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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: profile


05.06.22


After our walk on a narrow slippy path beside a cascading waterfall, we take a winding road to a vacant house with a sublime view of a lake, looking like a model of a lake from our vertiginous heights. The husband notices an open window on the top floor, and goes inside to close it, and finds a dead swallow, still fresh and wings outstretched, as if it will fly if let go. A tiny house lies in the overgrown grass under a tree, and I take a photo of it, and then I spot a tulip, alone, so purple it's almost black, and I can't resist snipping it free from its moorings with the tips of my fingernails.

We drive on, and on, along the lake we had seen from that house, stopping in a village north of the border for a couple of pints in a quiet pub owned by the late father-in-law's friend. Election Day: Mickey tells us that in the past this bar would have been packed with people following the results. Behind his shoulder hangs a framed silver St. Bridget's cross. I feed crisps to Sam, who is waiting patiently outside, and I note that cheese and onion Northern Taytos are thicker and not as intense as their southern counterparts (aka "Free Staytos").

On the trip home, we stop for a trio of ewes on the road. During the Troubles, this road was full of roadblocks and craters from bombs; you had to walk to the village to get there. In Mickey's pub, two generations of men sat side by side: those who remembered the roadblocks, checkpoints, and bombs, and those who didn’t.





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