Everyone with Irish roots,
By Connie Wright
wave your dish towel!I guess it's basic to human nature to be curious about your ancestors and ethnic heritage. Everyone probably harbors a secret hope that somebody really influential or important might be lurking in the branches of the family tree.
In fact, an entire industry has developed in response to the growth of this preoccupation, which seems to be prevalent among Americans, and particularly those of Irish, Scottish or shall we just be ethnically correct and say Celtic ancestry.
For a hundred dollars or so, for example, you can obtain a lineage report from dozens of sources in Ireland. Do-it-yourself lineage computer programs are now available. You can also purchase a variety of items emblazoned with your family crest and tartan apparel, ranging from scarves to kilts.
This month, with St. Patrick's Day looming on Wednesday, those of us of Irish ancestry, even the most cynical, can get a little nostalgic.
Vivid among my childhood reminiscences is the image of my parents and visiting relatives from the Bronx sitting around the kitchen table at our house in Connecticut during the traditional Saturday night party singing, "I Will Take You Home Again, Kathleen," "Galway Bay," "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling," and the three-hanky "Danny Boy."
This yearning for the "old country" was very genuine. As tough as life was in early 20th-century Ireland, the bad times were somehow edited out of these reflections that focused for the most part on the beauty of the land itself.
Of my immigrant grandparents, the only one still alive when I was born was my maternal grandmother, Elizabeth Wallace, who lived with us and cared for me while my parents worked.
She told tales about the mischievous leprechauns and terrifying banshees whose cries could be heard in the wind on stormy nights. She took me on dreamy excursions to the forested Kilkenny countryside and the river she loved, the Nore.
She died when I was four. In the years that followed, the older relatives from New York City could be counted on to comment whenever they saw me, "Isn't she the very picture of Elizabeth?"
I cherished her memory and, when I finally decided to take a trip to Ireland, I dug out the family records and riffled through the stack of birth, baptism, marriage and death certificates to see what I could find out about her.
What I discovered was that she was born in a small village in County Kilkenny called Castlecomer, that she had been married twice and that, when she married her second husband in New York City, she had knocked 10 years off her age and gotten away with it.
I flew into Shannon on Aer Lingus and, as the plane descended, the thick cloud cover parted and the color green was redefined by the countryside below. I was tired from two days of flying but too excited to sleep when we got to our hotel in Clare. We drank coffee in the fireplace-heated dining room overlooking a small golf course where people in the bulkiest sweaters imaginable were playing golf in the rain.
I rented a car and drove to an ancient Irish settlement where a replica of St. Brendan's leather boat was displayed. The 6th-century abbot was said to have crossed the Atlantic in such a craft and, therefore, may have been the first European to reach North America.
I reported this to a British friend when I got back to Hawaii. His response was a scornful, "More Irish b---s---."
On arriving in Kilkenny, I headed for the local tourism office, which was well stocked with literature on the area's historic and scenic attractions, all very well written, which was true of just about every little book or periodical I picked up in Ireland.
I told the friendly lady behind the counter that I was interested in tracking down relatives who might possibly still be living in the area. I watched her reaction closely to detect any indication that she was thinking something like, "Lord save us...another one of those silly Americans looking for her roots." But she just smiled and offered to call a cab driver who specialized in such things.
A young man named Michael O'Brien showed up in a small black sedan, handed me his card which announced that "Distance Is No Object," and advised me that the first place to check was the Catholic Church in Castlecomer where my grandmother was baptized. When we got there we found that the priest had gone to Dublin for the day and no one else was able to research the records.
Michael said the second place to check was the local pub. There we learned that the Wallaces lived just up the road and should probably be at home. I got the phone number and called ahead. Sheilah Wallace immediately invited me to join them for tea.
When we arrived at the small brick house, she was at the door. She welcomed me as if I really were a long-lost relative, and told Michael that he could go along. She and her husband, Eamon, would take care of getting me to wherever I was heading. This would be the train station where I would catch the 5:35 to Dublin.
I was ushered into the kitchen which was scented by the coals in the fireplace and smoke from a hand-rolled cigarette the size of a cigar that Eamon, a retired coal mine worker, was puffing on.
Sheilah brought me a cup of tea that was so strong you could stand the spoon up in it, as the saying goes. We discussed the Wallaces, originally a Scottish clan, and explored how we might be related, which appeared to be through my great-grandfather, Patrick Wallace. As it turned out, most of the Wallaces had moved away and those who had left the country for the United States were in New York City.
After tea, Sheilah took me into the parlor, where the curtains, typically, were kept drawn and the only things really visible were white lace tablecloths and doilies. From a cabinet she produced a green dish towel imprinted with a map of Ireland surrounded by family and county crests and presented it to me. I wondered how many of these she kept on hand and how often she had been through this exercise.
It was almost time for me to catch the train to Dublin. I offered to call Michael O'Brien, but Sheilah said she and Eamon would be happy to take me. It was no trouble and, anyhow, their Jack Russell terrier was expecting his afternoon drive. En route, we visited the Wallace plot in the cemetery beside the Catholic church in Castlecomer.
When I returned to Hawaii I sent the Wallaces a postcard with a picture of Makapuu Point, noting that it looks exactly like the Dingle Peninsula. That was our last contact.
The dish towel with the map of Ireland is much too fine to use, but I take it out of the cabinet every St. Patrick's Day and trace the road to Castlecomer.
Connie Wright is is a Honolulu public relations consultant
whose poetry has been published in several anthologies.
