'Tis all a blemish on humanity, to foster the rumor: "the Irish have a tendency to tell tall tales." Why it's just that we're prolific in the art of relating events, things that could be, should be, or might have been. Distilled as it were; through the hearts and minds of a simple folk, who lay claim to that bastion of fidelity: Blarney Castle. Were just blessed 'tis all!
Ireland has been pursued through out the centuries by both artist and authors who struggle to embrace its beauty. However, only life not paper or paint can inhale Ireland. Only on Irish soil are you privileged to the melody of its brooks, the perfume of its heather, the light and shadows that paint its glens, mountains, and meadows the forty shades of green "Going Back" is the lure of every Irish sole born or bred in its tradition.
Why am I so Irish? I don't know! There's the "Ignorant Irish," and the "Pig Shit Irish," the "Lace curtain Irish," the "Drunken Irish," the "Trouble Making Irish," and of course the English version of the "Bloody Irish." I have, at one time or another been called them all.
However, the one I am most proud of, and that fits best is "Irish Gypsy" And while some such remarks certainty may have gotten the Irish up, I've never let them get me down. I wear my Irish on my sleeve. It goes well with the chip on my shoulder. But then I've always had a sense of who I was, and where I was going, and a most profound pride and interest in Ireland, and though its late in life I decided to discover and record as much as I can about my Irish heritage, rooted in Patrickswell, CO. Limerick
My wife thinks I am a reincarnated soul, once called to the glory and freedom of Ireland. (I like that) My kids call it: Pop's Irish Thing. It's a legacy of stories and memories of grand parents and loved ones with odd ways, who often spoke in a foreign tone. Memory's ignited on my journey back!
"My Irish Thing" is a happy memoir of my catholic childhood, and "going back" to the country roads of my Irish Gypsy ancestors.
For me it was a push back through tears of private moment's to awake the many profound delightful tenants of my mind. Back to where the rhythmic sway of a wagon wheels and the melodic clip clop and thunder of a tinkers pony echo on the side walks of Philadelphia. Back to stories, imaginings, legacy, and visions that most often ferry me to happy places, where leprechauns dance, to the tune of a fiddle, round a pot of gold.
Or to crumbling castles where ghostly white shadows of Banshee and "other…things" float with fairies that lurk amid misty moors, and the chilling sole full howls of hound are heard; in the dark Irish nights.
To Dublin fair City where lovely Molly Malone wonders by. Her fathom-less dark eyes and jet-black hair hanging down in ringlets over milk white shoulders that disappear beneath a cotton bodice to a place of another fancy.
Ireland is my heritage, my fantasy, my ancestor's home. I went there to delight in the breath of the Atlantic, as sweetened by the golden vale it journeys up the Shannon to its birthplace, the hills of Cavan.
I went absorb Ireland's freedom and history, in the bump and rattle of a Dublin tour bus. I went to the immigrant wharf of hope in Cork, to pray the prayers of little Annie Mores faith in the future. And yes I especially went to the embattled streets of Belfast, and walked both sides of its streets, and asked God, that someday, all will live in the communion of peace.
For Ireland is a Mother country, in all her grace, though mantle torn, proud of all her sons and daughters, and surly must welcome us all home.
These are a few joys of my mind, some memories of My Irish, and that Journey "Home." The next Limeric/USA book is almost done. Tell Mc Court to look over his shoulder for that worth while happy catholic childhood book.
