Author: Dave

Five hundred posts would suggest I have something to say… This blog was born from a desire to elevate the English language, highlighting eloquent words from days gone by. The stories I share are snippets of life itself, and each comes with a bonus: a dusted-off word I hope you’ll go on to use more often. Read “Deutschland-ish Improvements” to learn about my backyard European wish list. Try “Slush Fun” for the throwback years of the 7-Eleven convenience store. Or drink in "Iced Coffee" to discover the plight of the rural French cafe. On the lighter side, read "Late Night Racquet Sports" for my adventures with our latest moth invasion. As Walt Whitman said, “That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.” Here then, my verse. Welcome to Life In A Word.

wistful

The church we belong to has an interesting element in its design; something I have not seen since my childhood. It’s called a “cry room”. A cry room is a small, enclosed, soundproofed space adjacent to a more public space – like a church sanctuary – with a few chairs (or pews) behind a large pane of glass. Parents can take their unhappy infants into the cry room and still see and hear the church service without disturbing the congregation. Parents can enter from the sanctuary or they can enter from the church foyer; in fact, you hardly notice them.

16 - wistful

Our pastor enjoys telling new visitors the cry room is actually for adults as well – the ones who are upset with what he has to say in his sermons.

I was first introduced to cry rooms at a movie theater of my youth. It was a small seaside venue with only one or two screens. The cry room was situated at the back of the theater, soundproofed and elevated. They put a few theater-style seats behind the glass, with speakers so you could still hear the movie. As a teenager, my friends and I thought the cry room was the cool place to watch the movie from, as if we had our very own private theater. In hindsight, it would have been a great place for a first date.

Cry rooms are clearly a throwback to times gone by, like those big velvet curtains that would pull aside before the movie began. They bring back memories of the simpler, more refined eras that I sometimes yearn for. They make me wistful. I did a little research and learned that cry rooms were always included in early theater design. The nicer ones included electric bottle warmers, complimentary formula, and often a nurse on duty. Different times, no?

A hotel in Japan takes a different spin on the concept of a cry room. They’ve set aside several rooms specifically for women to de-stress from the apparently demanding lifestyle of the Japanese culture. Check into a cry room, select from one of several Hollywood tear-jerker DVD’s, and let the tears flow and the stress melt away. They supply you with a healthy stock of tissues and a warm eye mask, so you can emerge a few hours later with no evidence on your face. Would you pay $85 for that?

The recent trend in church design is to remove the cry room from the sanctuary. I think that’s a shame, as infants are showing up in the pews in greater numbers these days. Speaking of infants, a few months ago I watched a woman video the pastor’s sermon on her iPhone with no regard for the people sitting around her. She was in the pew directly in front of me. Try concentrating on the message as you look past an iPhone held up high. Forget the wailing babies; I’ve found an even better reason to bring back cry rooms.

meticulous

I have bed-making down to an art. Tens of thousands of practices over my lifetime have developed a habit and an approach that is as efficient and perfect as they come. I am precise and thorough, with the extreme attention to detail that can only be defined as meticulous. Inside of five minutes I can boast hospital corners, fluffed pillows, and perfectly aligned tucked-in sheets and blankets with not a crease in site. It’s quite the accomplishment.

Recently – and somewhat disturbingly – I found myself making the bed in our hotel when my wife and I would travel. Even though housekeeping comes along later in the day and their very job is to make the bed, the habit is so ingrained from childhood that I simply can’t leave the room without giving the bed some semblance of an orderly look.

All of this attention to bed-making has me questioning the entire practice, so let’s just put it out there. Why do we make beds in the first place? Who really sees your bed besides you and whomever you share it with? Why make it nice and neat if you’re just going to mess it up again later the same day? Or how about this: isn’t it more sanitary to leave the sheets exposed to the fresh air instead hiding them under blankets and comforters all day long?

Maybe these questions are really just excuses born from a childhood of not wanting to make my bed.

In the classic children’s novel “The Twenty-One Balloons”, author William Pene du Bois imagined a fantastic bed-making device. The sheets formed a continuous loop that disappeared into the floor on both sides of the bed. The portions of the sheet below the floor passed through rollers into a flat washing machine and a drying press before looping back up to the bed. A crank inserted into the footboard would rotate the sheets exactly one width of the bed. Therefore, not only is the bed made all the time but you always have clean sheets. Brilliant!

Sometimes my wife and I wake up in the morning, and the bed looks like it’s still made even though we haven’t gotten up yet. In fact, if I carefully turn back the sheets and blankets as I get out of bed, it only takes a single tug to restore order. It’s the simplest form of bed-making. Is that my answer; learning to sleep lying perfectly still all night long so the bed practically makes itself?

More likely I should take a lesson from the not-so-classic film “Along Came Polly”. In a scene that absolutely resonates with me, Ben Stiller’s character would make his bed every day meticulously, topping it off with a dozen or more perfectly-placed decorative pillows. In an even better scene, Jennifer Aniston’s character – a wonderfully free spirit – launches an all-out assault on the pillows, reducing them to a storm of ripped-up cloth and flying feathers. And there’s the lesson. Let the bed go unmade every now and then. Forget about the hospital corners or the sheet aligning with the blanket or the arrangement of the pillows. It doesn’t matter. Goodness knows you have more important things to do with your day.

certitude

Several posts ago I told the woe-is-me story of leaving my Kindle e-reader in an airplane seat pocket. Much to my chagrin I wrote, this was the second time in two years; exiting a plane without my prized portable technological wonder. In the post I made two predictions about the eventual destination of my e-reader. The first was into the hands of the Delta employee who cleans the plane. The second was into the hands of the next traveler who reached into my seat pocket (“Congratulations! You’ve just won an Amazon Kindle!”) So one or the other of these scenarios was the end of the line for my e-reader. I drew those conclusions as if they were fact. I wrote with certitude.

Here then, “the rest of the story”. On the eventual destination of my e-reader I was wrong – way wrong. In what I would label a small miracle, my Kindle ended up… in my own hands. The perseverance of DALLIRT (Delta Air Lines Lost Item Recovery Team) won the day. Perhaps my Kindle was found immediately or perhaps it traveled on to one or more exotic destinations. Either way, a human took pity on me and made things right. Imagine my disbelief (and chagrin) when I received an email from DALLFC (Delta Air Lines Lost & Found Central) that began “Dear David Wilson: We are happy to tell you that we have located an item that closely matches the description of your reported lost item”. Twelve dollars and seventy-seven cents of postage and three days later, my Kindle was dropped on my doorstep. No damage. No note. Everything intact.

I must own up to one other aspect of this story. A day or two after I filed the lost item report with Delta, I promptly logged onto Amazon and bought another Kindle. That’s right; before I gave Delta’s process a chance, I purchased a new e-reader. I even upgraded to a newer version (“Voyage” – oooo). That’s certitude in a nutshell. Zero faith in the alternative.

14 - certitude

I suppose the lost dollars to Amazon represents my penance (another good word for my blog) for not trusting a process designed to correct my mistakes. But to further cleanse my guilt, I sent DALCC (Delta Air Lines Customer Care) a glowing email, complimenting them on their lost item recovery process. And they wrote right back, beginning with the following line: “It’s so easy to leave something important behind while flying”. Gee, thanks for making me feel better. Except I did it twice.

My son will probably inherit my recovered Kindle. Yes I should probably keep it because things happen in threes but I’ll take my chances. I’ll trust the process. And I’ll certainly consider Delta Airlines the next time I fly.

irk

Watch out. I’m about to ruin your theater-going experience. If you want to enjoy your movies without the nagging of my detail-oriented world, do not read any further. You have been warned.

I am one of those who can’t help but notice the little things. When I enter a theater I am immediately aware of my surroundings. How big is the screen? How comfortable are the chairs? Is the sound too loud or just right? Did I get freshly-made popcorn or the slightly stale stuff from the bottom of the bin? Yet these are minor distractions when I consider my recent experiences at the movies. Drum roll please; I give you the twelve items that irk me most when I’m at the theater. No matter how intense the action scene or how enrapturing the love scene, one or more of these dozen offenses are sure to get up in my face and say “hello”:

1) The sounds of snacks. At the movies I demand the silence that Simon & Garfunkel made famous (get it?) but instead I’m surrounded by crunches, slurps, wrappers, pours, gulps, and chews. Is this a vote for early-onset hearing loss?

2) Cell phones. To the credit of my fellow movie-goers, I can’t recall the last time I heard a cell phone bleep during a movie. But they still buzz. And they light up. And I notice. My peripheral vision gets high marks at the eye doctor but makes me pay dearly at the movies.

3) Ushers with flashlights. Here’s a new one. Ushers pass through the theater once during the movie to check things out. Don’t get me wrong – it’s a good idea with some of the crazies out there. But I see them. I know why they’re there. And my movie gets a “time-out” until they leave.

4) People movement. This one is trending upward. Why are people going in and out of the theater during the movie? Did they not take care of business earlier? Are there lottery winnings distributed in the lobby that I’m not aware of? And what about missing those couple of minutes while you’re gone? Don’t you want your money’s worth? Sit still people!

5) Commercials. I include movie previews in the value of my ticket purchase. But not commercials. Nor previews that are really just commercials in disguise. Nor ads for television shows. Not what I came for.

6) Seat kicks. Which begs the question, are they intentional or is the person behind you overly-aggressive with their response to a given scene? No matter; you never see them coming and once you get one you’re on edge wondering when number two will hit.

7) The louder movie next door. Beware the lure of a soft romance or poignant drama. Hollywood has produced an action-packed blockbuster that just happens to be playing in the adjacent theater. There are no words to describe the moment when a bomb goes off in the middle of a love scene.

8) Ticket/concession costs. Okay maybe this is just me, but it takes time to get over the fact that I just paid more for my concessions than I did for my movie ticket. I know, I know – concessions equal profit margin. But I’m already well into my movie before I can make peace with that.

9) “People” sounds. In addition to the sounds of snacks, I give you loud breathing, distinctive laughs (otherwise known as cackles, whoops, snickers, and howls), coughs, sniffles, and those other sounds better left to the imagination than described here.

10) The wrong movie. I kid you not. At a theater a few months ago our romantic comedy opened with a towering image of Will Ferrell’s face. I knew instantly they’d queued up the wrong movie. Will Ferrell and romantic comedy do not belong in the same sentence. Or movie theater.

11) The person sitting next to you. Admit it, you arrive early and choose your seats hoping no one will sit next to you. And when they do, you wonder who gets the arm rest. Or the drink holder. And what’s that funny smell?

12) Talkers. Sorry ladies, but women who go to the movies together like to talk ABOUT the movie DURING the movie for EVERYONE to hear. They also seem drawn to the seats directly behind me. One time I actually confronted them about it and promptly learned the meaning of the phrase “dagger eyes”.

So there you have it. Life used to be so simple. My gauge of a good movie was getting to the closing credits without wondering where I put my car keys. But those days are gone. The movies are officially a gamble, but only with respect to which (or how many) of the above distractions will be included. I hope you’re enlightened. I’m irked. Enjoy the show.

exhilarating

Imagine a jog on a quiet trail that wanders through the forest. Nothing but gentle breezes and sunlight filtering through the trees. All you can hear are birds in the distance. Your own little slice of heaven. Except you’re not breathing very well. In fact, you’re gasping for air as you run, trying to establish any kind of rhythm and focus, and wondering where the enjoyment is in all of this. But at some point further down the path a page turns. Your breathing relaxes and you’re moving easier. You can focus and you’re feeling good. What just happened? You found your “second wind”! And the sensation is nothing short of exhilarating.

I found my second wind on a recent run. It’s difficult to pinpoint the moment it kicks in, but it’s similar to driving as you shift from a low gear to a higher one. Everything feels smoother and more efficient. In this instance I intended to run several miles but after the first couple of minutes I wanted to quit. I couldn’t get my breath and I wasn’t getting any satisfaction out of it. It’s like I wasn’t in the mood to be there at all. Yet I was familiar enough with the trail to know I was coming to an easier stretch – some downhills and flats, and a scenic tour of the pines. I figured the least I could do was to complete that portion before I started walking. Next thing I knew, I was even further down the trail and running with ease. My pace and breathing were controlled and comfortable. So I completed my run without ever stopping. There you have it: second wind.

When I run, I like to lose myself in thought because the creative juices seem to flow better. So it was somewhere out on the trail when I realized second wind applies to other aspects of life. A year or so ago I left a job I held for over fifteen years. Initially I was not comfortable losing the routine of the daily grind. The meetings and conference calls and people just vanished. There was an unsettling feeling of no longer running the rat race. There was the constant question of “what’s going on out there in the world?” as I kept myself busy at home. But eventually I found a comfort level with my new routine – several smaller commitments instead of a single all-consuming one. I became at ease with my new circumstances. Second wind.

This is not an advice column, but second wind may hint at a healthier outlook on life. Push through the “first wind” of a given situation, especially when the going is tough and uncomfortable. Give yourself the chance to get to the chapter where the pace and the rhythm and the conditions are favorable. Once you hit that second wind, life suddenly feels exhilarating.

eccentric

Our neighbor to the north is what is politely referred to as an eccentric. He is that guy you probably see in your own neighborhood now and then: an older gent who tends to stay to himself, with a bizarre sense of fashion, and the uniquely long, wispy, wild gray hair that completes the picture of a silver-screen creeper. I can’t help but stare every time I see him ambling about.

Our eccentric is home all the time but he’s not someone for the neighborhood watch. You would know this just by looking at his property. In addition to his adobe-style house – which looks like it was helicoptered in and dropped amidst the horse properties of the area – he has several outbuildings remaining from an old ranch that once commanded hundreds of acres. Collectively the buildings made for a quaint Colorado postcard when you looked out my window. Then creeper tore them all down, leaving only a large silo and an old wooden livestock loading ramp.

In the ten years we’ve lived here, we’ve only run into Mr. Crazy a handful of times. Most of those encounters reinforced the idea that he’s missing a few marbles. On one occasion, his cows escaped his property (run cows, run for your lives!) and he called my wife demanding she get on a horse and go after them. On another occasion I called the fire department on him, because he started a huge blaze inside the silo burning God-knows-what. (Weed? I don’t remember but maybe that’s because I got high). On yet another occasion – in a doctor’s office of all places – psycho showed up minutes after we did to see the same doctor. Stalker. I was quietly hoping the doctor would check him into a round room and give him a bag of marshmallows to play with. But alas, there he was back on his property the very next day.

Our latest encounter with loony – an experience that cements our neighbor’s status as out-to-lunch – involves our mailbox. It’s an innocent-looking picture, isn’t it? Boxes sitting quietly on a modest stand waiting patiently for their daily fill from USPS. In fact, the boxes are sitting on a brand new stand in a brand new location. They used to live on a stand further to the north – on screwball’s property.

11- mailboxes

Here’s the quick story. In mid-December, just in time to boost my holiday cheer, I received a notice from dingbat. The notice told me the stand underneath the mailboxes belonged to him, and he was taking it down because he decided to move his own mailbox to the other end of his property. So for the rest of us – my other two neighbors and I – we needed to find a new stand and relocate our mailboxes. Get er’ done in two weeks or the mailboxes would be left sitting on the ground. Unless, madman was quick to add, we’d each kick in $50. Then he’d leave the stand in place. $50? Heck, I can get a year’s worth of a P.O. box for less than that.

Anyway, I conferred with my neighbors and just for kicks we decided to… do nothing. No response to our notices and no $50. The ol’ wait and see. Well, wacko didn’t disappoint. Each of us received another notice just before New Year’s telling us “time was running out!” Well Happy New Year, old man; we still didn’t do anything.

Okay, so here’s the one part of the story where bats-in-his-belfry gets a little pat on the back (not a real one, mind you). The final notice we received – shortly after January 1 – was an official document from the USPS Postmaster telling us we had one week to relocate our boxes. Needless to say, end of story and see photo above.

One final oddity about Mr. Crazy. He hand-writes his notices in illegible #2 pencil scrawled on yellow pad. Most people would create a Word document and print it, or write a single note and then copy it. Weirdo wrote every one of his notices by hand. Who does that? What really goes on in that house over there?

If you’re concerned my lack-of-marbles neighbor will read this, I’ve probably made his day since he seems to enjoy pestering those who live nearby. I can just picture him over their behind the curtains of his out-of-place adobe, reading my blog and doing a jig while he cackles and throws Cheetos at his computer. Yeah, yeah – have your fun pal – we’re still not moving. Just don’t ask me to borrow a cup of sugar.

penchant

This week I attended a conference at my alma mater; the University of Notre Dame. The days were busy with leadership sessions, guest speakers, and networking, but there was ample time to walk the campus and experience the sights of times gone by. It is a place where pride, sentiment, and fondness combine to where I am unquestionably drawn to it. In a word, I have a penchant for Notre Dame.

What is immediately apparent about Notre Dame these days is its physical expansion. The entire campus of my undergraduate experience – now thirty years ago – is surrounded by new buildings, longer quads, and grander athletic facilities. As a whole it is breathtakingly impressive, even for those who have visited many times before. But when I cross the proverbial threshold from the new to the old; from the present to the past, to arrive in the sub-campus of my day, there comes a sense of calm and familiarity that can only come from experiences that leave a permanent imprint.

My walking tour took me past my academic and social haunts. I passed several buildings where I experienced the triumphs and tragedies of the classroom. I passed several dorms – including my own – where the memories of friends and roommates and dates and parties came back to me as if yesterday. It was easy to get wrapped up in the blanket of yesteryear.

Students were everywhere during my walk. I was delighted to see some of the same habits and activities. Frisbee on the quad. Boyfriend/girlfriend walking hand-in-hand. Dozens of undergraduates desperate for the spring sunshine relaxing in shorts and t-shirts. In that moment I wanted to be one of them again.

I captured my walk with a lot of photos. Every turn – whether for beauty or nostalgia – had me pausing and clicking. It was as if I was trying to capture the essence of my past and trap it inside of my phone. Which I realized, in hindsight, was simply not possible.

Notre Dame has some very special places. There are two lakes in the middle of campus with quiet walking paths around them. There is the Grotto – perhaps the most special of those places – where one can light a candle and say a prayer in the shadow of Notre Dame’s cathedral: the Basilica of Sacred Heart. And there are dozens of corners where you disappear behind a building or down a walkway, and suddenly realize you are alone in the peace and quiet of the moment.

I walked past one of the lakes for several minutes trying to recapture the moments and voices of my years. I sat at the Grotto trying to summon the spirits of such a significant time in my life. Even at the bookstore – where Notre Dame’s name or logo is imprinted on everything imaginable, I wandered the aisles in search of… in search of… I’m not sure what. Did I really believe I could purchase my memories in a shirt? Or a book? Or a photo?

Thirty years can change a place forever. New buildings, new students, and the personality of a new generation dissolve the images of what once was. And so, as I completed my journey down memory lane, I realized that what I sought, I already had with me. My years at Notre Dame; my experience that was like no other, rests proudly and permanently in my memories. No photograph or keepsake or paragraph will ever do it justice.

chagrin

A year or so ago I left my Kindle e-reader in an airplane seat pocket when I deplaned. Those seat pockets contain just a few things – an in-flight magazine, a plastic card that describes safety features, and the timeless airsickness bag. So there’s plenty of room to lose an e-reader in there. Does that sound like an excuse? Well imagine my utter frustration and disappointment – my chagrin – when I did it AGAIN this past weekend. Same drill. I stowed my Kindle in the seat pocket along with some magazines before takeoff. I did all of my reading in-flight. And then in my haste to deplane, I took the magazines and left the Kindle.

There’s an interesting dance you do when you realize you’ve left something on an airplane. It typically begins when you’re unpacking your bags. You take out the clothes and bathroom stuff and then you get down to the little things. About that time you start to wonder when a particular item will surface. Laptop – check. iPod – check. Kindle – oh no, not again. You double-check (okay, you triple-check) your suitcase and your carry-on. You tear your car apart to make sure it didn’t slip between the seats on the way home. And then after you’ve bounced around the bedroom cursing at the walls, you resign yourself to the fact that your Kindle is now in the hands of Delta Airlines. Or one of its enterprising employees.

Delta has a promising process to claim “lost articles”. You go on-line and fill out an official-looking form. You describe the lost article to prove it’s yours. And then you wait. And wait. After three days I got an email reply. It started positively enough. “Dear Mr. Wilson: The search continues… “. But the paragraphs that followed are collectively referred to as “form letter”. It was painfully obvious Delta was not going to drop everything to unearth my Kindle.

My theory on the current whereabouts of my Kindle has two endings. In one, a Delta “cleaner” finds my Kindle and pockets it; or gifts it to his/her child; or stocks the nice little black market he/she has going on the side. In the other, Delta doesn’t have enough employees to clean the seat pockets after every trip so my Kindle just continues on to the next destination. To the person who got my seat after me, I say “you’re welcome”.

Here’s a great invention inspired by my Kindle-down experience. It’s a wireless “leash”: a band that goes around your wrist with a removable Velcro button that can be attached to small personal items (i.e. Kindles). When the wrist band and the Velcro button are far enough apart, the band beeps and you realize something is not right. Not bad, huh?

In my defense for having abandoned my Kindle twice, a laptop is too big for the seat pocket so at least a portion would be visible. iPods and mobile phones are too small to risk putting in the seat pocket and forgetting about. But a Kindle? The perfect size. Small enough and flat enough to disappear into seat pocket oblivion.

This story will have an ending, happy or not. Remember, according to Delta, “the search continues”…

insentient

My 2002 “Red Rock Pearl” Acura has been my faithful companion for the last thirteen years. She’s racked up an impressive 285,000 miles on Colorado’s streets and highways. She’s weathered the extremes of winter blizzards, the instability of our roads (potholes! washboard!), and the novice driving skills of my formerly teenage kids. Through it all she’s given me safe passage with a minimum of maintenance and repairs.

Back in 2002 when I purchased her new, the salesman claimed she would go 400,000 miles. More than a decade later I’m inclined to agree. When I take her in for service and see the newer models, I’m reminded there are still plenty of miles left in her tank.

When you’ve been with a car this long you tend to forgive the little things. Like, the stereo holds six CD’s but at some point the mechanism jammed and now they’re all stuck inside my dashboard. Or the GPS system has mapping which is slowly dating itself because it pulls from a DVD instead of a wireless network. Or the gold accents I added when she was new that have long since fallen off the body. Hail damage and a run-in with a pasture fence (driver to remain nameless) have left her less than “cosmetically pleasing”.

Recently my wife and I have been talking about getting a new car. A newer-model Acura or perhaps another make. Either way, a replacement for the old girl. And to be honest, I don’t think “she” is happy about it.

Let’s address this “she” thing, shall we? Somewhere in her early years my kids decided my car was a girl. They named her “Roxanne”. Forget the blow to my masculinity; giving inanimate objects names and personalities is just weird. Cars have no feelings. They are insentient. Or are they?

Lately I’ve noticed the little things:

At random the gear shift sticks on “P” and you have to jam it with a pen to get it to “D”.
The little light in the glove box goes on and off, even when the door is closed.
The air conditioner makes a nasty screechy mechanical noise when it comes to life. It only gives you cold air when it feels like it.
Adjusting the stereo volume or tuning radio stations is an adventure. Whether you use the buttons on the steering wheel or the knob on the dashboard, you never know what you’re going to get. Sometimes it’s better to just drive in silence.
The rear cargo hatch doesn’t cooperate. When it’s really cold the door freezes shut. When it’s mildly cold the door doesn’t stay in the “up” position by itself.

None of these inconveniences compromises my safety or demands an immediate fix. Instead, it’s as if “Roxy” is finding ways to discreetly disagree with the new car discussion. I guess I can’t blame her – she’s been delivering me safely from Point A to Point B for almost a quarter of my lifetime.

Hold the phone. Did I actually just consider my car’s point of view?

unsung

St. Patrick gets a lot of attention this time of year. His Feast Day is March 17th, when many of us claim to be Irish. We wear the green, march in the parades, run the 5k’s, and drink more than we should. Over the centuries we’ve built massive cathedrals to Patrick’s name in Dublin and New York City and a dozen other cities around the globe. But why does Patrick get all the love? Did you know there are actually three patron saints of Ireland? I’d like to talk about one of the others – my wife’s namesake Brigid. Her Feast Day is February 1st.

Three years ago Brigid and I visited Ireland for the first time. While we toured the Emerald Isle we made a point of travelling to Kildare – not far from Dublin – to see St. Brigid’s Cathedral. Kildare is delightful; the quaint Irish town of my mind’s eye. St. Brigid’s Cathedral is its focal point, just above the town square. It was constructed a long time ago but it’s still an impressive landmark. You’ll learn a lot about St. Brigid here. She had a way with animals (an absolute parallel with my wife), she was a patroness of students, and she was a female superior in the church. In a nutshell, she knew how to get what she wanted (again, a parallel).

Brigid has fifteen “wishing wells” throughout Ireland; devotional places where the water is said to be holy. The one we visited had a prayer tree full of ribbons and strips of cloth. Animals watched us from a nearby pasture.

Let’s go back to Patrick for a moment. Again, I’m not sure why he gets the spotlight. Yes he’s a “patron saint” of Ireland (along with Brigid and some guy named Columba) but more specifically? He’s the patron saint of engineers and paralegals. That’s it.

Brigid outdid herself in the patron saint department. She’s the patron saint of (deep breath here): babies, blacksmiths, boatmen, brewers, cattle, chicken farmers, children whose parents are not married, children with abusive fathers, children born into abusive unions, dairymaids, dairy workers, fugitives, infants, mariners, midwives, milk maids, nuns, poets, poor, poultry farmers, poultry raisers, printing presses, sailors, scholars, travelers, and “watermen” (whatever those are).

Maybe Brigid deserves a parade too, huh? Doesn’t she seem a little unsung?

Patrick made magic with shamrocks and banished a lot of snakes from Ireland. Brigid performed at least eight miracles, founded several abbeys and monasteries, and built a school of art. Need I say more?

We have a St. Brigid’s Cross in our house, which legend says protects the home from any sort of harm. We also have a framed copy of her Blessing, which ensures the roof, walls, windows, doors, and fireplaces are all covered. We are all about Brigid.

One closing comment. After returning from Ireland it occurred to me there’s probably a little love for St. David somewhere in the world as well. With a little research I discovered that St. Dave also has his own cathedral. It’s on the west coast of Wales in the county of Pembrokeshire. As the crow flies it’s less than a hundred miles from Brigid’s place in Ireland.

I think our next trip will be to Wales.