Marie McGrath Davis
Old vegan, animal-rescuing, ex-corporate communicator with lifelong crippling shyness that made expressing myself verbally near impossible.So I took my weirdness to paper, then to typewriter and, now, to computer screen. I write all wrong.
To Try, Perchance To Fly
Every time I see a hawk in flight, I watch, almost mesmerized. Like eagles and falcons, birds I see less often, the majesty of their form, the strength of their wings and the graceful ease with which they can swoop, then rise again into the wind, are humbling. The skies are theirs, and there they defy the power that gravity imposes on us, the mere mortals.
Born and Bread
Had it been double-hinged, my jaw - quite literally – would have landed on the kitchen table. We were having tea and some wheaten bread my mother had made, specifically for me, though she’d never have said. She and my father preferred plain white soda bread to the darker, nuttier wheaten in which she’d usually add (in addition to the three big spoons of white flour) three big spoons of whole wheat flour, then another four or five big spoons of whatever healthy was about the place. Oat bran, flax, wheat germ, maybe some raisins or currants were fairly regular additions to the scone bread I’ve always loved.
I Want To Speak WithThe Manager
I’ve always loved Cocker Spaniels. My mother always loved Cocker Spaniels. Be they American or English. We came from Ireland, where English Cocker Spaniels were the breed we knew. I didn’t really know them back then before we moved to Canada. I was too young. By the time we reached Canada, I was nearly old enough to know about Cocker Spaniels. And, the second I became of requisite age, we had a Cocker Spaniel. But this was an American Cocker Spaniel. And he was a beauty. I named him ‘Rory’ which, in Irish, means “Red King”, for so his golden coat was smattered with errant puffs of a sunset red.
It’s a grey day, a soft day The day we start a journey The day we face the journey’s end. A cortège of cows and sheep and hedges
Deep within the mirror I see you captured there My every line your wisdom Your laughter, your prayer. I see what life has given you
Return of the Native
“You’re going home. You said you would, one way or another, and so you are. You’ve waited 50 years for this. You’re going home once and for all.”
You're Grand, Da
Fourteen years ago, the thing I had dreaded most throughout my life finally happened. I lost a parent. To lung cancer that, had medical investigation been conducted thoroughly, would have had a good chance of cure, or at least the prolongation of my father’s life. But, the pain of loss is enough to bear without sorrowfully and angrily indulging in what might have been, ‘if only’. His lung tumor was so large it had severed his recurrent laryngeal nerve, rendering him able to speak in only a forced whisper for the last months of his life. Since there was only me and my parents in our family, the fact that my mother was already in the throes of Alzheimer’s, could not understand my father’s illness and incapacity and spent much of her time berating and humiliating him, made the year that he had left to live even more difficult. We had a tough relationship, my father and I, for reasons that were complex and underscored by our mutual incapacity to show emotion, or talk, to each other. Yet, for all that, I adored him. I always will.
Watch Out For Those First Two Years
A lot of people have told me I should write a book about my life. They’ve been saying this since long before I even realized I had the stuff of books happening to me and the literary bent to convey these happenings in somewhat entertaining format. Many have said this to me. Indeed, even I have said this (to myself) far from the madding, somewhat maddening crowd. However, all these people so confident I can write a book, who believe I’m honor-bound and obligated to dedicate myself to its creation and completion, aren’t me.