Thoroughly Modern Mimi

As a mom and grandmom, Mimi knows infants and toddlers are challenging, yet fun.  Sure, wails and meltdowns prove stressful, but big hugs solve many a tear.  And, little children can be so adorable.

Move from tots to teens and the headaches multiply.  Mimi’s college hunting trip with her high-school aged daughter proved downright dismal.  The admission’s staff overwhelmed them with talk of SAT and ACT scores, GPA’s, essay requirements and application procedures. 

Campus tours produced comments such as, “the dorm rooms are too small; what? No cars for freshmen; this school is too big, too small, too rural, etc.”  Fairy godmother wand needed.

Frustrated, I decided to take a break from the trip pressure and explore a heritage site.  I chose a historic plantation that offered something I’d never seen before - a swamp garden.

To stay on my daughter’s and husband’s good side, I invited them to accompany me, but both declined.  So I was off on a solo escape; even better.

I drove about 20-30 minutes out of Charleston to Ashley River Road, stopping at Magnolia Plantation and Gardens.  I took the 30-minute house tour with Wanda, as my guide.  She was knowledgeable and entertaining, quickly covering the 300-year history of the home and Drayton family. 

I exited the back door, really the front door as it faces the Ashley River, and walked down a path to the landing through flowering azalea’s and lilac blooms.  Live oaks hang their heavy branches over the river’s edge creating a genteel feel of the Old South (more on this beautiful place in a future blog.) 

Afterward, I moved my car to the entrance of the 60- acre Audubon Swamp Garden, where the lot was near empty.  Perfect, I thought, no crowds. I crossed onto a wooden boardwalk, which muffled the sound of my footsteps as I traversed over green-slimy water.  Later, I learned this floating botanic was duck weed.

To my surprise, I came upon a sign announcing, “Cell Phone Tour:  Dial 843 303-9665.”  Now I’ve taken many audio tours, but never one via my cell phone. And…of all places, in an eerie swamp?  I dialed up. 

A woman with a distinct southern drawl welcomed me and began speaking about the wildlife.  I must admit the experience seemed like listening to an in-person guide, but frankly, a little too woo-woo for the marsh.  Wouldn’t a few signs have provided the same information?  Wasn’t this encouraging phone interruptions or obnoxious ringtones like Dixie  or the American Idol theme song?

Fortunately, I no distracting telephones annoyed me, in fact, I was seduced by the calmness and tranquility of bird calls.  Back and forth I heard twitters and tweets- the real kind from the ornithological species.  I heard frogs croaking and crickets; but Mother Nature held her breath, not a ripple on the water or rustle of leaves. 

Since it was after five p.m., I hurried along, passing a dawdling couple: the woman checking her bird book, the husband spotting a Nature Conservancy ball-cap. “Blue Herons,” he said, which I rather smugly knew, since I live in Florida. 

Yes,” I replied, “splendid swamp.” An alligator sunned himself, perched on a man-made ramp in the middle of the blackwater.  He resembled a monster from the deep wearing a pea green coat of duckweed,.   Across the way, Snowy Egrets were nesting in gum trees, amidst tangled vines. This spot is paradise for photographers and I happened to catch a few decent shots myself. As it was getting late, I meandered back, but allowed myself time to stop and smell a few camellias, enjoy the water lilies and let my imagination run.   “The Swamp Thing,” starring Louis Jourdan and Adrienne Barbeau, was filmed here. But, I preferred to think of John J. Audubon, who came to paint, a friend of the owner, Reverend Drayton.  I’d noticed some of his original art in the mansion.    

         I wander outside my garage and greet the most glorious scent of spring. My own orange blossom serenade. 

My nose twitches from the divine fragrance whiffing through the air; my eyes drawn toward the white petals juxtaposed against the glossy newborn leaves of the citrus tree. How heavenly.       

I cut a branch of this aromatic wonder and bring it inside.  Now I’m dreaming oriental thoughts: cherry blossoms and teahouses, Memoirs of a Geisha, pagodas, China’s Great Wall and Forbidden City.  How I long to see these places. 

In a few weeks, I’ll visit Atlanta where I have tickets to view a traveling exhibit of terracotta warriors from Xian.  Guess that will have to do. 

    As related in yesterday’s blog, Mimi took her first trip to Ireland, a two-day adventure in Dublin, in March 2000. 

In 2005, husband Jay and daughter, then a 14-year-old, nabbed an incredibly low airfare to Belfast, the capital of Northern Ireland.  (Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland are two different countries.) Older son Steve was not on this trip, but we toasted his birthday as we landed– early on St. Patrick’s Day. This time we arrived at our hotel before the parades started.

In fact, this marked the first year, since the end of the “Troubles,” in 1995 that Belfast even sponsored a St. Patrick’s Day parade. It wasn’t a huge event, some floats and bands, but the mood was electric and a feeling of unity filled the air.The concierge suggested we lunch upstairs at the Crown Liquor Saloon, so we walked over. Built in 1828, the pub is now maintained by the National Trust of Northern Ireland and glows with a gas-light Victorian atmosphere: gilded mirrors, stained glass, old black and white photos, a tin ceiling, and walls that have heard it all.   

We passed a seated group of laughing Scottish ladies from the Highlands who explained that they gather annually to celebrate, always in a different Irish city. They were imbibing in grand style and had donned hats, supplied when “a drop of black,” or Guinness was ordered. Our waiter topped daughter Laura with one, too.We ordered and devoured burger-like sandwiches served with “Champ,” a combination of mashed potatoes, cheese, and chive. 

When we walked down the hall, I was stopped by a local woman who overheard my American accent. She made a point of welcoming me to Belfast. I liked that.

Then, we squeezed downstairs through cough producing smoke into a room crammed as tight as Times Square on New Year’s Eve, and just as noisy. Everyone turned toward a telly to cheer The Gold Cup horse race. The lengthy steeple chase race runs through mud filled ponds, over hedges and across grassy fields. Strangely (at least to me) the horse in the lead lost his jockey, but ran on. Rather wild compared to our Kentucky Derby.We hired a “black taxi” as suggested by a guidebook to see the West Belfast Political Wall Murals. First we drove to Shankill Road, the Protestant side. Here, the bricks of working class row-homes were painted with large symbolic scenes.

Our driver pointed out the Crumlin Road jail across from the courthouse, which required an underground tunnel for prisoners’ safe passage to trial.  He said just one judge, no jury, heard cases in these violent times. Then we cut over to the nearby Catholic area, Falls Road. We stopped as I photographed the mural of Bobby Sands, famous for his hunger strike to his death. Although we tried to comprehend, our emotions were disquieted by these neighborhoods.  I would find it difficult, to say the least, to live with all the reminders.

Our driver/guide spoke poignantly, recalling his childhood fear of bombs.  He heeded warnings not to talk to certain children or adults, grasping that this division was reality.  “Not a good way, he explained, “it simply was the way.”

Now, he was proud of his capital city, her economic growth and unification.  He envisioned a happy future for his daughter in Belfast and with sincerity, thanked us for visiting and asked us to spread the word. We left feeling grateful for the opportunity.

Even though I’m not Catholic or Irish, my family and I celebrate St. Patrick’s Day -it’s my son, Steve’s birthday. Why, we’ve even gone to Ireland for the special day-twice.

Back in 2000 Steve took a job in England. So, my husband Jay and I, and Laura, our then 9-year-old daughter flew to Dublin arriving on a misty morning. Lush, velvety green hills surrounded us, making it obvious why this country is called the Emerald Isle.

Our taxi was forced to drop us blocks from our hotel; the holiday parade swarmed over the streets. I felt self-conscious and out of place rolling my luggage down the jammed sidewalk to St. Stephen’s Green . There, at last, was our hotel.

Like so many other grand dames, The Shelbourne , boasts a salon for high tea and a reading room with leather chairs, which, to be honest, reeked of cigarette and cigar smoke. The hallway leading to our room included a few stairs and some odd turns, making me realize the building had been renovated numerous times.

But the place had an ambiance most welcoming and, on this day, most festive. Families reunited and embraced distant relatives and dear friends. Children scooted under foot and furniture and no one minded.

By the time we freshened up, the parade had disbursed and the crowds were off in the pubs for lunch. We joined them, but the lines now snaked out onto the sidewalk. While we waited, we discovered buffet presentations were the only choice of the day. That became a problem because Laura was, first of all, overly tired and second, not an adventurous eater. She turned her nose up at Irish stew, corned beef and cabbage, leeks and mutton. Surely the Irish cooked something she liked, but we didn’t find it that day.

By evening Steve, of course, was ready to party but our young one was ready for bed. Jay and I took turns in the hotel bar meeting Steve and mingling with Irish girls and gents, their complexions as pale and smooth as creamy butter. The accents were distinctive to our ears, and charming. And oh, their glorious auburn hair was pretty enough to evoke poetry.

We raised a glass to Jay’s ancestors (his Mother was the former Patty McCormick), Dublin, Steve, you name it; but before long also gave into sleep. Not what you’d call a St. Patrick’s blow-out.

I have to admit I was astonished that the holiday centered so much on family, not drinking. I appreciated the honesty of celebration: the men wearing real shamrocks on their lapels, no tacky fake flowers; no green hair, face paint, leprechaun hats or other exaggerated décor. And certainly no green beer. A trusted friend and a pint of Guinness were enough.

Next day we visited St. Patrick’s Cathedral , Dublin Castle , walked down to the trendy Temple Bar area filled with colorfully painted pubs, and crossed over a bridge on the River Liffey. (Sounds much more quaint that the Liffey River, doesn’t it?) Thankfully Laura found an acceptable item on the menu - salmon.

We met chatty locals and whomever we asked for directions or assistance, always answered us with kindness. We departed Ireland with endearing memories and vowed to return to see more of this welcoming country.

…To be continued with a trip to Belfast, Northern Ireland on St. Patrick’s Day, 2005

Mimi didn’t plan to enter the Jacksonville Gate River Run - a 15K race that winds across 2 bridges, the downtown business district, Sports complex and residential neighborhoods.

 I thought I was done with competitions and certainly wasn’t training. Currently my exercise consists of walking and attending yoga class. 

But Judy, my former marathon buddy, was in town and asked me to join her.  Seems her training ran amuck; so we agreed to take our time and simply finish the event. 

Race morning surfaced foggy and overcast, perfect conditions to prevent overheating, something I struggled with in the past. Judy and I jogged across the starting line (to look good on the live broadcast) but then walked as fast as possible. 

We astounded ourselves, keeping under a 15-minute-mile pace the entire 9.3 mile course.  We talked our way through the route, amongst a crowd of 13,000 participants and honestly had fun.  We still finished with a decent time.  And we gloated.

The next morning, I groaned.  I was struck down, not so much from sore muscles, but with the flu bug, the one that’s hitting everyone.  I spent the day in bed, which other than feeling crummy, wasn’t too bad. 

Today I’m starting an experiment.  I’m attempting to learn some basic French through listening to musical earworms.  Earworms are a new technique designed to help one recall basic words and phrases.  As I listen, they are supposed to burn the language into my longer-term memory.  An impressive goal.

I play a CD containing specially composed melodies with rhythmic repetitions. The instructions say, “You don’t have to concentrate too hard, in fact you shouldn’t try to actively concentrate, just sit back, relax and listen and let your brain do the learning.”

A booklet of the 200 essential words and phrases is included, which I’m told to review.  Links to a website (http://www.earwormslearning.com/) provide me with memory hooks.  These are word associations that assist in memorization and understanding. 

I’m giving Volume 1 a try and will report back on my progress.  So far the music sounds like the elevator type, but I have already mastered asking for a cup of coffee and a bottle of wine.  Heck-that may be all I need for my trip to France in June. 

Today, Mimi’s father, known as Pop-Pop, turns ninety.  We celebrate his past because that is what he remembers. Pop-Pop suffers from Alzheimer’s disease .  I see his life slowly unwinding in a downward spiral, one that is hard to watch. Granny, aka Thoroughly Modern Millie, takes care of him.  Granny is 89.I worry and wonder; how long can this situation continue? 

From the day we arrive on the planet

And blinking, step into the sun

There’s more to see than can ever be seen

More to do than can ever be done

There’s far too much to take in here

More to find than can ever be found

But the sun rolling high

Through the sapphire sky

Keeps great and small on the endless round

It’s the Circle of Life

And it moves us all

Through despair and hope

Through faith and love

Till we find our place

On the path unwinding

In the Circle

The Circle of Life

I study the face of my newborn granddaughter Claire, just inches from mine, and realize I’m in a state of bliss.  How can this little being, child of my child, be so beautiful…and perfect?Her small head blooms with fine dark hair, her fingers grow nails so tiny and thin we don’t dare cut them, her mouth, a rosebud, instinctively nursing to sustain life.  Sometimes she smiles, or what appears to be a smile, and I grin back.

From the day we arrive on the planet

And blinking, step into the sun

There’s more to see than can ever be seen

More to do than can ever be done

There’s far too much to take in here

More to find than can ever be found

But the sun rolling high

Through the sapphire sky

Keeps great and small on the endless round

It’s the Circle of Life

And it moves us all

Through despair and hope

Through faith and love

Till we find our place

On the path unwinding

In the Circle

The Circle of Life

Last Thursday guards at the Acropolis went on strike, closing the site because they weren’t getting paid.  They planned to stay out for three days.

Just imagine arriving in Athens only to be locked out of this must-see.

I’d be sick.

Unfortunately, it seems the government is struggling with the economy. Who isn’t?

Back in 2000, I experienced the awe-inspiring Acropolis, rising majestically above the crowded city.  I climbed up the rocky Sacred Way, past columns shaped as women, the Caryatids, to see the remains of the Parthenon.  The ancient marble temple was built between 447 and 432 BC in honor of Athena, the goddess of wisdom.

How sad for anyone to miss that view. 

       “Throw me some beads, mister,” is the cry heard all along parade routes, except at the Zulu promenade, where tradition calls for coconuts to be given away.

New Orleans embraces joie de vivre at Mardi Gras ; a jolly spirit like the reformed Ebenezer Scrooge on Christmas morning.  Strangers are friendly; they hand out small tokens; passersby smile and speak to one another.

Should that be unusual?  Well no, but sadly, most city streets don’t feel that way.

In New Orleans, folks wear outfits or masks on Fat Tuesday, which helps create a lighthearted mood.  They hang glitzy wreaths of purple, green and gold.  But unlike Christmas, Mardi Gras plays to a soundtrack of rhythm and blues, and is celebrated outdoors. The air smells from the pulse of the crowd, of hot dogs, beer and alcohol.

No one tossed me a coconut at the Zulu parade, but I caught lots of beads and gave most away. I dressed as Cruella DeVil ; my friend as a Dalmatian.  Revelers stopped us to take our picture.

We gawked and laughed along with the participants in the obstreperous Bourbon Street Awards : a flamboyant drag-queen contest that, honey, is just something else.

At breakfast, I stuffed myself on waffles; ate a shrimp po’boy (sandwich) for lunch in a hole-in-the-wall café. Dog and I drank wine as we threw beads from a balcony over hanging the street.

In Louisiana, Fat Tuesday is a legal holiday, a date celebrated with abandon; one I look forward to annually.  Thankfully, the ghost of Katrina has faded. As Tiny Tim might say, “God bless Mardi Gras , every one.”