Island life perspectives with Nell Kruger, long time Cape Clear resident

Interesting conversation and long-form read with Nell Kruger, wife of the writer Chuck Kruger, and a powerhouse in her own time as an artist, ceramicist and cofounder of the Cape Clear Storytelling Festival and resident on the island for four decades.

All images from Chuck Kruger, website here

Tell us a little about your background first?

I grew up a tomboy in a small PA town, played in the brook out back & climbed trees with the “other boys” in the neighborhood. But as it turned out, soul place (& sole place) was my grandfather’s dairy farm some 30 miles down US Rte. 1, then a relatively quiet 2-lane road. Perhaps that farm, its pastures & hay barn, the smell of cows and fresh milk were the start of my trek to Cape.

After those first 10-12 tomboy years, I discovered skirts and began to take an interest in combing my hair, even ironing my clothes since Mom vowed she wasn’t about to do it for me since 2/3 of the ironing in the basket (for a family of 4) belonged to me. Then followed the years of hockey and basketball and lacrosse teams. Wonderful camaraderie. And an exciting secondary education to whet my reader’s appetite and send me off to Swarthmore College to study, so I thought (ha!), French.

You were married very young, at 21 from one of the books I think?

At 21, to my utter amazement, I was in my 3rd year at university AND a “married woman”, having tied the knot with Chuck in the Swarthmore Friends Meeting at the ripe old age of 20. The day was so humid that when we stood up from the Marriage Bench to end the ceremony, Chuck left behind him on the cushions the outline of his back. Our guests laughed with delight. And somehow, to this day, I suspect that Chuck was relieved that June 23, 1962, was sufficiently humid so that no one could blame that sweat on a case of the jitters!

View from the Kruger’s farm

Does it now all seem like a logical path that you followed?

Now there’s a question and a half!

Married at 21? Me, the tomboy?

Two small-town kids (well, one small town—mine of 5000; Chuck’s of 35,000 seemed huge to me) suddenly living in the semi-slums of St. Louis, where we could afford the rent. I transferred to Washington University from Swarthmore College for my junior year; Chuck stopped teaching and enrolled in the grad school English Department to work on a Masters. We loved the excitement of the big city. The art galleries and the friends with regular exhibitions (where a Friday night vernissage = dinner!) Saturday nights at the Mystic Mind Science Temple where the neighborhood Medium practiced her arts.

It was far cheaper than the 2x 99 cents for the movies and far more instructive about what people we might otherwise never have met valued and longed for. I’m sorry to say we even almost became accustomed to the sound of gunshots. Then suddenly I was thinking of plowing ahead for a doctorate in Asian Studies. Me a scholar? Probably not very true to my tomboy self, but somewhat heady & exciting & challenging. Today at nearly 78 I’m pleased to say that isn’t what happened….At 23, offspring number one arrived and the Vietnam police action was ramping up.

We signed petitions, we demonstrated, we called congressional representatives; along with changing nappies and singing nursery rhymes and studying. To keep our small tax donations to Uncle Sam from going to support a military intervention we viewed as none of our business, we decided to leave the country. Switzerland was neutral. Chuck located a job teaching in an international school outside of Zurich.

We were off again. 890 miles west of our hometowns when we went to St. Louis and now four years later 3000 miles east from those towns for the next adventure. Son Charles, one old typewriter, 2 suitcases, and a trunk of books to help fill the shelves of what was a new and growing library at the school were the sum total of what accompanied us. Actually, when I stop to think about it, I’d say it’s more likely that the headmaster was simply being generous and finding a quiet way to help us pay the freight for our books! He was like that.

A change indeed from the noise of the city to bucolic Switzerland where, instead of renting an apartment where no showers/baths were permitted after 10 p.m. so as not to disturb the neighbors, we lucked on to a might-be-for-rent deserted farmhouse with an outhouse in the barn, a green space begging to be dug & planted, a quince tree laden with fruit waiting for the jam jar.

Kids 2 and 3 joined the clan. I began teaching at a small international primary school we helped to found. Team taught with someone who thrived on the 3Rs, which meant that I was most contentedly left to do geography, science, crafts. A win-win situation.

As the kids grew up, I began to feel that I might be doing so too, and I was glad of an offer to apply for an opening at the Zurich School of Translation & Interpretation. Job secured, I made two astounding discoveries: 1. I seriously needed to learn MORE about English grammar and structures. 2. English was—and is—an amazingly exciting language, something I seemed to have missed entirely throughout my many years of paper writing. I loved it, the word play, the agility of movement coming from choice of structures, the irascibility of this verbal language.

Visiting basking shark

And then the kids were kinda/sorta/mostly grown and maybe we wanted a new way to fill the quiet of the house. Who knows! Anyway, on a summer’s travel in 1986, polishing up the thumbs that had not hitched rides for many a year, we landed up on Cape. [That’s another story.] Before we left, 2 weeks later, we’d made an offer on a piece of land: Our very first property purchase in 24 years of marriage.

A new babe: 60 acres on Cape Clear Island. What could be more different from landlocked Switzerland! Our village along the lake of Zurich was a place where trains rolled through in both directions several times an hour, within seconds of the schedule. Friends asked, “WHAT WILL you be able to talk about there?” Well, how about politics—Irish or international, the books any of us were reading, when to plant the spuds, a poem Chuck wrote, a hymn for the forthcoming First Communion Mass, a drama being presented in Skibbereen, matters for the upcoming IFA meeting. Never a lack of topics.

Now back to the US. Perhaps the only move we’ve made that can be described as “sensible”. Guess we’ll blame it on aging—I rather enjoy the sound of a word like “oldering”. And as is becoming slowly obvious to us, we’re back here also to become more politically engaged again. You know, small local demonstrations against gov’t immigration policies, guns on too many doorsteps, gerrymandered voting districts, no longer being able to discuss openly & politely with those on “the other side”. And on it goes. [I won’t mention the actions of these first days of 2020.]

WHAT HAS BEEN TRUE FOR US EVERYWHERE WE’VE LIVED IS THE CARING THOUGHTFUL PEOPLE WE HAVE MET, WHO SO GRACIOUSLY SHARED THEIR LIVES WITH US AND WELCOMED US IN: EASTERNER/ AUSLANDER/BLOW-IN, WHATEVER THE LOCALS CALLED US WHEN WE CAME IN FROM FAR AWAY.

Old ways on Cape

First, a Note Bene to your description that I “oversaw & edited” Chuck’s work. Not quite that way really.  I was absolutely humbled by the fact that when we got to Cape and he started writing as a way of life he trusted those pages to me. That’s a lot of sharing. And it can’t always have been easy to hand something over to the person who’s a part of your life 24/7 knowing that it might come back covered with red pen—or blue or black– or with suggestions to add on or to delete or to start again…or to leave just as it wonderfully is. We did that sharing for all of his books.

Did things develop as you thought they would?

I’m not sure that we had any such thoughts when we borrowed against the insurance policy to buy Glen West. We both simply & immediately realized that it was heart-achingly compelling and that we “needed” to have a momentary ownership of that land. True, renovations started after just a year or so on Southernmost House. The when-were-we-going-to-move question never arose—we were too busy working to send 3 kids to college and to pay back the loan.

UNTIL ONE DAY: my ever-bold husband asked me, precisely 24 hours before I was to turn 49, what I wanted for my 50th. The nerve of him! I responded that I wanted to be on Cape—and he replied but you lecture in April—and then the penny dropped and he realized that I was ready to move. Cut to the chase, Nell.… We got to Cape 3 or 4 weeks before my 50th birthday. Great present, that. Glad he asked.

Cape Clear from above

You got to know the locals in an interesting way, tell us about that?

We did go around to visit all the occupied houses on Cape. It was the summer of 1991 (we weren’t quite total newcomers) and we’d been asked so often when we were having our housewarming that we decided to do it that summer even though it would be another 6 months before we were to become full time residents. We weren’t sure how to put together an invite list so we decided that best of all would be to invite everyone: draw invitations (a picture of our newly redone fireplace) and deliver them by hand.

That took a good while! Some people we knew. Some we’d at least said hello to. Some we’d virtually never laid eyes on. Off we set—and I suspect it took a week or 10 days to make the rounds of the island. Some stops were short & sweet. Some folks invited us in for tea. Or a glass of whiskey. Some sent us home with arms full of rhubarb or onions or spuds or a carefully wrapped packet of eggs. Was ever there such a welcome!

Though I shouldn’t say it, the party was a success–even though we worried ourselves silly when no one had arrived by the “appointed” hour of 3pm…or 3:30…or 4:00. And then they came. And at 2 or 3 in the morning Chuck turned off the taps to the kegs and we made coffee for those who lingered by the fire telling us Cape stories.

Common dolphins, regular Cape visitors

What tips do you have for people thinking of moving to Cape Clear? 

Oh wow, Simon, that’s tough. Think that suggestions might perhaps be a wee bit brazen. We’re all so different. We fell in love with the land and the views and the sea smells and the gulls. Before we moved full time, we managed to be there during many of the months of the year. We both went in summer; I had a month off between semesters in February and would sometimes go to Cape to work on my lectures for Spring term; Chuck had time off at Easter so he’d go dig in the garden; and once when only Chuck & Nathaniel & I were going to be together in Switzerland for Christmas we decided to pamper ourselves with a very special present and celebrate on Cape.

We got a ride in from Baltimore with Paudi and Joseph on the Ard Casta! When our 3 kids made their first trip into Cape, that would have been summer of ’87, they commented in unison “always thought you were crazy, now we know you are, and we like it!” So, for us, experiencing the island many different seasons of the year was helpful, it gave us an idea of winter storms and summer zephyrs. Being asked to help with Bernie’s reek, or to make egg salad sandwiches for an after-the-wedding-disco; going to Mass (as “almost” Quakers) for important occasions and celebrations; not minding answering questions….

Those times and occasions certainly felt right to us. And you know, we’re still amazed at how quickly we were greeted with “welcome home” when we stepped off the Niamh Ciaran II. And how quickly Cape did indeed feel like home.

Have things changed much since your first visits here in the late seventies and then moving here in the 80s? 

Of course they have. Just as they have worldwide. [I continue to be amazed how much the States have changed—might have something to do with 51 years of our being here as visitors only until our 2017 return. Still trying to get my head around a population hike from 150,000,000 to 340,000,000.]

The old Cape ferry

Those first years when we climbed aboard the ferry, we heard almost only Irish. That has changed. Why? How? Perhaps with the arrival of folks like ourselves; perhaps because the school youngsters started attending English-speaking secondary schools more often than Irish; perhaps because of the arrival of television—as Paddy Burke called it “the one-eyed fella in the corner”; the ubiquitous internet;  more foreign holidays for islanders.

It’s also true that the school population was/has been a problem at other times. I remember that once there was a delegation to Dublin to enlist help in keeping the number of teachers on Cape at two, despite a quite noticeable drop in numbers. Not sure of dates, but the arrival of two young and growing families (McCanns and O’Mealoids) obviously made a huge difference to school and island population. Who knows what the present newcomers will mean to island numbers and community.

Another most notable change, to us, occurred during the years after the Rosscarbery boarding school closed. It became difficult to find digs for an increasing number of Cape youngsters with both boys and girls needing accommodation. Suddenly one parent was leaving the island to be with the secondary student(s) and one was staying home with national school pupil(s). To us, that brought about a different feel for the island during school term months.

And then there are changes such as moving the library to North Harbour—what a wonderful facility/a book club/exercise facilities/a men’s shed / building the distillery…not to mention shutting down the not-always-reliable generators and laying undersea cables for electricity; the end of an era with a resident priest gone from the island; the arrival of AEDs & training; Cleire Haven opening its “doors”; closing the Cork-based Irish College; the ferry being “privatised” and adding to its routes. I’m sure there’s lots more, but you must be growing weary of my ramblings.

One of Chuck’s favourite images and used for one of his book covers 

Chuck’s Sunday Miscellany and Quiet Quarter radio readings come from many places—his childhood on Owasco Lake in the NY state Finger Lakes, college, events & adventures in Switzerland, and MUCH from his experiences and ramblings on the island.

What inspired the creation of the Cape Storytelling festival?

The Storytelling Festival idea was born when Chuck hired Joel ben Izzy to tell at the high school in Switzerland. Hooked immediately, he was. And some way or another we made contact with Liz Weir—and met her at a gig in Zurich. She identified Chuck because he was wearing a Cape Clear sweatshirt! Like a snowball rolling down a hill the idea grew & grew.

We moved to Cape in March of 1992 and the first Festival was the end of summer 1994. It felt so right to us, storytelling and Cape. Michael the King used to wax lyric about the days before cars when people would walk to the pub; the best part, he said, being the stories that were swapped on the road to and from.

Oh yes, a source of wonder to our lives…the stories, the tellers, the people who came year after year; the October Workshop that once upon a time was held in our conservatory, pots of soup (veggies thanks to the garden) to fill the cracks between morn and afternoon. We are still in contact with many of those folk— even had Jack Lynch & Dovie Thomason & Ed Stivender sitting on our sun porch here shortening the road with stories the summer of 2018; and last year traveled with new neighbors to a nearby small town to hear Kate Corkery spin an evening of Irish tales.

The Committee has been sending brochures each year so that we continue imagining what might be being told in An Club, in An Oige, at the Colaiste, in Tir na nOg, or Cotter’s Yard or Ciarain Danny Mike’s.

Tell us about your special grass mower?

That grass mower…not really much to tell except that when we got to Cape I realized how much I enjoyed smelling the grass, watching robins following behind to see if I’d unearthed edibles, mowing circles around clumps of daisies and violets and pyramidal orchids that planted themselves in the “lawn”.

There’d never been time enough to enjoy mowing in Switzerland, it was simply something that needed to be done, fast. Cape’s grass was like a gift. So too the Hebe and Fuchsia to be trimmed. I loved being atop a stone wall, large clippers in hand pruning for the next season’s growth. Chuck was NOT allowed to use the mower—it was MINE.

The garden was pretty much HIS. I’d happily pull some weeds on my way to or from the compost pile, grab a handful of wild strawberries, ditto for rosemary/thyme/sage/oregano. But I left the yeoman’s work to him—after all, I was going to cook it all, right? And turn the extras into soups and stews for the freezer. It worked out to be a pretty amicable way to divvy the chores and pleasures.

Local viewpoint for the Krugers

You walked around the island a lot didn’t you?

Oh, yes, we walked and walked and walked. I’m convinced those first 1986 afternoons walking up the Glen, out the Ballyeiragh road over to Lissamona helped determine the following 31 years of our lives. Sure, the increase in cars makes a difference—but all you need to do is stay off the roads when out to explore. That leaves a lot of open space. We did try to ask permission before we entered a gate or climbed a fence.

We’d explain what we hoped to do and ask if that was all right or would the owner rather we didn’t. Putting that “didn’t” at the end of the sentence seemed to spur people on to say, “Ah sure, work away.” Another big change in the vehicle traffic is how quiet it’s become: many fewer cars without silencers than there used to be!

Anything extra to add? 

No regrets! Those years are still very much a part of our lives. And too, the desire to come back yearly so long as we’re able!

How can people find you online?

No way to look me up anywhere, I hope. Chuck has a website: www.chuckkruger.net

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