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Cowed by the Roads

I have had more near-death experiences in Ireland than in any other country and I’ve been there for a grand total of 4 months of my life–9 days just recently. It’s the roads and the people driving them, not the cows, that I blame. Too many beautiful things to look at just off the road. The way the light lasers through clouds and dances on the water must make people think they’re already in heaven so what’s the big deal if a car hits them or they hit a person to make it official. This cow in Doolin has a sweet spot just off the Clare Way, supposedly a walking route that puts people on narrow, winding roads where drivers are supposed to go 100 km an hour–62 mph–and often surpass that. It’s on the right side of the wall.

Very Irish weather we’re having.  Perhaps it’s in honor of my old friend Kelly’s birthday today. We shared a bedroom in the lovely Savilles’ home in Rathfarnham, Dublin while we “studied” in Ireland  for four months in 1981. Pam, the mom, always had good soup and hefty bread for us in the evening, a main course, and then a dessert just for us–her chocolate cake and “queen of puddings” were wonderful. The four kids should have hated us. They got to eat cow’s tongue. I found out why some people’s jeans had the whitish inside of the front pockets showing–expanding bellies push the pockets clear on out of the way. Before it happened to me, I thought it looked cool. What a dope.

I’m back!

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