I hate to admit it now, but I was always a little embarrassed by all this “Tura Lura” and “Danny Boy” Irish stuff that was the basis of a million horrid talent shows of my Boston youth. I will admit I enjoyed the wonderful noise of the step dancing.
When my sainted mother turned 70, she begged me to take her back to her father’s birthplace in Ballyvourney before she passed. (She lived 26 more years). I am a noted white-knuckled flier, but who could reject a dying mother’s request? Technically, she took me to Ireland, but who is keeping score?
If I live to be 96, I will never forget looking out the airplane (Aer Lingus, of course) and seeing the mighty green of the Irish countryside. I suggested that we take a day to recover from jet lag, but she wanted to get to that farm in Ballyvourney, so we set off in the rental car, which seemed to have the steering wheel on the wrong side. We were treated like heroes when we arrived at the farm, which might be the most beautiful place on Earth. You have to wonder why Jeremiah Twomey ever left.
They put out a hearty spread with three different kinds of meat and water glasses full of Jameson whiskey. No ice, no water, just whiskey. At the time, I drank precious little of the brown liquid. I choked on the whiskey and tears flowed from my eyes as I contemplated driving my mother on the wrong side of the road in a car with a steering wheel on the wrong side of the vehicle.
The whole crew walked down the lane to Mill’s Pub, which has been serving the Twomeys for a century or more. It’s a wonder the walls are still standing. In the middle of a conversation someone would break into song, and the others would patiently wait to continue their story.
One uncle was terribly crippled and could only walk with the help of a cane. Until the music started. Then, he danced with every pretty girl in the place (and there were many.) One niece said, “Oh, he can’t walk, but he can dance just fine.”
My kind of uncle.
We were off, somehow, for Dublin and the Walsh wing of the Twomey clan. Once again, we were treated to the generous warmth of an Irish household. My mother took ill, and I, the dedicated son, left for downtown Dublin with Uncle Liam. He would walk from pub to pub (there were many) to look for his favorite bartender who “gave a good pour” of Guinness. That meant a slow and careful pour, then a rest, then another pour.
Who knew?
The next night we went to see “Arms and the Man” at the venerable Abbey Theater. At the end of Act I, there was a furious rush from the front. I thought the Abbey was on fire. No, Liam said, they were just repairing to the bar for a mid-act drink, a custom that we followed immediately. The wise playgoer, Liam said, ordered his drinks before the play, so it was waiting at the first break. Liam loved his city and loved exposing the “Yanks” to its offerings.
When I returned to Maine, I sang along with the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem at the top of my considerable lungs. Truth be told, I will now sing “Danny Boy” at the drop of a hat. It was a life-changing trip, one that was repeated 10 years to the day, with the lovely Blue Eyes. We went back to the farm, natch. One day we drove up the mountain that overlooks the farm, and wild goats crossed the road in front of us.
“That’s it. I’m irish now,” said the French-Lithuanian Blue Eyes.
And she is, a little.
Just like you are, on St. Patrick’s Day.
Emmet Meara lives in Camden in blissful retirement after working as a reporter for the BDN in Rockland for 30 years.