I is for "I am From"

This is a draft of a poem that I started writing some time ago.  I first saw the "I am From" format in a Language Arts class at the school where I worked.  I always wanted to try my own version, so here it is.  I know it needs some revision, and I think I would like to add some more stanzas in the future.  The poetry bug has been calling me recently :)

"The Journey Home"

I am from Christmases in Clonroche,

Pulling crackers, singing songs,

Party hats and too much food,

And "What do you get if you cross a sheep and a kangaroo?"

A woolly jumper, of course.

I am from driving up the mountains to Ballindaggin,

Curvy roads and "Hold onto your knickers!"

Road blocks of sheep and cows

All the way to Granny's house.

I am from Irish roads at night,

Speeding through the darkness,

Chattering about the family soap opera,

A sky full of stars,

And the lights of Clonroche in the distance.

I am from 63 The Gables,

Kick the can and tennis on the street,

Bursting tar bubbles on sunny days,

Giant trees ripping up footpaths,

And warming clothes on the radiator.

H is for Home

What makes a home? I often ask myself this question and I have used it as a journal prompt many times in the past.  There are so many ways to define a home.  
There is the house where I grew up.  I lived there with my parents and my sister until I was thirteen years old.  I have many memories associated with that house, yard, street, village.  It felt like home at one time.  Now when I visit, I feel like a stranger; everything has changed so much.
I often talk about Ireland as my home.  I lived in Ireland for the first thirteen years of my life.  I can still visit my granddad's house and feel like nothing has changed.  It still feels like a home.  When I visit I feel like I am going home, but when I leave I am also going home.  Confusing.
Then there is the house where my parents live.  I never lived there.  I had already moved out before they bought it, but there is something about the house where your parents live that feels like home.  Everything feels so familiar, so homey.
Now I have my own home.  My husband and I bought a beautiful historic house, and we have filled it with our familiar, homey stuff.  I can't imagine ever living anywhere else, although it is entirely possible that my life will take me somewhere else.  
So, what makes a home?  What is a home to you?

G is for Gables

I spent my childhood in a housing estate called The Gables.  My side of the street was lined with two-story houses.  Each house had the exact same layout, same postage stamp yard, same white fence and short stone pillars.  Between the houses and the street, large trees tore up the sidewalks.  The street was lined with tar which bubbled in the summer sun, creating a new plaything.  The tar lines also served as a tennis court on those summer days.  The opposite side of the street was lined with one story houses.
Recently I looked at a picture of that street on Google Street View.  The houses no longer have garages.  They have all been replaced by sun rooms.  The large, destructive trees have all been replaced by thin saplings.  Some of the old gang still live there; many have moved away.  Those streets are filled with memories of long days spent playing Kick the Can and Hide and Seek.  
Maybe today, a new group of kids is forming new memories on that same street.

F is for Failte

Failte (pronounced fall-cha, kind of) is the Irish word for welcome.  I want to take this opportunity to welcome all the new followers of this blog.  Thank you for your support.  I love the A to Z challenge because it brings us bloggers together.  We spend a month cheering each other on and supporting each and every post.  I love it! Fáinne is another Irish word.  It means ring.  In Ireland, you receive a pin called a fáinne that shows your fluency level with the Irish language.  I studied Irish from the beginning of my schooling through what would be called seventh grade in the United States.  At the end of my seventh grade year, called First Year of Secondary School in Ireland, I received a silver fáinne to show that I was conversational in Irish.  It is one of my biggest regrets that I am no longer at a conversational level.  Without constant practice, I have lost a lot of my knowledge of the language.  I remember random words and phrases, but nothing close to what my ability used to be.  I still have my silver fáinne.  Maybe someday I will feel confident wearing it again. Anyway, welcome to all my new followers.  I hope you continue to enjoy the blog Céad mile failte. One hundred thousand welcomes.

E is for English

English!  What a fascinating language.  Even though I spoke the language, when I moved from Ireland to the United States, I had a lot to learn. The most frustrating one was chips.  In Ireland, chips are what we call french fries in the United States.  Imagine my surprise when I ordered a hamburger and chips.  My plate arrived with potato chips, or crisps as we call them in Ireland. The parts of the car were all wrong too.  The boot of the car in Ireland is the trunk in the United States, and the bonnet was now called the hood. The first time I said something about a press, my husband was completely confused.  He didn't realize that I was talking about a cupboard.  What we call suspenders in the United States are braces in Ireland. But the one that would have been most embarrassing was the word rubber; in Ireland, it's an eraser.  In the United States, of course, it is a condom.  Thank you YM for warning me about that one!

D is for Dancing

This month I am participating in the A to Z Challenge. I will be writing about memories from my life and all my different homes.

Today my Spanish class started a project where they write about what they were like as children.  When I looked at my sample, I noticed it was covered with pictures of me dancing and dressed in my ballet clothes.

When I was a kid, I loved dancing.  I took ballet lessons and Irish dancing lessons.  I dreamed of the day when I would join the older girls, dancing on point and doing the hornpipe.  I never got there.  When I got sick in the fifth grade, all the dancing stopped.

I'm not sure that I really ever had much coordination or balance (I assume that I did), but now I can't dance to save my life!  I have thought about taking some lessons again, like ballroom dancing.  When it comes to musical endeavors, I seem to do best with detailed instructions and steps.  I could probably memorize some dance steps and maybe reproduce them on a dancefloor somewhere.  Maybe :)

IWSG: Courage

Time for another post for the Insecure Writer's Support Group.

I think I need some courage.  I have reached the almost end of two separate manuscripts, and I cannot find the courage to complete them.  I don't know how to do it.  

I know how each story ends.  I am prepared for the actual writing of the stories.  I can set aside time to sit down and write.  I just can't make the words appear on the screen or the paper.

I need to find the courage to finish the two projects.  I wonder if it is my fear of the next steps that keeps me from finishing.  I mean, what are the next steps?  How do I even approach publishing?  What if I never get published?