Thoughts on Evolving Faith

For those of you who don’t know, I became an evangelical Christian when I was around 12 years old. I heard about this man Jesus and his message of love and peace for the world. That appealed to me even at that young age, and my faith has been the focus of my life ever since. I spent my high school years involved in various teen ministries then spent two years in Christian college before going on to a state university.

I’ve always been actively involved in churches, made most of my friends through church and even taught some Bible classes (I preached a couple of times but that was definitely NOT my calling).

In the last few years, since Greg died, I’ve taken this precious time of turmoil to ramble through all the rooms in my faith house. It’s much bigger than I thought. I’ve opened doors I didn’t know even existed, and cleaned stuff out and kind of disinfected. There were a lot of toxins growing on some walls and they needed to be scrubbed clean.

There’s actually an attic in this house where things were stashed that I never wanted to see again or deal with. I thought they were thrown away, but it turns out they were just in storage. They are neatly stacked and best left alone. 

Then there’s the basement… where it’s pretty scary. There are dark spaces here and I’m still afraid every time I venture down there. I’m afraid I might not
make it back up the stairs. But I find myself still descending now and then to see if the demons are still alive. They are. But they haven’t gobbled me up yet so I guess we can coexist okay.

I have found incredible peace in Ireland… which is somewhat surprising since I no longer have a church home and most of my friends here are what they call non-practicing Catholics. Nobody talks religion and I’m okay with that. I see people living religion and that’s better (maybe they’re “practicing” after all). I’m thinking if I can’t maintain my own personal faith in my own personal space, it probably wasn’t mine in the first place, but just a brainwashing. 

I might be wrong about that. But so far, my faith house is still standing and hasn’t been condemned.

It so happens that, as I go through this soul searching season of life (you’ll have yours too, if you haven’t already), I’m
paying closer attention to what’s happening in the larger community. I’m seeing and appreciating the diversity of Christianity. I’m less judgmental. I’m comfortable letting people be themselves, find their own way. I’m taking more responsibility for my own thoughts and behaviors and feeling less burdened by yours.

 

I’m feeling more weighed down by the suffering in the world than the beliefs in the world. It feels like I took a big bite from the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. I spent my early adulthood giving the church too much power to define who I was, cozily nestled inside the dogma bubble. When it burst, I went flying frantically through the air. But now that I’ve landed and dusted myself off, my eyes are wide with wonder. Just looking around is both frightening and exhilarating. Spiritually speaking, I’m not in Kansas anymore.

Maybe all this is what has prepared me for the disillusionment I feel with the evangelical church today. As the Irish would say, I’m GOBSMACKED that such a majority of evangelicals are supporting Donald Trump in the election. I really don’t get it. 

I hear, “I know he’s awful, but we’re all the same in God’s eyes." "He has said some horrible things, but so has everyone at one time or another." "God can use ANYBODY for good." "Nobody’s perfect." "The other guys have issues too." "Yes, he can be very hurtful, but God forgives us all for our sins." "Sometimes he’s really nice and does very good things." "We need him.” 

It occurs to me… this is what women say when they allow their abusive husbands to return home after beating them black and blue. I think it’s called Battered Wife Syndrome. It’s rooted in feelings of FEAR (planted by the abuser) that their world will fall apart without the powerful abuser to take care of them. 

I’ve been rereading the Psalms of David lately. The words David uses to describe his enemies are words my evangelical friends ascribe to Trump. Words like immoral, proud, mocking, scheming, lying. But they say it’s okay because he gives them what they want.

 

Sadly, what they want is not what I want. Guess that means I’m post evangelical. Not sure if I have a label now. I’m still digesting that bite out of the apple. Apparently that tree was well fertilized because I know a lot of people from all over the Christian world have also been snacking on it.

This is the last post where I’ll mention the election. When you visit me (after our vaccinations), we won’t talk politics. I’ll be showing you my favorite ruins, we’ll be climbing fences and running from excitable cows, then raising a glass or two to good health (Sláinte)... at the music session in the Monks. 

We probably won’t talk religion either (unless you want to and then we will).

 

 

Keeping Busy (Sort of)

 Our Covid cases/deaths had steadily decreased over the last few weeks, and last week the town crier stood boldly on the town square, unfurled his scroll and proclaimed the pubs reopened… with restrictions of course. We were overjoyed because, much as we loved our small music sessions in our kitchen on Wednesday nights, we missed the larger group and the “craic” from the Monks.       

 

We had a wonderful, socially distanced time of reacquaintance and merry-making last Wednesday. It seemed like life as we knew it was really back, and we could finally exhale (into our masks, of course).

 

Then it was announced over the weekend that our numbers were creeping back up, mainly due to the large parties and celebrations of those audacious young people. So now we’re back in partial lockdown for three weeks. Pubs closed again and even our house gathering is now taboo.

The Kim and Dixie Pub

So what have I been doing? A couple of the musicians in our group had made a list of their most frequently played jigs and reels. The list has just over 400 tunes (and those are just the ones they play most often!) I’m hopeless with the reels (because they are played “reel” fast), but I can hold my own on the fiddle with a jig. I know many of them already, but I decided I’d learn a jig a day beginning in September. And so I should have the entire jig list mastered by Christmas.

So far so good. I have a friend who will play a tune slowly for me and send it through WhatsApp. Then I’ve been recording the group playing on Wednesdays and writing the recording number beside the jig set (they’re played in sets of three) on my list.

 

I may have to slow my pace (a jig a day) because, going through the list this quickly, I’m tending to get my A and B parts mixed up. If you aren’t a musician, this would be comparable to learning to sing too many songs over too short a time and ending up with something like, “Oh Susanna, don’t you cry for me, cause I come from home on the range where the deer and the antelope play.” You get the idea.

Toll House cookies

This keeps me busy a portion of each day and I’m happy to have a project, a goal and something
to show when all this is over.

 

When I’m not fiddling, I’ve been reading. I am somewhat hooked on the exposé/revenge in politics genre. (Why do I torture myself?) I’ve read several books and tried to keep an open mind, knowing the motive of the writers was not just to enlighten me but was often something more self-serving and even sinister. 

I know there’s a danger of being brainwashed, and brainwashing is dirty business. You could make a mess of yourself and your friends will have to mop it up when the storm is over. I think sometimes when we try to “keep on the sunny side” by avoiding controversy, we’re just hunkering down into our comfort zones. You can easily lose sight of the bigger picture, which you can sometimes only make out in the shade of opposing opinions.

 

So, along with books, I’ve tried to read commentaries from both sides of the fence online every day, which may be why I have an appt with a dentist next week to examine my teeth that have suddenly gone sensitive and sore. I’m sure I’m grinding and clenching in the night. I hope trying to stay unbrainwashed doesn’t land me a root canal. I can’t win.

Thomas gave me Alexa for my birthday and I discovered she will read aloud to me from my Kindle. Now I’m hooked on the audio book experience. I walk around the house with my AirPods, and Dixie understands that, although I may look like I’m sweeping the floor or chopping up spuds, I’m really rambling through the White House, sizing things up. 

I may look like I’m glued to that European championship football match on the telly but, with carefully concealed AirPods beneath my hair, I’m actually chillaxing in the oval office resting my feet on the Resolute desk. Good thing you can’t catch the Covid through droplets of imagination.

I’m just finishing Rage by Bob Woodward. It’s very different from the other books I’ve read, because it’s all recorded dialogue between Bob and the Donald. Woodward seems to have been Trump’s personal confidant for at least several months. Go figure. There’s not much commentary at all, just the conversations written in a non-sensational narrative style.

 

It’s a great summary of the main events (and some you may not know about) of the last couple of years in American politics. If you’ve forgotten some of the names of the original cast or details of the story, you’ll love this walk down memory lane. Woodward doesn’t belabor any points or get too involved. He just relates what was actually said to him as the drama of Trump’s presidency has unfolded. I couldn’t put it down (or rather Alexa couldn’t put it down).

I highly recommend it to anyone who feels they may have leaned too far over one edge or the other and dipped their brain into the suds. It’s a true portrayal of President Trump in his own words and there’s no distorted context it could have been taken out of. You haven’t heard him deny any of it. It’s just real conversations, like flagstones we can walk across to connect one event to another without getting our feet all muddy. Too bad all journalism can’t be done that way.

Take me back to Donegal

Otherwise, we are watching lots of movies and we marathoned on a couple of series. Try Bloodline and Succession. We took the wonderful trip to Donegal in August and I'm so glad we did. I'm still feeling the tranquilizing effects of the scenery. When Alexa isn't talking she's showing off the photos.  

 I’ve done some baking but I’m not a natural. We take walks. I video chat with the grands most days and try to be content to be the Grammy App. It goes without saying, I can’t wait to see them again. They are both about to start walking… right into trouble I’m sure. They are lively, funny, happy and very spoiled, as they should be. 

Fan Slán... Y’all stay safe.

Some Thoughts on America

So... it looks like things back home are pretty chaotic. I have friends from both sides of the political fence and they all agree on that. I've been wondering what I could say here that might be meaningful to someone out there. Basically, everything that could be said is being said over and over, but it appears that saying is much easier than listening.

I can’t buy into the popular assertion that whichever party you are not associated with is evil and anti-American and going to ruin the world if given (or left in) power. Democrats and Republicans have successfully co-existed for a long time. What each brings to the table is valid and “American”. Whatever happened to respect?

Democrats prioritize equality and social justice, while Republicans try to protect our individual freedoms. Ying and Yang. It’s a delicate balance. To stay upright, we need each other. Remember that Star Trek episode when Captain Kirk encountered his alternate self in a parallel universe and found that both extremes of his psyche made him whole??? Never mind.

I have a unique vantage point from here in Ireland. Not only do I read and hear news from the American outlets, but I am exposed to the views and opinions of the non-Americans (poor devils). We baffle them.

Here in Ireland, the “common good” is the ultimate good, like in the early Christian church. They are a capitalist society but have higher taxes and spend more on social programs than we do. They understand that social programs do not equal socialist ideology. They are not afraid they’ll wake up one morning in Venezuela just because they can’t carry assault weapons to the grocery store.

In fact, fear tactics and intimidation are not really the way of work here. “Just the facts, Ma’am.” The Irish seem to know how to breathe deeply, hold their noses and sit down together at the table. They have their share of hotheads alright, as well as corruption, but they interact and solve problems as adults (if you’ve ever taught middle school you’ll get the distinction). It’s a gentler society than America.

Ireland ranks ahead of us in the 2019 World Happiness Report. And in another recent survey, 86% said they were “happy with their lives today.” The countries we would describe as “socialist” (such as Finland, Denmark, Norway) rank among the first, year after year, in the WHR. We should look into that. It’s interesting to me that one of the criteria examined is “Freedom to make life choices”. Think about it.

So I’m reading that America has 4% of the world’s population but 25% of the Corona cases. I hear otherwise good people say they refuse to wear a mask just because. What the…?  Someone here said that Americans are so obsessed with their individual rights, they are willing to sacrifice their neighbors. The Irish find that reprehensible. So do I. Get over yourself. Wear a mask.

Looks like I’ll be voting by mail for obvious reasons. Even if I could fly home before November, I may not be allowed to re-enter Ireland (and it has nothing to do with that night I had too much Guinness and…). I am a registered Republican. I didn’t vote for Trump in 2016 because I just had a bad feeling, you know, that someone who brags about grabbing married women by the pussy would probably not share my values. 

But I can say honestly, before God, that when he got elected I kept an open mind and looked for the best. I have friends and family members who believed in Trump and I decided to trust their judgement and give him a chance. I’m still trying to give him a chance but I’m afraid he just keeps disappointing. 

It’s not just his abrasive personality because I know we have had previous presidents who could out-obnoxious him in a heartbeat. But have you read “The Art of the Deal”? The man’s a crook. From the outset, he surrounded himself with thugs and criminals, several of whom are now in jail or facing charges. He has fired or intimidated those who oppose him. How many patriotic voices have to shout in unison before we can hear them? It’s a cloud of witnesses. 

President Trump has turned us against one another. He has tried to discredit one sacred American institution after another: our intelligence community, our judicial system, our science community, our military leaders, our diplomats, our free press. 

All these foundations of American life, he has disparaged. Do they all stand to be improved? Of course. They have always had their fair share of shame and scandal (as has the presidency). But they are America and when we stop believing in them, we stop believing in America. I’m not ready to do that… because the alternative is something other than democracy.

Make America Great Again? I never liked that slogan… because Americans have always believed their best days are yet to come. We are eternal optimists like my Irish ancestors, who courageously endured unimaginable hardships with visions of a better life. We’ve always been humble servants of the world, sometimes to our detriment for sure. But we’ve always known that as good as we are, we can do better. My slogan would be Make America Greater. We still have a long way to go.  

And I’m thinking… even if Trump were the most honest, likable, upstanding man in the country, he still has dropped the ball on leadership. Being a successful businessman (which is questionable with six bankruptcies) does not qualify one to lead the free world.

When calamity struck, I think he just froze and really didn’t know what to do. He really hoped he could wish away that virus and get back in his comfort zone. Then the simmering racial tensions boiled over (as was predicted after “very fine people on both sides” and other unbelievably disturbing comments). 

It’s been said that he just wasn’t up for the job. It’s too complicated for him. He’s one dimensional with a childlike naivete, and that really scares me when I think of his relationships with other world leaders. 

A letter signed this week by 70 (yes, 70!) Republican former national security officials (some from Trump’s own administration) states he “lacks the character and competence to lead the nation and has engaged in corrupt behavior that renders him unfit to serve as President”. Putin and the lot are seasoned politicians and seem emboldened by his arrogance and are playing him like a fiddle.

Fiddle??? I think this post is done and I’m going to treat myself to a jig or two. Wish you were here. We could have a spirited debate about the candidates. There’s so much more to discuss. I’ll stay calm if you will.    ( ;

My Home, the Pub

I’ve spent the past three months trying to decide what to write next. My thoughts and emotions have been whipping in the Irish wind like the bedsheets out on the line. Just when I think I have things figured out, it rains. 

My morning ritual involves hot porridge, chia toast, latte from the Centra around the corner, and reading whatever comes up when I google NEWS USA. Yes, it’s mostly depressing, but it keeps me connected and exercising my complaint muscle. It could easily atrophy here in the comfort of my snug little Irish hideaway.

I stayed up into the wee hours the other night to watch the Trump rally in Tulsa live. Who lures his own faithful, trusting followers into harm's way like that? I can see him gleefully dumping a load of starry eyed Democrats into a contaminated cesspool. But his own people? Shame Shame Shame (not to mention just foolhardy, because every Irish storyteller knows nothing will break a love enchantment like the kiss of a ventilator).

The media had said he was going to explain his vision for the next four years should he get reelected. At 45 minutes in, he had only defended his own honor (as if seeing our president walking slowly down a ramp was our biggest national concern), and trashed everyone he could think of to trash. So I went to bed. I taped the rest so I’ll painfully resume it later. I’m going to need lots of Doritos, dark chocolate digestives (you gotta try ‘em) and red wine. I might even have a Xanax stashed away somewhere. 

Everything in Ireland is about back to normal. Through careful attention to protocols set by the experts (and encouragement and modeling from the elected officials), we have zoomed, ahead of schedule, through the stages of safely reopening. Only a handful of cases left in the country. Business people are delighted! The last thing to open will be the pubs, still a few weeks away.

So in the meantime, Dixie and I have been inviting some core musicians to our home once a week for an “auld session”, as they would say. We're calling them the Cedarwood Sessions since we live in Cedarwood Grove. Not only do I get to hear my favorite music in the comfort of my stocking feet, but the quiet atmosphere and intimacy allows for more storytelling, quiet ballads and just transatlantic bonding. I hope we can continue this new tradition even after the pubs reopen. 

Generally, we have a piper, a banjo, two button accordions, a concertina, a fiddle, a guitar and a bouzouki. The piper also plays penny whistle (not at the same time), but we could use a flute. May have to invite a flute player next week. The blending is sweet, with nothing dominant or overpowering.

Just before the lockdown (literally the week before the lockdown) I went on a mission to find a new, better fiddle. I was told a musician in Waterford had a shop at his home and a good selection. Dixie and I made an appointment and drove the 90 minutes or so to check it out.

Walking in the door was magical. The seller, David, had almost 40 gorgeous, high end vintage violins hanging on the wall. I felt like the Donald at a MEGA rally. I was ecstatic as David placed fiddle after fiddle in my hand to test drive. He insisted I try every one (in every price range...yikes!) We were there for several hours... in heaven (I should write a book like other folks do about going to heaven and returning).

Dixie held a list of all the instruments and recorded my comments and rankings of each one. When we narrowed it down to two, we brought them home as you would bring home new puppies, to see if we would mutually adapt. 


After several days, I reluctantly had to admit that neither would work out. You could say they had too much bark but not enough bite (which for a puppy would actually be a good thing so this analogy has totally fallen apart). I was pretty sure this would be the last fiddle of my life (I know... I know... I've said that before), so it had to be just right.


We drove back to Waterford thinking we'd have to move on, but David shrewdly encouraged me to revisit a few fiddles I'd liked from before. 


How could I have missed it? Here in heaven... there it was... like Jesus! Perfect in every way! THE ONE TRUE FIDDLE!!! I cradled it gently in my arms singing Silent Night. And we drove home with our mission accomplished.


This new perfectly divine fiddle sounds truly majestic in my kitchen, at the Cedarwood Sessions. I suddenly play... better. I'm good with that. 

It was my hope, when we bought this house last summer, that it would be filled to the brim with laughter, music and merrymaking. And now it is. And I feel so incredibly blessed. My heart aches to hug my children and let my grand babies see that the Grammy App on the iPhone is a real person. But that complaint muscle just won’t flex. There is too much fat surrounding it!

Fear and a Friend

Two meters please!

Hello out there! Yes, I’m still in Ireland. I’m well and hoping you are too. As in the USA, we are all social distancing, avoiding unnecessary shopping, shaking our heads at the bizarre decisions made by world leaders, and staying positive.

Some people are saying they refuse to live in fear. I say fear is a gift from my ancestors who landed on the happy side of natural selection. It was fear that persuaded them to run from rabid mammoths and reconsider their options when they heard a saber-toothed tiger roar in the distance. My ancestors (and yours) were survivors, partly because they lived with a healthy dose of fear.

So I’m proud to say I’m staying away from any threat at this time. I’m being reasonable and considerate. No music sessions, hair appointments, or calling on Dixie’s relatives (all closed anyway).

That said… there’s this lady who landed in Thurles over two weeks ago from Washington State. Yikes! It’s a hotbed, right? When she left Washington, things weren’t so out of control but of course they have deteriorated fast. So Karen has wisely decided not to return home any time soon.

I knew we were kindred spirits when we were first introduced by our mutual friend and Irish fiddle teacher, Theresa. Karen grew up in the south (central Texas) and has a delightful southern drawl. She is one of the most interesting people I’ve ever met. She made a career as a sea captain and is now a maritime professor. She has been on ice breakers in Antarctica and fish factory ships in the Bering Sea. Am I the only person on earth who never knew there were floating fish factories? I’ve obviously been watching the wrong TV shows.

Kilcooley Abbey

Karen knows all the Star Trek series and has read Jane Eyre multiple times. She loves Irish music, plays the fiddle and misses grits. What???

She also has a PhD in Archaeology from Cambridge (That’s NOT Cambridge, Alabama). When I showed her some pix on my phone of some of my favorite megalithic sites in farmer’s fields, I thought she was going to stroke. I’d think we were twins separated at birth except for the Cambridge thing. She's WAY smart.

So now… during this time of isolation and anxiety, I have a new friend. She is staying with Theresa and with us. It feels a little like having Anne Frank in the attic. If the virus comes for her, it will have to go through us first. (Too dramatic?)

Bourodomeany Wedge Tomb

It has thrilled me to no end to take her around to my beloved local isolated ruins. We might come away with the “Black Death” or “Putrid Throat” that's been smoldering for centuries around some tomb effigy, but there’s no trace of Covid-19 or anyone to catch it from. 

We have gone to Kilcooley Abbey (12th century Cistercian), the Bourodomeany wedge tomb (in a remote field in tiny Rearcross), the Shanballyedmond court tomb (also in Rearcross) and Ballynahow Castle (a round, 16th century tower house with spiral stone stairs you can climb all the way to the battlements on top). 

Shanballyedmond Court Tomb

Today we visited Athassel Abbey, a 12th century Augustinian monastery near Golden. We took sandwiches and picnicked on a lichen speckled sarcophagus, watching curious jackdaws flutter along their invisible zip lines. The sun was bright, but the wind was cool and as wild as our imaginations as we contemplated the plight of the poor, forgotten monks. 

Ballynahow Castle

If you’re paying attention, you have picked up on the fact that Dixie was not with us on these excursions. He opted to stay home and catch up on some yard work (and our back garden is looking spectacular). That means… I did the driving (on the left side of these ridiculously narrow roads)!

I have done very little driving in Ireland because Dixie and I are almost always together and it’s just more relaxing for him to drive. But I decided this was a good time to make the transition to the driver’s seat and go for it. 

Athassel Abbey

That fear that I was writing about earlier should have kept me from taking the risk and putting a friend in harm’s way. But Karen’s a sea captain, accustomed to perilous waters and uncertain outcomes. She was all aboard with it.

Picnic at Athassel

Athassel beneath a really cool cloud

When I recalled that FDR said the only thing to fear is fear itself, I ditched the Darwinian ancestor wisdom and charged up the GPS. I’ve been “flyin’ it”, as the Irish say, ever since.

I guess the fear response thing can take you either way… towards life or towards death. Some fears are justified and some are irrational. Some will keep you safe, but others will just keep you paralyed. I’m thinking the survival trait we inherited was just good common sense. I sincerely hope we can invoke it in the days to come.

Keep me posted about what’s happening with you. 

Scoil Cheoil an Earraigh

This could be a predicament. How do I explain to my children that I went off for the weekend with ten (that’s right…10!) awesome guys? Okay, I’m using that word "awesome" maybe a little loosely. Nevertheless, that’s what I did.

I should elaborate. It was the Scoil Cheoil an Earraigh (Music School of the Spring) trad festival in Ballyferriter, just outside Dingle on the southwest coast. Come to think of it, I did the same thing last year. The lads have been going for years. It’s a tradition and now they have a female tagalong. I didn’t hear any complaining.

First stop… John Mason’s (This is part of the tradition). John is a retired French teacher who plays concertina. We met in the kitchen of John’s “home place” which is old and inviting and delightfully Irish. There was tea and coffee and a selection of fine whiskeys. I had my latte in hand (so American) and sat cozily by the stove while the lads discussed the finer qualities of their favorite spirits and reminisced about trad festivals long past. They are all accomplished musicians and have delicious memories they savor year after year. The whiskey is a relaxing chaser.

Then we hit the road (designated drivers were still intact thank goodness). It’s a three hour drive from here to there. I dozed in the back seat while Dixie drove and Toss, Dixie’s tenor banjo picking brother-in-law, stretched out in front of me. I felt secure considering it was lashing rain and Irish roads are so narrow and precarious. I figured if we hit someone head-on I’d have the best chance of survival. Toss just thought I was being nice offering him the death seat. 

With no mishaps along the way we arrived in Dingle around four. We had rented two apartments behind a pub. The tradition is… arrive late afternoon, unpack and have “tea” which is the Irish word for supper. They brought everything! Hailing back to the days when they were all young and on stricter budgets, they didn’t waste a penny on restaurant food. But the spread was spectacular.

Whole chickens, turkey, whole ham for sandwiches as well as breads, biscuit cake, tea brack and apple tarts. ALL HOMEMADE!!! These guys know how to cook… and eat. I contributed southern style chicken salad and it went over well. Everyone ate their fill and not since Jesus fed the five thousand has there been so much left over.

After cleaning up (yes they did!) we gathered our instruments and drove the 15 minutes or so to Ballyferriter. Classes and concerts had been going on all week but we only came for one thing… to indulge our obsession with jigs and reels and have some good craic.

Since there were eleven of us, we needed a good space. We found it at Saors' Pub. There were some teens from the Scoil Cheoil there just wrapping up. We played along with them for a few minutes and when they left we moved in. We played almost six hours nonstop with other musicians joining us in and out.  We all slept well that night.

Saturday morning I woke to the smell of a traditional Irish fry (that’s breakfast). There were eggs cooked to order, more homemade breads, homemade granola (from me) and in true Irish heartstopping fashion (that’s figuratively and literally)…SAUSAGE THREE WAYS!!! No one left the apartment hungry. 

The lads then went for a drink to Foxy John’s which is owned by an old friend of theirs from Thurles. I knew the reunion would involve conversation about disgraceful calls made by incompetent officials against their favorite hurling, soccer and rugby teams… why Guinness is better in one pub than another… whatever happened to Paddy What’s-His-Name who used to play such a sweet button box… and discussions like that.

I opted to stay behind. There was a small library in our apartment and I picked up an Irish mystery called Buried in the Bog. It was actually quite well written (a NYT best seller) and I regret I never discovered who-done-it or even who it was in the bog. I might have to sniff it out on Amazon. 

When the lads returned we were all off to another great session at Murphy's in Ballyferriter. After a few short hours, we weren’t ready to quit, but we knew it was time when our stomachs were making more noise than our instruments.

Saturday’s tea was the crème de la crème. John unveiled his famous enormous beef stew (it’s rumored to contain six full round steaks as well as a vast assortment of Irish veggies) and mashed potatoes with wild garlic  (by now the lads were in spud withdrawal) and more homemade tarts. 

We were stuffed but we managed to brave the elements on foot to O’Flaherty’s Pub, just a stone’s throw away. Again, the lads knew the owner and we were welcomed with open arms and lively tunes. We played there a while then called it a night. I was blurry eyed and I’d only had one drink.

I took the safe seat home again as Dixie, Toss and I discussed the upcoming Fleadh na gCuach (the Cuckoo festival) in May. We have already booked three apartments on the scenic waterfront in Kinvarra also on the west coast. In the mean time, I have a list of tunes that aren’t going to learn themselves. I see more practice in my future.

Here's a clip of a session.