Shane, my missionary son, visited THE Blarney castle housing the famous Blarney stone. Shane writes:
It's Blarny Castle in County Cork, about a four hour drive away. It's on the west coast of Ireland. There's a stone at the top of the castle that, according to tradition, you're supposed to kiss. It'll give you 'the gift of gab.' Apparently, that's where you become a very tactful and witty speaker. Winston Churchill kissed it and look how he ended up. I didn't kiss it. I figured I didn't need the gift of gab. (~Shane Eide, Missionary & Novelist)
So I did a great deal of follow up research which took about 2.3 google seconds. The Wise and Almost All-Knowing Wikipedia offers this list of fascinating theories involving the stone:
* the Stone was the stone that Jacob used as a pillow, and was brought to Ireland by the prophet Jeremiah
* the Stone was the pillow used by St. Columba of Iona on his deathbed
* the Stone was the Stone of Ezel, which David hid behind on Jonathan's advice, while fleeing from King Saul, and may have been brought back to Ireland during the Crusades
* the Stone was the rock that Moses struck with his staff to produce water for the Israelites during their flight from Egypt
* in Ireland, the Stone was known as the Lia Fail or "Stone of Destiny", part of the king's throne, with mysterious powers
* the stone's powers were revealed to the McCarthys by a witch who had been saved from drowning
A couple more mildly interesting items to note:
1. According to common legend, the stone is believed to be half of the Stone of Scone which originally belonged to Scotland. Scottish Kings were crowned over the stone because it was believed to have special powers. One story says an old woman cast a spell on the stone to reward a king who saved her from drowning. Kissing the stone while under the spell gave the king the ability to talk sweetly. He was able to talk anyone into doing things. The stone was given to Cormac McCarthy by Robert the Bruce in 1314 in return for his support in a battle. Queen Elizabeth I wanted the Irish chiefs to agree to hold their own lands under title from her. Cormac Teige McCarthy, the Lord of Blarney, handled her every Royal wish with clever promises keeping loyalty to the Queen without "giving in." Elizabeth proclaimed that McCarthy was giving her "a lot of Blarney." This is how the story began that if you kiss the blarney stone you will also be able to make clever promises.
2. Apparently, the stone inspired this wee poem:
"There is a stone that whoever kisses,
Oh! he never misses to grow eloquent
'Tis he may clamber to a lady's chamber,
Or become a member of parliament."
~ Francis Sylvester Mahony, who may have actually kissed the stone before he penned this verse.
3. Rumor has it that locals are known to 'relieve' themselves on it. I'm glad to hear my son decided against puckering up to it. Smart lad.
So those who seek the gift of gab may ---with a little gymnastic effort ---kiss the stone.
Now here is where I'm confused. Some define the gift of gab as eloquence or skill at flattery. I always thought the "gift of gab" was the ability to talk much and say little. Maybe it's the same thing?
. . . Which is almost as cool as my husband buying me a Harley. #1 Son sent some photos, but no details. I'll have to find out what it is we're looking at and post it later. He said Blarny Castle, but I always thought Blarny was something people say when they don't really know what they're talking about.
Isn't this lovely, though?
I am pressing/nagging him to swim on over next door and scope out Scotland for me, especially the mid-lowland area where my novel is partially set. Do you think I can get him to do it?
All right, Robin Jones Gunn fans---she has a new Sisterchicks book just released May 20 and she's having a book giveaway. Hop on board if you want a chance to win a copy of "Si
sterchicks Go Brit!"
Robin, I hope you send the Sisterchicks to north to Scotland next. Or better yet, send ME!
Our son Shane arrived in Gorey, county Wexford yesterday - or the day before - I get jet lag just trying to wrap my head around the time difference. He'll be spending about 6 months there working in the church he helped plant two years ago.
He'll be visiting the Blarny Castle in Cork today, so I'll do the mom thing and get photos from him that I can post here. He saw lots of castles when he lived there before, but didn't get any photos. I guess everyone in Ireland has a castle in their backyard, so there's really nothing novel about it, the same way everyone in Texas has a pool, or everyone in Hollywood has a plastic surgeon.
Pray for the Agape International Church: Shane, Pastor David and others serving in this church would like to develop a solid youth group and leadership for the church before they return to the States in the Fall. They have a heart for youth of Gorey.
And speaking of love, Shane was greeted by two unexpected roomates. He was under the impression he wouldn't be sharing a room, but discovered both beds occupied when he went in to get some sleep. Hamsters. One on each bed. And by the sound of it, not in cages. Shane told us he was able to clear away the wood chips and get some sleep. I hope allergies won't keep the roomies from getting along. Especially the hamsters.
ALLOW ME TO INTRODUCE MYSELF. . . .
8 RANDOM FACTS ABOUT ME:
I wrote a NOVEL (more about it at the bottom of the page . . . keep scrolling).
I've been writing stuff - an actual literary term - all my life, but now, I'm serious about being published. Or pubbed, if you like. (It's so cute how writer people have all these enigmatic little code-names for things)
I love action movies and Jane Austen. (she’s dead, I know. I found that out when I tried to get her to endorse my novel)
They let me play Bass guitar and sing in a worship band.
I can produce 4 dozen homemade cinnamon rolls in less than 2 hours for a crowd of drooling young adults.
I have a Harley A 2002 Sportster 883. Chrome, black leather. Ram Horn handles. No sissy pink stuff.
I hate shopping (Yes, I'm aware that I'm a girl)
My ringtone is the theme from "The Good, The Bad and The Ugly"(whoo-00-oo-00-oo, waa waa waa)
I speak 3 languages:
1. Sarcasm, fluent
2. Teenage ghetto-girl slang: actually, I'm just learning. It's a difficult language to grasp as it changes without warning and involves complicated neck, hip and finger snapping motions that are often dangerous for middle-aged white people.
3. My native tongue: English with an Oregon dialect, which is much more pronounced with caffeine. Just sit in any Starbucks in Portland an listen fer a while, or head tord the mountn, you'll know whudumean.
I WAS THERE:
I was there during the brief Sonny & Cher period of Modern American history. (Anybody remember? Babe---I got you Babe---) AND the Belushi-Ackroyd years of SNL.
PROFESSIONS THAT I'VE HELD PROFESSIONALLY:
I have experience (meaning actually receiving cash) in numerous professions including a Preschool Teacher, Administrator and a Church Administrative Assistant. In these, I have conducted myself in a flawlessly professional manner. Truly.
I also have over 10 years experience in the honorary profession (meaning no cash, besides the sticky coins that turn up while cleaning the crevices between the seats in the car) of stay-at-home mom.
In addition to these, I also know how to do an unbelievably large number of random, useless things. Like greasing the hubs and changing the oil in a '56 International Harvester Scout.
MY BIGGEST PET PEEVE:
Stinkin over-achievers.
MY ROOTS:
I've lived in Oregon all my life, grew up in several towns/cities including Eugene, Springfield, Reedsport, and Smith River. Which is not really a town, but a river, about 70 miles long, a tributary of the Umpqua River in southwest Oregon.
Although it's not a town, it is a community with a strong sense of pioneer history. It's cool to say you've lived there, especially if you lived there during the days when you had to take a boat to school. No joke! The old farmhouse my grandfather and my mother grew up in still stands, nestled into a narrow, pasture carpeted valley, complete with a swimmin' hole and its own 'crick'. It's going in my next novel.
As a child, I lived for a year in Gardiner, Oregon, across the road from a Weyerhauser paper mill and spent that entire year thinking the noxious odor I smelled every day was coming from my brother's bedroom. (I'm still not entirely convinced it wasn't.)
One last root worthy of mention: there's a longstanding rumor that my ancestors had some connection with the Mafia back in Sicily. I used to fantasize during school about a big black limo with tinted windows pulling up and whisking me away.
Ahhh. THAT'S why I'm having so much trouble conjugating my dangling participles now.
Love Worth Fire - a Contemporary Women's Fiction with Romance
There was a natural, familiar bond that had developed over time. A bond that, until now, Ian had thought he shared with a wise, stout, tender-hearted little spinster nearing middle-age . . .
His his mind worked frantically to reconcile the Emily he knew from the letters with this one, and to accept the fact that this woman, this very lovely young woman, had been his pen pal for the past two years . . .
All widower Ian MacLean wants is peace. And a farm in the lowlands of Scotland should be the perfect place to find it. But he's too young for the life of a recluse, and he’s constantly plagued by an obstinate, mischievous grannie, bitter regrets, mislaid faith and worst of all—an ache for something he’ll never have.
Emily Chapman is a devoted caregiver to her frail great-aunt and lives a quiet life in a remote community in central Oregon’s high desert. Emily has also suffered loss and longs for a sense of belonging, of family.
When Ian travels to the States and meets his kind ‘old’ pen pal, he is surprised to find a lovely, tenderhearted young woman who shakes up what little peace he has and stirs up something in his heart he never thought possible.
But just when Ian and Emily’s dream of a life together is within reach, Emily discovers a devastating secret that crushes their hope for a future. Ian must relive the painful nightmare that scarred him once already. Can his heart withstand a second blow?
While Ian examines the strength of his heart and his renewed faith, Emily must decide if she has the courage to face her worst fears and truly leave those she loves in God’s hands.
****************************
CHAPTER ONE
Ian MacLean nearly escaped.
He made it to the edge of the lamp-lit street with only four hard strides bridging the gap between him and his freedom: Maggie’s farm truck. Even in the pallid streetlight, his grannie’s old rattletrap never looked so good.
“That’s far enough!”
A low growl rumbled up from his throat at the sound of Claire's voice, but instead of stopping, he sprinted across the road, digging into the pocket of his jeans for the key. He reached the truck and behind him, a car spattered up rain from the pavement, blaring the horn as it passed. At Claire, no doubt. Some things never changed. He had to be the only man in Scotland whose older sister still trailed him like a bullet if she thought he wasn’t sharing. Didn’t matter what it was.
With a sigh he turned, leaned against the fender and lowered his gaze to meet hers. Her eyes, usually dark like his, flickered with bright little sparks.
“You’re not leaving until I know what happened to my husband—that’s a dead cert!”
The top of her head didn’t even reach his chin, but that made no difference to her. Never had. He folded his arms loosely, hoping to hide his growing tension.
“What . . . you’re not happy he’s back then?”
“Are you daft? Of course I’m happy!” She frowned, but her voice softened. “This is where Davy belongs.”
“Good.” Ian shoved off and reached for the door. “That’s all that matters.”
“Nnnno . . .” She shot in before he could reach it and pressed her back against the handle. “I want to know how you got him to change his mind, Ian.” Claire gave her arms a brisk rub.
To the west, the lights of Glasgow cast a golden glow against the night sky, but the warmth of the sun had long since faded. Ian’s damp clothes took in the chill, pulling heat away from his skin.
“So what did you say to him?” Claire shivered, still rubbing her arms.
He shrugged. “I don’t remember.”
“Ah! How can you say that? Do you know how hard I’ve been trying to get him to come home?”
As she stood there with fists planted on her hips, Ian’s eyes fell to the spot in the middle of her belly, right about where the door handle would be. Her arms poked out on either side like the handles on one of Maggie’s blessed teapots, almost begging him to toss her out of his way.
“Nothing I’ve said has made a bit of difference, Ian. Whatever you did . . . you just saved my family.” Her eyes filled with tears, but her voice fell to a low tone. “And you don’t remember how you might have done that?”
His gaze snapped across the street to her second-storey flat, to the home she shared with four remarkable kids and one lucky, blasted fool. He had to fight back the ache that rose in his chest.
“We talked about . . . loads of things, Claire.”
“Aye. I’m listening.”
Ian sucked in a deep, cool breath. What he had said to his brother-in-law had not come easy. The words stung then, and they would sting now; swift and sharp, like a cold blade to an old wound. He searched her face, hoping for a weak spot. She didn’t flinch.
Shane, my missionary son, visited THE Blarney castle housing the famous Blarney stone. Shane writes:
