Have no fear, Sherlock is here defrosting my fridge with a hairdryer. I’m not at all optimistic that the man I called out to fix my fridge has ever opened a fridge door before. To the refrains of ‘that’s very interesting’, I’m trying to have faith in the man. But time is running out. Already, we’re about to eat soggy defrosted fish fingers for lunch and I’m googling Dinners for emergency defrosted freezer food. Whatsmore, I’m struggling to ignore my Granda’s Kerrymen jokes streaming from my memory banks. I have afterall, produced three future Kerrymen and married one. A good one. But it’s difficult when you’re watching a boyo swirl a hairdryer whilst saying ‘Quick draw’ in your kitchen.

Well, he might get to the bottom of the Mystery of the Noisy Motor by teatime, if not, readers, don’t be stuck for defrosted mackerel.

I cornered a local woman in the village recently. It was during one of my crazed escapes from Hearthill, grabbing ten minutes of ‘mommy time’ before having to face the reality of the three sons. So this particular local lady is in my top ten favorite village people. She has a brood of children, some of whom I have had the pleasure to teach and they seem to be the most well adjusted, happy and healthy children I have met. And I wanted to know how, and I quote, how she managed to do it. The conversation went along these lines.

Me: How did you do it? They’re amazing.

Herself: Ah stop.

Me: Ah go on. How did you do it? (Trying to look a tad nonchalant)

Herself: Ah thanks.

Me: (Directly looking her in the eye) No really, how did you do it?

Herself: (Laughing) You’re hilarious. (The lady isn’t getting the point)

Me: (Trying not to beg) Seriously, how?

Herself: Well you know what, God is a great psychiatrist, and sometimes, when it got really bad, I took off to a field, had a cry and talked to God, he’s free.

Myself: I’ll try it. (Leaving the poor lady bemused but smiling)

Skip forward two days. Having given up on jolly phonics, on the toddler spilling the contents of a small baby bath on the floor and strung out on my small baby not sleeping, I take to the field.     So I start off the conversation, fully aware that I am a pathetic hypocrite, only coming to pry on the interventionist God today, half blubbering, half pleading, making sure to thank Himself for my holy Trinity of healthy and happy boys. Onto the hard stuff and here I’ll spare you the details. Somehow, somewhere mid sentence, I fall asleep, in the field. In the field. It might have been ten seconds, it was no more than a couple of minutes. It was, however, enough to put the farmer’s wife back on her feet and back into the ring. This time, intervention came in the form of a short nap, in a field. God was telling me to get some sleep and he didn’t have to ask twice. I slept, my friends, in a field and his(!) advise was free.

Here’s the new standard; it’s a good day if the porridge pot is washed before lunch. Today our eldest is back to school and I don’t think Napoleon had as much organization on the morning he had to send his armies to war. So as I packed one lunch, fed one baby and placated one toddler, I took comfort in the fact that many parents were implementing similar plans of action to get their children back to school this morning.

Today, at the school gates, there were mommies on the way to work, a mother who had a two week old baby who really needed a cup of tea made for her, parents sending their first born to school, a mother who is mourning the loss of her own parent. All doing their best for their beautiful children. But they feel guilt. Guilt that they shouted too loudly last Sunday during the match. Guilt that they are going to work. Guilt that they can’t afford that pencil case for their boy because they are not working. And what’s worse, we’re judging each other. She’s working too much. She should be at work. Enough said.

Here’s the thing though. We’re all marching in the same direction. Forward. And we should, in the vein of the Napoleonic army, be marching with pride. We did it. Okay, your toddler broke a cup and you screamed. You were rushed and you flushed your iphone down the toilet but in the grand scheme of things, you know who you are; you’re doing your best. A pat on the back. I’m off for the third attempt at drinking my coffee this morning, watching Mr. Tumble with my toddler. The porridge pot is still in the sink. That’s it, march on.

Of the roles I assumed on marrying onto the farm, my role as country neighbour is cherished. Being a city girl and therefore a stranger, I was held at length for a short while until trust was gained and so I etched my way into favour with the local community. It wasn’t easy; I was unknown. I had not only come from the city but from enemy territory, Cork. Notwithstanding the Cork flag that now flies on my threshold on Munster Final day (lest said this year the better), I am honored to count my neighbours as friends.

It was with great sadness, alas, a few weeks ago, that I joined my neighbours to mourn the passing of one of our community. The news of this passing treacled through our village in the usual way; a telephone call, the postman passing, chatting with a morning stroller; each neighbour remembering the impression their friend and neighbour had left on them.
And so, in sadness, we neighbours gathered on a warm Thursday evening to offer some solace. Standing outside the local funeral home, locals chatted in line waiting to offer prayer and condolence to a family in mourning.

Later, the rosary rising amongst the neighbours was not unlike a bee’s song on a summer’s evening; a chorus raised up in offering to the heavans whilst bringing comfort to a dear neighbour on his wife’s passing. Afterwards, in slow procession to the church, the bereaved was accompanied closely behind by a group of neighbours, as if in correspondance,  reassuring him that we were there to catch him and his family should they fall as we would be in the lonely days ahead. There is much I have learned from living in Kerry and being married to a lovely and (mostly) wise Kerryman but most treasured is the idea that after death, we must look after the living. It took me a while to understand it but in the slow march after our neighbour, I understood what comfort it must have brought to be surrounded by good intention and kindness. In death, look after the living.

Never have I felt more like Ma Larkin in the Darling Buds of May. It might well be the baby belly or the belly aching laugh that I had tonight but as I poured some 2010 Walnut Wine into the glasses of my mother-in-law and her eighty year old cousin, the priest, I thought, how did this day come to this?
Ignoring the hungry farmer holding the baby and the five year old with the cold, I walked out the door to go next door to my mother-in-law’s. Also in my wake were the purveyors of said wine speaking to their daughter via Skype in my sitting room. My dreams of being an international translator in tact, I carried knowledge of how to harvest such wine from our French friends and producers to my thirsty octogenarians. Whether it was the luxurious sherry like digestif (aperitif in Brittany) or the awe at a conversation carried via computer, I left my elderly companions just a little giddy. Back in my sitting room, I greeted my tickled French friends with a resounding thumbs on their vin du pays. While there are days that I long for a dull moment, as it turns out, they never come up.