My maternal grandmother's maiden name was Hazel Ferell, and try as I might, I cannot locate any photographic evidence of the Ferells in my mother's scrapbook, although she does mention her grandmother, "Momma Ferell," in a couple of her letters. (I did, however, find proof in our family geneology Tracking Barefoot Runyan: Descendants of Isaac Barefoot Runyan, compiled by Marie Runyan Wright.) Anyway, I mention it because it means I have some Irish in me. I believe my mother was a quarter Irish, so I guess that makes me an eighth. And my kids would be one-sixteenth, right?
Saint Patrick's Day is actually a holiday I've never really gotten into on any level. I'm sure I've worn green most years, (I'm wearing muted olives and camo as I write this)but I don't believe, for example, that I've ever drunk -- or vomited up -- green beer.
In fact, for the past eleven years (wow) since my father's passing, I've had my own, personal reason for having a negative reaction to this holiday. In March of 2000 my father was dying of cancer and was an in-patient at Greenwich Hospital. I was living in Brooklyn at the time and did not have a car. In order to visit my father, I had to take a Metro North commuter train about one hour each way -- not a pleasant experience under normal circumstances. But when you're going to visit a dried out and yellowing version of your once vital parent while surrounded by people euphemistically referred to as "revellers," the reality becomes nearly unbearable.
The memory of visiting my father on St. Patrick's Day gives me no ill will toward the Farrell sliver of my genetic make-up, nor to the Irish as a people. (This is where I'm supposed to say "some of my best friends are Irish" or "my favorite band is Irish," or "I just love Conan O'Brien!")
I will say that when I think back to my time in Europe in the late 1980's, Ireland was one of the most welcoming places we visited. I don't know whether Sue Barney will remember it this way or not, but as I recall our arrival in Dublin, I picture us with our tourist map open, riding the DART (Dublin Area Rapid Transit). We are immediately surrounded by a group of kindly older men, poking at our map with their pinkies and pointing in various directions. They were literally elbowing each other out of the way in order to help us, and none of them had their hand held out for payment. I don't know whether we offered; I'm sure they would have refused it, and strongly.
I realized some time later that the reason they may have reacted to our presence that way could have been -- aside from their generally generous nature -- our age. We were in our early 20's, and in the Dublin of the late 1980's you just see people our age. They all left for England, America and elsewhere, hoping for better prospects. It's changed since the tech boom of the 1990's, but back then it was like a reverse Peter Pan or Logan's Run situation.
Well now, this rumination on Saint Patrick's Day has brought me halfway round the world and back! I suppose one of the things that makes us human is our ability to hold a plurality of meanings for a variety of things at one time. This holiday may very well be one of those complex things in my heart for years to come.
No comments:
Post a Comment