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.

Home For The Holidays

The older I get, the more “home” becomes less a brick and mortar place to kick off my shoes and more an affirmation of love and belonging… it comes on me like the love alien that possessed Zefram Cochrane on Star Trek (It doesn’t matter if you don’t remember that episode). Sometimes I feel at “home” and sometimes I don’t. But I don’t associate it with a place… just people… and peace.

Dixie and I left Ireland on November 11th to go to the St Pete bungalow formerly known as “home” to finish the clean out then have the final closing on the 15th. I was taking my sweet time with those final loads to the Salvation Army just because I could.  But on the 13th, amid boxes of mismatched glassware and faded sheets, I got the call I had been expecting and dreading for two years. My mother in Georgia was sinking fast and if I didn’t drop everything and go go go, I wouldn’t get in that final farewell. It was mid afternoon around three. 

A few quick phone calls and I was at the title office scribbling my signature on who-knows-what. Phil, my haul away hero, once again offered (or at least agreed) to come to my rescue with his truck that could probably drive itself to the donation center by now. No time to sweep the floor or double check the cupboards. Off Dixie and I sped to Roswell. Phil had a key and a day to get the job finished.

The day of my mother's funeral

An adrenaline inspired road trip in the dark isn’t half bad. Not much traffic and you really don’t get sleepy. We arrived “home” in Roswell around 1:30 AM and were told the family had all decided to sleep instead of keeping a constant bedside vigil. A few days later we were all by my mother’s side when she peacefully passed from this world to the next. She was ready. She had told my brother a few weeks before that she was anxious to get to heaven and “see what it’s all about.” She was 93. Her mother died at 93 as did my other grandmother as well as my Irish born ancestor, James Johnson. I’m going to get very nervous when I turn 92.

All the family came into town for the funeral and we scattered my mother’s ashes around the big rock in the big woods where she played as a child… her childhood “home”.  Whosever idea that was… brilliant! It was a beautiful time together as memorials often are. Everyone loved my mother dearly, and she left a legacy of family unity and hilarious stories that we will cherish and pass on down the line. 

It’s the end of an era, and we are humbled by the elegance of time.

Then it was back to St Pete on the 21st where I had one day to get my annual routine medical appointments in. Talk about timing. We flew to Dallas for Thanksgiving on the 23rd.

My first grandchild, age six weeks, was anxiously waiting to meet his Grammy. My feelings were mixed of course but tilting sharply toward the joy side. I had been anticipating this visit for a long time… years actually.  Needless to say, little Gregory did not disappoint. He greeted me with big bluish-greenish-brownish (who can tell?) eyes, a couple of stinky blowouts and another new “home”, where I knew I would always love and be loved and welcome. We bonded quick and are plotting together as I write this to have him overnight himself to Ireland. It’ll be a first but we’re going to make it happen.

Ted and Leah from Tampa joined us in Dallas for Thanksgiving as has become our tradition in recent years. They made the exciting announcement that, after being in the adoption process for what seems to me like forever, they had been matched with a donor (that’s probably not what you call it because that makes the baby seem like a liver or a kidney), but nonetheless, they were expecting their little Long Awaited One on Christmas Day (just like Mary and Joseph). We were all a mixture of shock and exuberance and urgency. They had no nursery, no car seat, no imagining their dream could come true with so little notice.

We wished them well as they flew back on Dec 1, not much time to let it sink in. They had not even unpacked when they got the call that the birth mother was in labor, little Jesus was jumping the gun and if they didn’t drop everything and go go go, they wouldn’t get there in time for the first triumphant baby breath! It was a four hour drive to Ft Lauderdale. 

But an adrenaline inspired road trip in the dark isn’t half bad. Not much traffic and you really don’t get sleepy. My second grandchild proved to be both patient and considerate. She graciously waited until they arrived to make her appearance, with 30 minutes to spare. Leah was in the delivery room and cut the cord. After a few days in the NICU for observation, the happy, healthy family of three left the hospital on Dec 6th and I flew back from Dallas to Tampa on schedule on the 10th. A short “home” visit to meet Carolina (pronounced Caroleena) before Dixie and I flew back to Ireland on the 12th. 


It’s the beginning of an era and we are humbled by the elegance of time.

I’ll be spending Christmas at “home”… with Dixie and his family and all our friends here. Then many trips in the new year for all of us to experience our various “homes”.

Merry Christmas to you and your “home” in all its forms.

Buying, Selling and Keeping

I’m back in Ireland. I’ve been going back and forth quite a bit since the summer. My mother in Roswell is slowly declining and I’ve wanted to spend time with her. Then I spent two weeks in St Pete alone just to finish clearing everything out. I should set up a shrine to Facebook Marketplace, because it made selling so easy. I met some nice people who promised to pamper my beloved antiques and put other odds and ends to good use.

St Marys, Youghal

I took out dozens of bags of stuff I sadly conceded was trash. I never realized it was trash until I had to decide what to do with it. Who really needs pots with broken handles and cheap prints in cracked frames? Two heaping truck loads of stuff went to the Salvation Army, and the coup de grace was a mournful visit from the Junk R Us guys. Everything gone... except the things in boxes that I can't bear to part with and Leah is holding for me. I do have some semblance of sentimentality about me.

My second day in town a guy came over to buy a couple of armoires. When he realized I was selling the house… he bought that too! It was that simple. Closing next week.

So back in Ireland we continue the project of fixing up this house. Having sold so much on Marketplace in St Pete, I decided to start shopping there for the things we “need” here. Dixie and I have a new “date day” tradition. We find something on Marketplace we can’t live without (okay, that I can't live without), drive across the county (or farther) to collect it, explore places we’ve never been before, have lunch at some quirky cafe that the seller recommends, and come home with full bellies and partially full wallets, feeling proud of the money we saved shopping second hand.

Can you see the people on the beach?

My favorite excursion so far was to the coastal town of Youghal (pronounced "ya’ll" appropriately enough). Quaint and historic, we found a graveyard walk around a 13th century Protestant church (although I guess it wouldn’t have been called Protestant in the 13th century). Stunning, the views from the cemetery and inside the church. The oak rafters are original and believed to be the oldest in Ireland. Who knew you could see all this and come home with a handmade side table that belonged to someone’s great aunt? Like me, the seller was glad he found a good home for a family treasure. Youghal come.

Table from Youghal

But my favorite gem so far is the fireplace. We had a nice contemporary fireplace already in place, but I have fallen in love with the traditional old cast iron inserts that have ornate canopies and tiles on either side. The surrounds can be cast iron, wood or resin, really doesn’t matter. 

Gotta love the river ladies

They are very common here and dismissed as just out-of-date by many. So you can get one cheap. I cunningly stalked Marketplace and Done Deal (like Craig’s List) until just the right one sprang up. Then I pounced and nabbed it. I paid for it (and the installation) with what I made selling the other one. OMG!  I’m sounding like my mother, the original wheeler dealer who used to embarrass me to death with her haggling! She would have loved shopping social media.

Of course, having an Edwardian style fireplace, I also jumped on an antique coal scuttle (it's the one Bob Cratchit used in Scrooge’s office, I’m positive) and solid brass fireside set. And since that look reminded me of a local pub, I also grabbed a fabulous old Guinness mirror to hang in the kitchen. Where will it end?

Sláinte

I continue to feel an affinity with the past, whether through ancient monuments of stone or small, interesting relics from the last generation. Something about that chain chain chain (not the chain of fools!) but of precious links that connect us all from Adam to Atom. Across time, across the miles, I imagine we are all the same. I know it’s a cliche but it’s true.

And for some reason I find great comfort and inspiration in contemplating the journeys and struggles of those who have gone before. In Roswell, it's my parents and grandparents, going through the great depression, the war and the often bittersweet days that followed. In Ireland, it’s LONG before. My ancient ancestors… here. 

Stuff gets bought and sold, comes and goes. But we cannot negotiate deals to swap our paths with others because they did not originate with us. We can only say "thank you" and hope to make them safer and more meaningful as we continue to carve them out for our descendants. It's deep but you get it, right?