Irish poet Eavan Boland: "Memory itself has become an emigrant"

The title poem of Eavan Boland's collection "The Lost Land" always moves me. It begins as a confessional with "I have two daughters" but ends with one of the big topics in Irish and Irish-American writing: diaspora. You know the story: the Potato Famine, the rapacious of the English landlords, the sailing away. The Irish, always sailing away and landing on a foreign shore. The last lines always get to me. I send you to the Poetry Foundation web site to read the whole thing and other work by Boland. Go there now. Read an Irish writer today. Happy St. Patrick's Day. 

The Irish keep defining dark comedy in books and movies

Blame my errant imagination.

As I read "Glorious Exploits," a new novel by Irish writer Ferdia Lennon, I kept hearing Roddy Doyle. Not that Lennon is copying Doyle's distinctive Irish patter, but the way the two main characters spoke and approached life conjured Doyle's Barrytown Trilogy, specifically "The Commitments." Jimmy Rabbitte's mission is to bring the soul music of Sam Cooke, Wilson Pickett, and Otis Redding to 1990 working-class Dublin. The mission is doomed from the start but boy is it a fun ride. 

In "Glorious Exploits," unemployed potters Lampo and Gelon want to stage a Euripides play in 412 BCE in  Seracuse, Sicily (Syracuse now. in both Sicily and N.Y.). They decide to enlist a cast of starving Athenian warriors whose invasion has been defeated and the captured, starving, warriors imprisoned in a dismal rock quarry. Why starving Athenian players? Because the duo's favorite poet is Euripides of Athens and these Athenians are the only ones in Seracuse and they just happen to know The Master's latest work that includes Medea and The Trojan Women. Their quest is doomed, of course. But boyo, it's a fun ride, no bollix.

Irish writers tingle my Irish genes. I have never been to my grandfather's country nor to his rural county of Roscommon. But I've read their best writers and they live in me. Doyle, Yeats, Maeve Binchy, Flann O'Brien, James Joyce all tell wonderful stories grounded in Irish wit and lore. The Irish story is riven with heartache. The latest Irish-set movie, "The Banshees of Inisherin," focuses on a long male friendship that breaks up for unfathomable reasons and leads to tragedy in 1923. There are laugh-out-loud moments, a dose of charm, memorable Celtic music, and then the ending when doom shows up. Meanwhile, the Irish Civil War, where neighbor kills neighbor, wages across the newly-formed country. These two friends' relationship is doomed. But the telling is marvelous. 

It's the voice, nurtured over the centuries. Lennon has found it. In an interview, he says that he wanted to make sure that the book did not have that Merchant Ivory voice of serious dramas of the Classical Age. He succeeded. Lampo and Gelon are  Sicilian-Irishmen on a lark, spending most of their time chatting over flasks of suspect wine at Dismas's place. Must hand it to Lennon. Many sickening things going on in Seracuse. Wine is the only answer. But the author describes in detail the wine they drink and you will thank Dionysus for the local Tiki Bar (we have several here in Ormond Beach). It's illuminating to hear lines of Euripides from the lips of emaciated Athenians, all wearing leg shackles, dressed in ill-fitting costumes and gowns. There is a performance and I won't tell you how it ends once the curtainless stage is cleared. And there is a surprise ending which is very sweet.

I have to admit that the book's cover grabbed me. It's a traditional bust of the historian and philosopher Herodotus with googly eyes. 

Lennon was the subject of a Q&A interview in the Aug. 31, 2024, Observer. I include an excerpt here because it speaks to Ireland’s rich literary tradition and info about how contemporary Irish writers are supported by their Arts Council. I worked with writers for 25 years at the Wyoming Arts Council and for two years assisted with creative writing fellowships at the National Endowment for the Arts in D.C. It’s instructional in a time when the NEA, the NEH, and the Institute of Museums and Library Services are under the gun by Trump, Musk, and their techie minions who wouldn’t know James Joyce unless you wacked them on the head with a hardcover edition of “Ulysses.”

The Guardian's book critic wrote a review of "Glorious Exploits." Header: "Uproarious am-dram in ancient Sicily." I had to look up am-dram and it's British slang for amateur drama, those plays put on by your local community theatre.

From the Guardian:

Q: How do you explain the current wave of successful Irish novelists? 

A: I remember that when I was a student, James Joyce’s house was five minutes up the road: just seeing that plaque, there’s something nice about having that literary history celebrated around you. On a practical level, the structures in Ireland make it easier for writers. An Arts Council grant helped me write this book. I wasn’t in any way established, but you could submit a work in progress to a panel of your peers and if you’re lucky, you might get money that will give you a couple of months that could be the break. I feel part of the burgeoning moment in Irish literature has to do with the financial crash. A whole generation was devastated, in Ireland maybe more than most. There were no jobs, so you felt freer to do what you wanted, even if it made no money; I started writing in Granada [in Spain] while unemployed.

The ballad of Baba the Thin Man and the Good Ship Cameronia

My sister sent me a packet of stuff she cleaned out of her attic. In it, I found a printout from The Statue of Liberty-Ellis Island Foundation. I took it from there.

My maternal grandfather, Irish immigrant Martin Hett, boarded the S.S. Cameronia on a late May afternoon, 1915. He was 15. The ship was five years old. Spiffy little vessel, the Anchor Line, flew the British flag, built in Glasgow. 10,963 gross tons, 515 feet long, 62 feet wide. Top speed 17 knots. Two masts and two funnels, steel hull with four decks. Carried 1,700 passengers, 250 in first class, 450 in second class, and 1,000 with Grandfather in third class. Port of departure: Liverpool. Port of arrival: New York City. Arrived with all hands June 7, 1915.

RMS Lusitania: First British four-funneled ocean liner, called an “ocean greyhound” by the Cunard Line, six passenger decks carried 2,198 including almost 600 in sumptuous first-class compartments, Launched June 7, 1906; sunk on its voyage from New York by Germany’s SM U-20 on May 7, 1915 with loss of 1,197 souls, some bodies found floating, some washed up on Irish beaches, some just disappeared into The Deeps. A Vanderbilt was among the dead. 

Grandfather was originally booked on the Lusitania along with more than 1,000 other third-class passengers. Now shipless, Grandfather had to hang around the Liverpool docks looking for an alternate booking. Apocryphal family stories have him booking steerage on another ship that is also torpedoed and sunk. We like this because we can tell listeners that our teenage Grandfather tempted fate during the war but made it to America after all. Grand tale, no?

I don’t know why I keep calling him grandfather. As a precocious American toddler, a future English major and writer, I called him Baba so everyone else did. My cousins called him Gramps. My father, his son-in-law, called him Mart. Mom called him Dad.

Not sure what Liverpool looked like in spring 1915. My guess is that it looked a lot like the post-war city of 1919-1920 in the first episodes of “Peaky Blinders.” The Great European War was wrapping up its first year with hellish fights in France and Belgium and the Battle of Gallipoli in far-off Turkey. The war in what we now call the Middle East doesn’t get much movie time except for “Gallipoli” and “Lawrence of Arabia” but it was crucial to what came after and the fate of The Good Ship Cameronia.

Baba made his way from Ellis Island to Chicago and in 1917 worked on the El with his brother.

In 1919, David W. Bone’s book “Merchantmen-At-Arms: The British Merchants’ Service in the War” was published. An experienced merchant seaman and author, Bone explores in great detail the war at sea. He relives the April 15, 1917, sinking of the troopship Cameronia in Chapter XII: 'THE MAN-O'-WAR 'S 'ER 'USBAND'. The ship carries almost 3,000 troops to Egypt. You can read the full text at Project Gutenberg: https://www.gutenberg.org/files/31953/31953-h/31953-h.htm#. It features drawings by Muirhead Bone, an etcher and watercolorist who was a war artist in the First and Second World Wars. Here are excerpts:

An alarmed cry from aloft—a half-uttered order to the steersman—an explosion, low down in the bowels of the ship, that sets her reeling in her stride!

The upthrow comes swiftly on the moment of impact. Hatches, coal, shattered debris, a huge column of solid water go skyward in a hurtling mass to fall in torrent on the bridge. Part of a human body strikes the awning spars and hangs—watch-keepers are borne to the deck by the weight of water—the steersman falls limply over the wheel with blood pouring from a gash on his forehead. . . . Then silence for a stunned half-minute, with only the thrust of the engines marking the heart-beats of the stricken ship.

*****

Uproar! Most of our men are young recruits: they have been but two days on the sea. The torpedo has gone hard home at the very weakest hour of our calculated drill. The troops are at their evening meal when the blow comes, the explosion killing many outright.

*****

Many of the life-boats reach the water safely with their heavy burdens, but the strain on the tackles—far beyond their working load—is too great for all to stand to it. Two boats go down by the run. The men in them are thrown violently to the water, where they float in the wash and shattered planking. A third dangles from the after fall, having shot her manning out at parting of the forward tackle. Lowered by the stern, she rights, disengages, and drifts aft with the men clinging to the life-lines. We can make no attempt to reach the men in the water.

*****

It is when the most of the life-boats are gone we realize fully the gallant service of the destroyers.

*****

We are little more than clear of the settling fore-end when the last buoyant breath of Cameronia is overcome. Nobly she has held afloat to the debarking of the last man. There is no further life in her. Evenly, steadily, as we had seen her leave the launching ways at Meadowside, she goes down.

Many of the troops were rescued by destroyers Nemesis and Rifleman.

Baba loved his ice cream. The Thin Man died at 90.

P.S.: There was another S.S. Cameronia built by the Anchor Line that sailed on its maiden voyage in 1921. It too was requisitioned as a troopship at the outbreak of World War 2 and took part in the 1942 invasion of North Africa, was torpedoed and towed to Algiers for repairs. She was the largest troopship to participate in Operation Overlord on June 6, 1944. She carried passengers to Palestine in 1948. Scrapped in 1957.

The day after St. Patrick's Day 2022

I don't have a hangover, that's the main thing. Many prior St. Patrick's Day holidays involved drinking and then hangovers. Some stray guilt feelings. Calling in sick to work.

But not this time. I attended a family-style party last night. Wife stayed home with a sick daughter. We recited Irish poems. Remembered trips to Ireland -- friendly people but kissing the Blarney Stone is a rather disgusting ritual. Devoured Irish Stew and a delicious Guinness chocolate cake built to look like a pint on an Irish pub bar. I drank one Irish Ale made in Kansas City. Stayed away from the Writers' Tears Irish whiskey as I have enough of my own. We sang along to "Zombie" by the Cranberries and remembered Dolores O'Riordan who died too young.

Calm as these things go. Someone asked if they celebrated St. Patrick's Day in Ireland. Apparently, it's a religious holiday there. They ratchet up the festivities for American tourists. The Irish seem bemused by American spectacle. I've never been to Ireland so haven't had the chance to embarrass myself in person. But apparently the American idea of drinking green beer and singing fake Irish songs is not appreciated. U.S. tourist money is. 

I've blogged before about my mixed views on the holiday. Read those here and here and here. My grandfather from Roscommon Martin Hett (no, not O'Hett or McHett) never returned to the old sod. As a teen, I was pontificating about the legendary cruelty of the Brits to the Irish and my grandfather interrupted. "The English treated me better that the Irish ever did." That shocked me due to the fact that I was 16 and knew everything there was to know about the world. Grandpa went on to explain that his evil stepmother kicked him out of the house at 12. He made his way to England and worked in the coalfields until he saved enough money to sail to the U.S. at a 15-year-old. He worked hard in America and ended up in Denver where my mother was born and later, me. He liked being an American more than he liked being Irish. 

What, exactly, is an Irish-American? There is no easy explanation. We come in all shapes and sizes and all political persuasions including Trumpian which is disgusting -- recall how many wackos with Irish surnames served Herr Trump -- Flynn, Bannon, McCarthy, etc. Most of us mark St. Patrick's Day in some fashion. Corned beef and cabbage is a family favorite not always enjoyed by everyone in the family. My mother didn't like it probably because she ate a lot of it growing up. When she had food, which wasn't always the case during the Great Depression. One Christmas, she woke up to an orange in her stocking. That was the only present. I'm not sure if this is true because the Irish embellish almost everything.

I like to think that my proclivity for storytelling was passed on to me by my Irish ancestors. None of my immediate family are writers. Readers, yes. Writers, no. No aunts and uncles or cousins are writers. I am probably the only English major they know. We are known for our cutting humor, which seems to be an Irish trait. And my siblings and I all look Irish and our DNA attests to it. My red hair and freckles earned me lots of ridicule and a few fights. "Red on the head/like the dick on my dog." That's one taunt I remember. Red, Freckle Face, Rusty. They're all good. Shows some creativity. I don't think I sustained any permanent damage growing up white and freckled in America. 

As we read poetry at last night's party, I noticed it was rather light-hearted. I wanted to read something by Eavaan Boland ("The Lost Land") or Yeats ("The Second Coming") but never got the chance. Good Irish writing seems to balance the horrible and the humorous. Roddy Doyle is a great example. So is Flann O'Brien, whose satiric novel "The Poor Mouth" is one of my favorites. Flannery O'Connor too, who combined Irish-American wit with Southern Gothic grotesque to create her unique style.

Go read an Irish writer today. You will probably be glad you did, although it's hard to say.  

Family Lore: in May 1915, Martin Hett waits in Liverpool for a British ship that isn't sunk by U-boats

My sister Molly sent me a packet of family letters and documents a few months ago and asked me to make sense of them, see if they came together in a story we could print for family consumption.

I finally read through them all and placed them neatly in a box. They sat in the box with me pondering the contents. I wasn't sure what to do next.

I decided to liberate one batch of papers from the box every day and post about it on my blog. That's the best I could do. 

This is a page about the early history of Martin James Hett, my maternal grandfather.  

Born July 14, 1899 in County Roscommon, Ireland. His mom (maiden name Nora McWalters) died at the birth of her fifth baby in 1900. Martin was 15 months old; Nora was buried in Galway. Widower Thomas Hett remarried to Delia Byrne; they had 11 children. Thomas, whose nickname was Bob, was born in village of Kiltobar, County of Roscommon. He died in 1932 and is buried in County Mayo. He farmed 15 acres and raised cows, chickens, ducks, sheep, and had one mule. Grew potatoes and tended a vegetable garden.

It rained a lot.

The family lived in a thatched-roof house (we have photos). Four rooms, flagstone floor. Cooked and heated with peat (turf) in large cast-iron pots hung from a hook. When Martin was eight years old, he worked for neighbors at six pence a day. He walked barefoot one mile to a school that had segregated classrooms for girls and boys. He allegedly left home voluntarily at 14. In family lore, Martin was 12 when kicked out by his evil stepmother and told to fend for himself. 

He went to Manchester, England, and found work in a coal mine. He worked two miles underground and was paid six shillings a day which was worth approximately $1.50 USD. 

He saved enough money to buy a steerage ticket to America out of Liverpool for $59. He first booked on the Lusitania which didn't arrive at port due to being sunk by a German submarine. He then booked on the Transylvania that was sunk by another U-boat. He finally got on the Cameronia and sailed to New York City in nine days, without incident. Went through Ellis Island and was released into the wild in America. What happened next will have to wait until we dig out the follow-up paperwork.

Editor's Notes

The Cameronia was a feisty little vessel. While sailing into the Mersey River on its return voyage in June 1915, it was attacked by a U-boat. The ship's captain tried to ram the German vessel which dove beneath the waves and broke off the attack. Two years later, the Cameronia was a British troopship headed to Alexandria, Egypt, when it was torpedoed. The ship sank in 40 minutes with 210 souls lost. More than 2,000 soldiers made it to the lifeboats and were saved. 

Learning about Robert Burns and how plans gang aft agley

From the Poetry Foundation essay on Scottish poet Robert Burns:

Burns was identified as odd because he always carried a book. A countrywoman in Dunscore, who had seen Burns riding slowly among the hills reading, once remarked, "That's surely no a good man, for he has aye a book in his hand!" The woman no doubt assumed an oral norm, the medium of traditional culture.

Burns was an oddball for reading books at a time when the oral tradition was alive and well. He served as a bridge to the lake poets of the Romantic tradition, poets such as Wordsworth who "wandered lonely as a cloud" among the British Isles' natural wonders. He wrote his poems in the Scottish dialect which, in the late 18th century, was being supplanted by English. That's how many of us know Burns' poetry, through recitations of the original verse at Burns' suppers or at Celtic festivals. Some oft-used expressions in 2018 can be traced to Burns. Here is a stanza from the original "Address to a Haggis:"

Then, horn for horn, they stretch and strive:
Deil take the hindmost, on they drive
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
The auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
'Bethankkit' hums.

You see terms such as "devil take the hindmost" in modern parlance. And what about this one from "To a Mouse:"

But Mousie, thou art no thy-lane, 

In proving foresight may be vain: 

The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men 

          Gang aft agley, 

An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain, 

          For promis’d joy! 

You could say that "the best-laid schemes of mice and men often go awry." At least one American author made a career out of that line. You see it applied to everything from politicking to warmaking. Those who want to be cute or Celtic even use the phrase "gang aft agley" to show off their English major roots. Kind of like Burns walking around rural Scotland with book in hand.

I read up on Burns because I volunteered to read "Address to a Haggis" at a Burns supper.  I have a reputation as a good public speaker. I have served as emcee of public events because I speak loudly and enunciate clearly. I read, too, so my name comes up when poetry needs reading or reciting.

Burns wrote poems and songs, a lot of them, in his short 37 years. Politically he was outspoken, which didn't endear him to his English overlords or Scottish royalists. But salt-of-the-earth Scots loved him and still do. Burns suppers started five years after the author's death in 1796. They are alive and well in 2018 Wyoming. The event speaks to that thing that all of us miss in our lives, a sense of tradition, of ritual. The other day my daughter said that she wished she was Native American with all of its traditions. I told her that her own people have traditions. They gave up most of them when they moved to the U.S. due to starvation and political persecution. I challenged her to discover those Irish and Scottish and English traditions. We didn't just accidentally stumble into a wearin' o the green and step-dancing and getting blotto on March 17. 

Travel can broaden your cultural horizons. So can reading, which is less expensive, especially if you believe in that great American tradition of free public libraries. We can credit a robber baron Scotsman named Andrew Carnegie for really getting the library ball rolling. Carnegie background: 

I owe everything to the Irish and Scots who came to the U.S. I owe a lot to those who laid the groundwork for the diaspora but never left, such as Burns. Cheyenne erected a statue to the poet. It's a big statue, located in a pocket park an easy walk from my old Kendrick Building work place. I carried my lunch and a book. I read while eating ham sandwiches and chips. I never read any Burn poetry during these quiet sojourns. I knew nothing about Burns and thought my life would be perfectly fine without Burns poetry. He seemed a quaint figure in literature. Poetry recited by old guys in kilts but not a poet studied seriously in the academy. He belonged to an ancient world that existed before modernism, before global warfare and science and radical politics stuck a knife in the rhymed couplet.

But just for a moment, let's think about the lad who wandered the glens with book in hand. His own Scottish dialect preceded his love of books and that's the path he chose. He was the voice of the Scots at a time when that voice was being stamped out.  He wrote songs. He composed bawdy poems. Regular folks, even that countrywoman in Dunscore, knew his lines by heart. Many still do.
Pause a moment and consider one of Burns most famous lines referenced above:

The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men 

          Gang aft agley, 

These lines sum up the current political situation in the U.S. I may start using the phrase in daily discourse. Despite owning a golf course in Scotland, I doubt that the president has read any work by the Scottish national poet. We also know that a countrywoman in Turnberry will never spot Trump with a book in hand. He doesn't read. He doesn't know history. Recite Burns' lines to him and watch the blank look on his face. "Gang aft agley" could be his motto. Alas, if only his scheme for taking over the presidency had gone awry. We're stuck with him now. 

Donald Trump's Know-Nothing attitude would have doomed my Famine Irish ancestors

A Thomas Nast cartoon in Harper's Weekly depicts ape-like Irishmen beating up police on St. Patrick's Day 1867.  

Great read from a 1/10/18 article on Irish Central by Cahir O'Doherty: "President Donald Trump would have turned away the Famine Irish just like the Salvadorans."  Go to https://www.irishcentral.com/opinion/cahirodoherty/donald-trump-famine-irish-el-salvador

I don't know much about my great-great grandfather Thomas Shay.

He was Irish, as you might deduce from his last name, born in County Clare.

He left Ireland in the late 1840s (probably 1848) bound for the U.S.

He married Anna Agnes Burns and had three children when they were recorded in the 1850 census as residents of Monroe County, N.Y. By the 1870 census, the Shay family had moved to Iowa and eight children were listed on the rolls.

Thomas died in 1879 and is buried in Johnson County, Iowa.

His first name is my late father's first name and my middle name

My late Aunt Patricia researched these details before the wide use of the Internet and the advent of ancestry.com. She printed out a family tree on a dot-matrix printer. She put the evidence into a memory book for my daughter, born in 1993.

That's what I know. I also have read about anti-Irish sentiment in the mid-19th century. White people feared non-white people, although they were willing to use them as slaves and indentured servants. Strange to think that Irish immigrants were depicted in American papers as unwashed, uncouth bumpkins, or as monkeys and apes. They were Catholic, too, as were their swarthy cousins from Spain, Italy, and Mexico. You know, "Shithole" countries as Trumpists say.

The Know Nothings live. They were out in force last fall in Charlottesville, them and  their vile attitudes and precious tiki torches. They are descendants of the anti-Irish Know Nothings, although I would guess that some of them have Irish or Scots-Irish bloodlines. Scary to think how many Trumpists have Irish surnames. They do not know their history, and they don't care to learn.

Trump's policies may have doomed my Irish ancestors. But who knows -- maybe the Irish Shays would have survived in Ireland and my DNA would have never taken the pathways that eventually led to me. The Shay line would not be in its seventh generation of causing trouble in the U.S.

Immigration can sure be a random thing. You never know where curtailing it or encouraging it will lead. Sometimes you get a Barack Obama.

And sometimes you get a Donald Trump.

A cartoon from the 1850s by the "Know-Nothings" accusing the Irish and German immigrants of negatively affecting an election. From Victoriana Magazine.

List for St. Patrick's Day: Top ten traits of Irish-Americans

What does it mean to be Irish-American?

Skin cancer, for one thing. We are light-skinned, except for the Black Irish who are not so much black as black-haired and dark-eyed. My mother was Black Irish, as was her father who came over from County Roscommon. Her brother John -- my uncle -- was often mistaken for a dweller of the Mediterranean, Italian or Spanish or even Basque, or possibly French like the Norman invaders. The Basques sailed the Atlantic and visited Ireland, maybe even made landfall in North America before other Europeans. Irish DNA maps are similar to those of Spain and Portugal and Normandy. You can look it up.

My initial question is important because we are in the midst of March and St. Patrick's Day arrives next week. It's the same week that March Madness begins and gives us two good reasons for day drinking. We also take a page from Mardi Gras in New Orleans and try to celebrate the entire month, or at least for a week or two leading up to The Big Day. Many St. Patrick's Day parades will be held this weekend, including the one in Denver which I will be attending. I was birthed in Denver, surrounded by Irish Sisters of Mercy, and my Irish grandfather is buried there. That gives me some claim to Irish-Americanism, Mile High City-style.

Did I mention that I have never traveled to Ireland to look up my ancestors? This is supposed to be on every Irish-American's wish list. I have gone 66 years without checking this off on mine. What's holding me back? Nothing, especially that I am now retired. I want to experience Bloomsday in Dublin, June 16. This is on my list because I can't seem to finish Joyce's 265,000-word masterpiece, Ulysses, hard as I try. I read Dubliners and Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Can't finish Ulysses. This makes me a member of a large club of people who have not finished Ulysses. I decided that a trip to Joyce's Dublin will help me with this task. And I will get to drink many pints of good beer in the process. I will get to hear Irish brogues and good music for a few days. That's enough.

I will make a list of "top ten traits of every Irish-American." Online top-ten lists are the bee's knees right now. A list will be instructional for us all, me included.

Ten traits of every Irish-American:
1. We are a freckle-faced, light-skinned people except when we are not.
2. At least one of our ancestors comes from Ireland. It's helpful if all of your ancestors came from Ireland, but not everyone is perfect.
3. We are Catholic, except when we are Lutheran or Episcopalian or Buddhist or Zoroastrian or Coptic or atheist or transcendentalist or.... Maybe that should be: We were raised Catholic but came to our senses once we were adults.
4. At least one of our ancestors fled the potato famine of the 1840s. When I lived in Boston, everyone's relatives seemed to have arrived on the Mayflower. That must have been one wicked big ship. And the potato famine? It was terrible, but we can't all use this as an excuse to blog about our Irish ancestors who almost died in the famine and then crossed the ocean in a leaky ship to be told "Irish need not apply" for jobs when they arrived in the U.S.
5. We all tell tales about our Irish ancestors who almost died in the famine and then crossed the ocean in a leaky ship to be told "Irish need not apply" for jobs when they arrived in the U.S.
6. We attended Catholic school. This may be a generational thing. I attended Catholic school as did  most of my eight brothers and sisters, for a little while, at least. We have stories of berserk nuns and cruel priests. Rulers across knuckles. After-school detentions where nuns smote us with cat-o'-nine-tails as we labored in the nunnery's vineyards. Our children and grandchildren think we are making up these stories because they all went to public schools.
7. We have big families. We did until some godforsaken Protestant told us about birth control. In the old days, we weren't allowed to consort with Protestants. The sixties changed all that.
8. We all have Irish names. My name is Michael Thomas Martin Shay. My wife is Christine Marie. My son is Kevin Michael Patrick. My daughter is Anne Marie. Yet, I have a nephew named Sean Martinez. America!
9. We celebrate St. Patrick's Day. It's almost mandatory to drink a green beer or a pint on March 17. We march in St. Patrick's Day parades unless we are LGBT veterans or twelve-steppers or disgruntled about the state of American politics. Everybody is Irish on  this day except when they are not.
10. We are inconsistent and stubborn. Except when we are not.

That's my top ten. Perhaps you have another list?

BTW, Erin go bragh, whatever that means. And slainte -- I know what that means. I plan to use it often on St. Patrick's Day.

Democrats hold a "Get Your Green On" bash just in time for St. Patrick's Day

A typical St. Patrick's Day celebration in Cheyenne

What do you think of when St. Patrick's Day rolls around?

Toasting your friends with green beer. Wearing green. Toasting your family with a shot of Irish whiskey. Eating corned beef and cabbage. Substituting Irish Coffee for your latte in the a.m. Singing when "Irish Eyes are Crying" and/or "Danny Boy" at the local pub after a few beers and a few shots. Attending a St. Patrick's Day Parade, such as the one in downtown Denver this Saturday. 

If you even do a few of these things on St. Patrick's Day, it can be called a success. That's how Americans celebrate the holiday that honors the patron saint of Ireland. I guess you could also take some time out to drive the snakes out of your town or county, as legend tells us that St. Patrick did for all of Ireland. The tale is a metaphor. Substitute pagans for snakes and you get the idea. St. Patrick, a Christian, drove the pagans out of Ireland. It hasn't been the same since.

Before I get too far along, I want to let my readers know about this:

The Laramie Coiunty Democrats Grassroots Coalition (LCDGC) is holding a "Get Your Green On" celebration on Sunday, March 13, 5-8 p.m., in the community room at the Cheyenne Family YMCA. The Grassroots Coalition will provide corned beef and cabbage with soda bread. Gourmet cupcakes will be available for purchase with a chance to win a "Pot of Gold." Enjoy the entertainment, which may consist of local legend Michael O'Shea playing ditties on his Irish flute. Hear horror stories about the recently completed Wyoming Legislature, as witnessed by some of our local representatives (Charles Scott: "We don't need no stinkin' Medicaid expansion!"). Be sure to wear green. Prizes awarded for the best costumes. Bring a friend and your greenbacks. Suggested donation $15. Proceeds go to Democrats in Laramie County running for office in 2016.

So, wear green if you are Irish. Wear green if you aren't Irish. Green can also stand in for the greenies among us, and I'm not stalking about those people from Colorado, although you too are welcome. We have amongst us those who are going green in a big way, replacing coal with solar, wind, and geothermal. Some of us are trading in our gas guzzlers for electric vehicles that we plug in and recharge overnight. So, your costume may be a wind turbine, or possibly a Nissan Leaf auto body. Earth Day is right around the corner and it's the Democrats who are showing the way to clean energy. Green also can stand for those "Mr. Greenjeans" gardeners we have in Cheyenne. If you can grow a garden at 6,200 feet in Cheyenne or 7,200 feet in Laramie, you can grow a garden anywhere. Hats off to all of you, who may come dressed as a broccoli, green bean, zucchini or any other green growing thing.

BTW, the Laramie County Democratic Grassroots Coalition is the FUNdraising arm of the Laramie County Democrats. We had a blast, and raised more than $1,000 at the January POTluck FUNdraiser at Joe's house in Cheyenne. We hope to keep the money rolling in for Democrats, as we have seen the damage that can be done by a veto-proof Republican legislature. It ain't pretty. Our Dem friends in the House and Senate need some allies.

See you on March 13. Get your green on!

Directions to the YMCA: The YMCA is not accessible via Lincolnway. To reach the Y's parking lot, you have to approach from Logan Avenue via 18th Street -- it's on your left. Or you can come via 19th Street (one-way) and take a right on Alexander or via 20th Street (one-way) and take a left on Alexander. The Community Room is at the south end of the Y parking lot. If you have a GPS, use it.

On March 13, Laramie County Dems will get their green on

St. Patrick's Day parade in Montreal. 

The Laramie County Democrats Grassroots Coalition (LCDGC) is the FUNdraising arm for the Dems in Wyoming's most populous county. Our goal is to raise money for our candidates and have some fun in the process. Since  the unofficial launch of the 2016 election season last summer, we've held a Flag Day celebration, which raised funds for LCDGC and the Healing Waters program for veterans; a tailgate party, which (we firmly believe) helped propel the Broncos to their Super Bowl victory; a chili/salsa/dessert cook-off; and a Jan. 31 mid-winter POTluck bash to chase the blues away (and bring in some green). At this latest event, we heard updates from our state legislators about what will be another crazy session, this one being held off-campus as the Capitol Complex undergoes a three-year, $300 million renovation.  We also heard from Scott Sidman of Wyoming NORML about the revamped medical marijuana initiative.

Now we look ahead to springtime in the Rockies. Thoughts of St. Patrick's Day and the green of growing things fills our heads. Alas, we still have to navigate several more months of snow and wind and cold. But, to celebrate dreams of spring, the LCDGC will be holding a "Get Your Green On" FUNdraiser on Sunday, March 13, 5-8 p.m., at the Cheyenne Family YMCA, 1626 E. Lincolnway. Tickets are $15 at the door. Crackerjack LCDGC cooks of Irish descent will supply the corned beef and cabbage and soda bread. Cupcakes may be purchased, entering you into the "Pot of Gold" drawing for fabulous prizes. The night will feature Irish entertainment and a legislative session post-mortem from our Laramie County delegation. 

"Get Your Green On!" We invite you to wear a costume on the green theme. It could have something to do with St. Patrick's Day or an outfit that celebrates the greening of Wyoming when it comes to our environment.  Think wind turbine or solar array or geothermal or peddle power or the much-dreamed-about greening of coal. There will be prizes for the best and/or funkiest costumes. 

Get more info at http://www.laramiecountydemocrats.org/ or find event updates on the LCDGC Facebook page. 

Meanwhile, in Liverpool, my grandfather awaits the Lusitania

In "Dead Wake," Erik Larson tells the story of the last Atlantic crossing of the R.M.S. Lusitania, Larson is a fantastic storyteller and I should have known better than to start reading his latest book before bedtime. Two hours later, I was deep into the tale but had to get some shut-eye. Tomorrow's another day....

Larson's "Isaac's Storm" was my first contact with the writer. As always, he takes a defining historic event, this time the devastating 1900 Galveston hurricane, and takes it down to sea level, seeing the cataclysm through the eyes of local meteorologist Isaac Cline.

Wasn't that a mighty storm
Wasn't that a mighty storm in the mornin'
Wasn't that a mighty storm
It blew all the people away.

Larson has a novelist's eye for detail and characterization. We all want to hear other people's stories. When we tell stories, we always tell it from a person's P.O.V. What did you do in the way, daddy? How did you two meet? Who are you named after?

How did you get to the U.S., Grandpa?

My maternal grandfather, Martin Hett, waited in Liverpool for the Lusitania to dock on May 7, 1915. Martin,. 14, held a steerage ticket for New York. One way. For the past two years, Martin had worked in the coal mines of northern England. In 1912, he left the poverty of County Roscommon in Ireland to make his own way in the world. His ultimate destination was the United States, home to an older brother and sister who earlier had fled Ireland.

Martin was not a gregarious Irishman. Gruff and hard-working, he didn't spend a lot of time telling tales. His Lusitania tale was a short one. He waited for the Lusitania to arrive in Liverpool. Pieces of it arrived, the flotsam and jetsam left after a German U-boat attack. He rescheduled his ticket for the next ship to New York. The Germans sunk that one, too. The third time was a charm.

That's it. No florid touches. No grandiose descriptions. He made it to New York and then to Chicago, where his brother got him a job working downtown's elevated trains.

As a trained reporter and researcher, I could easily trace Martin's story. And I will, one of these days. It's a fine story as is. It's as good as my paternal grandfather's story about General Pershing riding his Iowa National Guard cavalry mount during a break in the action during World War I. It's as good as my maternal grandmother's claim to have served as the first postmistress of a PO in small-town Ohio. It stacks up against my Maryland-raised paternal grandmother's claim that her mother's family was kin to Robert E. Lee of the Virginia Lees. All of these claims can be tested. That's what the Internet is for. DNA tests, too.

I'm also a fiction writer. I make stuff up. Sometimes I begin with the kernel of a story. Sometimes it's a situation or a snippet of conversation. It might be an old memory. It might be someone else's memory. I am blessed and/or cursed with wonderful recall. Thing is, when I tell a story at a family gathering, other family members remember the same situation differently. Memory plays tricks on us. Writers need fact checks if they are writing non-fiction. If writing fiction, we still need to make sure that we have the names and dates right. The Lusitania was sunk on such a day and such a time. As for the reasons why, we still have writers speculating 100 years later. And why is that? The sinking of the Lusitania is one of the reasons given for the U.S. entry into the European war two years later.

The more history I read, the less I understand. I love the stories, as does Larson. One incident leads to another. The Lusitania, the fastest ship in the Cunard Line inventory, the greyhound of the Atlantic, races toward Liverpool. Unterseeboot-20 awaits. The German submarine is captained by Walther Schweiger, his surname the same as my wife's maiden name. "No relation," she says. "How do you know?" I reply. She shrugs. Her German relatives were simple farm folk who immigrated to the U.S. before World War I. Capt. Schweiger was a well-to-do city boy from Berlin, "No relation," she said.

My grandfather must have been wrapping up his job in the mines, ready to head to America. At 14, a veteran coal miner. Imagine that. What were you doing at 14? At 14, I graduated from Catholic grade school which, in those days, was eighth grade. My only job up to that point was paperboy. I had never seen the inside or the outside of a coal mine.

Martin Hett had already left his home country of Ireland. He now was leaving his adopted country to travel to America. His adopted country was at war, as he would discover dramatically in Liverpool. That was 100 years ago next month.

Larson illustrates his tale of the Lusitania with portraits of the ship's captain and crew, and a variety if passengers. He imagines life in a crowded and dangerous submarine. He doesn't mention my grandfather awaiting the big ship to dock and take on new passengers. That's up to me, of course.

It's all in the story.

Ireland's Great Hunger lives on

"Skibbereen 1847" by Cork artist James Mahony (1810–1879), commissioned by The Illustrated London News, 1847

I have never been hungry enough to eat grass or old shoe leather.

Ireland's Great Hunger starved a million Irish and sent many packing for America. Some starved and sickened along the way in the so-called coffin ships. Those left at home ate anything they could find. Many starved anyway.

Our English overlords stood by and did nothing. They did import corn to Ireland but none of the starvelings could afford it. Some relief came from unexpected sources. Knowing what it was like to starve on "The Trail of Tears," Cherokees in Oklahoma sent food to the Irish. The Turks did too.

A mythology builds up around any earth-shaking event that causes the diaspora of hundreds of thousands of people. The Irish have immortalized the Great Hunger in song and story and art. Family stories, too. My own Shay relatives left Ireland for the U.S. in 1847. They farmed in New England and then moved to Iowa, where they prospered. They may have hungered and thirsted through the years, when drought and pestilence visited the Iowa City area. But they were never threatened with starvation of the type they faced in Ireland.

Even amidst prosperity, does the Great Hunger linger within us?

According to an article on the Irish Central web site:

Irish historian Oonagh Walsh believes that the Great Hunger triggered a higher rate of mental illness among later generations, including both those who stayed in Ireland and those who emigrated. 

She believes that severe nutritional deprivation between 1845-1850 caused "epigenetic change." Here's more:

Epigenetics is the study of changes in gene expression. These do not necessarily involve changes to the genetic code, but the effects may persist for several generations. Walsh estimated that the impact from epigenetic change from the Great Hunger lasted for a century and a half.  

Walsh’s research is still at an early stage, but she expects to see a correlation between the high rates of mental illness and the effects of maternal starvation. She also thinks there may be a connection between the Great Hunger and cardiovascular and other diseases.

Just think about this a bit. We all know that mental and physical traits can "run in a family." Red hair, height, odd behavior. Remember Aunt Clara? We had to keep her in the attic -- she thought she was the Queen of Sheba.

What if our genes, damaged by cataclysmic hunger, contributed to Aunt Clara's delusions?

Researchers have been busily studying the causes of mental illness for generations. Genetics play a role. Trauma, too, as in PTSD. And what is starvation if not a major trauma, as important as war or torture or physical abuse?

Walsh has also researched the dramatic growth in Irish lunatic asylums in the 19th century. The first was built a dozen years before the potato famine. But it continued well into the latter part of the century, along with increased patient populations. They included those with behavior problems as well as "lunatics at large." Families stashed their problem children in the asylums; Aunt Clara too. Husbands stashed inconvenient wives in asylums, freeing them to marry a newfound love interest.

The U.S. built asylums, too. Many are now closed, the sites of horrendous treatment of patients, torture and murder. Others grew up as medications and treatment options improved.

The Wyoming State Hospital in Evanston opened in 1887, three years before statehood, and was first called the Wyoming Insane Asylum. I don't have to imagine "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" scenes or strait jackets and padded rooms and lobotomies -- I'm sure all of that happened there as it did at other asylums, from Ken Kesey's Oregon State Hospital to the notorious Trenton State Hospital in New Jersey. Society's cast-offs are always treated badly.

We are now enlightened. We have super-drugs for the mentally ill. Our treatment has gone beyond shock therapy and mind-numbing drugs. We are stardust. We are golden.

If only that were true.

Anyone with a mentally ill family member knows the challenges of finding the right treatments. This isn't a problem faced only by rural states such as Wyoming. It is a problem everywhere.

It is refreshing to see researchers such as Oonagh Walsh dig deeper into the origins of mental illness. Perhaps my grandfathers' depression was due to being shell-shocked in World War I. Perhaps it was part of the epigenetic change inflicted on his Irish forebears. That doesn't help him, as he's long gone. But it might help me, an aging Irish-American who also suffers from depression.

It may also help my daughter, who's had major struggles with her mental illness since she was 14. She now is a patient as the place formerly known as the Wyoming Insane Asylum. Her parents are now trying to help her in any way we can. Some of that is practical parental involvement. We are strong advocates for our daughter. Knowledge is part of that. We more we know, the better.

And this is what feeds my imagination: the vision of a starving mother in 1847 scouring the fields of County Cork for a few grains of barley. Her future depends on it. She may starve, but the memory of it will last for generations.    

Irish or not?

What does it mean to be Irish in America?

That's topic enough for a book or two.

I'm Irish enough. My maternal grandfather left County Roscommon for the coal mines of England and then to to the U.S., Denver by way of New York and  Chicago. My paternal grandfather's grandfather was a Potato Famine escapee whose original name was O'Shea. My aunt, Patricia Lee Shay, tracked the immigration of our ancestors from Ireland to upstate New York to Iowa over the course of 20 years. Somewhere along the line, the family changed its surname to Shay. Our guess was that Shay is less Irish than O'Shea. Yet it's tough to hide your Irishness -- brogue, red hair, Catholicism, big family and all that.

My maternal grandmother was Agnes McDermott from what's now a suburb of Cincinnati. She motored West with some gal pals and her sister and discovered the wonders of the Rocky Mountains. When she and her sister returned home, they packed up and moved to Denver. A few years later, she met my grandfather at a Hibernian Club shindig, married, had kids and so on. As a baby, I lived in their Washington Park house with my parents. I don't remember much of that time, although it's undoubtedly locked away in my subconscious, waiting to be explored.

My paternal grandmother is the only non-Irish in the bunch. Her forebears come from England and have the surname of Green, settlers of Baltimore. Her mother was a Lee from Virginia, which makes me one of the millions of Southerners who claim they are related to Robert E. Lee, Light Horse Harry Lee and the rest of that warlike clan. I've never checked out the connection as the story itself is fun to relate and I'd hate to spoil it.

So I'm three-quarters Irish and a quarter English. Two sides at war with one another for five centuries. You could say that makes for divided loyalties but the Irish always wins out. My mother was raised on Irish stories from my grandfather's South Denver chums. Mischievous fairies and wailing banshees. Irish stories always seem to be a mixture of magic and terror, much like Irish history and Roman Catholicism. We loved it when our mother read to us but really were waiting for her banshee bedtime stories, which were more thrilling than soothing.

That's my Irish lineage. I've never been to Ireland, which seems an oversight. I've thought about going more than once but never carried through on the thought. I don't really care about looking up my Irish roots. God knows that Ireland must benefit from all of the Irish-Americans flocking in to explore their roots, looking up Great Uncle Sean and Great Aunt Molly. I'm more interested in the literature of Ireland. I'd love to be in Dublin for Bloomsday on June 16. As is the case with many English majors, I almost finished James Joyce's "Ulysses" several times. But I know the "day in the life of" story and have read enough of Joyce's penetrable works ("Dubliners," "Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man") to find the event fascinating.

Maybe next year.

I think that my need for storytelling can be traced to my Irish roots. Other cultures value stories but the Irish are almost pathological about it. Irish writers seem a cantankerous bunch. Joyce with his stream of consciousness and banned books. Sean O'Casey with his troublesome plays and Oscar Wilde with his witty plays and troublesome lifestyle. W.B. Yeats is misinterpreted as often as he is explained. Roddy Doyle has an exciting time telling stories of modern Ireland and re-examining its uprising and civil war. I don't even know most contemporary Irish writers. I hear that there's a revival in Gaelic writers. And then there are all of the U.S. and Canadian and Aussie writers with Irish roots.

It's good to be Irish. Even on St. Patrick's Day.

Have fun at the Celtic Festival, but don't barf on my boots

My people are in town for a party.

My people are the Celts, descendants of a loose band of European tribes who eventually settled Ireland, Scotland and Wales. Some of them made their way to the Western Wildlands of America where they built the railroads, mined coal, opened bars and played the bagpipes at funerals.

The party is the Cheyenne Celtic Musical Arts Festival, held this last weekend in June at the Historic Depot downtown. It features concerts, vendors, a gathering of clans, a parade, Irish step-dancers and a fiddle contest. Beer and food, too. There are Scottish-Americans in kilts walking around with flasks disguised as cell phones and pens. A clever lot, those Scots. We Irish-Americans just walk around openly with a pint of Guinness or a black-and-tan, preferably one in each hand.

"The drink" has not been kind to the Irish. I drink, but the drink has never laid claim to my soul as it has to so many of my brethren and sistren. Without it we wouldn't be the Irish, I suppose, but with it.... It may lead to good stories and music, but it's laid waste to a lot of us.

Enough with the teetotaling talk. It's a downer at festival time.

One of the key elements of any Celtic fest is the Scottish-Irish-Welsh heritage. There are whole counties in Appalachia populated by Scots-Irish. They gave us bluegrass, folk and country music traditions, and a feisty attitude. Unions, too, as the Scots-Irish miners rose up against their Scots-Irish millionaire overlords. We've always been good at pummelling our own kind.

Last night, after the torch-lit march of the clans (my wife Chris was in there with the Cumming clan), there was much talk about the 2014 vote on Scottish independence. Some are for it, some against it. "The Staggers" blog at The New Statesman says that if the vote on the "devolution settlement" were held today, Scotland would remain in the U.K. First of all, doesn't "the staggers" refer to a state of staggering drunkenness? Secondly, I though that the devolution issue was settled once and for all in the 1970s with Mark Mothersbaugh and Devo.

In the so-called British Isles, history binds and history divides.

And gets increasing confusing to us colonials.

All of the Celtic or Scots-Irish festivals I've attended have been fun. There's even a Celtic band in Cheyenne called Gobs O'Phun. That's what it should be about, after all.

So, get out to the plaza this evening to enjoy Molly's Revenge and Ceili Rain, which lit up the stage last night. Enjoy a draught or two of Guinness. But I warn you, if you throw up on my boots, I'll apply my shillelagh to your noggin. That tradition is Irish and Western.

My father's Irish sweater

It’s April 16 in Wyoming, the snow is falling and I’m wearing my father’s cream-colored cableknit cardigan. Sometimes it’s called an Aran sweater or, in Ireland, an Aran jumper. It wasn’t made on the islands but in the village of Glen Columb Kille in Donegal. 

My father didn’t get the sweater in Ireland because he never traveled there. That’s what the Internet is for, to order Irish sweaters online and have them delivered a few days later by the UPS man. A few members of Dad's family have been back to Ireland since Thomas O’Shea and family departed the potato famine in 1848. My father was overseas just once and that was during WWII. He was stationed in England but didn’t make the jump over the Irish Sea.  He did make the jump over the English Channel, as did his father in WWI. They both got to France to fight Germans but didn't make it to The Old Sod.

Aran jumpers have a history. I didn’t know that until I looked them up on the Internet. Aran Island women used to make the sweaters from unscoured wool so that the lanolin remained in the fiber to deflect the moisture faced by their fisherman husbands. They didn’t keep them afloat, alas, as many went down to the sea in ships (and boats). In fact, once the fishermen went into the drink the sweaters probably got waterlogged and dragged the lads to their deaths.

My sweater was knitted with a rope design, meant for either a Boy Scout, a hangman or a fisherman. I looked it up on the Aran Sweater Market web site. I couldn't find my design there, although I was pleased to see that I could buy an O'Shea clan sweater for $199. More than 500 Irish clans have their own sweater design, according to the site. 

O’Shea is the Anglicisation of the original Gaelic Ó Séaghada, which comes from the personal name meaning ‘hawk-like’ or ‘fortunate’. The sept was located in the Barony of Iveragh in County Kerry, where they were lords until the 12th century. Some of the family migrated to counties Tipperary and Kilkenny as early as the 14th century. In Kilkenny the name is often spelled O’Shee. One of the most famous O’Sheas was Katharine, or Kitty, who was the mistress of Charles Stuart Parnell.

The hand knit O’Shea sweater (shown at right) incorporates the blackberry, rope, honeycomb, link, and zig-zag stitches. The blackberry stitch represents the Holy Trinity, rope represents good luck, honeycomb is symbolic of work, link stands for the unbroken chain between the Irish that emigrate and those who remain at home, and the zig zag stitch symbolises the ups and downs of marriage. This beautiful Aran sweater has been hand knitted in the traditional báinín (pronounced ‘baw neen’) colour, the natural white of the wool. It comes to you complete with a clan history and crest. It is made of 100% pure new wool, is water repellent and breathable. It has been hand crafted in the traditional Irish style, and, with care, will last a lifetime.

That's a lot of thought going into one sweater. And is there an "unbroken chain between the Irish that emigrate and those who remain at home?" I feel very Irish-American but not very Irish. Quite a few generations separate me from Thomas O'Shea. My maternal grandfather, Martin Hett, emigrated from Ireland to England when he was 12. He labored in coal mines for five years until he could afford the trip to America. Grandpa Martin lived to be 90. During his 72 years as an expatriate, he never returned to Ireland. His memories were of privation, a drunken father, an evil stepmother and sadistic priests. Not the kind of memories that breeds nostalgia.

Despite all that, I celebrate my Irish roots. I may even get an O'Shea sweater. It may never stop snowing here in The New Sod.

On St. Patrick's Day weekend, I ponder the possibility of a Pope Howdy Doody I

As a kid, I bore a startling resemblance to TV's Howdy Doody.

Each St. Patrick’s Day, I ponder what it means to be an Irish-American. This year, as a new pope takes the reins of Mother Church, I’m also pondering about what it means to be Irish Catholic.

I just had a flashback. I get those occasionally. I wonder if it’s my damaged heart playing tricks on my brain.

Back in those black-and-white days of the 1950s, my younger brother Dan and I found ourselves in the same ward at Denver Mercy Hospital. We had double pneumonia, which is twice as troublesome as single pneumonia. It sound worse, too, doesn’t it? Our mother was a nurse at Mercy, a graduate of the hospital’s nurses’ training program at the tail end of World War II. 

The Mercy nuns were in charge. They wore full habits back then, which lent them an air of authority and mystery seasoned with a dollop of menace. They were neither the horror of the nuns portrayed in some books or plays written by lapsed Catholics. Nor were they the sweethearts portrayed in “Sister Act” or “The Sound of Music.” They were tough yet fair. They seemed to treat Dan and I a bit better than the others. This was probably due to our mother.

One day, Dan seemed to have a brainstorm. He waited until one of the nuns was in the ward, and he sat up and said, “I want to be a priest.”

The nun scurried over. “A priest, is it?” The Mercy nuns all spoke with an Irish brogue, yet another import from that benighted isle. 

“Yes, sister.” Dan beamed angelically. 

“That’s a good boy,” said the good sister, patting Dan on the arm. “And how would you like some ice cream, Daniel boy?”

“Thank you, sister.” More of the beaming. My brother had black hair and blue eyes, Black Irish like my mother. I had bright orange hair and was covered with freckles from head to toe. The kids at school called me Howdy Doody, who was a red-haired, freckle-faced TV puppet. He was an agreeable sort but dopey looking. I didn’t like him.

The nun returned with Dan’s ice cream. None for us. After all, we didn’t want to be priests. This was the highest calling a kid could attain. Parish priests ruled the Catholic roost. We know now that some of them were less than saintly. But back in those patriarchal days, they could do no wrong.

The next time a nun entered the room, Tommy piped up: “I want to be a priest.” The nun came over, patted Tommy on the head and said he was getting some ice cream too. So half of the kids in the ward now had ice cream and I had none. Before the fourth kid, the one in the bed by the wall, could speak up, I also said: “I want to be a priest.”

The nun walked over, put her hands on her hips sand said, “I suppose you want to be a priest so you can have some ice cream.”

“No sister.” I was no dummy, although I looked like one. “I had a dream. In it, I was a priest.” 

This got her attention.  “A dream?”

I nodded. “Yes sister.”

“And in this dream were you eating ice cream?”

“No sister. I was dressed like a priest and was saying mass.”

“You’re a fine lad, saying mass in a dream.  You almost could call that a vision.”

“Yes, sister.” 

She looked down at me. “We’re out of ice cream. I’ll get you a popsicle.” She frowned and walked out.

“Copycat,” said Dan.

“Not,” I said.

“Popsicle.” Tommy snickered. He bit into his ice cream bar.

I got a cherry popsicle. The nun broke it in two so the kid in the far bed could have some. 

As I ate the popsicle and stared at the two ice cream eaters, I vowed that next time I would be quicker on the draw and fake my priestly calling with much more alacrity than I had earlier. Perhaps I should be a bishop? Or pope? Too grandiose, perhaps. But imagine the world’s surprise when Howdy Doody the First donned the papal garments and those bitchin’ red shoes.

St. Patrick's Day -- a look back

On the road to the Black Hills this St. Patrick's Day. Too preoccupied with the upcoming St. Patrick's Day Pub Crawl in Deadwood to write anything original. So I'll leave my readers with this St. Patrick's Day column from 2011. It covers a lot of Irish genealogical history: Potato Famine, Irish Diaspora, excessive drinking, superiority of Irish literature, Catholicism, etc. Read it here.

Celtic harp, with narration, enlivens St. Patrick's Day

I'm not going to be in town, but maybe you will be and are looking for something a little less green-beer-oriented on St. Patrick's Day:

"The Story of St. Patrick: Celtic harp with narration and friendly conversation" by Michael Riversong at the Paramount Cafe, 1607 Capitol Ave. Cheyenne, on Saturday, March 17, 5:30-8 p.m. This is an informal family friendly performance by Michael Riversong. Children are especially welcomed. FMI: Michael Riversong, Biblical Bards, http://home.earthlink.net/~mriversong 

The Irish diaspora brought us The Great Shame and -- for many -- much better lives

Looking for some especially depressing books to read during St. Patrick's Day week, I chose The Great Shame, and the triumph of the Irish in the English-speaking world by Thomas Keneally. Keneally is an Australian of Irish descent who wrote such great books as Schindler's List, The Chant of Jimmie Blacksmith and To Asmara. I've met Keneally several times and he looks a bit like a leprechaun (see book jacket). A leprechaun who can write!

It's an old story. Irish peasant gets sideways with his landlord, goes to jail and is convicted, and eventually is deported to Australia. Hugh Larkin was his ancestor who was shipped away in chains and, strangely enough, into a better life. He missed the Great Potato Famine, for one thing. There were jailers and landlords in Australia but not nearly so many. A man with grit and wit could make it there.

That's what so many Irish found during the diaspora. If they survived.

Thomas O'Shea, who somewhere along the line changed his surname to Shay, was born in County Clare, Ireland, on Dec. 20, 1815. He died in Clear Creek Township in Johnson County, Iowa, on May 14, 1879. According to his very precise gravestone at St. Joseph's Cemetery in Iowa City, he was "63 years, 4 mos, and 24 days." Not sure about the hours and minutes.

His wife was Ann (Anna, Annie) Agnes Burns, born somewhere in Ireland about 1825. My daughter Annie bears her name. My daughter was born on March 9, 1993, in Cheyenne in County Laramie, USA. Wonder how much of the Irish Annie is in our Annie? She's stubborn as hell and beautiful and smart. I wonder if she would have made it to the U.S. intact from famine-ravaged Ireland. I think so.

Annie and Thomas emigrated around 1850. It could have been earlier. But the cause is clear -- threat of starvation. The 1850 New York census shows Thomas Shay, 30, and Annie Shay, 23, living with their three children in Brockport in Monroe County, just a bit west of Rochester. The family left for Iowa about 1859, just in time to avoid most of the Civil War.

The 1870 federal census records show that Thomas Shay owned real estate worth $4,000 in Clear Creek Township, Iowa. It was 96 acres. He and Annie, 43, now had eight children. The youngest was Michael, 6. The family owned three horses, four mules, four milk cows, four "other cattle," and 18 swine. He and his family farmed wheat, corn, oats and (of course) "Irish potatoes." They harvested 15 tons of hay and produced 300 pounds of butter and 30 gallons of molasses.

Beats the hell out of eating weeds or grass, the only crops growing in the Irish countryside. Not an easy journey across the ocean and across half of the country. But, in the end, Thomas probably thought it was worth it.

Ann Burns Shay was buried next to her husband in 1909. By then, her youngest son Michael's first-born son Raymond was 16. Raymond's son Thomas was born in 1923 and, after he married Anna Marie Shay in February, 1950, I was born 10 months later.

There are many family stories mixed in with the data. And so many relatives named Michael and Patrick and Molly. Show a little imagination people! Our names are traded like baseball cards. My father was named after his great-grandfather Thomas from Ireland and his uncle Thomas, who died in 1918 from the Spanish flu. He was in the Iowa National Guard at the time with his older brother Ray. They were in France with the AEF. More Johnson County boys died of the flu than died in battle during World War I.

My middle name is Thomas. I have a younger brother Thomas. We call him Tom or Tommy. I have a nephew Thomas who is trying to get into medical school. My sister Molly is his mother.

We've done pretty well here in the States. My parents never traveled to Ireland to look up relatives. Neither did I. Maybe we're beyond that. The Republic of Ireland, until recently, was known as the Celtic Tiger and some Americans of Irish descent traveled back to The Old Sod to work. They may be back soon.

Happy St. Patrick's Day on Thursday.

I'll raise a pint to the dear departed -- here's to you, Pat! -- the living, and all those Michaels and Annies and Patricks and Mollys yet to come.