an entrance from the front section of the yard to the back corner. Now, Uncle Jacky had never in his life bought an arch for his garden but always made his own. His thinking was why buy it when you can enjoy making it yourself? Fallen trees and branches were turned into garden gates or arches. He loved working with wood, and it gave his garden a blend of harmonious togetherness. I am trying to imitate him and hope that in time the pipe will be smothered into invisibility by the roses. I had planted two Compassion roses in each tub. Two – to be sure to be sure! I am a real Doubting Thomas of gardening and am always delightedly surprised when things actually grow.
Tiny, tentative buds were indeed thrusting forth on the rose stems. That was encouraging. I already had a Compassion rose in the garden and she had proved her worth. In the past I have bought flaunting flamboyant floozies on impulse and later discovered their lack of dependability. I have learnt my gardening lessons the hard way. So now I give space only to tried and trusted friends. I visualise a mesmerising arch of Compassion here next summer. Gardening is all about anticipatory visualisation. With this possibility in mind, I am already beginning to feel a little bit better.
I stand at the garden gate and watch the birds cling to the feeders. Oh those damned crows! They swoop down and I shoo them away but frighten the little birds in the process. I’m glad that some of the feeders are surrounded by cage protectors that withstand the crows’ attacks. As I walk along the path, a gorgeous whiff soothes my senses. The leaves of my beautiful Daphne ‘Jacqueline Postill’ are glistening with rain, but still her little pink flowers are filling the air with a wonderful scent. She is like manna in the desert, though not wasting her sweetness on the desert air. I inhale deeply, and she comforts my soul.
Then the rain spatters a comeback, and I head for the back door. I slow down to admire a load of logs brought to me at the beginning of winter by Paddy, who was clearing a site for a new milking parlour and had to cut down some trees. On a cold day in November he had spilled out a trailer-load of logs at my back door. What a gift! That is one of the blessings of village living in the midst of a farming community. Farmers make great neighbours. Is there anything more soothing to the senses or promising of warm days ahead than a load of logs? These were organised neatly by young Dan, who had come the day after his father’s delivery and stacked them. His grandfather had planted the trees, his father had delivered them, and he had come to stack them. When Dan was born, his family had marked his arrival with the planting of a tree. Trees are a long-lasting mark of a special occasion and an enrichment of people, land and the environment.
As the rain turns from a hesitant drip into a pelting pour, I gather up an armful of logs and head in the back door. I carry the logs to the seomra ciúin and light the fire. Recently I have come across natural firelighters that make lighting the fire a pleasurable experience as they emit a scent that blends with the kindling. The turf and logs soon take on a warm glow. I sit and listen to them. They whisper and reach out to me. They talk to me and slowly bring me comfort. My inner icicles begin to thaw. Sitting by a log fire on a wet January evening is a comforting cure for a ‘poor me’ day. Tomorrow will be a good day.
Chapter 5
Rejuvenation Time
Today I raked the sodden shroud of winter off my garden. Autumn leaves had covered the flower beds with a mu
lticoloured blanket, and later winter frost and rains had saturated them into a thick grey coat, thus shielding the baby growth beneath from stunting winter cold. But now spring was here, and the time had come to peel back the covering coat and discover if any wonders had taken place. During dormant days of winter, miracles can happen beneath the earth. And, yes, there were miracles! Tentative shoots of snowdrops, daffodils and tulips were peeping up through the brown earth. Brave young shoots facing a bright new world. The delight of beholding them brought joy to my heart. All day, as the unveiling took place, a deep peace filled my soul. There are no words to explain the tranquillity of working with the earth. It is a meditation, a healer and a comforter.