When Irish Eyes are Smiling

Now it's Tuesday evening. We were able to post Friday's blog by putting the computer on top of the dryer in the lounge, looking at the transmitter. For some reason, I've been prohibited from communication. If I want to call anyone, I have to use my credit card at the pay phone, and internet is not an option. So, I'm resting from technology somewhat. It's been good, except I want the followers of this blog to know what's happening. When we leave St. Martins, we will have been here 16 days – the longest I have stayed anywhere, I think.

The weather is certainly not July-like here in New Brunswick. Cold and rain with fits of sun and clouds. Today was semi-warm with semi-sun. Mom knocked on my door at 9:50 – I was still in bed! We looked at the Old Home Week schedule and decided we would go to the Museum where they were offering help in searching your geneaology. So, after breakfast and clean-up I thought I would go for a nice walk. But, no, first we had to go search for Dad again – he decided to take the truck up to the gas station to pump up his bicycle tire, must have got confused and went somewhere. I told Mom to go call his cell phone again, and I saddled up my trusty steed (bike) and took off. After a few minutes of panic, she looked at their trailer site and saw the truck – he was back home safe and sound. He told us he went to the antique store. We think he got lost when he came out of the gas station, so we had a bit of an argument with him. This new reality is hard sometimes. He asks the same questions over and over again and he does get confused. But we're coping as best we can, and always keeping an eye on him.

Before going to the museum to research our lineage, I decided to take a walk up the beach and cut through the bulrushes in order to come back. I noticed blood trickling on my foot and wondered where it was coming from. I looked down at my calf, and lo and behold, a small stick had punctured my vein. I pulled it out and blood started pouring out, and the vein started to swell up. I tried to stop the bleeding with a leaf! (that's all I could find, and didn't want to rip my shirt in pieces). I prayed all the way back, envisioning myself lying in the swamp and no one ever finding me. "Mom! Have you got a first aid kit?" She did, and I swabbed the leg. We were going to bike to the museum, but we took the truck instead, as I was finding it difficult to walk. That way, Dad couldn't go anywhere as well, so I guess it worked out OK. I've got quite a bruised vein tonight, but all is well.

At the museum, we researched Mom's family name (Page), with the help of Faye. We went back to 1851, and I found out that my great-great-great-grandparents, Jane and James D. Page, came from Ireland in 1822. And here I thought I was British, although an English lady in the laundry room just told me that if I was Protestant, I was from Northern Ireland, which is British. Anyway, I was so excited to find out I'm part Irish! Now I now why I've always spoken with an Irish accent and wanted to go on a musical tour with Anna McGoldrick.

Mom and I played a card game this afternoon that one of the campers here taught me the other day (Sharon). It's called 140's. I thought I would win, but alas, I did not. Mom beat me by over 600 points. What do you think of that? My Irish eyes weren't smiling. Oh well, you win some, you lose some. I'll tell you that Max wins a lot of games – Scrabble, Crib, 45's. She's very competitive – moreso than moi. But you gotta love her. And washers – the campground game – she and Nurse Cherry beat the pants off me and Mom last week.

Well, Doug and I are going to go build a campfire again over at Mom & Dad's campsite. I'm leaving at 5:30 in the morning and going back to Fredericton with Doug, so that I can go to my physiotherapist to get some back therapy. My back went out last week, and I need to get it in top shape for the western trip. After my appointment, I'll drive down with Jessica. The Southshore Sister is on her way from Shelburne tomorrow as well.

Learning how to rest in St. Martins, I remain

!Deb, the Irish Washerwoman