Dingle All the Way
I love Ireland. Yeah, who doesn't, especially after 3 pints of cider in a single evening? I wasn't sure about the affair after nearly a week on the road – a week of driving on the left-hand side down lanes skinnier than driveways outside many American homes; a week of winding our way from the top of the Emerald Isle to the Southwest, a week of way-finding and "How much for a family room?" and "If I don't get away from these kids [uh, Finley] soon, I will lose my mind." Yeah, there's all that.
Then, there's tonight. A night that probably shouldn't have been mine. I asked Chelsea to take the kids back to the B&B so I could check out a pub I'd read about in a guide book; one I liked mostly for its name: Dick Mack's. Somewhere I read an ad that said, "Where is Dick Mack's? Across the street from the church. Where's the church? Across the street from Dick Mack's." It's a former shoeshine shop and according to the sign, was also a habardashery at one time. It's a place where I engaged in enough adult banter (craick, in Gaelic) to last a week.
First, I met Mike O'Shea (if I got his name right; it really is difficult to understand many of these Irish accents), who told me he lived in Chicago for 10 years and drove a truck to all 50 states ("I've been to more states than you have," he told me). Mike has 5 children, one of whom is a TV presenter for RTE Ireland in Dublin. The son's name in Gaelic is Daibdidh - Irish for David. Mike said he's written 8 books, one of which is required reading for students in secondary school in Ireland. He told me he used to write in longhand, but now writes on a computer without Internet access, because he once lost three-quarters of a novel due to a virus. "I was so pissed," he said. "I went to the pubs fer 2 day-yuhs and drank..."
Then, there was Laurie, from Maryland (you can't swing a cat in Dingle without hitting an American – we've overrun the place). She and her husband are touring Ireland for 2 weeks. We made small talk for a few minutes, then she asked how long I was traveling. "I plan to be gone a year," I said. "I'm taking the trip my late husband and I should have taken." (I've rarely referred to Sean as 'late,' partly because it seems a stiff – pardon the pun – adjective, and partly because Sean hated being late). The explanation opened a new window: Laurie told me she, too, had been widowed young. Her husband died of cancer when she was 28. She was left with 3 children, ages 2, 3 & ½, and 6. The disclosure made me cry. Funny how I can talk about Sean's death very matter-of-factly with strangers, almost as though I'm reporting it for the news. But meeting a fellow widow, well.... it doesn't happen often, and the knowledge they understand my situation opens my soul (and tear ducts) in a very real way.
I went to Dick Mack's to drink cider and soak in the pub atmosphere, not to seek counsel from an American stranger. Yet... Laurie said she'd gotten tremendous support from her church family (as have I) and her father. Her mother had died 6 months before her husband. 15 years after being widowed, Laurie has remarried and works as a neonatal intensive care nurse at Children's Hospital in Washington, D.C.
Next, I met Pat (Paddy) Healy, from Kilkenny. Pat works for a major German manufacturer, servicing ATMs throughout Ireland. He's 36, never married, and said he's lost a lot of loved ones in his life. He told me he could tell "...People are looking out for you." [true]. "Ancestors are looking out for you [really?]" He bought me my second (or was it third?) pint of cider of the night, and said it's a great thing I'm doing, taking the kids around the world (some days, I have my doubts, like the other day when I gave Finley a 'time out' at the Cliffs of Moher. I made him stand with his nose against O'Brian's Tower). Pat and I enjoyed watching German students opposite us who were singing American songs a capella. Pat commented on one kid's hair (a blonde with front-swept silky strands who was around 18 years old): "Yee have the most parfect fockin' hair – like Luke Skywalker," he said. Later, Pat got philosophical, whether fueled by Guinness, circumstance, or both. He said, "I admire what yee're doin'... and yee're fockin' gorgeous. If yee lived in Ireland, I'd get down on my knee right now and ask yee to marry me."
I don't live in Ireland. I don't really live anywhere at the moment, except on the road and in my head. I'm happy to report I'm still above ground. And I feel it's my duty – to myself, my kids and to Sean – to live fully. It can be a pleasure, especially in Dingle – especially at a place called Dick Mack's.
I love Ireland. Yeah, who doesn't, especially after 3 pints of cider in a single evening? I wasn't sure about the affair after nearly a week on the road – a week of driving on the left-hand side down lanes skinnier than driveways outside many American homes; a week of winding our way from the top of the Emerald Isle to the Southwest, a week of way-finding and "How much for a family room?" and "If I don't get away from these kids [uh, Finley] soon, I will lose my mind." Yeah, there's all that.
Then, there's tonight. A night that probably shouldn't have been mine. I asked Chelsea to take the kids back to the B&B so I could check out a pub I'd read about in a guide book; one I liked mostly for its name: Dick Mack's. Somewhere I read an ad that said, "Where is Dick Mack's? Across the street from the church. Where's the church? Across the street from Dick Mack's." It's a former shoeshine shop and according to the sign, was also a habardashery at one time. It's a place where I engaged in enough adult banter (craick, in Gaelic) to last a week.
First, I met Mike O'Shea (if I got his name right; it really is difficult to understand many of these Irish accents), who told me he lived in Chicago for 10 years and drove a truck to all 50 states ("I've been to more states than you have," he told me). Mike has 5 children, one of whom is a TV presenter for RTE Ireland in Dublin. The son's name in Gaelic is Daibdidh - Irish for David. Mike said he's written 8 books, one of which is required reading for students in secondary school in Ireland. He told me he used to write in longhand, but now writes on a computer without Internet access, because he once lost three-quarters of a novel due to a virus. "I was so pissed," he said. "I went to the pubs fer 2 day-yuhs and drank..."
Then, there was Laurie, from Maryland (you can't swing a cat in Dingle without hitting an American – we've overrun the place). She and her husband are touring Ireland for 2 weeks. We made small talk for a few minutes, then she asked how long I was traveling. "I plan to be gone a year," I said. "I'm taking the trip my late husband and I should have taken." (I've rarely referred to Sean as 'late,' partly because it seems a stiff – pardon the pun – adjective, and partly because Sean hated being late). The explanation opened a new window: Laurie told me she, too, had been widowed young. Her husband died of cancer when she was 28. She was left with 3 children, ages 2, 3 & ½, and 6. The disclosure made me cry. Funny how I can talk about Sean's death very matter-of-factly with strangers, almost as though I'm reporting it for the news. But meeting a fellow widow, well.... it doesn't happen often, and the knowledge they understand my situation opens my soul (and tear ducts) in a very real way.
I went to Dick Mack's to drink cider and soak in the pub atmosphere, not to seek counsel from an American stranger. Yet... Laurie said she'd gotten tremendous support from her church family (as have I) and her father. Her mother had died 6 months before her husband. 15 years after being widowed, Laurie has remarried and works as a neonatal intensive care nurse at Children's Hospital in Washington, D.C.
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| Pat (left) and co. |
Next, I met Pat (Paddy) Healy, from Kilkenny. Pat works for a major German manufacturer, servicing ATMs throughout Ireland. He's 36, never married, and said he's lost a lot of loved ones in his life. He told me he could tell "...People are looking out for you." [true]. "Ancestors are looking out for you [really?]" He bought me my second (or was it third?) pint of cider of the night, and said it's a great thing I'm doing, taking the kids around the world (some days, I have my doubts, like the other day when I gave Finley a 'time out' at the Cliffs of Moher. I made him stand with his nose against O'Brian's Tower). Pat and I enjoyed watching German students opposite us who were singing American songs a capella. Pat commented on one kid's hair (a blonde with front-swept silky strands who was around 18 years old): "Yee have the most parfect fockin' hair – like Luke Skywalker," he said. Later, Pat got philosophical, whether fueled by Guinness, circumstance, or both. He said, "I admire what yee're doin'... and yee're fockin' gorgeous. If yee lived in Ireland, I'd get down on my knee right now and ask yee to marry me."
 |
| New occupation - bartender in Dingle |
I don't live in Ireland. I don't really live anywhere at the moment, except on the road and in my head. I'm happy to report I'm still above ground. And I feel it's my duty – to myself, my kids and to Sean – to live fully. It can be a pleasure, especially in Dingle – especially at a place called Dick Mack's.
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