The Motherland

For as long as I can remember, I have heard about my Irish roots. My dad’s mom was Irish, his dad German, and even though that was a 50/50 mix, it was the Irish part that was talked about the most. My grandmother had skin pure as the driven snow so it made sense that her people came from a place that didn’t see much sun. My mom’s side was English and Irish. I inherited her dark hair and the fair skin from my dad’s side, and when I was once asked what my background was, before I could answer I was told, “You’re black Irish through and through.” I didn’t even know what that meant until I got home and looked it up.

Months ago, Michael told me about a meeting he was invited to in Dublin and asked if I wanted to go. I don’t think he even got the whole question out before I said OF COURSE I WANT TO GO TO IRELAND WITH YOU!! I told a friend who had been there the year before and she lent me her guidebooks which we poured over, and along with advice from an Irish colleague of Michael’s, we planned our trip.

We landed in Dublin and took a shuttle bus to pick up our rental car. Our first encounter with an Irishman was a tall, black man with dreadlocks and a brogue I’d only heard in movies. I may have fallen a wee bit in love. He took us to our car and after a quick look we said, “We need something smaller.” Everything we had read about driving in Ireland was about their narrow roads – the smaller the car the better. He switched it out, we got an overview of the mechanics, and were sent on our way with his casual advice of, “Don’t worry, just stay left and you’ll be fine.” Us worry about driving on the wrong side of the road? Well, hell to the yeah, but in case we forgot there was a placard on the dash reminding us of the same thing.

Michael got behind the wheel with me navigating and as we made our way I oohed and ahhed at everything at every turn. Around dinner time we landed in the seaside town of Dingle where we stayed in a bed and breakfast. We dumped our stuff, took a shower, and headed to town. To say we were charmed would be an understatement, and after some wandering settled on a place for dinner. Post dinner we walked some more and were pulled by the sound of folk music into a pub. We sat at the bar, Michael had a Guinness, I had whiskey, and I couldn’t believe we were there. We started the second day with a drive around the coastline and frequent stops along the way – a sweet alpaca, a very agressive goat, and the most western bar in Europe for lunch where right inside the door was a framed photo of John Kennedy. That night we ended up back in town, ate dinner at a different place, and ended it with a raucous band at another pub who sang a song or two about “the troubles.”

We made our way by ferry to the stunning Cliffs of Mohr. We had read about them prior to our trip and watched many Youtube videos, but nothing compared to seeing them in person – rugged, beautiful, peaceful. That night we arrived in Galway which was about as different as could be from Dingle – a bustling city with lots of college students, pubs, and beefy bouncers standing guard every few feet. We grabbed dinner and ended up in a bar where an 80s band was playing. The next day we stumbled upon an art fair, a breathtaking Catholic church where I lit candles for my mom and dad, and for a very long while watched three fly fisherman in a river trying to catch salmon who were jumping all around them except onto their line. Later that day we arrived in Westport, had dinner then headed downstairs to the pub to watch the European Cup. Spain won which made the bar erupt in cheers – not because there were a lot of Spaniards there but because they beat England. We listened to more Irish music then walked back to our first real hotel with a shower big enough to turn around.

From there we went to Trim and wandered around the castle grounds where Braveheart was filmed then to Dublin for Michael’s meeting and more food, more pubs, more sight-seeing.

A few weeks before we left for our trip I took my two older grandkids to the pool, the same pool I used to take my kids to every day. Fast forward a few decades and there I was doing the same thing with the next generation, catching them when they jumped off the side, throwing a foam football back and forth, watching them swim to me and me saying,”kick, kick, kick” as their little legs moved furiously, and patting their back when they downed a mouthful of water.

As promised when we set off for the afternoon, I told them that if they were good listeners we would go to the snack bar. Eventually we took a break from the water and got in line with a dozen other water-soaked-littles and their parents. As they were deciding what they were going to have, Mabel noticed the little girl in front of us and said, “Greta, is that you?” It was someone from a program she’s in at school that she only sees once a week and not in several weeks since school got out for the summer. She turned around and said, “It is me, Mabel.” Mabel got teary-eyed, cupped her friend’s face with her crinkled, chlorine-smelling fingers, the two of them looking at each other with their dripping hair, and said, “I can’t believe it’s you, Greta. I can’t believe I finally get to see you.”

I could talk for hours about this trip, how I finally understood why it was spoken of so fondly when I was growing up, how every time I told someone where I was going this summer they would sigh and say, “Oh, you’re going to love it.” When I’m asked what my favorite part of our trip was, I say, “all of it,” because it’s true. If I could have cupped that country in my hands I would have followed Mabel’s lead and said, “Ireland, is that you? I can’t believe I finally get to see you.” Instead I’ve deposited every lush, green memory into the travel bank and thanked the universe for sending me someone to love, someone to explore new places with, someone whose loss is achingly familiar to mine, and someone, who like me, has made the choice to keep raising a glass to life.

Slainte.