Greetings everyone out their in Blog Land,
I have been asked by several people, who only know me from this website, how in the world did a semi-hippie chick from California wind up in rural Ireland. Like most stories at Kilmurry House, this one is a bit strange, and has a short version, a long version and a even really longer version (for those winter nights when you are having mulled red wine and the power is out).
I've decided to start with the more-or-less shorter version as the rest of the details are likely to crop up in future web blogs. But the basic idea goes something like this:
By the early 1990's, our heroine had managed to move back to California (after living in both Mississippi and Colorado for awhile). I had chosen Northern California, because it reminded me of the California I grew up in (on the central coast) but with more jobs. Besides, I had friends in the Bay Area who took me in until I got on my feet. By 1992 I lived in a typical group house, with a typical group of 30 something Pagans (of mixed sexes and sexual orientations) and had not so typical job working for the federal government. While my friends were sometimes outside protesting, I was more often to be found working inside the building (this really happened, more than once). Sitting at my little desk, just like all the other little desks. Yes, Disaster Cat was a Burricat, at least for awhile. Someone asked me to describe my federal job once and I answered,
"I'm a bureaucrat, I spend half my time telling people they have filled out the wrong form, and the other half telling people they have filled out the right form but incorectly..."
and when people would ask me "why do I have to fill out this stupid form anyway," I would point to the button I'd found at the World Con Science Fiction Convention and put on the wall above my desk it said:
"It doesn't have to make sense, its government policy..."
Other than my job, my life was pretty normal, if you live between the border of Berkeley and work in San Francisco; have a roommate named Bill, with a degree in Women's Studies, and are busy studying in California's first state-approved clergy training program - for Witches (and other Pagan/Heathen types). A nice, normal Bay Area life, right out of the pages of a Jeff and Akbar Cartoon.
About the time I finished the clergy training (and was granted a real live clergy license from the State of California, and no its not from Universal Life Church, I did study for it for over three years) I was going monthly to a monthly religious service at a very large, rather famous, house in the Berkley hills. I had briefly lived in this house in 1989 (as have many people) it serves as sort of a gathering place for writers, poets and other artisans. If you know where it is, well you know about the bi-yearly poetry readings. If you don't, I'm not going to name it here.
That particular month, I was supposed to go to a pottery class, instead of Viking Religious studies, when someone mentioned that a special guest would be there. Someone I'd always heard quoted, only by their last name and a great Runic Master. So, I managed re-schedule pottery class for a different night and decided to go see the Great One. Who I was sure must be at least 55 years old, balding with a beard and a monocle. Before the session started, I noticed a very handsome young man, who was also noticed by my roommate. I gather my first words were something very Berzerkley like,
"Hi, my roommate wants to know if you gay?" He answered the question and we've been married for 10 years now...he also writes rune books, is 10 years younger than me, has all his long blond hair and has never owned a monocle. So much for stereotypes.
Courtship was a bit more complicated than that, of course. He did move in with me a couple of days later, but since he was studying for a P.H.d in Cambridge England, that only lasted for the rest of his vacation. A year later I quit my job, we visited the "Registry Office" and got legally married. And I found myself living alone in a bedsit, because he had an un breakable lease on his one-person rental. We "dated" while he finished his studies, then we moved to Sweden for a year an a half while he did post-doctoral work. We did fly back to the states where the lady who introduced us (who had also been my clergy training sponsor) gave us a proper, Viking, wedding.
At the end of our time in Sweden (where my beloved was very happy and I was miserable, which is really funny since I'm the liberal and he's the libertarian..) we needed to move. The US was unhappily out of the question, because we both had pre-existing medical conditions. This is when we learned that absolutely no one in the US would ensure self-employed people like us. Unless we wanted to pay something like a million dollars a year (and not cover anything we had wrong). My husband really wanted to stay in Europe anyway, having lived most of his adult life here. So, I agreed to outside the US with one caveat, I wanted and English (or Spanish) speaking country. I pointed out that I had just spent a year and a half in a place where I could not read the news paper, understand the TV or (worst of all) buy a Fantasy Paperback for less than 20 dollars. I'd tried Swedish lessons, but hadn't learned very fast. If we were going to live where one of us didn't understand everyone around us, why not move to Spain? That way I could actually deal with the repair people who would drop by the apartment, discover I wasn't a native, take my stove apart and leave....I could yell at them in all sorts of colorful words...in Spanish.
Before anyone steps in here, yes I know, most people in Sweden speak wonderful English. But why should they have all their newspaper, classes, and other social life in English? If we'd stayed there forever, I'd have tried to learn Swedish. But I didn't want to go to another country (like Germany or Iceland) where my husband knew what was going on and I didn't. At least not right away.
So we settled on either Canada or Ireland, if either would have us. We had to move quickly and Canada had not even answered our inquiries before Ireland threw out a red carpet in the form of a tax break that means professional writers do not pay taxes. At least not Irish ones. And US citizens are exempt for the first big chunk of money earned over seas. Now, its a lot harder to move to Ireland, but in 1995, they did all but send us our plane tickets. We were further enticed by the chance to rent a real castle, which we lived in for one year. We didn't buy it (castle living is another story) because we didn't have a couple of million dollars to keep it from falling down. But it was fun while it lasted. And our old Georgian Rectory may be smaller, but it doesn't need a staff of 30 to maintain it properly. And, we have trees, grass and a bit of garden (all of which had been either sold off or destroyed at the castle site).
So, that's the sort-of short version of how we got here to Ireland. We've lived here nine years, eight at our current address. My Irish citizenship papers have been sitting on someone's desk for over a year now (I'll be a duel citizen both US and Ireland when its done). Lately I've had to brush up on my buricat skills to find out what is going on with it. My husband and housmate both work as writers, and this year are starting up a jewelery business as well. My husband designed jewelery in high school (which sold well) so he's done this before. Its a fun, if a bit scary chapter in life. I'm trying to remember how to set up an office, as well as everything else that goes on around here.
There are likely to be more bits and pieces to fill in the gaps of this story as time goes on. But I think this is enough for now. Meanwhile, I need go boil some chicken and rice for a cat...he's informing me his dinner is late and he wants it: MEWNOWWW!
Moving Right Along: Disaster Cat