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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My 1943 copper dream

I have this compulsive habit, and have had for years. It’s looking closely at all the pennies I receive, to make sure I don’t let a 1943 copper one slip through my hands.

I’ve done this since I began collecting pennies as a kid. They went in these neat little books, snapping securely into their designated spots. It intrigued me that the 1943 pennies were dark gray, made of zinc-coated steel instead of copper which was needed in the war effort. But my mom told me about the ever-so-rare 1943 copper ones. Legend has it they were from copper that was left over in the molds when the casting began. Those are worth a lot of money.

And so began my ritual. I got quick at it, emptying my pocket at the end of the day, turning over the pennies to see if they have the characteristic wheat sheaves on the back. That makes the old ones easy to spot. I keep them no matter what their date because they’re rare too now, and toss the rest into a jar where they will collect until that rainy day when there isn’t any other cash around the house. (The way our economy’s going, that day may come sooner rather than later.)

So far, I haven’t found the penny, and the minute I do, I’m selling it. This site says it’s worth $200,000 or more.

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How the other half lives

Straight from Architectural Digest: John and Cindy McCain’s hot tub. I really, really, don’t want to imagine what this looks like when they’re in there together.

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Shock and awe comes to Indianapolis

A shocking article appeared in yesterday’s Indianapolis Star, detailing plans for turning the east side of the city into a “mock battlefield” for two weeks this summer. 2,300 Marines will be landing helicopters in parks, at an abandoned shopping mall, stadiums, and the State Fairgrounds.

“Our aim in Indianapolis is to expose our Marines to realistic scenarios and stresses posed by operating in an actual urban community, thereby increasing their proficiency in built-up areas,” Col. Mark J. Desens, commander of the 26th MEU, said in a statement. “Residents in many areas can expect to see helicopters flying overhead, military vehicles on the roads and Marines patrolling on foot,” Desens said.

The readers’ comments following the article were even more disturbing than the news itself. For every person who suggested that this is outrageous and a precursor for imposing martial law, there were at least five brain-dead commenters saying things like, “God Bless our Marines. Welcome to Indianapolis.”

Yes, welcome to Indianapolis. Welcome to soldiers patrolling our streets with machine guns to make sure we don’t get out of hand. With the economy in freefall, it’s only a matter of time before all hell breaks loose and the government cracks down. They’re getting ready. I wonder if their training will include house-to-house searches?

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Supporting our troops

I stopped writing on this blog for awhile because my sense of outrage had become dulled. This bit of news just sharpened it:

Imagine you’re on your third posting to Iraq, patrolling the dangerous streets, probably suffering from post traumatic stress syndrome, and you’re dealing with another all-too-common American middle-class problem. While you’ve been risking your life to make the Middle East safe for the oil companies, back home in Iowa the bank is preparing to foreclose on your house and throw your family onto the streets. Bloomberg News—not exactly a left-wing sort of outfit—reports today that foreclosures around military bases in the U.S. are four times higher than the national average.

In other news, Carly Fiorina, McCain’s financial adviser, is calling for more tax cuts for the wealthy to get the economy back on track.

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