In my wallet I have a dollar bill that belonged to my father. I keep it right behind the most recent pictures of my sons. What’s special about this tattered bill is that Corporal Jack Collins, 1769417 USMC decided he would type and handwrite his military travel itinerary on it. So on the front, to the left of Washington’s face my father has printed in blue ink:
California
Japan
Korea
Pyong-Taek, Korea
Seoul, Korea
California
Japan
Korea
Pyong-Taek, Korea
Seoul, Korea
And to the right of Washington’s face he has typed:
El Toro, Calif.
San Diego, Calif.
Yokuska, Japan
Kobe, Japan
Itami City, Japan
K-3, Poheng, Korea
K-5, Pyeng Taek, Korea
Imsan, Korea
Seoul. Korea
Inchon, Korea
Kyoto, Japan
Negoya, Japan
Osaka, Japan
Sa Na Rae, Korea
Pyong Song, Korea
These lists don’t reflect destinations of choice… these are the places the Marine Corp sent him to hang out of airplanes and do aerial photography. Apart from a family vacation to the Canadian side of Niagra Falls, I don’t think my father ever stepped foot outside of the United States again after he got back from Korea. And that’s a shame because I think he would have loved visiting Ireland and felt right at home there. Which is probably why, when I was first there in 1980-81, I often felt like I was traveling for the two of us; going to places he’d never been, and, I knew, would never go.
El Toro, Calif.
San Diego, Calif.
Yokuska, Japan
Kobe, Japan
Itami City, Japan
K-3, Poheng, Korea
K-5, Pyeng Taek, Korea
Imsan, Korea
Seoul. Korea
Inchon, Korea
Kyoto, Japan
Negoya, Japan
Osaka, Japan
Sa Na Rae, Korea
Pyong Song, Korea
These lists don’t reflect destinations of choice… these are the places the Marine Corp sent him to hang out of airplanes and do aerial photography. Apart from a family vacation to the Canadian side of Niagra Falls, I don’t think my father ever stepped foot outside of the United States again after he got back from Korea. And that’s a shame because I think he would have loved visiting Ireland and felt right at home there. Which is probably why, when I was first there in 1980-81, I often felt like I was traveling for the two of us; going to places he’d never been, and, I knew, would never go.
One dark afternoon in December I was standing in the pouring rain on the side of the road in Middle-of-Nowhere, Co. Kerry. As the water dripped off my nose and my shoes started to sound like wet sponges ever time I took a step, I thought long and hard about my decision to take the last ride. As a rule of thumb, I typically declined any offers that weren’t going “all the way” to the destination scrawled on the scrap of cardboard that I held up. So I should have known better when the last driver stopped and promised to “take me down the road a pace.” It was always better to wait and keep walking in the direction you wanted to go, than take a short ride that ran the risk of leaving you stranded with only cows for company. Also, the darker it got, the less chance I stood of getting picked up... In the daylight I could easily pass as a local trying to get home or back to school. In the dark, I was most assuredly mistaken for an IRA terrorist, an axe murderer, or worse. Despite the soggy discomfort, I convinced myself that this was a character-building experience that, someday, would make me a better person somehow. Squish-squish-squish-splash. Yeah, right.
Towards dinner time a lone car splashed by me, slowing down a little so the driver and passenger could… laugh? point and wonder? toy with me? get a good look so when a picture of me dead in the ditch turned up on the front page of the local paper they could sip their pint and sigh, “Ah, to be sure, I saw that poor lad standing on the side of the road and had I stopped to pick him up he’d still be here with us today.” An hour later, the very same car came splashing towards me from the opposite direction!
The car pulled off to the shoulder on the other side of the road and the window rolled down. A pleasant looking middle-aged woman’s stuck her face out into the rain. “Where are ya trying to get to luv?” She asked.
“Killarney,” I called across the road through the rain.
“Well yer obviously not in any big hurry, are ya?” she smiled.
“Just trying to get there by Christmas.”
“Well, ya got three days — and at the rate yer going you might need all of ‘em.”
A comedian.
“Get in the car, and get outta the rain luv,” she said.
A saviour.
I trotted across the wet road to the passenger side of the car and opened the back door just as a smiling faced little girl about six or seven years old clambered over the back of the front seat to make room for me. I sat my backpack on the seat next to her. “You can have my seat, mister,” she said grinning from ear to ear.
I got in the front seat and ran my hand through my long, wet hair.
“I’m Katherine,” the driver said, “and that one is Maeve,” she said sticking her thumb towards the back seat where Maeve was bouncing up and down.
“I told me mum she should stop for ye, mister,” Maeve said as she stopped bouncing and rested her chin in her hands on the seat back between her mother and I.
“Yea,” Katherine said, “she wanted me to pick you up the first time we passed ya, but we were running late and I told her I’d stop if you was still standing there when we came back.”
“Thanks for stopping,” I said. “I’m John.”
“My brother’s name is John.” Maeve said, bouncing again.
“Half the country’s name is John,” Maeve’s mom said laughing.
Turning to me she said, “well John we won’t be driving to Killarney tonight.”
“That’s OK,” I said. “I’m just happy to be out of the rain for a while.”
“Listen,” Katherine said shifting the car into gear and easing it out onto the road, “if you’re up for a wee bit of adventure why doncha just come home with us, meet the rest of my family, have a hot meal, and get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow I’ll drive you out to a spot where you’re sure to get a ride. Does that sound OK?”
“That sounds grand,” I said.
“Yay!” Maeve exclaimed, bouncing and flying backwards as the car shot off down the road.
As we drove, I filled Katherine in on the details anyone kind enough to pick up a hitchhiker on a dark and stormy night might want to hear. She admitted that my American accent had surprised her. “I wouldn’t have guessed you was a Yank until you opened your mouth,” she said laughing.
“Yeah, you talk funny, mister,” Maeve said, comfortably resting a hand on my wet shoulder.
“You can call me John, Maeve.”
“OK, John. You can call me Maeve,” she said giggling.
“Behave yourself, you,” Katherine said, staring her down in the rearview mirror with a smile that only I could see from the front seat.
“Yes mum,” the child said devilishly.
“If the two of you don’t mind, I need to make one quick stop,” Katherine said as she wheeled the car off the road into the parking lot of a brightly lit supermarket…
And that’s how I found myself pushing a shopping cart through a grocery store at eight o’clock at night with a giddy seven year-old girl skipping beside me and her mother striding down the aisle ahead of us, tossing things into the cart that I could barely push fast enough to keep pace with her. Suddenly it dawned on me as we careened around the corner and headed up another aisle… we were shopping for her family’s Christmas dinner!
Katherine’s house turned out to be right next door to a pub, which was across the street from a gas station/post office, which was across the street from a church, which was across the street from Katherine’s house. That’s it. Her “neighborhood” was basically an intersection in the middle of the Irish countryside with four corners to satisfy your thirst, your soul, and your car’s gas tank. As we unloaded the groceries all was silent across the street, but the pub, which turned out to be owned by Katherine’s sister, was in full swing.
Inside the house I was quickly introduced to Katherine’s husband, Mac, and the rest of the family — none of whom found my presence in their kitchen wolfing down sausage and eggs at nine o’clock at night, the least bit out of the ordinary. In fact, they all gathered ‘round the table and peppered me with so many questions, Katherine finally waved them off with a dish rag declaring: “Enough! Let the poor lad finish his supper in peace. You can give him the third degree in Aunt Margaret’s when he’s done eating and has a pint in his hand.” I had barely finished sopping up the puddles of egg yolk on my plate with a hunk of delicious Irish brown bread when Maeve grabbed my hand and started tugging me away from the table. “C’mon Johnny! Let’s go round to the pub.”
My memory of Aunt Margaret’s pub is a little sketchy after all these years, but here’s what I do remember. It was far from swank. It consisted of one big open room filled with wobbly, low, round tables. There were no chairs. Around each table were four or five wooden barrels about the size of a pony keg. Hell, in another life they probably were beer kegs. Smoke hung thick in the air, clouding the already dim light even more. The bar ran along the back wall and the front wall consisted of a row of windows sporting tattered, yellow shades. Yellow from age, not by design. Despite its dingy interior, the pub was packed, and an indoor carnival-like atmosphere pervaded the room. Laughter, shouting, squeals, faint music, and the sound of clinking glasses, mixed together to form one happy, cacophonous din. And the mixologist presiding over this amazing social cocktail stood behind the bar filling pints, collecting money, and talking to everyone. As soon as she spotted her sister and niece pulling me through the crowd toward the bar she flashed a big smile, and set down the pint of Guinness she was expertly topping off.
“You must be the young Yank,” Margaret said reaching across the bar to shake hands. Then at the top of her voice she proclaimed: “Hey everybody. Say hello to John from America!” A chorus of “Hello John from America” rang out, followed, thankfully, by a lone voice: “Get the lad a pint for Christ’s sake!”
The beer and conversation flowed freely until about eleven o’clock when a cry went up signaling everyone to quiet down, and crouch down. Lights were doused and the bar was swept clean of all glassware. I joined everybody else giggling in the dark and hunkered down under the windowsills while the flashlight beam from the local constabulary danced across the empty tables as it moved from window to window. In the dark somebody stifled a belch. Someone else was less successful at stifling a fart and giggles brimmed into stifled laughter. Outside the pub, gravel flew as the garda’s car roared off into the night. The nightly charade was over. Within seconds the pub was back in full swing as though nothing had ever happened and I, along with all my new-found friends, continued drinking long past the country’s official time for last call.
I awoke the next morning grateful to find myself on a couch and not the floor of the pub, grateful for the smell of fresh coffee brewing, grateful for the neatly folded pile of dry clothes that had appeared in my room, grateful for the sunlight streaming through the lace curtains (hopefully) signaling an end to the rain, and forever grateful for the kindness and generosity that had been bestowed upon me in the spirit of Christmas and Irish hospitality.
Eventually all hitchhike conversations in Ireland get around to matters of ancestry, so I wasn’t too surprised when Katherine finally said “I did a little research and I may have found where some of your relatives are from. If you want, we can take a little detour there before I drop you off on the Killarney road. Your ‘ol da might appreciate you stopping in.” He might indeed, I agreed…
The car pulled off to the shoulder on the other side of the road and the window rolled down. A pleasant looking middle-aged woman’s stuck her face out into the rain. “Where are ya trying to get to luv?” She asked.
“Killarney,” I called across the road through the rain.
“Well yer obviously not in any big hurry, are ya?” she smiled.
“Just trying to get there by Christmas.”
“Well, ya got three days — and at the rate yer going you might need all of ‘em.”
A comedian.
“Get in the car, and get outta the rain luv,” she said.
A saviour.
I trotted across the wet road to the passenger side of the car and opened the back door just as a smiling faced little girl about six or seven years old clambered over the back of the front seat to make room for me. I sat my backpack on the seat next to her. “You can have my seat, mister,” she said grinning from ear to ear.
I got in the front seat and ran my hand through my long, wet hair.
“I’m Katherine,” the driver said, “and that one is Maeve,” she said sticking her thumb towards the back seat where Maeve was bouncing up and down.
“I told me mum she should stop for ye, mister,” Maeve said as she stopped bouncing and rested her chin in her hands on the seat back between her mother and I.
“Yea,” Katherine said, “she wanted me to pick you up the first time we passed ya, but we were running late and I told her I’d stop if you was still standing there when we came back.”
“Thanks for stopping,” I said. “I’m John.”
“My brother’s name is John.” Maeve said, bouncing again.
“Half the country’s name is John,” Maeve’s mom said laughing.
Turning to me she said, “well John we won’t be driving to Killarney tonight.”
“That’s OK,” I said. “I’m just happy to be out of the rain for a while.”
“Listen,” Katherine said shifting the car into gear and easing it out onto the road, “if you’re up for a wee bit of adventure why doncha just come home with us, meet the rest of my family, have a hot meal, and get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow I’ll drive you out to a spot where you’re sure to get a ride. Does that sound OK?”
“That sounds grand,” I said.
“Yay!” Maeve exclaimed, bouncing and flying backwards as the car shot off down the road.
As we drove, I filled Katherine in on the details anyone kind enough to pick up a hitchhiker on a dark and stormy night might want to hear. She admitted that my American accent had surprised her. “I wouldn’t have guessed you was a Yank until you opened your mouth,” she said laughing.
“Yeah, you talk funny, mister,” Maeve said, comfortably resting a hand on my wet shoulder.
“You can call me John, Maeve.”
“OK, John. You can call me Maeve,” she said giggling.
“Behave yourself, you,” Katherine said, staring her down in the rearview mirror with a smile that only I could see from the front seat.
“Yes mum,” the child said devilishly.
“If the two of you don’t mind, I need to make one quick stop,” Katherine said as she wheeled the car off the road into the parking lot of a brightly lit supermarket…
And that’s how I found myself pushing a shopping cart through a grocery store at eight o’clock at night with a giddy seven year-old girl skipping beside me and her mother striding down the aisle ahead of us, tossing things into the cart that I could barely push fast enough to keep pace with her. Suddenly it dawned on me as we careened around the corner and headed up another aisle… we were shopping for her family’s Christmas dinner!
Katherine’s house turned out to be right next door to a pub, which was across the street from a gas station/post office, which was across the street from a church, which was across the street from Katherine’s house. That’s it. Her “neighborhood” was basically an intersection in the middle of the Irish countryside with four corners to satisfy your thirst, your soul, and your car’s gas tank. As we unloaded the groceries all was silent across the street, but the pub, which turned out to be owned by Katherine’s sister, was in full swing.
Inside the house I was quickly introduced to Katherine’s husband, Mac, and the rest of the family — none of whom found my presence in their kitchen wolfing down sausage and eggs at nine o’clock at night, the least bit out of the ordinary. In fact, they all gathered ‘round the table and peppered me with so many questions, Katherine finally waved them off with a dish rag declaring: “Enough! Let the poor lad finish his supper in peace. You can give him the third degree in Aunt Margaret’s when he’s done eating and has a pint in his hand.” I had barely finished sopping up the puddles of egg yolk on my plate with a hunk of delicious Irish brown bread when Maeve grabbed my hand and started tugging me away from the table. “C’mon Johnny! Let’s go round to the pub.”
My memory of Aunt Margaret’s pub is a little sketchy after all these years, but here’s what I do remember. It was far from swank. It consisted of one big open room filled with wobbly, low, round tables. There were no chairs. Around each table were four or five wooden barrels about the size of a pony keg. Hell, in another life they probably were beer kegs. Smoke hung thick in the air, clouding the already dim light even more. The bar ran along the back wall and the front wall consisted of a row of windows sporting tattered, yellow shades. Yellow from age, not by design. Despite its dingy interior, the pub was packed, and an indoor carnival-like atmosphere pervaded the room. Laughter, shouting, squeals, faint music, and the sound of clinking glasses, mixed together to form one happy, cacophonous din. And the mixologist presiding over this amazing social cocktail stood behind the bar filling pints, collecting money, and talking to everyone. As soon as she spotted her sister and niece pulling me through the crowd toward the bar she flashed a big smile, and set down the pint of Guinness she was expertly topping off.
“You must be the young Yank,” Margaret said reaching across the bar to shake hands. Then at the top of her voice she proclaimed: “Hey everybody. Say hello to John from America!” A chorus of “Hello John from America” rang out, followed, thankfully, by a lone voice: “Get the lad a pint for Christ’s sake!”
The beer and conversation flowed freely until about eleven o’clock when a cry went up signaling everyone to quiet down, and crouch down. Lights were doused and the bar was swept clean of all glassware. I joined everybody else giggling in the dark and hunkered down under the windowsills while the flashlight beam from the local constabulary danced across the empty tables as it moved from window to window. In the dark somebody stifled a belch. Someone else was less successful at stifling a fart and giggles brimmed into stifled laughter. Outside the pub, gravel flew as the garda’s car roared off into the night. The nightly charade was over. Within seconds the pub was back in full swing as though nothing had ever happened and I, along with all my new-found friends, continued drinking long past the country’s official time for last call.
I awoke the next morning grateful to find myself on a couch and not the floor of the pub, grateful for the smell of fresh coffee brewing, grateful for the neatly folded pile of dry clothes that had appeared in my room, grateful for the sunlight streaming through the lace curtains (hopefully) signaling an end to the rain, and forever grateful for the kindness and generosity that had been bestowed upon me in the spirit of Christmas and Irish hospitality.
Eventually all hitchhike conversations in Ireland get around to matters of ancestry, so I wasn’t too surprised when Katherine finally said “I did a little research and I may have found where some of your relatives are from. If you want, we can take a little detour there before I drop you off on the Killarney road. Your ‘ol da might appreciate you stopping in.” He might indeed, I agreed…
When I eventually returned home to the states, my father and I had a good laugh over Mountcollins — where some of our relatives “might be from.” Chnoc Uí Choíleáin is referred to as a “village,” but like Katherine’s “neighborhood,” Mountcollins turned out to be nothing more than an intersection of two, two-lane roads in the far southwest-of-nowhere, County Limerick. On one corner there was a grocery store, across the street was a post office, across from that was a pub, and completing the square, of course, was a church. Much to Jack’s dismay, the lone watering hole in Mountcollins was painted bright pink. “It figures,” he laughed when I showed him the photo I had taken.
According to the Wikipedia, the grocery store and the post office in Mountcollins closed a few years ago. I assume the pink pub and the church are still there duking it out.
Lyndhurst, Ohio
Cleveland, Ohio
New York, New York
London, England
Exeter, England
Holyhead, Wales
Dun Laoghaire, Ireland
Dublin
Galway
Lisdoonvarna
Listowel
Mountcollins
Killarney…
Belfast’s Ghost of An American Airman might sound a little too much like the well-known Dublin band that inspired them, but that’s OK. Their music is catchy and energetic, their words are heartfelt, and if sounding a little bit like U2 is the biggest strike against you, I think you’re doing pretty good. Today’s Happy Medium Song of the Day is “Walking Jack” from the 1992 release, Life Under Giants. That’s “Jack” as in Jack Kerouac, not Jack Collins, but “Walking” as in “the spirit of all travelers” wherever they may roam. (Please use the comments box to share your thoughts.)
According to the Wikipedia, the grocery store and the post office in Mountcollins closed a few years ago. I assume the pink pub and the church are still there duking it out.
Lyndhurst, Ohio
Cleveland, Ohio
New York, New York
London, England
Exeter, England
Holyhead, Wales
Dun Laoghaire, Ireland
Dublin
Galway
Lisdoonvarna
Listowel
Mountcollins
Killarney…
Belfast’s Ghost of An American Airman might sound a little too much like the well-known Dublin band that inspired them, but that’s OK. Their music is catchy and energetic, their words are heartfelt, and if sounding a little bit like U2 is the biggest strike against you, I think you’re doing pretty good. Today’s Happy Medium Song of the Day is “Walking Jack” from the 1992 release, Life Under Giants. That’s “Jack” as in Jack Kerouac, not Jack Collins, but “Walking” as in “the spirit of all travelers” wherever they may roam. (Please use the comments box to share your thoughts.)