Mind Picker: Tunesday : Stray Cat Strut

Stray Cat Strut

(Setzer, Brian) Performed by The Stray Cats

Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh

Black and orange stray cat sittin' on a fence

I ain't got enough dough to pay the rent

I'm flat broke but I don't care

I strut right by with my tail in the air

Stray cat strut, I'm a ladies cat

I'm a feline Casanova, hey man that's that

Get a shoe thrown at me from a mean old man

Get my dinner from a garbage can

Don't go crossing my path

I don't bother chasing mice around

I slink down the alleyway looking for a fight

Howling to the moonlight on a hot summer night

Singin' the blues while the lady cats cry

"Wild stray cat, you're a real gone guy"

I wish I could be as carefree and wild

But I got cat class and I got cat style

I don't bother chasing mice around

I slink down the alleyway looking for a fight

Howling to the moonlight on a hot summer night

Singin' the blues while the lady cats cry

"Wild stray cat, you're a real gone guy"

I wish I could be as carefree and wild

But I got cat class and I got cat style

This is part two of my story of going to Ireland in 1982, the summer after grade nine; in the last few weeks before we were to move out to Alberta, away from everything and everyone I knew. It's interesting to me that I ended last week's Tunesday post talking about how the English oppression of Ireland was to be a major theme of my trip, and then yesterday, this bit of serendipity occurred on facebook: My (former) uncle Eric posted a link to The Irish Slave Trade – The Forgotten “White” Slaves and my mother (who is having a very pedantic week; she's nearly Sean Penn for heaven's sake) replied: Jonathan Swift, the genius of black humour, succinctly captured the existence of the Irish under the English in his short story "A Modest Proposal". This should be required reading in all high schools. I don't know if Mum's thinking is that Canadian high school students should all learn about Irish history, or if she thinks that Swift's essay has universal applications with respect to oppressed peoples everywhere, but I was pleased to have been prompted to read it myself at this time; and especially as Swift captured the point-of-view of Cora's father, who took it upon himself to be my political guide while in Ireland.

I wrote briefly about this trip once before, so I'm going to cut and paste and not retread those bits:

(Travelling to Ireland) was an astonishing culture shock for a 14-year-old, but also felt like a homecoming. We stayed with Cora's aunt and uncle in Killaloe, more or less right here on the waterfront:

There were parties most nights at which there was singing and dancing and, having been prepared for the eventuality beforehand, Cora and I would pull out our flutes and play a couple of heart-wrenching duets her brother Sean had written for us. Her Dad gave us a walking tour of the village and pointed across this small river to where there was still a town with English settlers, complete with an Anglican church that had once been Catholic before the troubles. This was the first I had heard of Ireland having been a British holding, and getting the story from the mouth of a patriot, it was duly impressed on my mind as a horrifying and illegal occupation. This was such a painful part of Mr. Ryan's psyche that so far as I know, for the rest of his life, he never applied for Canadian citizenship as it entails an oath of allegiance to the Queen. There were children, dressed in rags, begging for coins in Limerick and this was my first glimpse into this kind of poverty. But there was also the incredible scenery, the green fields and mountains that give Ireland its nickname. We saw castles and cow-filled pastures and ate periwinkles on the beach at Kilkee, and everywhere we went, people, strangers, told me that I was home.

Okay, that wasn't so long that the copy-paste was strictly necessary, but here are some more details: Cora's aunt and uncle lived in one of those row houses on the river, and while the interior was of a shabby antique aesthetic, it was cosy and warm. The aunt and uncle were wonderfully welcoming, and I remember every morning tucking into a plateful of greasy breakfast meats, toast made of homemade bread, and darkly delicious tea. Cora had three cousins in this house, and here's what I remember of them: Brendan was a few years older than us and had pale skin with permanent redness to his cheeks and curly brown hair. He was often out with his friends, but was very kind to us when he was around, and when we went on a trip to the seaside at Diamond Rocks (Kilkee), Brendan spent his time windsurfing, as he regularly competed at the sport.

Also just older than us was Kathleen and what I remember most about her was that she was a new driver -- which, by law, meant that there was a large L in the rear window of the car (which I still think is a great idea if it makes other drivers more patient or understanding) -- and I found it thrilling to be in the car with her as she ground the gears and travelled (what was to us) on the wrong side of the road up and down narrow hillside motorways; veering dangerously near to the edge whenever passing a too-wide, thundering delivery truck. Whenever she used the phone, Kathleen needed to have a pocketful of change because they had a payphone on the landing of the stairway of the house -- I never did learn if this was just the normal situation for rural Irish home phones, because at the time, I was under the impression that this was a move Cora's uncle had made to combat outrageous phone bills. (Where did I get that impression? I have no idea if it is right or wrong now.) I didn't get a picture of Kathleen, but I remember her as very cool and very pretty, but I can only just vaguely remember the look of her. When we were at the airport to go back home, Kathleen gave me a shamrock pin that she had bought me herself -- to remember her and to remember also that I was always welcome to return.

Cora's youngest cousin, James, was just younger than us, and we spent the most time with him. He was a geeky miniature of the handsome Brendan, and to my everlasting regret, I once put my hands behind my ears and made a flapping motion to Cora when James' back was turned -- to cruelly point out his large and sticky-out ears -- and of course James noticed it, and of course he was devastated. He climbed out onto the roof and we had to follow him, and although it took a while, I eventually made him accept my apology. After this, that pitched and slippery shale-tiled roof -- although stupidly risky -- became our favourite place to hang out. I remember going with James and Cora to their Granny's house every day, as every day, it was James' duty to make his Granny's afternoon tea and toast -- which involved slicing a large slab of homemade bread, piercing it onto a long-handled fork, and toasting each side over the flame of the range (I doubt it was gas-fired, but if it was coal or wood-feulled, I have no clue). She was a shrivelled up husk of a woman who could never quite remember who I was supposed to be, but young James had a comfortably businesslike manner that showed how suitable he was for the responsibility. The last thing I remember about James was that after he said he loved our Canadian accents and we asked him what we sounded like to him, he put on a John Wayne cowboy drawl that made us hoot with laughter -- surely a southern Ontario accent doesn't sound like that to foreign ears, does it?

Along the street, Cora had another aunt and uncle who only had one child -- the chubby introvert Maureen -- and we didn't hang out as much with them as they were busy working during the day (the uncle was an ophthalmologist) and Maureen was off at a camp for most of our vacation. All of the family was together for the big party the Irish relatives threw for us on our last night. Cora's brother Paul and his friend Peter had shown up on this last day, and although Paul was the only member of the Ryans who didn't sing or play an instrument at these kinds of house parties, Peter put on one of those faux magic shows where he kept banging his fists together and having fingers appear and disappear to his own amazement -- he was a big hit. And again, to my everlasting regret, just as we were laughing and singing and feverishly bouncing around, my more-impulsive-than-wise side decided to blow a palmful of pepper into Maureen's face, and instead of making her sneeze (which would have been hilarious?), it blinded her and her ophthalmologist father freaked out and gave me a strained-patience lecture on the delicacy of the eye. How's that for a last impression? I ruin everything.

As I said before, Cora's family could be divided into those who looked like her round-faced roseate father (as Cora herself did, as all of these Killaloe relatives did) and those who looked like her pale, pinched and narrow-faced mother. Her parents were also very different kinds of people: her Dad warm and loving, always ready to laugh or burst into song; her Mom cool and reserved with an infrequent yet acid-tongued temper; and yet, when Mrs Ryan laughed, the whole world laughed along. It was fascinating to me to see that these traits held for their birth families, too. We started and ended the Ireland trip in Killaloe, but for a few days in the middle, we stayed with Mrs. Ryan's family in Limerick. As I noted above, this was the first time I had ever seen dirty children begging in the street, and when I later read Frank McCourt's Angela's Ashes, I recognised the setting and appreciated that his story was only a couple of generations removed from what I had seen for myself. I remember we were sitting in a pub one afternoon, having a snack of lemonade and crisps (and as I remember them, Irish crisps were superior to Canadian chips by far), and I had tried to pay for my own snack (as my mother had instructed me to make sure I paid my own way whenever possible), but Cora's Dad told me that if my pence were burning a hole in my pocket it would be appropriate to put them in the "poor jar" on the bar. I felt shy but sanctimonious as I dropped in my coins, hoping that I had improved the lot of those beggar children; barely more than a child myself.

The aunt and uncle from Cora's Mom's side that we stayed with were also pretty uptight, and in contrast to the shabby-yet-cosy home in Killaloe, the Limerick home was newish and completely without character. There was a constant chilliness to the interactions -- even between Cora's Mom and her sister that she only saw every couple of years -- and there certainly wasn't a kitchen party. I remember that Cora had a little cousin, probably not quite two, and he was allowed to wail in his crib and no one would go to comfort him. One evening, Cora and I snuck away to peek in on him, and the little guy was standing against the bars of his crib like a prisoner of Alcatraz, his eyes swollen and his face smeared with snot, and when he saw us, the wordless crying turned into a repeated stream of, "Feck off the two of youse, just fe--eh--eh--ck off..." Cora and I never swore and this profanity was equally amusing and shocking to us -- we probably stood in the doorway longer than might be considered kind to this little guy, but we got a morbid kick out of listening to him telling us to just feck off. And that's all I remember of Limerick: dirt, poverty, and foul mouths.

Also in this middle portion of the vacation, we went to Cora's Dad's family's caravan (like a mobile home in an RV park) in Kilkee. This is where Brendan did his windsurfing, and although it was really too cool for us to swim, Cora and I enjoyed hanging out on the beach (and any time I've read of a "strand" in Irish fiction, this is the type of place I imagine). As I said above, we bought periwinkles in paper bags to snack on, and one afternoon, we took turns riding a gorgeous white horse down a ways and back for some small fee. And now to the reason for this week's song selection: this caravan camp had an arcade, and although Cora and I weren't big on these early video games, we did go there at night because that's just where the teenagers went. One night, the opening bassline of the Stray Cat Strut started up from the jukebox, and although I hadn't heard it before, I was immediately drawn to the retro rockabilly sound. Looking over towards the jukebox, I saw the most amazing sight: two guys dressed like Brian Setzer (although I had never seen him at this point), with ducktails and blazers and bolo ties and drainpipe trousers. I was electrified by their appearance. They looked like early Beatles, like early Elvis, and strutted like they weren't aware of anyone else in the arcade, and as they passed deliciously close by me, I was beyond smitten and didn't even get a glance from them. Cora was miffed by this whole scene -- she was not electrified by these greaser throwbacks -- and although my desire was to spend the evening drinking in these guys, maybe trying to get them to notice me, Cora decided that the night was somehow ruined and I could choose to follow her back to the caravan or remain behind by myself. So we left.

Like I started to say last week, Cora spent a lot of this vacation mad at me. It was to be our last three weeks together, and I don't know if being together nonstop had simply made her sick of me or if she was preemptively getting used to not having me around. She was forever stomping off, or not talking to me, or making jokes at my expense, and although I felt powerless to protest in my position as a hanger-on to her family vacation, at least I always had Cora's little sister or James to hang with. This was really a terrible way for us to have ended such a close friendship: I was about to move across the country, to where I knew no one, and I already felt like I had made that transition; as though, already, I hadn't a friend in the world.

This vacation was also notable for the things we didn't do; anything touristy. It was pointed out to me that we would not be visiting the Blarney Stone (which locals apparently pee on to punk the tourists who come to kiss it), and as we motored past half-ruined castles, the Ryans mocked anyone who would pay good money to go eat an "authentic recreation of a medieval meal" in one where they forced you to pick up your poultry legs with your hands (their baffled emphasis). As I said earlier, Cora's Dad took every opportunity to point out historical places where the British oppressed the Irish, and as an insider with a very definite prejudice, his tutelage has been an important part of what I have evolved into a more nuanced perspective. I remember one evening, Mr Ryan was telling his relatives about my own Irish roots, explaining that my grandparents were Dowlings and lived in the very Irish-rooted PEI; that I myself was indeed from the island. Cora's aunt asked if that meant I enjoyed seafood and I said something like, "Well, my grandmother likes to eat gross things like octopus and oysters she slurps right off the shell as soon as she digs them out of the sand with her toes, but I just stick to lobster." Cora's Dad laughed himself purple and said, "That's why I love you, Krista, you're such a dark horse." Even now, I don't totally understand exactly what made my answer that funny to him, but this scene perfectly captures the trip: Cora's Dad warm and loving and jovial, and Cora herself jealously glaring daggers at me as I beamed in confusion (later, Cora refused to even talk to me as I went on about isn't it cool that her Dad called me a dark horse when the only other time I had ever heard the phrase was as the title of a George Harrison solo album; she wouldn't even help me figure out what a "dark horse" was; yet she was pretty sure it was nothing flattering).

Eventually, it was time to go home and the Irish Ryans gave us a teary farewell at the Shannon Airport. Although the flight over had been a nightmare, going home was unremarkable. And then it was time for the Canadian Ryans to bring me to the Toronto airport to fly out to Alberta to join my family, and that was a teary affair, too -- I probably wasn't alone in wishing that Cora and I had been able to get along better. As I said last week, I had stupidly been protective of my Beatles albums and posters, and as I walked alone onto the plane with my straining plastic bags, I understood that I made a tragic sight; maybe even as tragic as I felt. I found the row where I was to sit, and as I struggled to shove my plastic bags into the overhead compartment and the handles began to tear, the husband of the young couple in my row jumped up to help me with a quizzical look on his face. When I was seated, the couple asked for my story, and when I started to explain that I had been on a vacation to Ireland as my family was moving out to Alberta, they were shocked; thinking that this was somehow incredibly sad and inappropriate. Maybe I had explained it wrong? Because, no matter how disappointing the actual details of the trip were with Cora on perma-mad, this trip to Ireland was the greatest gift my parents (mainly my mother) ever gave me.

Black and orange stray cat sittin' on a fence

I ain't got enough dough to pay the rent

I'm flat broke but I don't care

I strut right by with my tail in the air