I gaze up at my new kitchen cupboards. They have been hand-made by a wonderful artist in the area. The old wood has beautiful irregular patterns and the painted doors are a bright shade of turquoise. I know the hours that have been spent making these wooden wonders. I am so glad that I didn’t succomb to an Ikea afternoon and buy something readymade.

Harold (the creator) and I examine every contour of the wood and the mutual passion for the creative process is analysed and discussed. I realise that I have always loved trees. From a very early age, I would sing and dance near a tree. I would touch and acknowledge the power of a sturdy trunk or frail branches that happened to tip against my cheek when running in the forest. I close my eyes and trace the knotted wood on my finger tips. I go back to another time.

My father, being away at sea a lot, loved to work with his hands when at home. He would then make-up for lost time and potter about repairing all that had to be repaired. He would also collect pieces of old wood and try and make something practical from them. He created a whole new kitchen with built-in cupboards for my astounded mother. He painted them the brightest yellow and my mother dared not protest.

"Daddy, we are living in the sunshine," I remember exclaiming. My father had been influenced by all his exotic travels and forgot that dull suburbia of the 60’s was not ready for his creation. My mother tried to pursuade him to tone down the yellow to a darker shade of mustard. But my brothers and I were caught up in the excitement of the unusual kitchen. The sunshine stayed and we enjoyed many years of eating and playing in this wonderful environment. My mother even started buying colourful bowls and other accessories to blend in with the kitchen. Visitors would automatically stay longer in our yellow paradise and on cold winter nights, I would imagine myself being on a desert island in the yellow sunshine.

So, my turquoise cupboards are not only what they seem. They are a link to my past and a passage to my future. I wipe away a little tear and look down at Mozart. He seemed to approve of our new purchase. He gave me a little bark of approval.

My daughter came home and exclaimed, "Mom, our kitchen looks like the Orient Express. Coooooool!" She opened up one of the heavy doors and it squeaked. The sound was so familiar to me. It was noisy and colourful – just like me.

Niamh

* A special thank you to Harold of Allerie (If anyone is interested, I will forward his address to you - a true craftsman).

 

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