LJ Idol, Season 11 - Week 3
Title: In the Shed
Topic: Everything looks like a nail
“Dad?” Roisin called, peeking into the dining room. “Hey, Dad?” He wasn't in the parlor or the bedrooms either.
Fetch your father, her mother had said. Tell him his lunch is getting cold. Easier said than done, when he didn't seem to be in the house or the garden.
She went into the kitchen, where her mother was sitting at the table with a glass of milk. The table was set for three - they never ate in the dining room, even when Roisin was home - but Roisin noticed there was nothing out except for bread and butter. Mrs Ryan knew better than to put out the food until Mr Ryan was sitting down.
“Where's Dad?” Roisin asked.
“In the shed. He's been there all morning.”
So Roisin went out to the shed to get her dad. The shed was where he kept all his tools - hammers, screwdrivers, pliers, saws, vises, miscellaneous brackets, bottles of glue, nails and screws neatly sorted into little boxes - everything he thought a man might need to build or repair anything made of wood. He was currently banging away at an old crib. Why he even had it Roisin had no idea. Neither she nor her sister had children, and as far as she knew none of her cousins needed a crib.
“Lunch is ready,” she said, and when her dad didn't answer, apparently too absorbed in his work, she raised her voice and repeated herself. “Dad! Lunch is ready!”
He paused, inspected the side of the crib. “Tell your mam I'll be a few.”
“It's ready now. Why are you building a crib?”
“Just fixing it up for your cousin Catie. She's got the three, you know.”
Catie had twins who were a year and a half, and a son who was almost four. But they all had places to sleep. It was one of the advantages of being part of a large family - someone was always growing out of something that you could use.
“The twins won't both fit in that,” Roisin pointed out, “and Michael should be old enough for his own bed.”
“Hush, Rosie. Let me work.”
“Mom's going to come outside and drag you in for lunch.”
Her dad just snorted. He ran his fingers across the top of the crib's headboard, blew some imaginary sawdust off it, and tilted his head. He gently shook it, then reached for the hammer again.
“Get me a ten-penny nail,” he said, gesturing with his chin. Roisin opened the appropriate drawer in what she always referred to as the “nail bureau”, retrieved a nail, and passed it to her dad.
“I know that's not for Catie,” she said. “And Fiona's - well, Fee's not ready for kids.”
“Shows what you know,” he muttered.
“Oh?”
Roisin had gotten the same letter her parents had - her sister Fiona, her reckless, feckless, mad baby sister, was going to Spain to join the International Brigade and fight with the Spanish Republicans. Roisin had written back right away and told her not to be stupid, there were ways to support the causes of republicanism and anti-fascism that wouldn't get her killed, but if Fiona was reckless she was also stubborn, and no one had ever been able to tell her no.
Roisin watched her dad concentrate on the crib, tamping down the existing nails and adding an extra to the headboard, and was amazed that he couldn't understand that almost everything Fiona was, came from him. He was active in the local labor union, he was staunchly pro-democracy, he'd supported women's right to the vote and had even taken his wife to the polls for her first presidential election. He didn't trust Italians and he wasn't sure about black people, but there was an egalitarian streak that ran through him and sometimes he clearly struggled with his internal prejudices balanced against his desire to be fair. He was proudly Irish, proudly Catholic, proudly American, and proudly open about everything he was and everything he believed.
Fiona's apple hadn't fallen far from the tree, but it was evidently the tree's prerogative to not recognize that.
Or he had, and because he knew himself, it gave him a special, sometimes scary, insight into his baby daughter.
But if his comment meant he thought Fiona was going to settle down and have children any time soon, well, maybe he didn't know her as well as he thought.
“I'm worried too,” Roisin said, “but she'll be fine. She always is.” This was the whole unspoken reason she'd come home, even though Chicago wasn't around the corner and she knew her dad at least would say nothing about Fiona's plans unprompted.
Her dad held up the crib to examine the underside.
“Dad,” Roisin said. “You should eat.”
“I should finish this. I can take it to Catie and Johnny this afternoon.”
“Do they know you're making them a crib?”
He stared at her with a look she interpreted as Do you think I'd spend this time on a crib for your cousin without telling her I was doing it? and returned it with a look that said Yes, in fact, I do.
“Come on, Dad,” she said, “you can finish it after lunch.”
“Your sister's mad as a hatter, Rosie,” he said. “You can tell her I said so.”
“I did. Twice. Will you come in for lunch now?”
Her dad put down the crib. “I am hungry, come to think of it. You know how your mam gets when we're late.”
Roisin suppressed the desire to roll her eyes. That was another habit of Fiona's - finally doing what you said while making it seem as if it was all her own idea to begin with. But it got her dad out of the shed and back into the house, where her mom could distract him with family gossip, neighborhood gossip, politics, or who knew what. She knew that as soon as lunch was over he'd go back to his work and continue hammering an unnecessary number of nails into the crib, but he was in the house now, and as long as he wasn't focusing on Fiona any more, and pretending that wasn't what he was doing, Roisin didn't care if he went back to it eventually.
Topic: Everything looks like a nail
“Dad?” Roisin called, peeking into the dining room. “Hey, Dad?” He wasn't in the parlor or the bedrooms either.
Fetch your father, her mother had said. Tell him his lunch is getting cold. Easier said than done, when he didn't seem to be in the house or the garden.
She went into the kitchen, where her mother was sitting at the table with a glass of milk. The table was set for three - they never ate in the dining room, even when Roisin was home - but Roisin noticed there was nothing out except for bread and butter. Mrs Ryan knew better than to put out the food until Mr Ryan was sitting down.
“Where's Dad?” Roisin asked.
“In the shed. He's been there all morning.”
So Roisin went out to the shed to get her dad. The shed was where he kept all his tools - hammers, screwdrivers, pliers, saws, vises, miscellaneous brackets, bottles of glue, nails and screws neatly sorted into little boxes - everything he thought a man might need to build or repair anything made of wood. He was currently banging away at an old crib. Why he even had it Roisin had no idea. Neither she nor her sister had children, and as far as she knew none of her cousins needed a crib.
“Lunch is ready,” she said, and when her dad didn't answer, apparently too absorbed in his work, she raised her voice and repeated herself. “Dad! Lunch is ready!”
He paused, inspected the side of the crib. “Tell your mam I'll be a few.”
“It's ready now. Why are you building a crib?”
“Just fixing it up for your cousin Catie. She's got the three, you know.”
Catie had twins who were a year and a half, and a son who was almost four. But they all had places to sleep. It was one of the advantages of being part of a large family - someone was always growing out of something that you could use.
“The twins won't both fit in that,” Roisin pointed out, “and Michael should be old enough for his own bed.”
“Hush, Rosie. Let me work.”
“Mom's going to come outside and drag you in for lunch.”
Her dad just snorted. He ran his fingers across the top of the crib's headboard, blew some imaginary sawdust off it, and tilted his head. He gently shook it, then reached for the hammer again.
“Get me a ten-penny nail,” he said, gesturing with his chin. Roisin opened the appropriate drawer in what she always referred to as the “nail bureau”, retrieved a nail, and passed it to her dad.
“I know that's not for Catie,” she said. “And Fiona's - well, Fee's not ready for kids.”
“Shows what you know,” he muttered.
“Oh?”
Roisin had gotten the same letter her parents had - her sister Fiona, her reckless, feckless, mad baby sister, was going to Spain to join the International Brigade and fight with the Spanish Republicans. Roisin had written back right away and told her not to be stupid, there were ways to support the causes of republicanism and anti-fascism that wouldn't get her killed, but if Fiona was reckless she was also stubborn, and no one had ever been able to tell her no.
Roisin watched her dad concentrate on the crib, tamping down the existing nails and adding an extra to the headboard, and was amazed that he couldn't understand that almost everything Fiona was, came from him. He was active in the local labor union, he was staunchly pro-democracy, he'd supported women's right to the vote and had even taken his wife to the polls for her first presidential election. He didn't trust Italians and he wasn't sure about black people, but there was an egalitarian streak that ran through him and sometimes he clearly struggled with his internal prejudices balanced against his desire to be fair. He was proudly Irish, proudly Catholic, proudly American, and proudly open about everything he was and everything he believed.
Fiona's apple hadn't fallen far from the tree, but it was evidently the tree's prerogative to not recognize that.
Or he had, and because he knew himself, it gave him a special, sometimes scary, insight into his baby daughter.
But if his comment meant he thought Fiona was going to settle down and have children any time soon, well, maybe he didn't know her as well as he thought.
“I'm worried too,” Roisin said, “but she'll be fine. She always is.” This was the whole unspoken reason she'd come home, even though Chicago wasn't around the corner and she knew her dad at least would say nothing about Fiona's plans unprompted.
Her dad held up the crib to examine the underside.
“Dad,” Roisin said. “You should eat.”
“I should finish this. I can take it to Catie and Johnny this afternoon.”
“Do they know you're making them a crib?”
He stared at her with a look she interpreted as Do you think I'd spend this time on a crib for your cousin without telling her I was doing it? and returned it with a look that said Yes, in fact, I do.
“Come on, Dad,” she said, “you can finish it after lunch.”
“Your sister's mad as a hatter, Rosie,” he said. “You can tell her I said so.”
“I did. Twice. Will you come in for lunch now?”
Her dad put down the crib. “I am hungry, come to think of it. You know how your mam gets when we're late.”
Roisin suppressed the desire to roll her eyes. That was another habit of Fiona's - finally doing what you said while making it seem as if it was all her own idea to begin with. But it got her dad out of the shed and back into the house, where her mom could distract him with family gossip, neighborhood gossip, politics, or who knew what. She knew that as soon as lunch was over he'd go back to his work and continue hammering an unnecessary number of nails into the crib, but he was in the house now, and as long as he wasn't focusing on Fiona any more, and pretending that wasn't what he was doing, Roisin didn't care if he went back to it eventually.