Another Irish Gathering

I held the single-page lunch menu and perused it for the third time until my eyes widened when my gaze settled upon "Prime roast sirloin of Irish beef and potatoes." With that little chore out of the way, I placed the mimeographed list back on the cedar table in front of me and saw that Billie had already done the same.
     "I'm glad we could get a table so quickly," she said adding: "It's quite a line out there."
     Orla, Michael's wife, turned to Billie and smiled, "Darlin', it never hurts when you know the owner."
     Michael lowered his menu and said, "Orla, here, went to grade school with Bobby Byrnes' wife, Fiona. We eat here whenever we go to Limerick."
     Flan inched his chair a bit closer to the table and lightly traced his finger around his lips then faced his cousin, asking:  "What's good here, Mike?"
     "Do you like fish? Michael asked.
     Flan raised his left eyebrow and quipped: "Am I Irish??"
     This caused a wave of chuckles from the clan of grand-uncles, grand-aunts , and secondcousins who were sitting around the longest table at the famed restaurant.
     "True. . .true. . ." one of my cousins admitted.
     "I always have 'herb crusted fillet of cod,' when Fiona and I eat here," said Michael.
    "Mmmmmm, sounds delicious" Flan said.
     "Me too" echoed most of the clan.
     Billie and I were silent.
     Almost on cue, a young waitress with flaming red hair and a light green order pad in hand approached the table of cousins and smiled: "Good day to yous, me name is Coleen and I'll be bein' yer waitress. Can I be of help, now?"
     As Coleen was speaking. menus were passing hand to hand so she could take them when she left. A few minutes later she was scribbling the last order on to her green pad then smiled and turned away.
     I busied myself by counting the mortared grey stones that formed the wall behind me. Every so often, my gaze was captured by the framed pictures of past rugby champions,  next to some autographed tote bags from sponsors of the team. One blue bag that was stenciled with the word "Toyota" hung beside a similar red and white bag that bore the name "1st Limerick Bank." Then my eyes traveled to the old wooden wine barred that stood upright and had been transformed into small tables for two. This was not outdone by the exspansive black fireplace in the opposite wall.  I knew now why my cousin returns here so often. As I was about to check out the flat screen televisions that hung from the overhead beams, a questioning voice delayed my inspections.
"Hell-o, Earth to Paddy. . . .Earth to Paddy. . . ." Billie nudged me.
     "Oh, wow, sorry."  I looked to see the entire clan smiling as they looked my way.
     "He has this habit of counting things. Strange things." Billie informed them all. They looked my way, and asked "What was it this time?"
     I calmly answered and pointed my thumb to the area behind me, and replied: "There's 537 rocks in the wall here."
The laughter was interrupted by the appearance of a middle- aged woman, with her brown hair tied back, and dressed in a pink paisley-covered dress.
     Michael grinned in surprise, while Orla immediately stood and greeted the woman with open arms. "Fiona, how are you?"
    Fiona Byrnes kissed her old friend on her cheek, and then turned to face the small reunion of Spaights. "I'm so glad yous made it. Michael told me he had planned on this for months." She looked at Michael and asked, "Where are your American cousins?"
      Michael leaned back in his chair and answered,"right over there, Fiona.  That's Jim and his lovely wife, Billie."
     Fiona walked behind us and we turned around to face her.
"I hope our little town has kept you interested" she said.
"Ya know, if you haven't already, you should plan on takin'
a trip to the Frank McCourt museum. I hear that his brother oftentimes shows up to give walking tours of the neighborhood."
   Billie spoke up enthusiastically,  "Paddy and I went on that tour the day before yesterday. It was wonderful and yes, Malachy showed us around."
    Within a short while both women were talking to each other like old friends. And I began to think of the very tour of which they spoke. . . .

Back on March 16th, when I booked our flight to Ireland, our only plan aside from meeting one of my Irish relatives was to go on the famed "Angela's Ashes Tour."  The tour was an idea created by Malachy McCourt, the brother of the Pulitzer prize winning novelist, the late Frank McCourt. Malachy loved his brother intensely and shared many of the chilhood experiences that his brother wrote so eloquently about in his famous memoir.
After crossing the Sarsfield bridge that spans the idle river named Shannon,  we turned left on the short Liddy street till we saw Honan's Quay which led into our destination at Arthur's Quay. But please don't ask me what a "Quay" is.  I do know that it was a trip which lasted barely five minutes. We saw a small group of older men huddled together and one of them raised a hand to signal we were in the right place.  I quickly found out that this white-haired man was Malachy McCourt, himself.  His reddish complexion, snowy-white hair, ample stomach, and alligator eyeglasses made me think of my favorite uncle.  I stopped my staring long enough to realize another couple had joined our small group which prompted Malachy to commense the tour.  Our first stop was Leam House  at the end of the Quay.  Malachy pointed out that this place was a hospital where his brother was treated for Typhoid fever at the age of four.  He added certain passages from Frank's book to spark our imagination into feeling his brother was right there among us.
"After a terrible illness, I knew I was going to be okay.  And the reason I knew was because one day while being examined, the doctor reached over me and farted.  Now, what kind of a docter would dare fart standing over a dying youg boy?"
Our group then meandered through another short way.  Malachy said it is called Barrington Lane and it is the place where Angela(his mom) met Malachy (his dad).  Although the house itself was demolished, he pointed out that it would have resembled any of these houses that remained.  Onward we travelled through a row of attached two-story houses that framed a cobblestoned street all called Carroll's Row.  The group stopped to hear that Frank, like many young men who reached the age of 16, was led into South's Pub at the corner for his first pint of ale.  To his friends dissapointment, Frank became sick after finishing his first glass and ran out of the back of the pub to head home.
After Malachy described the impoverished and disease-ridden conditions of those times, he smiled to see a sea of sullen-looking faces.  He finished up with, "Does anybody have any questions for me?"
I don't normally ask questions, especially when I'm in a group, but something was gnawing at me ever since I first saw the tiny band of snowy-haired older men.  I decided to leave caution to the wind, then raised my arm and said, "Yeah, Hi, my name is Jim and I wanna know this: does every old guy have white hair here. 'Cause If so, could you point me to the back of the line where I can get some."
"Uuugh" I blurted, after Billie's elbow rebounded off my stomach.
She said "Don't you think you're a little late to be worrying about that now?"
I smiled and joined the rest of the group laughing.

"538" Flan finished. "Aye, 538"
I returned to the present and asked, "538 what?"
My cousin answered, '538 stones, Jim, you missed one."

I smiled wide knowing my short stay in Ireland has given me memories and loved ones that I will always treasure.

Reviews

[sm]

The story nicely portraits the scenes and it is in perfect chronological order. Story is self explaining and no inferences needed, that is the best part.