My grandmother was a first generation American born to Irish immigrants who had arrived in the middle of the nineteenth century. This fact is important to the following story.
My grandmother depended on me to drive her to church. On that Sunday she did not notice at first what I was wearing except that my blouse was a cheery pale yellow.
“That blouse looks nice with your dark hair,” she said as she got into the car.
I do not remember any of our conversation on the short drive to the church that St. Patrick’s Day. After I parked the car, we walked toward the church entrance. We were almost there when my grandmother turned to ask, “Did you bring something green to wear today?”
“There’s green in my skirt,” I said pointing to the plaid skirt I was wearing. It was a plaid with stripes of green in the shade of new leaves, a warm yellow and soft muted orange.
My grandmother stopped at the foot of the entry stairs, her mouth open in shock. “You can’t wear that on St. Patrick’s Day.”
“Why not? It has green.” It was the only thing with green in my closet.
“It has orange,” she said the word as if it made her sick.
“What’s wrong with orange?’ As the other church goers passed us by.
Grandma shook her head and muttered, “If my parents were here to see you… Tsk. Well, it’s too late for you to go home to change. I suppose it will have to do. I just hope no one notices.”
She was still slowly shaking her head as we entered the church. It was only afterward that I learned that the Protestants of Ireland chose orange for their color while it was green only for the Catholics.
I thought it was rather nice that the two colors co-existed in my skirt. It would be nice if it were the same for the people of Ireland. But as a courtesy to my grandmother, I did not wear that skirt next year on St. Patrick’s Day.
#FamilyStories #St.Patrick’sDay #Traditions #CulturalInheritance
Cathy
Dry leaves break dusty Autumn
And saltine cracker crushed
Announce her name
A shy stutterer hiccoughs,
A footstep scrapes a gravel path
With the sounding of her name
The baa-ing of sheep,
Bawling of calves,
Wail her name
Irish breezes waft
Over wet sod fields
Hearing her name
A rustle of tulle skirt,
A door latch clicking shut
Speak her name
Prickly, sweet fruit trace
Challenges with a swoop
And loop-de-loop to finish
The singing of her name
#Names #PoeticExercise #Poetry
POET EMILY OF AMHERST
Person
vulnerable valiant
striving straining dreaming
words : poems
inviolate individual
woman
#EmilyDickinsonlifeandpoetry #TheBelleOfAmherst #Dickinson #EmilyDickinson
The Day I Horrified My Grandmother
My grandmother was a first generation American born to Irish immigrants who had arrived in the middle of the nineteenth century. This fact is important to the following story.
My grandmother depended on me to drive her to church. On that Sunday she did not notice at first what I was wearing except that my blouse was a cheery pale yellow.
“That blouse looks nice with your dark hair,” she said as she got into the car.
I do not remember any of our conversation on the short drive to the church that St. Patrick’s Day. After I parked the car, we walked toward the church entrance. We were almost there when my grandmother turned to ask, “Did you bring something green to wear today?”
“There’s green in my skirt,” I said pointing to the plaid skirt I was wearing. It was a plaid with stripes of green in the shade of new leaves, a warm yellow and soft muted orange.
My grandmother stopped at the foot of the entry stairs, her mouth open in shock. “You can’t wear that on St. Patrick’s Day.”
“Why not? It has green.” It was the only thing with green in my closet.
“It has orange,” she said the word as if it made her sick.
“What’s wrong with orange?’ As the other church goers passed us by.
Grandma shook her head and muttered, “If my parents were here to see you… Tsk. Well, it’s too late for you to go home to change. I suppose it will have to do. I just hope no one notices.”
She was still slowly shaking her head as we entered the church. It was only afterward that I learned that the Protestants of Ireland chose orange for their color while it was green only for the Catholics.
I thought it was rather nice that the two colors co-existed in my skirt. It would be nice if it were the same for the people of Ireland. But as a courtesy to my grandmother, I did not wear that skirt next year on St. Patrick’s Day.
#FamilyStories #St.Patrick’sDay #Traditions #CulturalInheritance
AUTHOR NOTES
GLASS RAIN—the poetry by Margaret Roxby
“POET EMILY OF AMHERST,” written after viewing the TV show starring Julie Harris as Emily. It is included this week in honor of International Women’s Day
REFRACTIONS—a by Kathleen Roxby
“THE DAY I HORRIFIED MY GRANDMOTHER,” is a true story.
THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS—the poetry of Kathleen Roxby
“CATHY” was written as a poetry workshop exercise. It is included this week for Namesake Day.
SUBMISSION GUIDELINES
Readers who write in response to one of the prompts listed each month in Splintered Glass, may see their work presented here on the last week of that month. Though poems are preferred, short prose work will also be considered for publication.
Guidelines for submission:
SPLINTERS FOR MARCH 2022
THE LOST FRIEND
She pulls away harboring
some secret hurt or imagined injury
Implacable
she turns her being
toward the cold uncaring world
I call to her
across desolate Icelandic islands
and only distancing
echoes return to me
I continue to hope
all the while tending the embers
of happier days
But the mysterious cruel rejection
pierces so deeply
my wound, time-aging, becomes
scarcely able to heal
O, why does she not answer
why does she not return
to rewarm herself
at the waiting hearth-fire’s glow?
#friendsandfriendship
#lostfriends
THE OBSERVER
There is, or was, a voice
At my center,
At least the center of my mind
When I was very little
I thought perhaps
It was my guardian angel
Later, I named it The Observer
Because its messages
Were like a sports announcer
Describing the actions of my life
The Observer never criticized
Though it often warned
Of potential dangers
When The Observer spoke
Silence like a gossamer curtain,
Slipped down to surround me
In the quiet of that moment
I could see almost to forever
And calm settled within my soul
Crises came and went
But at each and every one
The Observer was there
I do not try to understand
To reason to the source
Of this voice
I am simply grateful
If a little unnerved
For its voice is not the voice
I hear when listening
To my own thoughts
VOWEL NONSENSE, FEATURING “I” AND “O”
Vowels in the English language are not content to have just one sound like those in Spanish, Italian or even Japanese. English vowels strive for a full repertoire.
“I” is most to be pitied when it makes its short sound which is much like the squeak you might make when being strangled. When paired with another vowel, it tends to disappear within it as in pain, siege or seize, and suit. Add O to I for a whole different kettle of problems giving us oi, like the Yiddish “oy”, or the cases where I overcomes a bit as in riot or idiot. Notice the I’s in “idiot” are the short squeak version while the sound of I in “riot” is the long I (says its name). This is a typical trick you’ll find in English—words with similar, even the same spelling, are not necessarily pronounced the same!
Consider the letter O which when alone says its name (the long sound), though the usual spelling of this noise is written with a mostly unheard H (oh). O will sometime settle for the long “oh” sound when in words like in lode, more or joke (notice the silent E). But all too often it branches out. The O in come is pronounced “uh” (ignoring the influence of the final e. Also, the short version may sound like “ah” when alone as in doff or con. But colored by a neighboring vowel, the letter O can be many variations: “oo” (ooh), “ou” (ow or ooh), “oi’ (oy).
See Part Two next month for more about vowels, including what happens to I and O when they are paired with A and U. That will be quite a whirl. If you lose your balance, you will not be the first. Good luck.
#Englishlanguage
#ESL
AUTHOR NOTES
GLASS RAIN—the poetry by Margaret Roxby
“THE LOST FRIEND” was found among the author’s papers. To her Round Robin poet friends she added this note: I once had a friend who “pulled away” for some mysterious reason—but later on she came to me for a renewal—and we are still friends, nigh on to 50 years. But this poem was written for a friend of mine whose “pulling away’ friend has never returned—not yet, but maybe there is hope someday she will. The poem is included for I Want You to Be Happy Day, March 2.
KALEIDOSCOPE—an essay by Kathleen Roxby
“VOWEL NONSENSE, FEATURING “I” AND “O”, continues the author’s series on the English language. This entry is offered this week as a late nod to February 21, Mother Language Day.
THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS—the poetry of Kathleen Roxby
“THE OBSERVER” is included this week as a nod to National Multiple Personality Day.