Under The Spell
"The great advantage of having an ancestry like that of a mongrel dog is I have
so many ancestral homes to go home to."
We caught the ferry from Le Havre, France to Ireland, land of my ancestors.
Every since I was a wee lad, my mind has been used as a canvas by every Irishman
who has been displaced from the Emerald Isle. A picture of quaintness
bordering upon myth. Cute I thought it would be, but never as much as the
tourist hype I had read. I donned my suit of armor constructed of cynicism,
forged by age. Protected thus from the hype, I the ancestral child would see
Ireland as it really is. Mind you, no tourist hype for me.
The ship pulled in to Rosslare Harbor near Wexford and lowered its gangplank. I
made it most of the way down before I was sucked clean out of my armor into,
head over heels, and under the spell of the Emerald Isle.
We had arranged for a rental car, to be picked upon arrival at the harbor. I
thought perhaps we would be shown how to operate it. Instead the attendant said
in his sweet Irish brogue, "It's the wee red one over there," and handed me the
keys.
Still dazed by the sudden entrance in to "The Spell" we sped off in our wee red
Ford Fiesta. Every so many hundred yards along the road signs reminded us to
"Drive to the left." On the open road it was no problem, however moments later
in the congestion of Wexford I was near panic, yelling at Travis to help remind
me what side of the street I was on. It didn't help that he often mixes left and
right up in his mind, some sort of hereditary functional disorder. I almost
broke out in sweat when I had to make my first right turn feeling as though I
was going head on into the oncoming traffic.
By the time we got through Wexford I was in desperate need to stop for a wee pee.
I saw a small side road and took that hoping to find a secluded spot to relieve
myself.
I discovered that when you leave the main roads in Ireland you are almost
immediately secluded. We stopped in front of an old abandoned barn made of stone
with an unusual door shaped like a horseshoe. The earth smelled wet and fresh
and was a bit boggy, more so when I departed. It was only a few hundred yards
before we learned our first rule of driving in Ireland.
wrapped mah way on down to de landin'. The men was all in blue, and Ah heard
it. Luckly it was short, If It wasnt I doubt i would have made it throught the
" . . . he would mention Parnell with the customers and say that Ireland was a queer country." (7)
Road I descended a hill and came upon a narrow bridge. The car went off
I looked in my mirror and breathed a sigh of relief: the patrol car turned and crossed the median strip and proceeded in the opposite direction, lights flashing. I put my van in gear and slowly continued on my way.
Irish American Magazine, Aug.-Sept. 2009. Web. The Web. The Web. 06 May 2014.
Born in Brooklyn in 1930 to recent Irish immigrants Malachy and Angela McCourt, Frank grew up in Limerick after his parents returned to Ireland because of poor prospects in America. Due to the Great Depression, Malachy could not find work in America. However, things did not get any better back in Ireland for Malachy. A chronically unemployed and nearly unemployable alcoholic, he appears to be the model on which many of our more insulting cliches about drunken Irish manhood are based. Week after week, Angela would be home expecting her husband to come home with money to eat, but Malachy always spent his wages on pints at local pubs. Frank’s father would come home late at night and make his sons get out of bed and sing patriotic songs about Ireland by Roddy McCorley and Kevin Barry, who were hung for their country. Frank loved his father and got an empty feeling in his heart when he knew his father was out of work again. Frank described his father as the Holy Trinity because there is three people in him, “The one in the morning with the paper, the one at night with the stories and prayers, and then the one who does the bad thing and comes home with the smell of whiskey and wants us to die for Ireland” (McCourt 210). Even when there was a war going on and English agents were recruiting Irishmen to work in their munitions factories, Malachy could not keep a job when he traveled to England.
. He edges his way toward the outer fringes and then suddenly shot to the opposite side of the street.
I hesitantly go in and treaded for about 30 seconds out of a minute. I didn’t finish because I knew trouble was going to happen, I already couldn’t stand up.
“Mr. Driver, you can leave our luggage in your car, thank you.” And off they went to start a new adventure!
The sweat began to pour from my body, while my heart raced to pump blood at an accelerated rate. The chase was on.
track my engine shut off and forced me to coast the car to the finish line.
McCann et al. Belfast: Institute of Irish Studies, 1994, 95-109).
In this route there is a strange, one way underpass. It is a very dangerous spot and I knew that. I had always looked very