Family Ties - Ireland

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They say that every stereotype holds a grain of truth. When I went to Ireland, I expected to find a country full of lush, green grass, thatched roofs, peat, and some of the warmest people in the world. I don't know why I expected it to be like that; if it was because of movies, or pictures, or simply because my mother said it would be. My interest in Ireland had come from my mother, who had held a fascination with Ireland for years. I imagine it began when she wouldn't abandon her maiden name of Sullivan, hyphenating it instead. Her attachment to her family, and Ireland, didn't end there: she gave her firstborn the same moniker in the form of a middle name. Years after that, a cousin took interest in genealogy and, after extensive research, located relatives in Newbridge. The family's name was Crehan.

The funny thing about genealogy is that no one is really interested in finding out anything but their own, so I'll spare you the details. The key thing is this: my mother went to Ireland and, four years later, now she was going with me.

I had met some of the family previously, at the cousin's wedding years before. But that was different. Before, they were the guests at a hotel. Now, we were guests at their house. When we arrived at my cousin Ollie's, I was nervous. What do you say to someone who is shy and quiet, is twenty years your senior, who lives on a farm in another country, but just because one hundred years ago and seven generations back you shared a relative, now opens his doors? Per usual, when I don't know what to say, I say a lot. And for when I didn't know what to say, there was ample time to sip the bottle of whiskey that we brought from duty-free, wonderfully prepared warm, with cloves, by Ollie.

Our days on the farm were wonderful, spent hanging out and reading books, drinking at the local pub and taking daytrips to nearby Roscommon to see yet more family, and to Galway to explore. On our last day there, I was up early when Ollie came rushing into the kitchen, his cheeks pink and flushed with a wide smile across his face. "Come, come Courtney, come." I threw on a pair of shoes and struggled with a jacket as Ollie raced away from the house and across the field, his big muck boots sticking in the mud. As we got closer to a fence he slowed and said, "Shhh...look." There, less than 50 feet away, was his sister's horse, a filly by her side. "She's less than an hour old that one." I turned to look at him and smiled. "She's a Good Friday filly."

Ollie turned his head, looking me straight in the eye for the first time since we arrived. "Aye, that she is. I knew ya wanted to see her."

We watched the mother for a little while longer, not wanting to get too close. I left Ollie to do his chores and returned to pack my things, content.

I imagine that we overwhelmed Ollie; my mother and me, her sister and yet another long-lost cousin from England. I suppose he was frustrated and maybe a bit embarrassed when his broguish accent made it too difficult for anyone but myself to understand what he was saying. At the same time, I think that he was glad for the company, no matter how removed, and that I was there, to appreciate the beauty of a newborn filly.

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