Let The Hurricane Roar

I’ve just finished rereading Becoming Laura Ingalls Wilder. I adored the ‘Little House’ books from a young age, and borrowed them from the library again and again-I only read the whole series as an adult when I bought them for myself. As a child I didn’t put too much thought into how the books came into being and assumed they were as true to life as they appeared on reading them for the first time.

Her daughter, Rose, had a lot to do with the books, in terms of style, editing, story and writing. That’s not to detract from the books in any way, or to diminish them in my eyes or anyone else’s-they are classic historical fiction and my father enjoyed the farming descriptions as much I enjoyed reading about the daily lives of girls my age who lived so long ago.

Rose, one could surmise, repackaged many of her mother’s memories into her own prairie based novel, Let The Hurricane Roar, also called Young Pioneers. I read it once as a child but hadn’t thought about it for many years, until we had our own hurricane today. We got off lightly and managed to get many small jobs done as we headed the warnings to make only essential journeys and stayed inside once we’d secured anything that might blow away.

We have had running water all day, there hasn’t been a power cut (yet-I’ve jinxed that now) and we aren’t living miles from anyone who might be able to help in an emergency. I’m not feeling even slightly in the same category as the fictional couple in Rose’s book or the Ingalls family weathering months of blizzards in a wooden house more than a century ago.

Ophelia has left its mark here. I’m very glad we’re lucky enough to live in a place where hurricanes are such a rarity that it was back in 1961 where we had a day like this.

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Let The Hurricane Roar

Tiny Sparks of Joy

Eating pears from the tree in our front garden. We had no idea it was a pear tree, that it would grow edible pears and that they’d be so delicious.

Passing pears on to a friend in work. Always good to share one’s bounty.

The good kind of hangover from the march for choice last Saturday. A hangover of excitement, inspiration and hope.

An unexpectedly lighter than expected work week, along with getting paid this week.

The details we do know from the Mueller investigation. Aristotle still right after all these years: “The law is reason free from passion…Man, when perfected, is the best of animals, but when separated from law and justice, he is the worst of all.”

Tiny Sparks of Joy

All the Feels

The women with the buggies. The two old friends holding a photo of themselves from 1983. The woman with a hijab holding a sign in Irish. The group of teenage lads with homemade signs. The woman whose dad made her sign that was photographed all the way along the route. The older women who’ve paved the way for us. The teenage girls who I’m in awe of. The friends who marched for the first time. The friends who’ve marched before I had the nerve to. The parents for choice. The midwives for choice. The Enya fans for choice. The grieving couples. The three generations marching together. The left wingers. The right wingers. The middle of the roaders. The Father Ted mastermind. The singers. The handmaids. The hastily bought badge wearers. The people sweating in their black sweatshirts because of the glorious sunshine. The immigrants who can’t vote but need us to vote for them. The borrowed t-shirts. The shoppers cheering along the way. The theatre staff giving us the thumbs up. The beeps from passing cars and buses. The tooting from the passing train. The little girls and boys waving flags bigger than they were. The stories that still make me cry. The anger and the passion of the speeches. The hope for change.

It’s time to act. Repeal the Eighth for all of us.

All the Feels

Why I’m Marching

It’s been a year since the last March for Choice.

It’s been a year of highs and lows.

Among the highest of highs was the Sunday I spent on a windy beach, refreshing my twitter feed and growing increasing ecstatic about what I was seeing, as some of my fellow citizens voted again and again to show compassion and recommend sweeping change to Ireland’s abortion laws, which, thanks to an amendment introduced at a mad, dangerous time in 1983, are among the strictest in the world.

Our abortion laws are, thanks to the eighth amendment, at once black and white and myriad shades of grey. If I am pregnant in Ireland, I am considered exactly equal in law to a foetus. The grey comes in when adults and children are taken to court because of the law, with the foetuses in their uteruses granted the same level of legal representation as they are.

Doctors have kept a decomposing woman on life support because she happened to be pregnant because of all the grey around our laws.

The Attorney General issued legal proceedings against a 14 year old child, pregnant following rape, compelling her to return to Ireland because the foetus inside her had a right to life because of all the grey around our laws.

Savita, a woman whose glorious smile we are familiar with for all the wrong reasons, was kept in pain and anguish as she miscarried her very much wanted baby, and died because of all the grey around our laws.

I’m marching for these and many other reasons.

I’m marching because of the black, and the white, and the grey reasons people have for needing and wanting and having abortions.

I’m marching because while there are shades of grey, people of privilege like me will always have more options when it comes to healthcare, including access to safe and legal abortions.

I’m marching because I am healthy and alive despite the eighth amendment, not because of it.

I’m marching because, as much as we might want it not to be so, this is part of how we make change happen.

I’m marching because I can’t leave it to someone else.

Why I’m Marching

This One Is Actually About Budgets-Part 1

I became slightly addicted to reading personal finance blogs over the summer, in particular http://www.frugalwoods.com/. I don’t have a lot in common with many of them, in that neither I nor my husband have a huge desire to retire early and travel the world or live on a homestead, but I have been thinking about money and independence and what those two things mean to me and to my husband and to us as a couple.

I have never been great with money. I only ever managed to save with a very specific goal in mind and I love stuff. In college, I had the enormous privilege of:

  1. Living at home.
  2. Having tuition free education, something I am thankful for every single day.
  3. A great, well paid part-time job that I was easily able to fit around my college schedule.
  4. Good health, enabling me to juggle numbers 2 and 3.
  5. Not having to worry about bills, food and paying rent, another thing I am thankful for every day-the money I earned from my job and fairly regular babysitting for a family down the road was all mine.

My best friend worked close by and we’d work all summer, saving as much as we could, then we’d go to London for a week and blow most of it on clothes, having a good time and letting our hair down before resuming our studies. Again, this is something I am really, really thankful for and I couldn’t have asked for more from my parents who facilitated me being able to do this.

When I was in college, the Government of the day set up a crazy good savings scheme, the SSIA. It was a no-brainer, you got an extra 25% when you saved into these accounts. I set one up and when I started a ‘proper’ job after graduation I upped the payments. I did not save much beyond this, but I was still living at home with minimal bills. This was the heady days of the peak of the Celtic Tiger and the madness of this time is best illustrated by the fact that I was able to buy a house, with the assistance of my parents (have you realised how amazing they are yet? I thank them every day, in my head at least, for the privileged start I’ve had in life) despite:

  1. Having just graduated and not having a long track record of working.
  2. Having only the savings I had managed during college.
  3. Having no lump sum in a deposit account.

So here I was, 23 years of age, a home owner who had never really had to plan her spending, save and budget with a long term goal in mind or be responsible for all the bills that come with running any household but especially being a homeowner. And I continued to like All The Things. Stuff was my friend and while I was never a candidate for a show about hoarding I was a very good consumer.

Looking back, I don’t know how the process of buying a house didn’t change my mindset around finances. I mean, you’d think if anything would signing up for a 40 mortgage would. But no, there are more tales to tell.

 

This One Is Actually About Budgets-Part 1

Observe the Daughters of Ireland, Marching Towards Bodily Autonomy.

We’ll be marching on September 30, once again looking for Ireland to repeal the eighth amendment of the Constitution which makes pregnant children and women equal to a zygote. We first marched in 2012, following the death of Savita. I was clueless on that march, but sheer emotion drove me to get out on the streets in a way I never had before.

We’ve marched on gloriously sunny days dressed in summer clothes. We’ve marched in the pouring rain wearing matching REPEAL sweatshirts. We’ve protested outside the National Maternity Hospital and listened to Graham Linehan tell us once again why Ireland needs to repeal the eighth. We’ve shared stories on social media and tried to engage with family and friends.

We’ve watched ‘balanced’ debates where those who think I am equal to a zygote have been allowed to lie unchallenged. We’ve listened to politicians obfuscating on women and children’s rights. We’ve seen glossy, expensive leaflets from supposedly ‘grassroots’ campaigns which use cartoons and childish imagery to try to convince people that Ireland and its women don’t need abortion.

I have cried tears of frustration many times. I have spent a Sunday refreshing my social media feed as I saw the Citizens Assembly, a group of  – I loath the phrase but I suppose it is what it is – ‘ordinary people’ listen and nod and agree with those who made the case for trusting women and children, and vote in a way that showed they cared.

I wrote this last year, around the same time. Since then, nothing has changed for women. Thousands have travelled, each with their own story, but each exiled by Ireland. I want the next march to be the last one. I want to know that the next generation of daughters won’t have to do this ever again.

Observe the Daughters of Ireland, Marching Towards Bodily Autonomy.

Back to School(ish)

My work mirrors the school year, in that September is a time where things start getting back into gear. I’ve had a great summer, with nearly a month away from the office, and plenty of long evenings in our garden and time for other projects. This week it will be back to normal and I’ve cleaned and tidied my desk in readiness.

As part of an overall plan for our finances and lives, we’ve both been bringing lunches to work every day in an effort to trim some of our expenditure. I love cooking and want to eat the healthy things I know are better for my body and my wallet. I’ve acquired a small lunch-sized cool bag and I’m going to be realistic about what I need to eat to keep me going, especially on those days where I’m at my desk for the guts of 12 hours.

I’ve realised I don’t need any new clothes for the work year ahead. My self-imposed clothes buying ban continues, and just this morning I realised I had two dresses I had completely forgotten about – it’s like having something new without having to buy it. I’ll probably have to get my two pairs of winter boots resoled at some point, but they’re comfortable and solid so I’m happy to bear that expense.

Back to School(ish)