Thursday, August 27, 2009

Dancing With Mo'

Hugh Leonard, a  famous Irish  playwright  and author of considerable esteem ,while being interviewed on the Late Late Show several years ago,described his idea of 'The Irish Mammy'.It went something like this, the mammy is sitting in her sitting room -the room is in total darkness-and the son expresses concern as to why she is sitting in the dark room.''The bulb is gone ,son''--''But ,sure I'll change the bulb for you,mammy'' the son said and the mammy replies ''Not at all son,sure I'm grand in the dark''.
It is an amusing caricature of the Irish Mammy ,I hope of bygone days.

I as an Irish mammy today would, of course, only sit in my sitting room without a light on, because I am enjoying the ambience created by  my scented candles and  watching a good movie or listening to my favourite cd. If son entered the room it's more than likely I would suggest-'' perhaps you  would make me a nice cup of tea-and while you're at it -I'd love a wee snack to go with it....oh and by the way are you by any chance going down to Tesco?.....well ,would you ever pick me up a few bulbs and when you get back go around the house and replace any that need to be replaced''

I wonder what Mr. Leonard would have to say about that?.

However,out of the kindness of my Irish mammy's heart,I did allow eldest son some time off for good behaviour and invited him to write something for my blog.Well, when I read it ,I was quite moved -it's a cute story from his childhood.I almost regret now not going to Tesco for the bulbs myself.......well almost.

So here it is ,thank you Michael.

Dancing With Mo.

When I was 5 I saw a documentary on television about rain dances. Duly impressed with their efficacious efforts I hatched a plan to pray to the rain gods - for rain.

Of course, doing a rain dance in Ireland is not dissimilar to doing a sun dance in Death Valley, but this thought didn't occur to me - only that all that stood between me and the pouring heavens was doing the foxtrot solo, a literal interpretation of how I thought foxes danced.

I marched outside, starkers save for my trusty pair of blue paddington bear wellingtons. And I danced.

And I danced.

And then Mo, 2 years old and fascinated at my bare-butt supplications, joined me. Starkers, save for a suspiciously droopy nappy.

And we danced. And we danced.

And we shook our little touchies, flailed our arms, made deeply reverent incantations to the rain gods that frequently strayed into fart noises.

And we danced...and it rained. Not just a trickle, but a torrent.

Overjoyed, we ran circles round the garden. A thanksgiving dance.

The fact that this was Ireland in mid-winter didn't matter.

We danced and the clouds danced with us.


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