An Irish Shed
Currently I am of no fixed abode and still sorting out paperwork related to the life I just left in the US. Thanks to d’oul internets that’s possible these days.
One of my abodes not fixed is that of my parents in Dublin, and visiting here allows me to enjoy the greatest thing my parents ever did.
My parents had several kids, some nicer than others but the greatest thing that they’re responsible for isn’t a person; it’s a toilet.
Some years back the coal bunker was mostly demolished and the remains whitewashed and hung with baskets of many coloured flowers to create a little Mediterranean world outside the back door. You can blame Mary Harney and the Progressive Democrats for that in their desire to see us inhale smokeless fuels.
Anyway, flowers notwithstanding, that left the back garden a touch bare. And when you consider that the small wooden shed was as difficult to retrieve bicycles from as it was to steal from there, along with bladders that sometimes couldn’t face a staircase, it was time to build an outhouse. Or as we call it, the shed.
The shed is a loose term in my family. When I was growing up the front room was called the shed. This is the room that other families had their best china in along with the couch that would never be sat on. And a few doilies, as well as the occasional coffin. In our front room however was the see-saw, and the bicycles, and the tools, and the lawnmower, and the things that justified it being called the shed.
One year I remember we cleared out the shed. There was just us, an old couch, an open fire, and lino meant to last. It was Halloween and we all lit our sparklers in there. Indoors was so much safer than the world of arson outside, sparklers being our version of fireworks.
Anyway, that shed that was the front room is long gone - replaced now with a nice couch we don’t use and chipped things on the mantle-piece we won in childhood by throwing coins at them. But as much as I liked that shed it doesn’t come close to the latest incarnation. Because of the toilet.
In the 8 trips home to Ireland from the US the highlight for me every time was sitting in a cold outhouse and taking care of business. Whether the dog days of Kansas City’s summer or the horrible dry heat of indoors in Kansas City’s winter, travelling to Ireland and putting your backside on a freezing cold toilet seat is a wonderfully refreshing way to realise you are home.
See More Wallowings in Nostalgia:
• The Pale on the Balcony
• Irish Parental Advice - a List
• Royal Blue Toyota Corollas Banned in Dublin
Eolaí gan Fhéile:
Your post reminded me of Bloom right away, Eolai!