Processing Ireland

I knew it would be intense, coming to terms with the Irish part of me. Visiting Ireland had always been something I intended to do. I put it off for one reason or another, for years. My twenties, thirties and forties passed by, I didn’t go. Finally I did. I have been changed in ways I’ll be discovering for years.

The pain of Ireland is inescapable, never far below the surface. Within minutes of meeting our cousin in Roscommon, he’d taken us on a walk through a hedge and a gate to the ruin of an abbey, its monks killed centuries ago by the English. The next day he took us to Strokestown, a museum of the Irish “ascendancy”—protestant landlords whose children had elaborate tea parties while their Irish tenants starved to death. The famine museum there was in great contrast to the cheery meal of Irish stew and tea we had next to the gift shop after the arduousness of our trek through the manse.

These images haunted me. I didn’t want to go there bearing grudges. If you put your ear to the ground, listen carefully, in this country you hear the screams of your ancestors, you wonder what that has done to your own psyche, played out in 1950s America, a land of abundance, far from places like this.

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Being in Ireland just as the US economy crashes and burns is interesting. Our cab driver on the way from the airport to downtown Dublin launched into an anti-Bush tirade. Clearly, Americans are now out of favor worldwide.

Our money is almost worthless. A pint of Guinness costs about $10. Same thing for a bowl of Irish stew. I remember when we were in Mexico years ago and it seemed like the pesos were a form of Monopoly money. Now dollar bills feel like pesos.

The photo above is of the garden behind Dublin Castle. We spent a tranquil half-hour sitting there, taking in the atmosphere.

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Our Sunday adventure

We were having a party. Friends were drinking wine and talking, kids swimming in the lake. Peaceful and the best kind of high-summer Sunday afternoon.

A few of us walked down behind the garage where I’ve set up a shooting range for bow and arrow practice. We took turns shooting arrows at the target, talking about the days when people used bows and arrows to get food or protect themselves.

As we walked back past the garage, someone noticed a three foot long copperhead snake in the driveway. It slithered under Paul & Michelle’s car. He got in (gingerly) and drove away, leaving the snake in the open again. Our other friend Paul was carrying the bow and suggested he shoot the snake with an arrow. We all laughed. “Thwapp!” With just one shot the snake was pinned to the dirt through the middle of its body and couldn’t get away. It started writhing and seemed to be in a lot of pain. That’s when Jay said, “I’ll get the axe and chop its head off.” He did just that. A small group of small children watched, amazed.

Paul picked up the snake’s carcass with a hoe and flung it into the woods, and everyone pretty much went back to what they were doing. Though the adrenaline level was a little higher than before.

Afterwards, I felt bad for the snake. Wrong place at the wrong time. But you can’t have copperheads hanging around your garage.

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