2023/40 JEN HOLE'S LAST SONG

Good Friday started for us in Ireland this year, and ended in a ferry journey across the water and into Wales. That crossing brought to us one of life’s most treasured memories in a trip bursting with magical moments. It brought us one last visit with Jen.

We first knew the Holes and Daniels as stalwarts in the gospel when my brother spent three years in Wales. But my personal relationship with them began when our son served in the Bristol England Mission, which included South Wales. When we came to Wales to retrieve him after his mission, we gathered in a small church in Swansea with fellow saints. They encircled our boy, quite literally, and sang to him. 

Well keep a welcome in the hillside.

Well keep a welcome in the Vales

This land you knew will still be singing

When you come home again to Wales.

This land of song will keep a welcome

And with a love that never fails,

Well kiss away each hour of hiraeth

When you come home again to Wales.

 

We listened, watched, and wept. So did our boy. Every Welshperson I’ve ever met knows that song.

A few years later, when we were traveling with Seatrek 2001, performing the oratorio I helped write, we stayed with Jen and her family. I performed a separate concert for the people of Swansea. When I finished, someone in the audience rose and started singing. The whole crowd of them rose and joined in… "We’ll keep a welcome in the hillside….” Once again I watched and wept.

Through the years since then Jen has visited in the US and we have been able to reconnect. Years between embraces melt away every time.

THE HOLE KIDS
Nancy, Glenn, David and Paul

Jen and Jeff and the kids

The Hole Gang at Christmas dinner
(I borrowed all these photos from their social media pages)

Sisters

Jeff and Jen

Less than two weeks ago, when we boarded the plane to visit my sister in London, I messaged Jen to see if we might meet up at some point. She responded that she was in hospital and would regrettably miss seeing us this time. She had cancer. Not wanting to push anything, I thought perhaps she had had a bone marrow transplant and could not have visitors.

We spent five lovely days with my sister and her husband, who are serving a temple mission in London. We were able to visit Cornwall and St Fagan’s in Cardiff.  Then Ann Marie and Mike went on to London for a few days’ vacation (the temple was closed for two weeks), and Dave and I went on to journey through Ireland. As the time to board a ferry and return to Wales approached I had a recurring desire to see Jen, so much so that I contacted her son Glenn to see how she was doing and if there was even a small chance to stop and wave at her through the hospital window. We would shift our plans however necessary. Glenn, who lives is Canada, contacted his sister Nancy who contacted us. It turns out Jen was not in a good way. She had taken a turn for the worst in her last planned chemo treatment and they decided they could not do anything more to save her. They had begun palliative care. 

Nancy talked to the hospital staff and arranged to get us in, even though it was nearly midnight, so we could see her mum. Nancy met us at the door, a white hospital blanket wrapped around her tired shoulders. We wept when we hugged. I knew, then, that this was holy ground we were walking on. We weaved through the hallways to Jen’s little hospital room. There was a small thin mattress on the floor by the doorway, evidence of children whose love and devotion were part of their eternal bond with their mother. Her grown children made sure she was not left alone each night, and  took turns spending the night on that small cushion on the floor. 

Jen was sleeping. The faint light of the machines around her reflected off her hairless head.

“Mum. Mum, you have visitors.”

Nancy bent over her mother and woke her gently, then moved aside to I could bring my face closer to hers. She opened her heavy eyelids, then raised her brows and whispered; “Cori? Cori?”

I laughed the laughter of friends happily reunited.

“Yes, Jen. Yes, its me! Dave and I came to see you.”

She looked endlessly straight into my eyes. A long, comfortable, eternal gaze. I could not move my eyes from looking into hers, that beautiful welcoming blue that has always been so inviting. Her lips repeated over and over. “I can’t believe you came.” I giggled, “Of course we did. We love you. We love you.” I had to stop myself from repeating it too much… as if there could be too many “I love you’s.”

She asked if I would sing her a song. Her sister Vanessa, and her husband Gary were with us, virtually, through a tiny phone screen. She had been keeping vigil with her sister for days, as were Jen’s children who lived too far away to touch. They asked for a couple songs I wrote; Sisters and Idaho Wind. I sang them, stumbling through them acapella and in far too high a key for my aging vocal chords. I leaned in close to her, almost heart to heart, our eyes never breaking the connection. She looked over at one point and saw Dave in the dark corner. “David! Thank you for coming.”

It reminded me of the scene in Sense and Sensibility when Colonel Brandon had brought Marianne’s mother to her as she lay near death. Marianne sees him in the corner and whispers, “Colonel Brandon. Thank you.” That alone was enough for all the effort it had taken him to reunite them. My David would change any plan, and drive after a very long day to get us to the hospital, because his heart is that good and selfless. Dave slipped into the dim light and took Jenn’s warm, soft hand. “Thank you.” She repeated to him.

“Remember Jen,” I said, “When we came to stay with you and you kicked Nancy out of her bed so you could give it us? She had to sleep upstairs with the boys. Thank you, Nancy!”

Jen nodded her head, the corners of her mouth turning up. I could hear Vanessa's laughter through tears from the speaker on the phone on the table over Jenn's knees.

“And then, remember when you came to the states at Christmastime and we went to the Tabernacle Choir Concert in Salt Lake? And we got our friend to take us all down into the basement of the Conference Center where the giant organ pipes are housed?”

Again, her chest rose and fell with quickness, and she nodded.

“We may not have done a whole lot, but what we have done sure has been wonderful, hasn’t it?”

She was too weak to speak many words, but the language of love sang a full oratorio that night. 

She was getting too weary, and we knew we should go.

“Would it  be ok if we prayed together?” I asked. 

And so I prayed over my friend, Jen Hole. Prayed words to represent all of us. Asked our Lord to ease her journey. Asked him to bless her family. I held one hand, Nancy held the other. It was like Jenn was a conduit of love.

Afterward, when I told her that we would be going, I asked if we could all sing one last song together. 

“Today is Good Friday, you know. The saddest of all days in history. Yesterday would have been the day our Lord had washed feet, broken bread, and given a new commandment. This woman lying in a hospital bed near Swansea exemplified the fulfilment of that commandment. She lived it purely and wholly.”

I started with the tune and the words… As I have loved you…. The others joined in, Nancy from her faithful spot beside her mum, Vanessa and Gary from their devoted chairs in Utah, Dave and I standing on the opposite side of her bed… all of circled around this pillar of love…

Love one another,

This New Commandment, Love One Another

By this shall men know ye are my disciples

If ye have love, one to another.

I lowered my ear down near Jen’s faintly moving lips, to hear the whisper of her last song.

Today, Easter Sunday, Jen flew up to her Lord.

If she had any say in the matter, I believe she would have chosen this very day, because of the message of eternal hope it offers.

Faithful to the end. Devoted and loving to the end. Beloved even still.

I called Nancy this evening to see if she was ok. The family had gathered in her house for Easter dinner, prepared by her loving sister-in-law. Jenn had known they had made plans to share this meal. Nancy said she kind of thought her mum may have sped things up so she would not interrupt the gathering of her most precious treasures in her journey back home. As it turned out, Paul and Nancy had her hand at the very end, both of them having dedicated each night committed to never leaving their mother alone. David had gone to fetch their dad, Jeff. Glenn was aching, from far across the sea, to jump through space and be there with the family. Each of her children and her sister kept vigil, in every way they could, from where they had to be. Thank the Lord for modern technology that makes such a thing possible.

I suggested to Nancy that perhaps Jen took the big leap when she did so she herself could join them. It was the safest way to get there. No doubt she did.

Jen is fine, I’m sure of it. She is feeling so much better and is connecting with her longed-for mother and others. Now it's up to the rest of us to allow the Comforter to do what he has promised to do, for us, and every other soul who knew and loved Jennifer Hole.

Tonight we are feeling a goodly portion of hiraeth. A longing for what feels like home.  I expect that is a bit of us longing for heaven. Keep a place for us there, dear Jen. Until we meet again.

Her finest treasures

In her happy place. Surrounded by family.

2023/39 KATHY OLESON'S EASTER JOURNEY

My old friend Kathy sat beside me on the first pew in our chapel, up front, where we both ended up sitting after bearing our testimonies in church two weeks ago. Kathy had stood to witness to all or us that she loved her Lord. Then she asked, against her timid nature, if we would mind praying for her. “I’m having surgery and feel like I need some extra prayers.” 

Kathy is a faithful soul. If I were in need of prayers, I would want hers. 

Kathy and her husband, Paul.

I’ve known her since before she was baptized into our church. I rejoiced with our friends and neighbors when she entered the waters of baptism. Her husband Paul would stand in testimony meeting when she was not yet a member and tell her from the pulpit that one day she would embrace this gospel. I remember thinking that was rather forward of Paul to do. But by golly, he was right. She did embrace this pathway to our Lord. She has walked it faithfully ever since.

She has the heart of a disciple, ministering and nurturing according to the whisperings of the Spirit. We have been on the receiving end of her graciousness too many times to count. She is gentleness and kindness personified. If you’ve ever received one of Kathy’s pecan pies, you would have tasted her love. Its divine.

In December, before my concert, she called and asked if I wanted the strawberries she had picked from her garden and frozen for the winter. She knew I made jam to sell as a fundraiser for orphan children. When I make jam from Kathy’s berries I write a little “K” on the top, so I know this is the prime jam. In my mind’s eye I see her bent over in her garden, scrunched down there close to the earth, picking those tiny, sweet berries. These are not the big grocery store ones, with a hint of strawberry flavor. A bag of these little super flavorful berries is a trove of treasure. Kathy gives these things away freely.

Kathy and her precious daughter, Katherine.

Years ago, I spent ten days in the hospital with pancreatitis. Kathy was an administrator at Salt lake Regional Hospital at the time, the same hospital where I was staying. Every single day Kathy came to visit me. A sit-down-and-be-together kind of visit, not just an “I hope you’re ok. Bye.” pop-your-head-in kind of visit. Not that those aren’t a message of love as well. My heart cinched itself to her one day at a time during that stay. 

Recently Kathy had been feeling a lack of her usual energy, so she went to her doctor. Turns out there was an issue with her heart. It wasn’t the kind of thing that would work itself out. So, she and her medical team decided that surgery was the route she would take.

I asked her, as we both sat there in the first pew two weeks ago, if she had confidence in her doctor. She is an astute woman, has worked for a long time in the medical field, and she had done her research on qualifications. She had confidence in his skill. Still, something in her compelled her to ask for prayers.

And so, we prayed. She has been in the prayers Dave and I say together, in my private prayers, in our family prayers and our ward prayers.

She had the surgery Monday. Things seemed ok.

And then they didn’t. 

Because I’m in England and Ireland my sister Libby has had to keep me posted. It seems every worst-case scenario has happened. One night, from my hotel room in Cornwall, I spent into the wee hours sending individual texts to our ward members, calling them to prayer. If you know the people in this community of worshipers in the Somerset Ward of the LDS church, you’d know the response. I imagined little pierced holes of light above our neighborhood as prayers were sent up immediately.

Of course, we know there’s no arithmetic in prayers. I don’t think there’s an accountant up in Heaven counting the prayers then doling out blessings. We understand the Lord knows more than we do. What kind of God would we be worshiping if we thought we knew better than him? But we also know He has invited us to communicate with him, and to ask for the righteous desires of our hearts. So, we pray.

Sometimes we don’t like the answers.

Tonight, Holy Saturday, we entered Easter Vigil at Westminster Abbey in London. Every seat was filled, and then they shut the massive wooden doors. The only light was the moonlight streaming through stained glass windows. They lit the Paschal candle, then one by one that single candle passed its light to the hundreds of candles held by each person there. We watched as darkness gave way to a brilliant glowing light. The choir sang, with the angelic high soprano notes of young choir boys ringing with purity, echoing off the cathedral walls. The liturgy was spoken in beautiful British tones. Prayers were given. Eucharist was offered and received. As we followed along with each word of the two-hour service, we were struck by how much of the words, beliefs and practices of another religious path follows the religious pattern of our church. We are all united in Christ.

We stood together and spoke the Lord’s Prayer. We did not need to read it. Few people did. We all knew it.

There was a moment, just after 9 pm, when I felt a pulsing warmth. The choir sang a hymn where the choir boys carried the part of the angels, the basses held a solid deep melody, and the tenors and baritones owned their own melodies. They all overlapped, even with their different songs, in a passionate and beautiful harmonic musical dance. I raised my head, and watched as incense rose, up past the crowds, past the altar and the choir and into the highest chambers of the cathedral. I imagined at that time my friend Kathy’s spirit being released and flying to the Lord she loves. I felt a reassurance that this was a gift to her. She would not have to withstand what would have been a long and excruciating recovery. 

I am not very prone to tears, but they came tonight. Because while I rejoiced at her freeing flight, I also pictured a small grieving family clustered around her, begging her not to have to go, but knowing there was no stopping it. I’ve known her children since they were kids. I’ve seen them go through some tough times. I’ve seen them rise victorious. I’ve watched her bind herself to her beloved grandchildren. She knows their touch, and they know hers. Kathy is fine, I’m sure of it. It’s that little family who loves her and feels a need for her that needs our prayers now.

I can hear her, in my mind’s eye, calling down to us, “Oh my! This is amazing! Come look!” She will move through the gates of a heavenly garden and wonder at the fruits. 

I hear time in Heaven moves at a different rate than here, if there is such a thing as time. She’ll have visited with loved ones already there. She will wash her hands of the weariness of the world, and she will set herself to work. She’ll find herself tomorrow in a deep green patch of heavenly berries and will stand to stretch her spiritual back and turn, putting her hand up to shadow the abundant light. She’ll look a little more closely and see each of us coming. She’ll pull off her gloves and run to us, her hair floating behind her, “Oh, you’re here already?” Then her arms will be safely back around the people she loves.

I have no doubt of it.

If Kathy Oleson had any say in choosing the day she would die it would be perfectly fitting that she would choose the day before Easter to go. She would remind us that just as daylight follows night, so Easter Sunday follows that unimaginable Friday, and the heartache and questions that came with Saturday. She would be sitting with us on Sunday morning, fresh with the hope of new life, worshiping the Savior who made it possible for her, and all of us, to live again… with arms to hug, and lips to kiss, and hearts to beat one against another.

Kathy Johnson Oleson, who loved abundantly, remains beloved, and always will.

2023/38. WHAT PHOTOGRAPHS CAN'T GIVE US

Photographs cannot give you the whole of it. As evocative as they can be, there are too many other human experiences that the eyes alone cannot capture.

As good as the camera on my amazing hand-held minicomputer is, it cannot capture the sounds of an ancient Irish castle: A rhythmic drip of water coming through the stone ceiling, single drops slapping into a puddle in the foot-worn rock floor beneath our feet. A stout middle-aged man smacks the soles of his feet on wooden stairs, purposeful and full of misplaced ego. The slow steps create a haunting feeling against the echoing laughter of a woman in the chamber above us. The cold circular stone staircase in the turret leads to the great hall, where secret conversations can be heard from across the room. Strands of light from slivers of windows streak across heavy tapestries hanging on the walls. The thick woven fibers don’t do much to mitigate the sound bouncing off rock walls, floors, and ceilings.

Once outside, into the damp warm spring air of April in Ireland, we hear the gravel beneath our feet turn soft and quiet as the pathway turns a gentler shade of spongy brown. We hear the squeak and rumble of a wheelbarrow loaded with peat which has been pressed into dark brown bricks. The worker whistles as he shovels the peat into puddles along the path. He pierces the brick with his spade and spreads it around. The thirsty mulch sucks-in the water and obliterates the puddle. 

My hand reaches up along the thick stone fence around the castle grounds, behind which a large multi-tipped buck and two doe graze on the castle lawn. My hand springs back from the cold of the rock wall, then returns to gently brush the soft short cropped moss that grows along the tops, flowing down the sides like the hair of an Emerald Princess. It feels like the Spring herself gave the aging stone wall a fresh new crewcut.

I can show you a photograph of tall leafless trees, but it would not give you the piercing caw of pitch-black crows swooping in and out of their winter worn branches, pregnant with new life and almost ready to burst. The absence of leaves makes the village of nests clearly visible to the humans below. A still shot would not give you the comical dance of a hen bobbing her head as she meanders across the street and into a hedgerow. 

You would not know these nests are here
 once the leaves burst out.

Pictures cannot create the staccato and bend of the treble tones on the strings of a fiddler. We could hear him from the distance as we rounded the bend in the road of the old village outside the castle, an unfamiliar melody with the cadence of an Irish jig. 

 

I need words to explain the chill in the early spring air, nipping at the tip of your nose. 

There’s a hunker-down feeling I get when I walk through a town scented with woodsmoke. Though I tried to catch it, my simple camera would not capture the smoke rising from chimneys all around the village. The scent is the most beautiful and charming to me, more so than any flowers, except perhaps lilacs and hyacinths. I smell woodsmoke and I somehow feel home. Imagine being lost in the woods and smelling smoke coming from somewhere. Would you not follow that scent to the safety of some safe little cottage. (this is how scenes unfold in my sleeping hours. I rarely go to war in my dreams.)

Each home, from the tiniest laborer's cottage to the castle
had fires to warm them. I could not capture the smell of the woodsmoke.

Furthermore, a snapshot could not give you the waltz of white sheets hanging on the clothesline outside your Irish B and B, or the morning sunlight streaming over the green valley and through your bedroom window. It cannot record the faint clanging in the kitchen below, or the aroma of sausage and rashers wafting up the stairs. Nor would it offer the tang of malt vinegar shaken onto a thick crisp piece of deep fried cod in a roadside chippie.

This photograph cannot come close to the sacred marriage of a crisp schoolboy apple caught between a set of teeth, with a nice chunk of creamy Irish Bleu cheese going in at the same time. Or a hefty chunk of shortbread melting like butter in your mouth, or the satisfying blend of butter and sugar in Thorntons toffee.

If I could, I would add to my photographs the laughter of children racing through the streets, in and out of shops, bending at their little waists to squeeze past old crooked pensioners, or sitting in pretend mode at century old school desks - girls on one side, boys on the other. 

No selfie could give you the ache in my legs, being unprepared for so much walking, so much standing, so much climbing steep castle stairs. Or the uneasy feeling of first driving a car in the UK, steering from the opposite side of the car, turning wide and illogically as you repeat in your head, keep left… keep left! Or the shifting of your body back and forth right and left as you drive through narrow hilly, uneven roads and roundabouts.

This photograph cannot show you the acrid tinge of tar and coal smoke in the nostril and the clanging of the blacksmiths hammer, followed by the sizzle of hot pounded iron being dipped in water.

 

No matter how lovely it may look, a piece of paper will not offer the rush and the ripple of waters cutting through a grassy hillside, or the gurgle where it springs up through the soil. I can snap a photo of the Irish hillside through the car window, but what you won’t know is the warmth of long-awaited sunshine through the car window after a long cold winter. Or the brilliance of the shades of blue in the skies above.

 

There is a cold nip at the end of your nose, responding from winter trying for spring. And the happy way your nose feels inside, all hydrated and calm, so different from desert dryness in the thin air altitudes of home. I give in to the frizzy texture of my hair. There’s no use fighting the moisture in the air. Having grown up in the humidity of the eastern US, it feels familiar, in an unruly child sort of way.

No photograph can show you the sacred sound of your sister’s voice after a separation too long. The divine touch of her lips on your cheek and her arms round your shoulders. Nor can it truly represent the steadiness of the arm of someone you love, and who loves you, reaching out to reassure the safety of your steps. 

And only the holiest of pictures and words can whisper the tender reunion of old friends, meeting once again in a Welsh hospital room. One of us is headed home soon. And in the not-too-distant future, the other is headed Home as well. 

Of all we have experienced on this beautiful journey across the sea, nothing can match our experience in that dark little hospital room tonight. Quiet songs and warm rich tears and weary lips repeating "I can't believe you came." The gentle hand of a faithful daughter across the bed from me, and the love of a sister far, far away shining through the screen of a video conference call.

It seems to me no accident at all that we are in this pocket of the earth at this time, when none of us could have known how thin the veil would be for us as it parts for her. It felt like a holy witness, on this Good Friday, that the darkest of days will be followed by light. Godspeed, dear Jenn.

2023/37 PAUSE

Tonight, after we arrived at our bed and breakfast near Limerick.

Our bedroom tonight. Such a charming old home
and lovely hostess.

We unloaded our luggage then went over to Bunratty Castle to have dinner at Durty Nellie’s Bar and Restaurant. The establishment was opened 400 years ago. 

Durty Nellies.

Our plan was to have dinner and then enjoy some authentic Irish pub music, since this is our last night in Ireland. 

“I’m sorry,” our server told us, “There’ll be no music tonight.” 

I wish you could hear the lilt in the Irish accent attached to those words. The language itself is full of music.

At the table in the corner sat a three-generation family. I’ve noticed a few lovely and unique things about Southern Irish social networks in the few days we’ve been here. 

1. Folks are incredibly friendly. 

They stop driving to let you cross the street, even when they have the right of way. They pull over for each other and let each other pass on the narrow curvy roads lined with tall hedgerows or rock walls. There is no, “I was first!” attitude, in general. Of course, there are always exceptions, but in general drivers are remarkably courteous.

One hundred thousand welcomes.
This sign is posted in nearly every home and shop in Ireland.

2. People are happy to pause. 

They stop what they’ve set out to do to have a little chat, give a hug or kiss a neighbor’s cheek. We were driving up to the Filedarrig this morning, where Dave’s ancestors lived. It was a teeny road with a line of row houses up above Chapel Lane. On our way up we passed an elderly woman walking down the steep hill with her shopping cart, a scarf tied over her head and down under her chin. I rolled down my window to say good morning. Fresh Irish air rushed through the window. She paused and noted the beauty of this sunny morning, adding: “How are ye doin’ and where do ye come frum. Goodness, this day looks like it might be a little unsettled. I hope not, fer yer sakes.” Then, “Yes, there are little houses up there, might have been here when yer gram was. A row of them. One is in pretty bad shape, windows broken out and such. A Dutchman bought the two next to it and he’s resurrectin’ ‘em. He’s not here at da time, tho.” 

Back home, we just answer back, “Good morning.” People here are willing to pause.

3. More men seem to gather in gaggles than women here. 

More often, no matter what time of day, there are clusters of men, all ages, chatting and laughing. If there are women, they are there with their families.

4. Extended families spend time together. 

All ages. In most of the pubs and restaurants we visited (the ones that were restaurants more than drinking establishments), there were large tables surrounded by multigenerational clans. Little kids, young adults, middle aged and senior citizens. They talked jovially, and shared space in a kind of rotating, comfortable fashion. Long relaxed meals where they leaned back in their chairs and breathed a little more slowly, letting the day digest with their dinners. I thought how swiftly we in America seem to gulp down a meal and move on to the next task. It makes me feel a bit sad for us.

See that stack of plates on the table?
The woman on the right is the server.
She came over to clear the table for this large family
and just sat down for a chat instead.

That little family in the corner of Durty Nellie’s tonight was just finishing up their dinner. I overheard one of the grandparents ask their grandson, who looked to be about seven years old, “Do you know what today is?” I could not hear his answer through the laughter of the tableful of young men in the other corner. But in a quiet intermission from laughter I heard the grandfather ask, “And who is the most important person then?” I

 looked over at the boy and watched his response: 

“Jesus.”

I had expected that this day was someone’s birthday or some other day for their family to celebrate with dinner. But his response reminded me that today is a holy day, Maundy Thursday, the day feet were washed, a new commandment was given, a last Passover supper was served, a sacramental ordinance was introduced, and twelve faithful disciples became eleven. Tonight, an intercessory prayer was spoken in a garden. 

Of course there is no music in the pub tonight.

It’s fitting for us to pause. 

A holy pause.

 

2023/36 ANOTHER SLEEPY LITTLE TOWN (CASTLETOWNBERE, IRELAND)

Her name is Dorothy. Dorothy, the Librarian in the Castletownbere Library on the lower western tip of the Republic of Ireland, who also works at the Copper Mine Museum close by. We love Dorothy, and she doesn't even know it.

Castletownbere tonight.

I'll take you back to forty years ago, when we were living in Pittsburgh PA. We were four years into marriage. John and Sarah were very little. This was before we moved to Utah. Dave was paying his dues as a young attorney in a major law firm, working very long hours in the city. One night, in the middle of the night, he shot up in bed. I was still nursing and sleep lightly anyway, so I woke right up with him. His heart was pounding and I could sense panic, like he had just had a nightmare. This has never happened before or since. Without taking the time to go into too much detail, it ended up that he had felt, in his own words, the spirit of Elijah warning him to not neglect his family, the one from which he sprang. You'd have to know that Dave is not a dreamer, nor is he a visionary man. He is quite practical and logical, though not past feeling by any means. He was so shaken that night that it remains in my memory... the layout of our bedroom, the blue wallpaper on the walls, the antique bed that we once used and is now in our guest bedroom. And that feeling remains.

David is the only member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in his very large Catholic family, at least that we are aware of. We are not yet aware of others in this large family who may have felt the desire to gather the past and the present together. His maternal grandfather was the eldest of 18 children from Quebec. He is 3/4 French Canadian. But the Connors clan, on his paternal side, claims 1/4 of his bloodline, and that's what was calling to us to come to Ireland.

My sister lent us their car while they stay
in London for a few days.
We took the car ferry over to Ireland. A four hour sail.

Inside the ferry.

Much more comfy for us than our ancestors.

We spent the night in Cork, in a charming hotel, visiting a pub for a few minutes of music. The next morning we stopped for a wee visit at Castle Blarney. That stop would require the full day to inhale, but he had holier plans. 

Our super groovy room at the Dean Hotel
had a record player with Tom Waits ready to 
set the mood for us. So cool!

Bells of Ireland.
A little Irish Spring.

A magnificent blooming apple tree greets us on the grounds of Blarney Castle.

Castle Blarney, built on the rocks from which the castle stones were hewn.

A handsome shadow of a man entering the castle caves.

Corkmalork ( a nick name my mom gave me) in Cork.
The weather does a number on ones hair here.

Mind your head!

So off we drove, through the rolling, windy streets of Southern Ireland, to the lower tip of the peninsula where David had discovered, just three weeks ago, his great-great-grandmother, Johanna Crowley, had been born. She and her family left here when she was 13, according to census records, and emigrated to the US. Many here, in the sleepy little town of Castletownbere, left the Emerald Island for work in the mines of Michigan. Some of them went on to mines in Butte, Montana. They had been copper miners here, in the mine where Dorothy happens to work in the museum. The mines are closed now. But her job includes finding records of the former miners here. In fact, she travels to Butte next month for some of that research.

We came down into this sweet little colorful village, not knowing what or where we would go, Frankly, if nothing else, we wanted to breathe the air and walk the streets and gaze over the waters that had once been familiar to David's ancestors. We searched online for a city hall, or a Catholic Church. We found no direction. So I said, let's look for a library.

Sure enough, there was a teeny library right in town square, next to the fire station. It is roughly the size of our kitchen. It  had the delicious smell of books when we walked in. Dorothy greeted us, and David told her what he was looking for, namely evidence that what he thought about his great great grandmother, was true.

A photograph of the original church
where she would have been baptized.
It was replaced in 1911 with a large rock church.

The volume written  by Ribald O'Dwyer,
who was a primary school teacher
who made it a life's calling to assemble
and record old church records and other histories
in the Ring of Bear, lower peninsula of Ireland.

Johanna's baptismal record shows she was living
in the Filedarrig area when she was born. 

MICHAEL CROWLEY and MARGARET MURPHY
were David's great-great-great grandparents.
Their oldest daughter, Johanna (born June 1848)
was his great-great grandmother.
Her son, John E Connors, was the father to Elwood Connors, (by adoption)
who was father to Dave's dad, Don Connors.

Dorothy immediately took us to a round table tucked in by a window looking out into town square. It was loaded with books and newspapers. She shuffled things over and made her way to a bookshelf, coming back with a thick book.

"There's a gentleman who lived here, he's passed on now, but he made it his life's quest to record all the records of not only our local parish but four others in this area. He collected stories from townspeople, and filled that thick book with information that would connect lives for generations to come." Dorothy said the book is an anomaly in the genealogical world, especially in Ireland. The Irish had not been good at record keeping, and a large fire destroyed many thousands of records in the capitol city during the civil war.

While we talked, Dorothy had to regularly pause and help people at the desk.

"Do you have Three Men in a Boat?"

"Can you please scan a few documents for me?"

Children querried, "Mummy, can I check out this book?"

The phone rang.

Texts came in.

"Oh, good," Dorothy said at one point, "This hat has finally found its owner. Good then!"

Dorothy had found a hat in the street last week. She had picked it up and taken it home, washing it and pressing it out to dry. Then she sent out word, in her sleepy little town, "Is anyone missing this hat?"

Always, she came back to our table and searched with us until we found it, a record proving David's great-great grandmother had indeed been baptized in this parish in 1848. Dorothy was able to explain all sorts of little tidbits you would never know just by looking at a record. How names were notoriously misspelled by English speaking record takers when listening to illiterate Irish persons say things. How illegitimate children were often left out of records, or were marked as being adopted. How people changed their names when emigrating and how they came up with their new ones.

Houses along Chapel Lane, on the hill behind the church.

I wonder if Johanna Crowley may have sat on this rock wall
once upon a time.

Was this her house? Was it her neighbors?
Was it even here then?

This boarded up house, now a garage...
was it here when Johanna was born?

I felt that same spirit that hovered in our bedroom 40 years ago come swirling past us in that little Irish library. Goosebumps rose up. In a palpable way, it sealed this little village to us.

Dorothy made a call to Dennis, up the hill above Chapel Lane, where it was recorded Johanna and her family had lived. Dennis owns a bed and breakfast. It sits grandly on the hill, overlooking the church, the town, the port and the island out in the waters. Island View House Bed & Breakfast. Here is where I sit, while David sleeps beside me, worn out from the physical demands of castle walks and driving on the wrong side of the car and the wrong side of the road when those roads cut and wind with room for only one car to pass. 

The view of the village from our bedroom window.

I am sitting here, my back against a stack of pillows, my computer in my lap, clicking away as the town below us sleeps. I see the full circle in the scene. The man I love, whose name I also carry, is sleeping at home tonight. A long ago home. He has walked the streets of his forefathers and mothers. He has inhaled and exhaled the ocean air. I imagine molecules of breathed air, rotating in and out of generations of lungs. Fathers visiting children unawares. Inhale, exhale, the same wet Irish air.

the mains street, just above the docks at
Castletownbere

I told Dorothy if she ever wanted to come to Salt Lake City to do some research, she was welcome to stay with us. "You can tell a lot about a person in a short time," I said. "You know the character of a soul when you hear she picks up misplaced hats in the street, takes them home to wash them, then seeks to find the owner and get it back to them."

Hats, and people; People and people. Dorothy allows herself to reunite both.

Thanks, Dorothy.