A Mothers Moment of Peace

There---
There it is:


Quiet!
The baby is asleep,
The Vacuumcleaner in the broomcloset,
the dog out in the garden,
The TV, radio off,
The telefon banished upstairs....
Quiet.

Solitude.
I don't know nor care, where the cat is right now,
The kids are in school,
Daddy at work,
Grandma at the Beautyparlor,
The baby in the crib in his room....
I am all by my self.
Solitude.

Peace.
No pets fighting for a toy,
No baby screaming at the top of his lungs,
No siblings engaged in battle,
No Husband yelling "Honey, I can't find...."
No TV blaring or telephone jangling.
Peace.

I sit down in my chair,
Close my eyes,
Put my feet up,
Take a deep breath to enjoy it all.....
Ah, Shoot!! There's someone at the door!!

O'Reilly's Kitten

Someone mentioned that old O'Reilly sounded a little like a Curmudgeon. Which in turn reminded me of a book, titled "The Cat and The Curmudgeon" by Cleveland Amory. I have a little tiger tail at home, that likes to natter at me and will comment on things if asked. And thus it happened.....

O'Reilly nudged the dusty, nicotine-yellow curtain carefully aside and peeked out.
Hah, she wasn't there, had given up!!
Triumphantly rubbing his arthritic hands, he danced a few wobbly steps of a Reel. Fashious woman, camping out on his threshold, bleating at him with her shrill voice as soon as he cracked the door open even a bit. Followed him everywhere, even to McCarthy's Pub, the shameless wench. Last week he'd tried to climb out of the window of the back room, so she would not see him leave, but the window sill had been to high.
"Ah well," said O'Reilly, "bugger it, tha' window was too small, anywa'...."

O'Reilly took a slightly less shabby cap from the hooks on the wall, tied a somewhat cleaner Neckerchief around his stringy old-man-throat, put housekey and wallet in his pocket and opened the blue-laquered front door to his cottage, whistling a ditty.

"Mrrouw"

Pope Benedict's Kneecaps!! She was still around, the confounded bint!!
Why in the world of all the people in the village she had to choose Seamus Daniel O'Reilly? What about the Widow Maguire? Why didn't she go there? She fed all of her pension to the blasted critters, one more wouldn't matter!

"Mrrouw!!"

O'Reilley slammed the door and ignored the little cat.

"MMrrouw!!!"

O'Reilly marched on undeterred, the chattering cat tagging along.

"MMRROUW!!!!"

"St. Patricks Pipecleaners!!" railed O'Reilly, "will ye stop nagging me?" The cat sat down in front of him, yawned and winked, before licking her little left paw. Shaunessy, who leaned against his gardenfence suckling on his pipe, giggled. "Oy, has a healthy respect for you the little one, eh? Reminds me of yer Shannon." O'Reilly gave him the evil eye, pulled the cap lower on his forehead and marched on, hands in his pockets and grumbling under his breath. He payed even less attention to the little tigercat than before.

"MMRROUW!!!"

"Och, will ye shut yer gob!" groused O'Reilly.

Arriving at Finnegan's, who puttered around in the garden as usual, O'Reilly dropped down on the bench, pulled out a dingy hankie and wiped his brow.
"Mmrrouw?" inquired the little cat politely of Finnegan, who stiffly leaned down to pet her little head.
"I thank ye, I'm fine, Mavourneen." he said and O'Reilly snorted. "Talking to a moggie, that'll be the day!!" He rummaged under the bench for Finnegans bottle of beer. The little cat watched him. He was just about to take a drink, when she jumped up on his lap, purring loudly.
"St. Columban's Castagnettes!" cursed O'Reilly. "Stop yer shenanigans!" Finnegan laughed. "I think she likes you, you auld curmudgeon."

"Ah well......." said O'Reilly.

O'Reilly in the Sauna

After posting the first mini-story with O'Reilly, I recieved a message, saying that "Old men don't want to read about other old men. What about finnish girls in a sauna?" This is what happened:

O'Reilly pedaled his rickety bicycle with the bald tires as fast as his old-man legs allowed, down the bumpy field cart road. As he got close enough to see if Finnegan sat on the wooden bench outside his frontdoor (and that was very close already!!) he began to wave and holler. "Oy, Finnegan! Well, guess what!" But Finnegan had his hearing-aid turned off and couldn't see him, either, because he'd had his eyes closed and lifted his face up to the mild spring sun. "OY!!" yelled O'Reilly once more als loud as he could, climbed laborious off of his bicycle and tore in his haste to get through Finnegans Gardengate, a neat triangle in the seat of his pants on a nail sticking out of said gate. Finnegan nearly jumped out of his skin. "Saints on crutches, O'Reilly, don't yell as if the Lord-have-Mercy got you by the throat!" O'Reilly huffed, wiped with a soiled hankie sweat from his bald crown and appropriated Finnegan's bottle of beer. He pulled a crumpled envelope out of his pocket and waved it in front of his best friends face. "Well," said O'Reilly, "I entered in the contest in the AN PHOBLACHT, didn't I?" "Yeah," grunted Finnegan and closed his eyes again. "Well," said O'Reilly, "and this time I won." "Well, I'll be jiggered!" said Finnegan approvingly and pulled his old cap further down. "And what have you won?" "Well," said O'Reilly, "Wellness-weekend and a treatment in a Sauna, then...."Finnegan grinned. "Have ya ever been in a Sauna, Danny?" "Well," said O'Reilly, "ehr, nope." This time Finnegan chuckled, but wouldn't say anything.
Two Weeks later it it was time, O'Reilly pedaled to the trainstation with his little paste-board-suitcase, boarded the train and cleared off to Dublin, headed to his Wellness-weekend, even if he had no idea what that was.
A squeaky-clean, wellnessed and very quiet O'Reilly got off the train on monday, climbed on his bicycle and pedaled the field cart lane to Finnegans cottage. Finnegan was in his Garden and tied the Tomatoes back. When he saw O'Reilly, he took the pipe out of his mouth. "And?" was all he said. O'Reilly looked like the cat that got the canary. "Well," said O'Reilly, "was really nice, wasn't it? Especially the Sauna...." They watched a little sparrow picking in a flowerbed. "Coleens, too?" asked Finnegan then. "Well," said O'Reilly, "yes. From Finland...." He took another swig from Finnegans beer.

Ah well, said O'Reilly

That phrase "Ah well," said O'Reilly, popped into my head months ago and would not leave me alone, till I finally did something about it. Unbetaed, of course and translated by me into english. I posted the german original at happy-size-community.de

They were all sittin in Finnegan's kitchen, the wet boots by the door and the feet in their thick woolen, socks stuck out towards the peat fire. The more or less aromatic odors combined to an interesting medley, unique to the many tiny cottages all over Ireland, in which old, widowed men lived: Peat fire, wet wool, old-men-smells, stinky feet, homemade alcohol (Poteen cures everything, acushla!), boiled green cabbage, bread fried in rancid bacon-grease, homefries and farts. As I said, not very appetizing but interesting. The widow Conolly came three times a week, pretending to battle Finnegan's chaos. But to be honest, when she tied her kerchief over her steel-gray curls, grabbed her umbrella and swung up onto her rickety bicycle, it always looked worse than before.

Finnegan dug in his ear and dedicated himself to his guests again. "Ah well," said O'Reilly just then, "that's how it is: There's no way around that the Pope is a Cat'lick." Campbell grunted and Shaunessy giggled. They sat a long time, staring into the peat fire, lost in thought, ocassionally sipping from glasses and teacups of poteen.

"Ah well," said O'Reilly again, "remember how we always complained about our wives, when they demanded we shave and got in the tub, whether it was necessary or not. Dragged us to church and always nagged us not to speak with our mouth full?" The four other nodded. "Ah well," said O'Reilly, "Was good then, wasn't it?" All nodded, exept Conolly, who still lived with his mother and sister-in-law under one roof. He coughed. "What are you getting at, Danny?" he asked then. "Ah well, "said O'Reilley, "I forgot it, now....."

The men sighed, drank their poteen, stared into the fire, dwelling on their thoughts, while a gentle, irish summershower fell quietly down onto the roof of a tiny cottage full of old, widowed men.