I don’t know where to begin. Life is not chronological or even logical. If anything this trip to the old country has strengthened that understanding or lack thereof. Since life makes absolutely no sense, we bust our asses trying to make sense of it, keep gathering to reassure ourselves that we agree that this is reality. The foundation of that thinking would be the nuclear family. If we can make that work for the most part or for the majority of the time we spend together, we all hope we agree that “this is good! this is working!” And since it has worked fairly well from my point of view for the last forty years, I figured it might work for the length of a trip to Ireland (even adding the wild cards of our sons’ significants)! And “motherfucking sonofabitch,” it worked for me! And as you know, that’s what’s most important: it is all about me.
So while I’m not ready to process this thing in a way that can be easily plotted or stitched together in a story fashion, I have begun following a few threads in my notes and my head. I will throw a few things out here because I can, and I haven’t been here for awhile. Anyhoo, here are two to chew. Slainte!
3 Days in Connemara
Driving the north coast along
Galway Bay, the Aran Islands
in the distance, the gray Atlantic
our western horizon, we travel
past more rock fences, fields
of sheep, the occasional pony
or donkey or goat or cows
grazing limestone green field
after field after field of green,
the same patchwork from Cork
to Kerry to Dingle to The Burren,
the rocky west of Ireland a similar
landscape with subtle changes in
stark rock like the crest extending
from Inishmore across The Burren.
Now we drive north toward Joyce
country, the homeland of my people
in the Inagh Valley at the foot of
the Twelve Pins and Lough Inagh.
We scan the rock faces of Derryclare
and Ben Cor from the stone house
my grandmother was born in. A hay barn
today, the thatch roof long ago replaced
by rusty tin. Cows graze around us.
John Joyce, my great grandfather was
called John Doctor, an animal doctor and
fishing guide. Mary Conroy Joyce birthed
nine, my Grandmother Bridget Delia
was her oldest. All of their children left
Connemara save the youngest, Martin,
who inherited the home place. We found
the old bones in the Cloonacarten cemetery,
mostly Joyces. Inscriptions older than
a century were too weathered to read.
Jimmy Gibbons, the last of our clan
died in Connemara, 1946, my grandfather's
younger brother. He lived on Cloonabartan
Lough, the locals named Looking Jimmy
(or Little Jimmy) just north of that small
pond on the old Gibbons place they called
Jimmy's Height. He was well-liked. So we
spent three days with the Joyces and Jimmy
at the time when the veil between the souls
of the living and the dead was at its thinnest.
It was a magical encounter spent there
together on the ground, in the bogs, on
the rocky green, and in the moist air—though
we had met before. These souls had visited
me previously, walked inside me for fifty,
sixty years, always insisting I needed to go
home to meet family long dead and resting
underground, know who and where I came from.
So I came and found them, or they came to me.
Now we're home at peace—eternal company.
for Mark Joyce
Walking Home At night after a few pints we head out toward our bed and turn uphill a couple of streets too early, discover the town grid is laid out like a scallop shell, the further we walk the fan the further we get from our motel. Eventually we dead-end on the crest of the shell, toddle the long arc in the damp night air, no one in sight. Not lost, but seeking confirmation that we had to be close, I spied some people headed up the street, coming our way. Two people and a boy kicking a soccer ball. I say, “Excuse me, we are trying to find our way back to our motel.” Visiting are ye? The man says. “Yes, I cut up early and got a bit off track, but I know we're close. I remember driving this road . . .” Is this your first time in Ireland? He asks. “Yes, we're headed to the Aran Islands tomorrow. My family left Connemara in 1916, so I want to go there and find their bones.” I'll tell you what you need to do, he says, O'Connell's pub down there on your right is playing traditional music and dancing, locals. Ye need to go down there, that's what ye need to do. “We'd love to if we didn't have to get up early to catch the ferry in Doolin. Last night we caught some music and dancing at Murphy's.” No, what ye really need is down at O'Connell's pub. That's where ye should go. “Ha!” I was beginning to wonder if this guy was fucking with me, “I wish we could, but we really need to hit the bed.” He smiled at me and didn't say a word. His wife finally took pity and pointed the left turn at the light, bottom of the hill. She asked, Where are ye from? We told them Montana, and the wag began: weather, work, politics, housing, the like. When you are jawing the Irish, it's an easy time. The gift of gab is the way of it. And we came to the inevitable conclusion: the landlords always get what they want in the end. And being the good leftist whose father had turned his back on the church, I couldn't resist testing the limits of their Catholic faith by insisting the church was the first government and corporation willing to fuck the people to hold power. They granted me the corruption of man and his organizations, but nothing could shake their faith in God, their ultimate good, that spiritual entity, the beacon of hope, source of love, and the foundation of meaning, the reason to go on and keep up the facade of purpose, if only to entertain strangers on the street at night, to joke and tease, to chat, pleased to meet, to wish good things, good life. I guess I found God lost on the streets of Ireland. They were easy, a family walking home.
And it's a fine time you're having. But the pub of age finds the bed early, eh? You caught the ferry but missed the tin whistle. May the old sod stick to your boots.
Well said, sometimes losing a bit of sleep is well worth a bit more music, a touch more of a chance for conversation and discovery. Then again much is to be said of having ones wits about them for the next days adventure. Always a difficult decision.