Cast a cold eye

The rain and wind died down this evening and the mountains and green hills became very obvious and clear. This sounds like it's been raining since we arrived but, really, it has not. Well that is, it - mostly - has not. I have been planning on getting some photos of the "road to Louisburgh" for this blog since we arrived but it has been sunny and clear every day I was on the road from Westport to Louisburgh since we arrived, and I am determined to give a realistic or unutopian view of the local. (So today I got some wet photos of the approach road. I now have to get the necessary cord to upload the photos - coming soon.)

Anyway, Tommy Og and myself went out of the house to give the girls a breather this evening. We found ourselves at the graveyard in Kilgeever, the local graveyard where my ancestors and neighbors have been laid down. The landscape is second-to-none (photos in near future). It is a beautiful site on the side of a hill with panoramic views of Mweelra and boglands. A beautiful, picturesque, tranquil spot. And melancholy.

Of course Tommy Og just ran up and down the lanes between the lines of graves oblivious to his mortality as he breathed deep the fresh, clear evening air that is the life of this part of the west. His rosy cheeks added to his healthy laugh through the lanes that belied our ultimate fate.

It was a lovely evening together. The culture here is very respectful of the dead and of the send-off we give them. I suppose the fact that we now live in a small rural population puts us close to all happenings but it is very obvious to me that death is celebrated very openly and solemnly and with respect in this local. In my 20 years in San Francisco I attended as many funerals as you could count on one hand - In my first 8 days here I have been aware of and informed of and a part of as many as 5 funerals. The Irish know how to send off their loved ones in sorrow and also in appreciation of a great life.

I walked up and down those lanes and remembered many names whose faces had not been to the foreground of my memories until now. The generation before me in the village whose coppers and shillings I appreciated as payment for running for their messages up to Annie Bea's or Durkan's, Duffy's or Mac's, Michael Tom's or Keanes, Kenny's or Morrison's. Granny Joyce (the only way I knew her) had the packet of Marietta biscuits on the second shelf in the low press of the cupboard and I helped myself whenever I was in her home. Mr. and Mrs. McKeown, Mrs. O' Malley, Connie Coyne, Mr. and Mrs. Collins to mention a few. And then I saw the final resting place of Mr. Pat Cox. Pat Cox was known to me as "Daddy Cox." A true gentleman. On Saturday mornings I would walk up the street, enter the Cox's house of my own accord, ascend the stairs and enter their bedroom asking for 2 pence for a lollypop. Never once refused!

My own family's grave is there, and in there is the final resting place of my 20 year old brother (1981), my dad, and so on. 20 years is not the youngest age represented in this graveyard. Sadly many, many more. A young 8 year old's caught my eye as did a young sister, 19, of a very good friend. And then the grave of a toddler - nephew of a very good friend.

Tommy Og spotted a tractor at this location and was highly impressed. I thought of the toddler's parents. As I walked up the hill to the exit gate - it was getting towards dusk - Tommy Og revisited to look at the tractor. He had already understood not to tread on the graves after one mishap. But he was mightily impressed with the tractor. I was walking away...

Reflecting on my mortality and the mortality of all is not an unhealthy exercise but it is done a lot less (by me anyways) while in America. The words of a good friend, originally from the Aran Islands and now living in Oakland outside San Francisco, Pat Conneelly came to my mind in quiet resolve. I had not met him in my last days in SF but he sent me a nuggett of wisdom that has stuck right into my core. He told Dianne Joyce, his neice by marraige, to "tell Tommy he is in the prime of his life." The message was received loud and clear.

Age, death, seasons and mortality are very present in the psyche here. It is nice but it might, over time, drag one down. With Pat's kind strong words I hope I keep positive when the winds get colder and the nights grow longer and the funerals seem more numerous than we are used to. Then, when the evenings start to stretch with the Spring and the Summer we will blossom again to remember good days and nights and a good life filled with the best of friends.

Tommy Og didn't want to leave. He threw a tantrum and engaged every fibre of my being to restrain him and strap him in his car seat. All of a sudden, my reflections on our mortality were as far away from me as the good old U S of A!

By Tommy.