Sharon Kennedy

While you’re reading this week’s musing, I might be planting a smooch on Ireland’s blarney stone. My daughter wanted to do something special for my birthday. She said such a milestone deserved more than an e-card and a box of Godiva chocolates. I suggested we fly to Oxford, Mississippi, the home of my favorite author, William Faulkner. Stephanie laughed and said we could travel south in cooler weather. Then she asked if I would like to visit Ireland.

Little did she know a trip to Dublin had been my dream for years. At one point I got as far as having a passport picture taken. I was 23 and tried to coax my husband into traveling to the British Isles. He said no, we couldn’t afford it. Of course we couldn’t. We couldn’t afford anything in those days. We lived in Colorado Springs at the time. His pay was $75.39 a week. Mine was $300 a month. I suppose I pouted for a few weeks, put my photo in a drawer, and wished I’d married a writer instead of a computer programmer.

Colorado Springs was home to a number of military installations. The labor market was glutted and we took whatever jobs we could find. He worked for Hewlett-Packard located in an area called the Garden of the Gods. Well, if $75.39 was the best god could do, I wanted to return to Michigan but Chuck said no. After a year of hunting, I finally landed a job opening boxes containing broken hearing aids. Yes, you read that right. I opened boxes for a living.

I had two years of college behind me. I was a crackerjack typist and fairly intelligent and yet the best employment I could find was opening boxes holding fragmented hearing aids laden with ear wax. In those days the aids were not the tiny, barely noticeable devices they are today. They were a step above the trumpet style of olden times. The beige colored “ears” were greasy from usage. They were worn and chipped. To my young eyes, they were personal bits of someone’s life, and I wanted no part of them, yet there I was. Every day for a year, I clocked in, opened boxes, read the note inside, and filled out a repair slip. It’s a wonder I didn’t end up in a nut house.

So in my dotage I’m taking the trip I longed for 50 years ago. According to our itinerary, today we’ll be in Killarney, Blarney, and Waterford. While you’re in the kitchen drinking your morning coffee, I’ll be heading for the Kissing Stone. Will I lean backwards and plant one on it? No way. First of all, I don’t need any help in the blarney department. Secondly, the stone is loaded with germs. And lastly, if I got in the kissing position, it would take a team of Connemara ponies to pull me into an upright position.

Sometimes we wait a long time for something special to come along. I never dreamed I would fly across the Atlantic. I thought my spirit of adventure had fled with my youth. Living takes a lot out of a person. As we age, we often lose energy and interest in activities we once enjoyed. We worry about trivial things. Some of us fall into a rut and after a few years, we’re satisfied with our predictable routines. We either get tired or just plain lazy. Then someone comes along and nudges us out of our self-induced stupor.

That’s what my daughter has done. Without realizing it, she fanned an ember in me I didn’t know was still there. Going on this trip is a big deal for me because I don’t go anywhere. I’m no traveler. I pack a lunch when I drive to Detour and make at least one gas station stop along the way. It’s only 50 miles from my place to Flash’s so you see how it is. I’m a stick in the mud. A homebody. I confine myself to these four shaky walls and watch travel documentaries if I want to go farther than the Soo.

But today exploration beckons. If it’s cold and rainy, that’s okay. I’m on a seven day tour with my daughter and fellow sightseers. I’ve temporarily thrown off the yoke of solitude and joined a lively group of adventurers. A new decade stretches before me as enticing as the yellow brick road. If all goes well, this trip might be the first of many.

That’s the wonderful thing about growing old. We know there are more years behind us than before us. We realize we might as well make the best of them and wring every possible ounce of enjoyment out of every day. If that means leaving our comfort zone and stepping into the unknown, so be it. It’s easier to do that when lead by a loving hand, but it’s not impossible to take the plunge alone.

For single folks reading this, don’t be too cautious about trying something new. Recently I wrote an article for Woods-N-Water magazine about an acquaintance who loves to hike. I asked why she usually goes alone. Her response was, “If you wait for someone else, you’ll never go.” Those few words just about sum up this business called life.

Well, I gotta go. County Cork beckons.

Editor’s note: Sharon M. Kennedy of Brimley is a humorist who infuses her musings with a hardy dose of matriarchal common sense. She writes about everyday experiences most of us have encountered at one time or another on our journey through life. Her articles are a combination of present day observations and nostalgic glances of the past. She can be reached via email at sharonkennedy1947@gmail.com. In addition, Sharon has compiled a collection of stories from her various newspaper columns. The title of her book is “Life in a Tin Can.” Copies are available from Snowbound Books on North Third Street in Marquette.