The Irish Storyteller

   Last night, I ingested a tablespoon of Cinnamon.  It wasn't because I wanted to, nor because I had a particular craving for a whole lot of spice at one time or because I missed the Fall and yearned to recreate it on my palate.  No, my dear reader, it was because my new boss put me up to it and threw in the entire contents of his pockets if I was successful, which was extremely unlikely as many have attempted the "Cinnamon Challenge" but few have reigned supreme.  So, with a sous chef in tow, we ventured outside the empty restaurant, into the alley, where I held the tablespoon as if it were full of botulism.  After some discussion with the sous chef who had defeated the challenge about dos and don'ts (DO- wait to swallow, DON'T breathe in, if possible), I knocked back the pantry mainstay.  Two minutes later, I walked back into the restaurant $29.35 richer.

   Last Sunday, I watched as a 4-foot-long faux, painted crow exploded into a million pieces.  He was a nice "crow", really, bought home as an eagle from a flea market days prior, then subsequently painted the colors akin to his jet black cohorts.  He didn't hurt anyone, sure he took up a bunch of room in our friends' house but beyond that, he was as peaceful as a monk, silent in his contemplations.  However, his sentencing was quick after his stay grew too long.  His death, we decided, will be swift, painless, but most of all, explosive.  His bean-bag body was shoved full of exploding targets from his pointy beak to his sad, out-of-commission feet.  We all gathered while his executioner placed him against an old dog house, patted his head and turned his back on the old bird.  With every ear covered and camera rolling, a .30-06 came into play.  The bird grimaced as the end of his life came barreling towards him, a final breath, a grand explosion, a snow-covered ground*.

  Last week, I learned the craft of magically fusing one piece of metal to another.   I had read tales of men who transform even the mundane of substances into gold, skittles, unicorns and the like but the act of welding always held my attention fast.  DU is a master of the welds so it was with great interest did I approach the work bench and his outstretched, gloved hand, holding the heated gun.  The helmet placed upon my oddly shaped dome blocked all light, shrouding me in darkness until the blaze of molten steel burned through the black.  When it was my turn, I pressed the petal with stagnant intent, holding it there until I could not handle the heat a moment longer.  I made miniature, swooping circles, acting as the Midas of welding, where there were two pieces of metal, now one.

   Last month,  I was approached via e-mail by a very nice man who claimed to hail from the beautiful county of Greece.  He said that he adored my blog and inquired if I would be interested in doing an interview for one of the largest magazines in the country.  Always being one to leap before I look, I readily agreed, answered all of his questions and only when all was said and done did I think to ask clarifying questions like, "Who are you?" "What is this magazine about?" "Why me?" and most important of all, "What is the article even about?"  Given the language barrier, my quandaries were met with hazy answers so I figured the interview would be on the Eleftheros Typos** website, a small column, a pittance, nothing more.  Attempt to imagine my horror, dear reader, when I began to amass a startling number of page views, comments, and followers from Greece on a random Tuesday.  I was informed the next morning that the interview had been published, to much acclaim.  The words I cannot read but the images, at least, are startling, and to my eye, absolutely breathtaking.

   Last Christmas,  I wasn't the most financially stable huntress.  I couldn't afford presents for those I loved and it killed me inside as there is nothing I love more than making those around me happy, even if it is with a BACON IS A VEGETABLE t-shirt.  So, the holidays came, then went, along with their ceasing came my mother.  She wanted to treat us to a beautiful engagement dinner to celebrate the union that didn't even have a date yet.  We went to a new place in the downtown center of the small southern town we call home.  As fate would have it, the food was delicious, the owners were accommodating and the ballroom upstairs was indescribable; just like that, we had our wedding day.

     Later,  DU and I visited the fabled Ale House in order to talk to the owner about menus, guests and all things October 6th, 2012.  His wife and co-owner was running around like crazy, a busy lunch rush turning her otherwise peaceful afternoon into one of disarray.  I inquired if they needed any help, simply because I needed the money and I was bored to tears spending hour after hour at home.  Again, as fate would have it, they did need help, namely, entertaining help, help that makes their small restaurant the one to visit; just like that, I had a purpose. 

A Bearer of Old Lore.. with Armed Bear

    I've heard my whole life that my granddad, a first-generation American Irishman, was a natural born storyteller.  "Seanchai", or a traditional Irish Storyteller, is a term that was coined prior to the Irish-Language spelling reform of 1948.  The old term means "bearer of old lore".  These bearers of Irish culture and tradition were important in the days of yore when there was no Celtic written language because the tellers of tales were the only ones who preserved their history.  My granddad's people were from the county Mayo in Ireland.  The patriarch of our clan had clear, blue eyes, dark hair, and, of course, freckles.

    It seems that my granddad passed more than just my complexion, iris hue and follicle pigment when I came into the world. I've realized that telling stories is what I do, from the words collected in this blog to the outlandish tales I recite to anyone who cares to listen.  Sure, the details may be off, amplified, shrunk, or deleted all together but the fable as a whole, always entertaining.  I asked myself before taking my new job if I really saw myself waiting tables again at 25***, a profession I haven't delved into since high school.  It was only when I realized that it was my Irish storyteller persona yearning to break free, to share my tales of woe and adventure, to entertain as my granddad did, that the job seemed perfectly suited to this lass.














*Note: No actual crows were harmed in the making of this video, if you believe that stuffed animals don't come to life in the middle of the night, that is....
** A big thank you to Stelios who was so gracious during the entire interview process! The language barrier was difficult to surpass but we made the best of it! I look forward to receiving my own copy, taking it to the language department of the nearest university and getting it translated!
*** I'm still open to taking writing jobs from the outdoor world!! This hasn't taken me off the market in terms of my dream to write (then, hopefully, get paid for) about hunting.  Hence, please continue to let me know about potential job opportunities!