Fifty-Six Years of Darkness

[Sinead O’Connor. Unknown date. Photo: Google Search.]

This is probably the shortest blog I have or will ever post…

I was propped up in bed on a warm afternoon. It was July 26, 2023. My iPhone was in my left hand and I making a stab at the New York Times crossword. It was a Wednesday and all Times crossword solvers know that as the week progresses, the puzzles get harder.

That has always pained me.

I had just returned from a doctor’s appointment where I needed to have a blood draw. I hate needles.

They have always pained me.

Mariam was in the living room doing something on her iPhone. She called out to me:

“Sinead O’Connor died.”

I sat up. It wasn’t a 9/11 moment, but it did shock me. I immediately put my phone down and began to think of where I had stored my two Sinead CD’s. I’d never find them. But I had Spotify so there was no search necessary.

I had always been a fan of sorts of this Irish singer. When she was winning Grammy’s I began to buy her music. But that was years ago. Her importance to me had waned. In the next few hours all this was going to change.

Anderson Cooper’s comments on his CNN slot at 8:00 pm brought me to tears. This death in London was to unfold slowly over the next few days. It still is. I was hearing people, commenters and such, speak of the song that put her on the map…and put her into millions of peoples hearts. It was written by Prince:

“Nothing Compares 2 U“

I told Alexa to play it. I listened and it began to come back to me. It moved me once and it moved me on the 26th…and it has been in my mind for days.

Hence this blog.

Since that day, I’ve been listening and reading about her. The facts are out there. But what stood out in its tragic importance was the suicide of her son last year. Her tweet, posted a few days before her death, read, in part:

“Been living as undead night creature since”…”He was the only person who ever loved me unconditionally…”

My first thought after reading her tweet, was everyone on the planet deserves to be loved unconditionally.

I Googled her lyrics:

In “Love Hurts”, she sings:

“Love hurts, love scars, love wounds and mars…””Love hurts, love scars, love wounds and mars…”

I could go on but I think you know where this is heading.

But not before I make a personal note. The New York Times obituary two days ago depicted Kris Kristofferson with his arm around her. The obit went on:

“At the 30th Anniversary Celebration of Bob Dylan at Madison Square Garden in 1992, (two weeks after she tore the photo of the Pope in two dozen pieces), she was loudly booed and hurried off the stage”. (These were the approximate words of the obit writer.) Well, to set the record straight, I was at that concert that night with my daughter, Erin. She and I both saw and heard what really happened.

~She was not loudly booed. It was, to our ears, an equal mix of cheers and boos. That is a big difference.

~She was not hurried off the stage. She stood for several long minutes waiting for the crowd to quiet. She was scheduled to sing “I Believe in You”. She then pulled out her ears buds and recited a Bob Marley song. Kristofferson (who was one of the emcees) came over and whispered something in her ear. They left the stage together. Slowly.

It was a sublime moment.

The whole story of her life is one of pain and loneliness. She was abused by the Catholic nuns in Ireland, and suffered a lifetime of losses that would break any heart. Looking at the title of this post, I realize that I overstate the shadows of her life. She was fifty-six years old at her death. But there were, clearly, moments of great joy. The birth of her son and her life with him was such a time.

I am so sad for her and for our losing her. Her voice was pure as a crystal and as dark as night. She sang her rage and her agony and her broken heart.

Good-bye, Sinead, and thank you. Find peace somewhere…if you can.

I am going to load my Spotify with her music and I will weep while listening to her bleeding emotion.

Because Nothing Compares to her.

[I guess this really isn’t the shortest post I’ve written.]

Why Can’t We Stay Forever Young?

Jul14

[Brian looks out over Galway Bay, Ireland (2015]

As I type this post (3:00 pm Saturday, July 14), I’m thinking of my son, Brian, who, 31 years ago would be about seven hours old. When the OB-GYN turned from his mother, Nancy and asked me what I thought of watching my son being born, all I could do was look out over the parking lot of the Stamford Hospital parking lot and cry.

It was an awesome and overwhelming experience to be the second person to see him enter the world.

In 2015, he joined Mariam and me in Ireland for a quick tour and to meet some “real” Egans. He says he loved the trip…and I believe him.

Father and son are now 31 years older than we were that hot July day in 1987. He lives and works in New York City now and Mariam and I sit and listen to the loons in the middle of the North Country.

He is entering the prime of his life. I’m a ‘senior’ citizen and have more gray hair than I did yesterday.

From a father who loves his son…more than words can describe, I’m wishing him a very Happy Birthday.

Brian, you’ve grown up to be an amazing man.

Try to stay “forever young.”

[Brian bids me good-bye at Shannon Airport, Ireland 2015]

The Winters Of My Life

Dec16

“Talk of your cold! through the parka’s fold it stabbed like a driven nail. If our eyes we’d close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn’t see.”

–Robert Service. The Cremation of Sam Magee

I live in the Adirondack mountains of upstate New York. I don’t live in the Yukon. But lately, I feel like the Yukon would be a bit more comfortable. Am I living in Lapland or Spitzbergen or Thule…in lovely Greenland?

Don’t get me wrong. Don’t misunderstand. Don’t think I’ve lost my spirit and my love for wintertime. I love snow. I used to be able to skate backwards on the Brick Pond when I was young. Remember the Brick Pond blog post? Of course you do. I have fond memories of the winters of my life. My childhood girlfriend and I built a fantastic snowman in my front yard on Front Street after an unusual April snowstorm. It was probably 1963. In four days it was a pile of melted snow…like Frosty. A birch tree grows in that place where the snowman stood and wasted away that April.

My brothers and I would play ‘Fox & Geese’ in our backyard on dark December evenings. We’d make paths in the 18″ of snow, making figure 8’s and sharp turns…and then the game began. It was a form of Tag, except you were expected to not just ‘tag’ someone…you would push them into the snow.

It was unbelievable fun.

And, we’d take our snowsuits off in the backroom and our faces were red and our clothes steamed from melting snow and sweat and our mother made hot chocolate and maybe popcorn while we changed clothes…into our flannel pajamas. No hot chocolate or popcorn has tasted as good as it did on those winter nights in the 1950’s.

But, time moves on and bodies get older and the joy of moving snow has become a challenge that I can hardly face these days. See the path to the garage? I’ve shoveled such a path for sixteen years…at least (this is a rough guess) 30 times a year. That makes an estimated 480 times I’ve pushed the shovel and threw the snow from the front porch to the garage door. (I’d feel comfortable rounding that number up to 600). Then came the carrying of the garbage and recycling bags. Then I would walk into the garage where the bins are and find myself holding onto something to prevent my slipping on the frozen surface of the floor (from the melting of the snow from the car).

My back hurts in places I didn’t know existed. I’ve learned all about the L3 and L4 that I will need surgery to correct my stenosis. I think I may have had enough of the North Country winters.

I always believed that people needed four distinct seasons to keep one’s brain alive and enjoy the difference in weather. In my hometown of Owego, NY, we had four seasons. None of them went on too long…some of them like autumn were too short. But, here in the Adirondacks there are five seasons. Sounds great, right? Well it comes down to this:

A Long Winter
Mud
Bugs
A Short Summer
A Brief Autumn

I’ve checked my indoor/outdoor thermometer on a March night and saw that it was -38 F. This was early in our years in the North Country.

“Mariam, let’s step outside and take a breath. The inside of your nares will feel like pin pricks.”

“No,” she said.

“But it’s bracing, invigorating and stimulating,” I said. “You never experienced this in Queens.” She stared at me for a moment probably wondering if I truly understood the word “NO”. She went back to the warm sofa and picked up her book.

Clearly she didn’t fully understand the vibrant and visceral pleasures of walking our loop road when it’s forty below zero. Sometimes I find her hard to understand. What was her problem with a bit of a chill in the air? It took me a year or two to fully get her point.

[We never got around to setting this clock back an hour. It’s really 11:20 on December 15 as I finish this blog. It’s expected to go down to -14 F in a few hours…but I can’t stay up that long. So take my word for it.]

I own more fleece than is legal. I own enough wool to keep all the Irish Aran Island knitters in their due pint of Guinness. I have seven pairs of gloves, none of which keeps my fingers from numbness.

So, without regret, we are relocating to New York City for about six months. This is not because of my whining, mind you. It’s a professional move on the part of my wife, Mariam.

This is a fantastic country here in the Adirondacks, but it’s a young person’s world.

The skiing is great on Whiteface this year, so I read. But when your age is on the wrong end of the 60’s, I’d rather let someone else move the snow.

The weather in the City can be bitter in the winter when the wind blows off the Hudson, but I won’t have to shovel a path to put my garbage out or to get the newspaper. All I have to worry about is the slush in the gutters that will be my challenge as I stroll up Broadway to Zabars for some Irish Cheddar and some salmon fillets.

And, if its way too awful to get out…I can always order take-out from a Chinese restaurant.

[Mariam and I in front of our new home in 2000. Who would have guessed?]

Elegy From The North Country

Oct1

The Curfew tolls the knell of parting day;

The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea;

The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,

And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

-Thomas Gray

Well, if you’re travelin’ in the north country fair

Where the winds hit heavy on the borderline

Remember me to one who lives there

She once was a true love of mine.

Well, if you go when the snowflakes storm

When the rivers freeze and summer ends

Please see if she’s is wearing a coat so warm

To keep her from the howlin’ winds.

-Bob Dylan

Driving north from Saranac Lake to Malone, one notices that the country has a peculiar and distinctive appearance. Mostly covered by trees, there is a the occasional pond or lake–even a farmhouse or, as you progress northward, a cornfield may come into view.

Odd, is it not?

I’m driving to the county jail to tutor a few inmates in the correct methods to write an essay for a G.E.D. (now called, T.A.S.C.). I sit and listen to a thirty-three year old woman in prison orange (with matching orange CROCS), tell a tale of a life spent smuggling drugs, addictions, abuse and even witnessing a murder. Yes, I sit and listen. I hand her a golf pencil and a few sheets of paper. No staples, paper clips or pens that contain tiny springs are allowed. I keep myself from staring at the diamond stud in her nose. She wants her G.E.D. very badly. I seriously question what meager skills I can offer this poor misguided woman who, ten years younger than my daughter, has already lived a lifetime of grief and bad judgements. I feel helpless and not a little insignificant when I hear my voice explaining the meaning of a “Thesis Statement.”

But, I digress.

As I drive, the clouds are low and heavy. It has been raining steady all the previous night and day. The spectacular colors for which the North Country is so famous, are muted in the dull monotones of a late afternoon sun that is hidden beyond a layer of gray, slate and approaching darkness. Darkness comes early around these parts this time of year. Usually, in these weeks of approaching winter, the dusk begins around the end of the day. If the sun was shining, the shadows would be long. But, it’s a world without shadows–because the day is one of clouds. I am losing the npr station so I slip a CD of bluegrass into the player. The group is called the Welfare Liners. They sing a sad song.

I become aware of the date. It is September 30, 2015. In a few hours it will be October 1! That should come as no surprise since there are only thirty days in September (April, June and November). All my senses are now on alert. I have yet to plan my 2nd Annual Countdown To Halloween blog series. I will be weary and depressed when I get back home after the tutoring. How will I ever have the energy to write an interesting post that will live up to the standards that my readers have come to expect?

I worry about these things. But, something strange has happened in my subconscious. My lateral thinking skills kick in. Thoughts begin to fill my brain.

One terrifying thought concerns the date, October 1, 2015. Another, relates to recent events that have happened. I have stumbled on somethings so strange that I am fearful of revealing my discoveries. But, I shall:

Consider that a vast number of those attending the 50th high school reunion of O.F.A. have been stricken by a mysterious aliment, myself included. What did these people have in common? I have discovered the following: All were present for the dinner dance at the Treadway. Even the name, tread and way denotes caution. And, all listened to me make a short speech. Did the sound of my voice somehow carry with it a strange and mutant virus. Many of my friends have felt this has been the case for many years. Perhaps…just perhaps????
Many of those attending had undergone a process known as aging, something we all swore would not happen. So, why did it?
All of us have recently been exposed to a rare Blood Moon Eclipse. The next such astronomical event is not scheduled to occur until 2033. Is there anything strange about that year? May I be the first to offer the theory that in all likelihood, many of us may be deceased by that date! Statistically speaking, that is. Does this suggest a curse of some sort placed on those attendees? I’ll let you decide. This may sound shocking and unusual, but the facts are the facts.
And, now the date: October 1, 2015. If written out numerically in numbers, it would read 10/01/15. That makes 6 digits! Now, if you add the numbers together the sum of the total is 26, again, a 6! That makes two 6‘s. Using the same logic, if you take the total of 26 and divide it by 4, the number of Beatles (before Paul was killed in the car accident), then you are left with 6.5! Eliminating the decimal point, it is the very year of our graduation!
It gets stranger.
What about the 19 in 1965, you may ask. Well, simply add those two digits and the result is 10! If you then add my present age, 68, the number is 78! Now, subtract the reoccurring number 6 from this number and you get 72! The present age of Mick Jaggar. Sound familiar? Simply reverse that number and you arrive at 27, the age when Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison and Kurt Cobain died! Further, if you add the 2 and the 7 the result is clear, 9. If you then subtract the estimated number of Rolling Stones who have OD’d (3), the inescapable number is 6!
And, know you have it! The dreaded number: 666, the Number of Satan!

My fingers tremble as I type these words. This is due to pure fear combined with the fact that the outside temperature is 37.8 F. That isn’t far from the temperature from this dining room where I am writing this. Hey, I’m always cold.

This, then is the first of an irregular blog post relating to Halloween. The posts that will follow will be something like I did last year, a collection of scary and frightful things. WARNING: The images I post may be too intense for those with gentle hearts and delicate natures. Guys like Chuck Carter, for example. But, be fore-warned. You may be exposed to pictures of ghosts (I will state here that these images are in no way intended to disrespect those individuals who are “life-challenged”. Some of my best friends are like this.) There may be depictions of female vampires or zombies with cleavage. I have viewed hundreds such images and I have selected only the most appropriate for general viewing. I apologize ahead of time for this. There may be graphic images of kittens dressed in goofy Halloween customs. There will surely be photos, graphic photos, of disfigured and hideous pumpkins.

But don’t expect too much too soon. I’m going to toss in a non-Halloween post on my ancestral castle in Ireland. (Sorry, but I wrote it as a back-up to having failed at my speech at the reunion.)

I welcome public comment on the posts. If you have something strange and frightening to share, please don’t hesitate, as long as it does not involve sleeping puppies.

And, speaking of curses–it is well-known that if a person reads a blog and fails to “like” said blog, well, I cannot be held responsible for the aftermath. The most dreadful action, they say, is to take no action. So, find the little button on my blog and click “FOLLOW”. That way, my posts will come to you as email, along with all the other important emails you get every day. (FYI–there a sale at Macy’s coming up!).

Sleep well, my friends. Keep you collars turned up against the chilly winds of Autumn and keep your loved ones near you at all times.

You never know…

It Was 28 Years Ago Today: Changing Views

Jul14

I saw him when he was born. I watched and began to wonder…even back then. I thought about what I had seen. I went to the Delivery Room window, looked out over the parking lot… and wept.

Taken in the long view of human life, I had just witnessed something most men have been kept from seeing…an actual birth. But, there he was, wet and gooey. When he could focus, it was on his mom’s face…her eyes…her expressions. Soon he discovered there was another person in his field of view, his father.

He would look at me, straight into my eyes.

Then as he got older his view still was on his mother and me, but he was seeing other things, other people come and go into his field of vision.

I had already raised a daughter, Erin, and I was fully aware of the passage of time. As an old song goes: “Turn around, and she one…turn around and she’s two…turn around and she a young woman going out of the door…”

I was determined to have these early memories of him cling to me like pollen in May, like sap on a pine. I wanted to have it all just slow down or stop or encase it like an insect in Miocene amber.

But there are rules of nature you cannot alter: The flow of time is Rule #1. Nothing to be done here…just enjoy the moment as it is. You can’t stop the flow of a river by pushing your hands against the current. You can’t stop the rain by pushing back at the raindrops.

Soon the moments became months and then the years began to add up. Rites of passage occurred…he turned eighteen and began driving. He turned twenty-one without major mishaps. (That I know of).

He wasn’t running to his daddy with a broken tail reflector from his bike anymore. He was discussing fine wines with his girlfriend, Kristin.

His view points were changing, not about politics but about how he chose to spend time and places he travelled. I found out he was in Jacksonville, Florida about a year ago when I first saw a photo of him dancing on a table at the local Hooters!

“Dad, can I go to Hooter’s and dance on the table?” never once left his lips.

So, a young man slowly turns from the comfortable and familiar and begins to find his way in the strange and unknown world. I would have not have it any other way. This is life. This is growth. This is maturity. This is growing up.

He joins Mariam and I for a brief trip to Ireland. It’s his first European stamp on his passport. We’re driving the Burren, a place of desolate and austere limestone landscapes in the west country. We pause to take some pictures. He wanders toward the cliff edge.

I snap a photo of him gazing out over Galway Bay. I don’t know what he’s thinking about.

But he’s looking away from me and into a future that belongs only to him.

I would have it no other way. I hope as he grows older, he stands by uncountable cliffs over unnamed bays and thinks of life from the viewpoint of his own eyes and ears and imagination.

Reflections in a Sad Eye

Jun16

The last bus stopped running an hour ago. The publican has rung the bell in the nearby pub, calling out “Time gentlemen, please.” The night‘s action is most definitely over out here in the ‘burbs of London. The streets may be quiet and the locals are at home…but it’s still light out!

It’s only a bit after 10:00 pm. In truth, the nearest pub will be remain open until midnight so it’s not entirely an empty neighborhood.

Meanwhile, the late flights from Capetown, Rio, New York and Paris are approaching touchdown…their wheels are lowered and they are slowly approaching the runway about 255 feet above my head.

Yes, my head that has been hit with a massive case of hay fever or some sort of allergy since I walked through customs a few hours. I can’t use my handkerchief any more; it needs to hang out to dry. I’m down to using a roll of toilet paper to stifle my sneezes. Even the woman tending bar at the pub noticed my agony and offered her own personal pills she claimed worked for her hay fever.

I tend not to take pills from people I never me before.

The flight from Shannon was only about an hour. The “food” was a box of crackers, some cheese, a small chocolate bar, some vegetable pate, small can of tonic, and a glass of water. All for €7.50. Aer Lingus must be in financial trouble.

We’re in the very B&B we used in 2012. It was cheap, near the airport and provided a free shuttle to the terminals.

I doubt we’ll travel this cheap again.

The room’s light was dingy, quite brothel-like. There was no shower curtain and only one towel each.

I’m writing this with my iMac Air and using it like it’s supposed to be used…on my lap. But I have a bad back and I’m leaning against a pillow that is, if I’m lucky, two inches thick.

I’m a hugger. I don’t know, maybe my mother took my teddy away too soon, but I need something to wrap my arms around. I’m going to be forced to use my neck cushion. The kind of thing that looks good in the W.H. Smith store but is difficult to pack…like a football. People sleep with them on planes and trains. Mine’s blue in case you’re interested.

I’m not very happy right now.

This was meant to be a reflection of a wonderful trip. But, as usual with me, it’s bittersweet.

We said good-bye to Brian on Sunday. Ireland seemed to be a little emptier without his companionship, wit, charm and sense of amazement at what he saw and what we shared. I’m quite proud of myself for planning a trip that included a medieval banquet, being on his own in a few pubs in Cashel, and climbing to the battlements of our ancestral castle in County Tipperary.

Thinking back on the entire trip, I can recall some awesome sights and some frustrating moments. I’ve looked down haunted wells where a violated youth was thrown. I’ve seen the withered hand of a saint who founded the Abbey that later became Ely Cathedral. We’ve rubbed fingers with mummies in a crypt in Dublin, threw a pence into the Liffey from Ha’Penny Bridge.

Up in County Sligo, at a cemetery in Enniscrone, I stood at the grave of Tom and Kate Egan who once served me tea from water that had been boiling all day over a peat fire.

That was over thirty years ago.

I’ve looked out over the fields my people plowed and had their cattle graze for decades.

Stone walls don’t change much in human life times. The hedges grow for centuries. The rains fall and the people keep smiling.

In England, our friends edge toward retirement and think thoughts about where it would be a nice place to live.

To me, I couldn’t think of any place more in tune with the beats of my heart and yearnings of my soul than England or the west of Ireland.

Being of Irish background, I thought of what it would be like to live there. My body is pulled two ways. My blood says to go back to the soil that first made you who you are…melancholy and love of the written word are my genetic markers.

But, I’m happiest when I’m walking. And, there is no place with footpaths that lead to all my dreamscapes than England.

If you drive six miles through Wiltshire, Somerset or Dorset and not pass a dozen “public footpath” signs, then you have a bad case of tunnel vision.

My adventure is over and I’m a sadder man because of it. In the coming weeks, I will sit and tell funny stories of our trip, but deep within me, I’ll long for the footpath. I’ll long for the place when the biggest decision I need to make is which direction to walk.

Yes, the Adirondacks have hundreds of miles of trails and I live in the center of it all, but somehow it lacks the ancient history and mythic lore that stirs my soul as I stand inside a stone circle that was constructed before the Great Pyramids.

I am cursed with restlessness.

But the posts will go on. I’ve not shown you things or told you stories of many things. Some will keep you awake at night. Some will make you smile and some will make you cry.

If I can do all these things…I’ve succeeded in what a writer most wants. Getting people to read.

Right now? I’m going to shut the dingy overhead light off and switch on my Barnes & Nobel reading lamp. I’m working my way through Dickens at the moment.

Its title is very appropriate:

“Great Expectations”.

[This post is written in England but it will be posted from Penn Station when we get back. This hotel wants £4.00 for Wi-Fi. I have never paid for that service before and I’m not going to start now.]

Slán

Jun14

THE CLIFFS OF DOONEEN

You may travel far far from your own native home

Far away oer the mountains far away oer the foam

But of all the fine places that I’ve ever seen,

There’s none to compare with The Cliffs of Dooneen

Take a view oer the water fine sights you’ll see there

You’ll see the high rocky slopes on the West coast of Clare

The towns of Kilrush and Kilkee can be seen

From the high rocky slopes at The Cliffs of Dooneen

Its a nice place to be on a fine Summer’s day

Watching all the wild flowers that ne’er do decay

The hare and lofty pheasant are plain to be seen

Making homes for their young round The Cliffs of Dooneen

Fare thee well to Dooneen fare thee well for a while

And to all the fine people I’m leaving behind

To the streams and the meadows where late I have been

And the high rocky slopes of The Cliffs of Dooneen

—Christy Moore

[This is my final post from Ireland. I saw and experienced far more that I had put into words. At the end of the day, I often had no plan for a theme or a topic to write about. On many nights, my energy to sit and think was not there. I won’t go into details about the rather dicey WiFi connections at our B&B’s. I will be catching up at some point…so you’ve not read the last of the tales I can tell about this island of mist, magic and myth. They say there are twenty-eight shades of green in the hills and glens. I never counted. One shade of true Irish green is enough to satisfy my soul.]

The Silent Songs of the Burrens and the Rebel Songs of Galway

Jun13

Moher1 I stood at the edge of the famous Cliffs of Moher. Just a short drive from Shannon Airport, this site is one of the first stops for tourists. The last time I stood at this edge of Ireland where the Atlantic Ocean pounds silently far below us, at the base of rock faces that can cause you to miss a breath, I couldn’t see anything. It was misty and a wet wind nearly blew me over.

Not today. We had just picked up my son, Brian, and the weather was clear enough so when you looked out to the ocean, you could see the curvature of the earth. A harpist played New Age Celtic melodies for the crowds that were trudging up the steps for the best view. A fiddler played. A man on a penny whistle played. The music blended nicely with the quiet view. We were too far above the waves to hear any crashing surf. The music was the soft lilts and airs of this land of music and dance.

I watched my son. He leaned against the great stone slabs that protected oblivious tourists from getting too close to the edge. I saw him close his eyes briefly. He heard the music of the sea without hearing the sound of the water, so far below.

Our destination for the night was Galway. Another few hours of driving would put us at a B & B in Salthill, just a short walk to the famous Latin Quarter. We were going in search of pubs that played traditional Irish music.

But first, we had to drive through the Burren. This is a strange place indeed. Lunar-like in its landscape, it is where many people get their first real look at the wild and isolated regions of Ireland. Unless you’re mentally prepared, there came be something unsettling and odd in this land of flat limestone. In the full sunlight, the stone can be nearly blinding with its white-gray surface…a surface that give you the sense that you can just turn your car to one side and just drive over the pavement.

But that would be a bad idea. It was rolling and full of boulders and fissures in the rock that are a foot wide. I parked the car to stretch and I walked away from the road. It was silent, save for the wind in my hair and blowing through the heather patches and wildflowers that found a home in the cracks.

I heard something. I heard music. I looked around and I was too far from any car for a radio to be heard. My wife and son had found a nice place to sit and wait for me.

There it was again. I heard music…it was an ancient air…a mournful tune…a lament that came from the very rocks I was standing on. I heard familiar melodies like Molly Malone and . I heard the music of an older time when life was simpler and more gentle. A time when God may have been present among the lives of men. A time when nature herself ruled the earth as the Mother Goddess in the times of the Mist. I heard the songs of the fossils that were older than time itself. The shells and the oolites of the limestone was alive with something I couldn’t understand or touch.

Just listen.

I walked slowly back to the car, afraid to confront reality. That’s when I saw my son standing and looking out over Galway Bay. I wondered if he heard the music as I did. I walked up and stood beside him.

“This is insane,” he said.

I knew what he meant. I think it was his Gen X way of saying: “I get this place right now. I really do.”

We drove on. Cottages, bonded to the solitary sheep, began to appear as if to announce that humans still used this land.

Then, the flatness returned. The rocks stretched toward the Bay and then, with a ninety degree drop, met the water.

We stopped a few more times before we left the Burren. Brian got out of the car once more and walked to the edge once again. He looked out at the water.

I tried to read his mind, but couldn’t. And, that’s the way it should be.

That night we went to the Latin Quarter in Galway, not very far from the Spanish Arch. We heard music again. Finnegan’s Wake, Raglan Road, The Wild Rover. Songs of the people. Songs of the struggles. Songs of unrequited love. Songs exile and songs of executions.

Songs that define this ancient and complex island.

Songs that were sung for a hundred years…perhaps by people who had my blood in their veins.

The Swans Of The Shannon River: Limerick On A Warm Afternoon

Jun9

I dropped Mariam at our hotel and drove off to find the parking lot. I made two lefts and passed two pubs, one of which was called The Sin Bin. I took note of the name. Maybe this pub had something more than pints of Guinness. I walked back to the hotel and we decided to walk along O’Connell Street. In two blocks it turned into Patrick Street. Limerick wasn’t fine and healthy in this part of town. There were a fair number of boarded up storefronts and more than the usual number of Asian restaurants. Only a few old-fashioned pubs hugged the sidewalk…and they looked nearly closed. They had none of the classic “Irish Pub” look so many places in London, Dublin and even New York sported.

It was an unusually warm day for the west of Ireland. Temperatures must have been in the low 80’s F. We walked down to the quay that ran along the Shannon River. I looked across the water and was surprised to get a fine view of King John’s Castle. I had driven past the place many decades ago and the place still gave me the chills…even in the June warmth.

Yes, this is the same King John who signed the Magna Carta in 1215 in a field near Windsor, England. He was the youngest of five sons of Henry II and Elenore of Aquitaine. (That would be Katherine Hepburn in the movie.) He was given lands in France and England and Ireland. He became known as the Lord of Ireland and ordered this castle built in 1200.

Before the English arrived, the Vikings had a walled town here on or about 922.

But today I was watching a bevy of swans fighting for food that some guy was throwing down from the walkway. A feeding frenzy of swans is quite a sight to see since swans seem to me anyway, a symbol of calmness and grace.

This city of Limerick showed signs of a past glory. That past is coming slowly back to live through various civic projects. It’s a beautiful Georgian town, like Bath in England, but without the funds to fully restore the townhouses and old cemeteries. But things are happening. I hope the progress continues. After all, the city got a bad reputation as a result of Frank McCourt’s Angela’s Ashes. Many of the locals were angry, so I’ve read, at McCourt at presenting a depressing and dismal part of the city’s history.

But, the swans looked happy and uncaring. What more could they want? It was warm and it wasn’t raining.

I’ll settle in to read now. My son will be at Shannon Airport at 11:00 am in the morning.

He’ll see the landscape of the Burrens and Connemara for the first time, just like I did thirty-one years ago.

Crossing The Liffey: Our First And Last Full Day In Dublin’s Fair City

Jun8

I was sitting opposite my wife in the restaurant of the Arlington Hotel where we are staying. It’s just steps away from the O’Connell Street Bridge. I was making strange, odd and contorted…some would say ugly faces in her direction.

She simply stared back at me.

My eyes watered and I continued to wiggle my face into creepy shapes. She must have been thinking I was making faces at her, but she simply stared back at me. I managed to make a comment.

“Funny what air-borne pepper can do to the inside of one’s nose,” I said. I had just peppered my Irish Stew and the mashed potatoes that sat on the plate begging for a hit of pepper.

The sneeze, when it finally came, is something I’d rather not talk about since I had a small bit of stew at the back of my throat in the last stage of a swallow.

Like I said, I’d rather not talk about it.

I’d rather tell you how we had spent most of our one and only full day in this most unusual city. The weather was cool, enough so to give me an excuse to buy an Irish tweed cap that I wore proudly the rest of the day. I would have walked among the crowds as a local, a native, a true Dubliner, a real Irishman if it wasn’t for the Nikon D3200 DSL (red) around my neck.

We were exploring the section of the city called Temple Bar. It’s across the Liffey from our hotel and it’s a very hip place indeed. The focal point of Temple Bar is Trinity College where the famous Book of Kells is on display. I’ll get back to that.

We were passing a theater and there was a small queue at the door. I saw a young woman sitting on a step so I asked what she was waiting for. She gave the name of a band that I had never heard about. I was fixated on her forehead (for a change) and pushed the conversation a bit.

My wife waited patiently across the street.

“Do you know the area well?” I asked.

“No, I don’t actually live here. What are you looking for?”

I had been thinking of the great poem “Raglan Road” by Patrick Kavanagh. I know it best as one of my favorite Van Morrison songs from the Irish Heartbeat album that Morrison recorded with the Chieftains sometime in the mid 1980’s.

The poem is a tragic and heartbreaking lament of a man falling in love with a stranger. A dark-haired woman. The narrator knew somehow that “her dark hair would weave a snare that one day he would rue.”

He meets her on Grafton Street in November. And, as in most Irish poems and songs, the love is unrequited. At the end of the poem he sees her:

On a quiet street where old ghosts meet I see her walking now

Away from me so hurriedly my reason must allow…

I told the young woman I was looking for Grafton Street. She knew where it was.

“Just go straight on until you see Trinity College and it’s just there.”

I thanked her. Her name is Jessica. She is beautiful and her forehead is quite fabulous.

We continued on toward Trinity College. We were intent on seeing the Book of Kells. A woman in our hotel lobby told me earlier that the lines are crazy and to “book online”. But, we were at the admission desk of the Library and there were no lines. We paid our fees and before we could say “calligraphy”, we were looking into the glass case containing, arguably, one of the most famous books in Western Civilization. When they were burning women as witches in England, the scribes and artists of Ireland were copying this most impressive Illuminated Manuscript I’ve ever gazed upon. I couldn’t even sneak a photo on my iPhone so you’ll have to Google it to get a sense of the fierce beauty of the page.

We then went into the Long Room of the Library. Now, I love books…anyone who knows me is aware of that, so when I entered the main room, I nearly wept at the sheer number of volumes that are neatly stacked at least three stories high.

[This is only one of more than forty book stacks]

We stopped into one of the many pubs near the college for a bit of a rest. When we emerged, we were only steps from a small intersection where the statue of Molly Malone was erected in 1988..

I looked at her sad face and her fish-monger wares and then leaned against a wall and thought of the few lines of the song that I could remember:

In Dublin’s fair city, where the girls are so pretty

I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone

As she wheeled her wheel barrow

Through streets broad and narrow

Crying ‘cockles and mussels alive a-live O!

Many tourists were crowded around to get the best angle. She is cast in bronze and her plunging neckline reveals an ample bosom with cleavage to spare. An Italian man climbed on the pedestal, and, in full view of the crowds, proceeded to put his hands on her bosom. After he climbed down, I looked at the breasts of Molly Malone. They were quite polished by the touch of many hands.

Honestly, men have only one thing on their mind. Have they no shame? I kept looking back at her chest and wondering why men are such crude blokes…when I nearly fell over a trash can. I moved on to our final crossing of the Liffey.

We arrived at the far side of the O’Connell Bridge. I didn’t want to go back to our room yet. I wanted to soak in Dublin “in this fair old time.” I hesitated beneath a lamp-post.

I looked into the waters of the Liffey and saw the reflections of the lights of our hotel on the far side. I saw the reflections. I felt the history. I smelled the air. I let the noise of the taxis and buses and chatting couples fill my ears.

When would I come here again? When would I cross the O’Connell Bridge and look for that elusive white horse of legends?

patrickjegan

Respect your ancestors, for you are the result of a thousand loves….

Category Archives: Ireland