A Grand Irish Funeral

Sadly, Dixie’s dear younger brother, Chanel, passed away almost two weeks ago. He had been in poor health for some time, but it was unexpected nonetheless. While the family was fielding questions like, “Are ye alright?” and “What can we do to help?”, I was taken aside and, with a similar sympathy that was heartfelt yet ominous, I was asked, “Have you ever been to an Irish funeral?” I have to say it made me twitchy. 

But it wasn’t unlike many American memorial traditions. There were two nights of wake. The open casket was placed in the living room of the house. On the first night the priest was called and there was a brief rosary service called the Sorrowful Mysteries. My American Catholic friends will know about this. There was time afterwards for food and drink and catching up with friends and relatives who hadn’t been together in a while. But that wasn’t near enough merry making on Chanel’s behalf. Everyone then retired to the Monk’s pub until the wee hours for stories and reminiscing and pints of good Guinness.

The next night the family, including me, gathered around Chanel in a semicircle that formed a reception line. I remember similar lines at certain funeral services in America. For three hours or so there was a steady stream of sympathizers shaking hands and moving through. Dixie’s sister-in-law, Breda, stood faithfully by me and introduced me to the guests I didn’t know… “This is Dixie’s partner, Kim.”  

Cathedral of the Assumption

But when you do something over and over ad infinitum, you know how your mind gets dizzy. At one point Breda lost her focus and introduced me as Chanel’s partner. The woman being introduced turned white as Chanel, and I watched her jaw plummet to the floor, as Chanel’s widow was standing only a few feet away. Only as the woman walked away did Breda realize her gaffe. I’ll never let her forget it and, being Irish, she’ll be laughing at herself for weeks.

Then there was more food and more catching up and telling entertaining tales of Chanel. He was fondly described as a rogue and a character and I would say he was a real rascal who loved a good practical joke. He was gentle and kind, and I regret I didn’t get to know him longer and better. You might think the family was now ready for a good night’s sleep, but only after another regrouping at the Monk’s for more stories and laughter and frothy pints.   

The next day was the funeral mass. We were all gathering at the cathedral at 11:30 for yet another long reception line before the service began at noon. Now Dixie’s son Keenan had stayed with us that night. I went in the bathroom just before it was time to leave and, since we had a house guest, I did something I rarely do. I locked the bathroom door with the skeleton key.

I guess it hadn’t been used in a while because when I got ready to come out, it wouldn’t turn. I pushed and turned and jerked it in and out and jiggled and joggled but it was NOT going to budge. I shouted for Dixie but he couldn’t hear me downstairs. I started wondering what he could do even if he heard me. He’d have no time to track down a locksmith on a Sunday morning. He’d have to get to the mass. 

I envisioned myself in my funeral finery, mourning alone on the toilet, missing out on Chanel’s memorial in the most embarrassing way (“Where’s Kim?” “Oh, she’s after locking herself in the loo!”). I was sweating like a first year undertaker, panicked and close to tears.

I made one last plea to God and gave that key a final chance to redeem itself before I condemned all skeleton keys to eternal damnation. It contritely turned and unlocked. And I calmly walked down the stairs as if nothing had happened… “Are ya’ll about ready?” 

We were seated at the front of the cathedral and another long stream of sympathizers coursed down the aisle like healing waters, swirling round the front, shaking hands with family and offering condolences. I kept looking over my shoulder hoping to see the line's end, but the flood waters continued to rise. The large cathedral was filling up.

As I sat there firmly planted in the very middle of the pew trying to seem inconspicuous as the greetings were happening on either side, I was taken by surprise by a bitter sensation that sneaks up on me now and then like a child playing tag. I felt the unsettling “you’re it!” and my mind came to a screeching halt as I welled up once again with that old familiar emotion: grief.

I guess this shouldn’t be a surprise since I was at a funeral, after all. But, to be honest, I wasn’t grieving for Chanel and his family at that moment. 

One of my favorite authors, Rachel Held Evans, was stricken with a sudden illness last week. They say it was complications involving flu and infection and brain swelling. She was gone within a few days. She was only 37 years old, same age as my Leah. 

Rachel was a beautiful, high spirited, zany, intellectual whose spiritual journey paralleled my own. We even went to the same little conservative Bible college in a small town in Tennessee. She was a pioneer thinker and able to express, with humor and optimism, all that was driving folks like me away from the church. She believed we could escape toxic dogma and corrupt systems that clash with our spiritual instincts, and we could reclaim faith in Christ alone. She embraced outcasts and doubters. Rachel, like Mr. Rogers, would have liked me just the way I am. I feel loss.

Dixie, Paul and me singing three part harmony

After mass and eulogies you might think we then walked out… family first in, first out like a wedding, right?  No… not until yet another consolatory tide rose and ebbed. We left last.  

Outside we followed the hearse on foot (a custom lost in America but very meaningful, I think) to the cemetery down the road and up the hill where there were a few words and a song or two by some nieces and nephews. Then… can you guess? Back to the Monk’s pub, this time for a catered lunch and then a good music session because, as Chanel’s widow informed us, Chanel would haunt her the rest of her life if we didn’t have music. Friends and family all joined in the songs Chanel loved… lots of good ole rock and roll.

We stayed in the pub nine hours that day, and Dixie and I were among the first to leave around midnight. I think Chanel would have approved his send off. His spirit was well tended. And mine was soothed as well.

Catching Up

When I was young I aspired to be a private person. In my mind, private people were beautiful and classy, like Jackie O and certain, but not all, vampires. They were trend setters without saying a word, effortlessly charismatic, disclosing just enough about themselves to make you curious. It felt like power.

But alas, here I am after all these years, still a giggly open book for anyone to page through and stain with coffee, dog ear or highlight, accept or reject or maybe just slam shut and dismiss. But I’ve discovered on my journey that those mysterious auras I’ve often admired are often just flimsy veils concealing either insecurity or depression or things worse. I feel pretty good about my place on the dusty library shelf.

So… we un-private people do like to blog, don’t we? I haven’t posted in over a year and I really miss sharing my experiences and impressions and feelings (and I'm developing some strong opinions as well!) I’m actually living in Ireland now full time. I have a visa that’s renewable, a car with an automatic transmission (which is rare here), and a plethora of Irish sayings and expressions that I daily integrate into casual conversation. That makes me Irish, right? Jaysus, ye can be shuruvit! 

I was watching a house hunting show the other day on the “telly” featuring a retired couple from England who were looking to start a new life in the south of France. I actually heard myself say out loud, “I can’t believe people just pick up and move to another country when they’re old.” I immediately realized the irony. What can I say?

I want to start posting again because I have so much to tell you. The visa process was extensive, and buying a house was a real adventure (My offer was accepted in October and we still haven't closed). I’m acquainted with the emergency room in Dublin and just the other day when I thought I was wading through some marsh grass, I fell in the River Suir (Yes I did and it was very cold)! 

I am privileged to be part of Dixie’s large extended family, and when his beloved brother, Chanel, passed away last week, I experienced my first full blown Irish Catholic funeral. I’ll walk you through that next week, if you’re up to it. I'll aim for Tuesdays. Ah, shuretwillbee grand! 

Keeping It Real

My last post was at summer’s end. And a magical summer it was... four months on the River Suir, making new friends, learning new skills and indulging my obsession with traditional Irish music. Of course, the best part of emerging from the restrictive cocoon of youth and fluttering about in the breezes of middle age is you learn to reflect... and you actually have quite a lot to reflect on. This past summer, the River Suir was my magic mirror. 

When I left Ireland in August, I was pondering the significance of dreams... dreams that get crushed or slowly fade out of mind... and dreams that pop out of nowhere when we least expect them and march before us like champions with an Olympic torch, beckoning us to follow if we dare. 

Dreams can be like piñates, you know. We often swing at them blindfolded, thinking if we get real lucky, joy and fulfillment will come bursting out on top of us. But more often than not, they creep up from behind and knock US with the piñata bat, making our heads spin and sending us places we never thought we’d go.

I came back to Ireland for Christmas… and to spend time with a certain someone who seemed to have gotten himself all tangled up in my world of dreams. I thought it might be one of those piñata-bat-from-behind situations… one of those ”when you least expect it” crossroads in life that you dare not wish away. And I was not disappointed. (That’s all I’m going to say!)

I’d been here only a few days when I got a call from home that my mother, age 91, had fallen (for a second time), resulting in a compression fracture of her spine. It felt like waking from a beautiful, peaceful sleep with someone splashing ice water on me and slapping me silly. I think I’ve written before that life has a way of jumping out of the bushes and shouting BOO! It startles us for a moment then we recognize it and just snarl.

I am so grateful I got to spend Christmas Day with him and his family, enjoying Irish cuisine and hospitality… then the long flight home and six weeks of care-sharing in Georgia with my brother and his wife. My mother is recovering comfortably and I got back to Ireland on Valentine’s Day. It will be back and forth for the near future I’m afraid. I really want to be both places.

In the mean time I am driving on the left side using a manual transmission, trying new recipes, fiddling new tunes, keeping a turf fire burning. But more than that, I am learning (I should say “continuing to learn”) the benefits of patience, of living in the present, of appreciating the gift of being loved and needed (in TWO countries!) and not taking a single moment for granted. 

The weather lady says the “Beast from the East” is heading our way. That’s what they’re calling a winter blizzard that will be howling through later this week from somewhere like Siberia and lashing Ireland with extraordinary beauty and unavoidable calamity. That's life! I’m ready!

The Final Post

We all have dreams, right? Often they don’t even assert themselves as dreams. They lurk somewhere deep in our souls as peculiar longings that almost have their own sentience, think their own thoughts, come and go at will. 

In that secret place where they reside, they sometimes prick us when they move about, a stabbing pain that reminds us that we are not yet all that we were meant to be. Other times, they shape themselves into a vessel that fills itself with anticipation and the most unexpected surprises. 

When one dream dies, we mourn. Sometimes we dig the grave too deep and all our other dreams topple in and are covered over forever. But for some of us, when one dream drifts into sleep, another awakes, spreads its wings and shouts out, “Let’s go!” And you’d better follow no matter how crazy it seems.

Earlier this week as I walked to my golf lesson, the sun shone and it was warm for a change. On the way home by the River Suir I saw an old fisherman down a bank and I called to him, mainly to see if he was okay. He turned and smiled and gave me a trout. I took it straight to the fish market where they cleaned it at no charge. Then I came home and had a delicious supper.

The music sessions this week have been the best of the season. I’ve managed to squeeze a few more incredible memories into the fiddle case before finally snapping it shut. The jigs and reels and sweet love ballads I’ve inhaled so deeply are now flowing through my bloodstream and will nourish and sustain me for the few months I have to be away. 

At this moment I feel, as the old gospel song says, Peace Like a River… like the River Suir, my faithful summer companion. So grateful for each of you, on both sides of the sea, for the ways you encourage me, comfort me, try to understand me and affirm the person I aspire to be. I am blessed with two homes, both unique in their own ways, both good beyond what I could “ask or imagine”, to quote the apostle Paul.

My summer journey is drawing to a close. Thank you for coming along and I do hope we can travel together again soon.

Further Adventures

Having said our goodbyes to Jack Bergin and his wife, Bernie, Andy and I left Perry’s Well and set off for Graystown Castle, to be found in the Clashawley River valley. As we drove along, I read aloud from our brochure that the castle is in a hazardous state, poses a risk to anyone entering the premises and should only be viewed from the public road. Andy and I looked at each other and practically in unison spouted, “Feck that!” We're both much too curious and mischievous for our own good. 

The castle was easy to spot on a large outcrop of limestone rock. It was a stunning example of 16th century architecture gone bad, as it was completely in ruins. And we immediately saw why the warnings were issued. There were deep cracks in the walls and we spied a few stones that were about to go and bring down the entire castle with them. The once spiral stone staircase had deteriorated into a pile of rubble.

Not to be deterred, we (very carefully, I promise) explored the castle and surrounding area. There is a major wall left of a mansion house there and signs of other structures long since crumbled away. They say there were at least eight houses and three enclosures on the property in medieval times. The development as a whole dates back to the 12th century and may have been partly monastic.

What's left of the spiral staircase

Castle views are always stunning

From the castle, we had another major treasure hunt. We wanted to find the Hill of Bones. We knew it to be a bronze age burial ground (2500-500 BC) and supposedly some Norman soldiers were also buried here after a local skirmish. Nearby erosion has resulted in the exposure of …… yes, BONES! And sickness and bad luck is said to follow anyone who interferes with the hill.

Our brochure placed the hill in the Clashawley River valley 2 km south of the castle. But the entire valley was dotted with little hills and mounds among the clumps of trees and shrubs set into the fields of cattle. How could we possibly know which was our woeful hill? We knocked on a door in the area and asked and were told it was just down the road. That did us no good.

Photo from the brochure

Then it dawned on me. Our brochure, while being pretty worthless in its description of a location, contained one photo. It was the picture of a small tree, leafless, with a couple of somethings (we couldn’t tell what) just to the right of the trunk. The hill was behind it. I told Andy if we could find that tree, we’d have our hill.

He looked at me skeptically, but had to agree. We turned the car around and headed back north to find a higher road over the valley where we could get a wider view. We knew this was a long shot and the things next to the tree were probably just fallen limbs that would be long since gone. Still, this was our only chance.

Found it!

And by now you’re probably guessing the rest of the story. There it was in the distance. Only it was in full leaf, but the somethings were there on the ground to the right and the trunk was very distinctive.

We drove back around to the lower road, down a boreen and parked. We had to cross two electric fences, but we made it. The tree stood alone, a noble guardian of the hill, greeting (and perhaps warning) curious visitors that this was a sacred place. There were small, flat boulders underneath that looked like seats for rest and meditation. The burial mound was directly behind it, just like in the photo.

No, we didn’t disturb anything. I might chance to climb through crumbling castle ruins, but I’m no fool. I would NOT risk disturbing any part of the Hill of Bones. (Although I did eat some wild blackberries. Do you think that counts?)

  

Finding Perry's Well

I have less than two weeks left on my beloved emerald island. So when my friend, Andy, suggested a few days ago that we pick up where we left off on the Derrynaflan Trail, I was ready. 

As you may recall from an earlier post (click on July under Archive in the right margin and scroll down to Sunday), the trail covers several local points of historical interest... many in ruins, all intriguing. The brochure we’re using gives brief descriptions and general locations, but NOTHING specific… certainly no addresses. You’re on your own and good luck! 

We were mostly successful on our last venture but could not find a place called Perry’s Well which was supposedly in a farmer’s field. Legend has it that it was once located on Church Hill, where we explored earlier, but someone washed their sheep in it and the next day it was moved. (?) But moved to where? This was a mystery. 

The well has been a site of pilgrimage for over a hundred years and is reputed to have curative properties. So today, that was our first goal… to locate the well and cure what ails us. 

Andy had asked around about it and was told to contact a man named Jack Bergin who lives in the area where we had searched before. Pretty vague information. So we drove to the area and saw a farmer and his wife painting a fence. We pulled in and asked if he knew one Jack Bergin. This Is Ireland… so of course this farmer WAS Jack Bergin. It just always works out this way (Call it the luck of the American in Ireland).

Out through the field we went

As it happens, he bought this land from the Perrys about 40 years ago and the well is in his field. He seemed delighted that we were inquiring and immediately left the painting to the missus and told us to put on our Wellies. Unfortunately, I had not anticipated more mud and slosh so I was Wellyless. But This Is Ireland… so of course Andy had Wellies in the boot that would be just right (okay, a little big but who’s complaining?)

Off we went, following Jack through a gate and into a giant expanse of soggy green field and cow manure. At the edge of the field, the landscape became a mass of tall weeds choked by thick strands of briars and overgrown brush. Jack explained that no one had been to the well in at least two years and he had been remiss in keeping it clear. He seemed embarrassed and a little apologetic. I, on the other hand, was suppressing an enormous “WOOHOO!” that had been ‘well’ing up in my throat. I was feeling seriously triumphant.

The well is in here somewhere!

He hacked a path for us a few yards in, and then it emerged. A little stone structure with still, clear water as its floor. He explained the water level neither rose nor sank with the rain nor the seasons. No one knows how long it has existed, but an ancient pilgrim path goes past here, so who knows? There were stone (or cement?) benches on either side where pilgrims could sit and rest their feet in the soothing water. 

As I always do, I imagined my ancestors (and yours) passing this way on their journey to find answers or meaning or relief or … I really don’t know what. But I walk alongside them as a fellow seeker on a quest to affirm my place here, and maybe slough off a thin layer of burden that seems to relentlessly press us down. 

There was a stepping stone at the entrance which seemed to serve as a welcome mat. As we were stooping in, Jack told us stories of supposed healings associated with the well… even a cow that was at death’s door was resurrected. We took a few minutes to admire the vaulted ceiling and the one tiny window that mimicked soft candle light on the far wall. As we left, I dipped my hand in the water and anointed myself on the head. Couldn’t hurt, right? 

We were ready to leave but This Is Ireland. The farmer’s wife was expecting us for tea so of course we obliged. She gave us a copy of a news article on the well from a few years ago. Apparently the stone at the entrance, which was caked with mud and algae and seemed completely nondescript, has a carving of a pieta on it and was at one time a source of national interest. GEEEEE! I wish I had known that BEFORE we left the well. 

Tea time at the Bergin's

Around the table I was treated to stories of the neighborhood and because This Is Ireland, it wasn’t long before Andy and Jack had established they had mutual friends and maybe even relatives. Heck, they may be long lost brothers!

We left headed for Graystown Castle and to seek out the elusive Hill of Bones. You won’t believe how we found it. Stay tuned.

  

Croagh Patrick

The weekend forecast for County Mayo was rain, rain and more rain. On my laptop, an icon showed gray clouds with droplets covering each day Friday through Tuesday, but Sunday had an added lightening bolt. Ugh!

This did not bode well for my long awaited adventure. Three weeks ago I was invited by Margaret and her sister, Ursy, to join the family on their annual trek to Croagh Patrick (pronounced Croke), the sacred mountain of St. Patrick, near the west coast of Ireland.  Legend has it that when our patron saint arrived here in the 5th century, he climbed this mountain and fasted at the summit for 40 days. It was from here he banished all snakes (thought to symbolize paganism) from Ireland. 

We know that Croagh Patrick has had religious significance since the stone age, around 3000 B.C. It was a gathering place of pagans celebrating harvest before it was a place of worship for early Christians. Fascinating details have emerged from the studies of archaeology, astronomy and myth. Look it up.

On the last Sunday of July each year (called “Reek Sunday” after the mountain’s nickname), thousands of pilgrims from all over the world descend on Co. Mayo to make the grueling ascent upwards to the 2507 foot summit where a special mass is held each hour, and hearts and minds are focused on God (well, they’re supposed to be). I have wanted to be among this throng since I first heard about this sacred tradition. 

So three weeks ago, right after my invitation, I started training. Can you go from riverside stroller to mountain climber in such a short time? I was going to find out. Having no real access here in Thurles to a life size mountain, I figured the stairs would have to do. So up and down I went every day, between 500-600 steps. Whew! It was tiring. And it made my legs burn and my heart race. It felt like.....EXERCISE! Not my favorite thing.

But I was determined and on Saturday when we piled into the car to head out, I felt pretty sure I could maybe make it halfway up the Reek. That would be respectable. Though the mountain is only half a mile high, the traditional route is a little over four miles. I was told there might be a mass at the halfway point for those who could not (or chose not to) be the best pilgrims. I would be totally satisfied with that accomplishment.

When we got to Westport in early evening, Nicholas (Ursy’s husband) drove us to the foot of the mountain so I could be introduced and beg for mercy. The air was a damp, silver haze, and the mountain cloaked itself in the mist, refusing to grant me an audience. This was not a good sign. But I was ready nonetheless.

Nicholas suggested we leave the next morning at 5:30 so we could be climbing by 6. Really? Margaret and Ursy expressed their regrets and opted for some quality sister time in downtown Westport. That left Nicholas, me and the two strapping millennials, Emma and Eugene, to seize the day. They had all done this before and were not at all intimidated. I was, as they say, cautiously optimistic.

The morning was partly cloudy and looked promising. That was the first miracle. Hundreds of pilgrims were already on the move when I told my three companions that I would be climbing alone. I did not want to feel pressure to keep up nor make them slow down for me. They reluctantly agreed to this and we made a plan to meet later at the little coffee shop at base camp. I told them if they saw a med evac copter fly over they should text me just in case. And so it began.

I cannot begin to express how truly awesome (and I mean that in the truest sense of the word) this experience was. The first while was straight uphill side stepping boulders, trudging through running water, mud and rubble. As I rose higher and higher, a stunning portrait of Clew Bay was painting itself in my rear view mirror.

I stopped often to catch my breath, only to turn around and have the developing images and colors brazenly snatch it away again. A waterfall to my right could not drown out the whispers of prayers and quiet conversations I overheard as I moved on and up. I was feeling a part of something surreal and beautiful, stepping to the rhythms of ancient ancestors in this, their native land. I began to whisper my own prayers and meditate on the strength and health and many other blessings I’ve received. I wanted to sing.

After a while, the ground leveled a bit but this concession didn’t last long. I was soon climbing again and there were more stones to climb over and more treacherous footing. I was leaning heavily on my walking stick and heaving myself from step to step. But I wasn’t feeling tired or at all bothered by the chilling wind and rain which now pelted us at this higher altitude. That was the second miracle.

The journey actually began on the mountain next door and when I reached the Reek, about two hours in, I was seriously getting vertical. The path was now a solid mass of stones, some better described as boulders. Each step was calculated, with my stick doing the hard work, and I stumbled and fell numerous times. 

I was amazed at the figures I saw climbing alongside me and descending from the top. Many were old and wizened, frail and unsteady. Some were barefoot on a mission of penance. But everyone seemed in good spirits. At one point, I came face to face with a tiny little woman whose age I would guess to be mid-70’s. Our eyes met and she flashed a big smile exclaiming, “Tis hard on me hips”. That’s the closest I came to hearing a complaint. 

I don’t know where I was when I realized I had probably long passed the halfway mark which was my initial goal. I knew I would finish the course. It was euphoric reaching the summit and taking more photos and having a snack from my backpack. There’s a modern chapel there where mass was being held and a stand with….what else…..cups o’ tea. But it was freezing up there and I was too soaked to feel like lingering, even for a warming drink. 

I’d been told coming down was as hard as going up, and that was true. It was harder to stay on my feet. I heard later that 13 people had serious injuries including head injuries, a dislocated shoulder and a broken wrist. I had seen the medics carrying stretcher after stretcher down the mountain. 

I made it to base camp in one piece around noon, and texted the three mountaineers who had been waiting patiently for me (probably for hours). One mocha later and I was telling my story. It’s been four days now and I’ve hardly been stiff or sore at all. That’s the third miracle. Maybe next year I’ll be back.

An evening celebration was in order. A trad session of course