Friday, February 18, 2005


Fictional Friday

I can hear the Oirish music now and it’s impossible to suppress a grin or a foot from pedallin’ to the chune. Do I feel anticipatory reverbations of St. Patrick’s Day? I’m hungry for it, I know it! I haven’t visited the olde sod in awhile and I need a fix. There’s a pipe in the corner and over there’s a fiddle player and over yonder a lass tipplin’ a Jameson – does her beau know what she's doin'? There’s a sprightliness to the air as the tune carries to the next room where you hear the sudden break of clapping.

I’m drinking straight Gaelic and I can’t understand a word it’s sayin’. I can’t get close enough to my homeland, where my bones ache to be buried! There my ancestors are playing jigs and reels the whole day long, there in West Ireland singing their genetically familiar speech. Every day is a festival there, there in Heaven, there where even the soil is clean and the whisper of the Irish Sea sings in the speakers. There where a ‘tousand varieties of green play off the Connemara sky. The tinwhistles whistle whilst farmers till peat that doesn’t even need be dug for! It pops up like toasted rolls.

Everything in West Ireland is named Ballythis or Ballythat. It lends a bit of lyricism, the little “eee” sound in the middle of every country town. I visit the sea town of BallyBrae where the crashing water meets stone huts eight-hundred years old and it’s unbearable not to visit them, not to visit as it was then, not to visit my ancient 'cestors, not to attend their Mass and share their God-joy!

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