Goddesses And Gardens
by Peg Hernon
Departing passengers were on time this morning for the early flight from Inis Mor to the mainland. I finished the pre-flight paperwork and went to the window to take a look. The wings of an Aer Arann Islands aircraft glinted as it turned in the sky and began its descent. It was too brilliant a morning to wait inside the terminal a minute longer. I led the passengers to the departure point at the edge of the tarmac to watch the aircraft land. The crew bustled with portable steps and baggage trolley on the apron in front of us.
Three of the women passengers leaving Inis Mor were from the same family - a granny, her daughter and granddaughter. They have the same eyes and smile. Standing together on the tarmac they were a living metaphor of the goddess in triune form: Gran in sensible shoes was Wisdom, her granddaughter in striped leggings was Inspiration, and mom in cargo pants was Protection of older and younger generation alike. When the aircraft touched down they told me they were headed to a garden centre in Galway for spring plants. The goddess concept would have brought hoots of laughter; instead I mentioned I was tired of geranium although they do well out here. Gran said she was tired of fuchsia which would probably thrive in hell. I appreciate a plant with a soul of stainless steel – just what’s needed in a garden in hell, or on Arain that’s known for rocky soil and wind, if not for flaming heat.
In the half-minute in which the aircraft taxied in from the runway, we arranged a plant swap: geranium for fuchsia, including precise details of the swap to take place at the Café in our main village, Kilronan, at a convenient time for both of us that took into account our work, errands, and committee meeting schedules. The men passengers turned their eyes to heaven and said nothing.
I stood by the airport fire truck to watch the aircraft depart and looked around. On the road above the airport a line of cows-in-calf swayed heavily in single file; two cars inched along behind them in Arain rush-hour traffic. A starling was trying to nest in a hole in the lintel above the airport garage, a project that the crew are determined to prevent. Last summer the crew became expert at dodging starling poop that rained down from the enormous family living above the garage door. The hole had been plugged with steel wool but the starling had teased it out, strand by strand. The crew huddled to re-think startling strategy and I headed for the office.
I noticed that the evergreens that flank the main airport door need re-potting, and the window boxes need to be planted up with sturdy petunia that don’t mind cigarette butts, wind or the occasional wash thrown by aircraft turning on the tarmac. I scribbled a list, added it to other lists, and went inside to tackle some airport paperwork.
After work I went for a walk up the cregg at the back of our house. A donkey mare and her foal watched me from a rocky field as I passed them and goat bells tinkled faintly nearby. Up on the spine of the island the view is a panorama of sky and sea that is both timeless and particular to this spring evening. The Kerry coast or maybe Tir na n’Og shimmered on the southern horizon. A snipe broke from its ground cover with an upward flap and a stunning silence descended in its wake.
