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.