Finding the Heart at Home

What I know academically about Ireland, you could fit in a thimble and still have room for a good taste of Jameson.  Now my wife, on the other hand, can give you dates, events, names, battles, and even literary references from Ireland’s past and nearly present.

However, what I lack from academia, I make up for with firsthand knowledge of Irish people and the essence of their character. My Grandpa, Peter McGlynn (county Sligo) and my grandma, Monica Doyle McGlynn (county Carlow) showed me what it means to have an Irish heart.  My grandparents met and married in Canada after their families emigrated from Britain.  They were the only ones of the McGlynn clan to come to the states.  The Doyle siblings all came to the States, eventually.

So whether in the States or in Canada, when the Doyle’s and McGlynn’s got together; Ireland appeared before your very eyes.

The first thing I remember was laughter. Loud and strong, this laughter emanated from a place deep within, somewhere close to the soul. It’s the place where the love of life and family is born and raised.  No matter what home we gathered in, the walls of the house dripped with the happiness of the people in attendance.  It almost seemed like the building was animated by the presence of so much sheer joy.

Joy in our family is a noisy thing beyond mere laughter.  Laughing would subside, only momentary, so that, the music could begin.  Uncle Charlie broke out his sax, Great Grandpa Alphonsus worked the concertina, Aunt Nora tickled the ivories and Aunt Eileen played the drums.  Where music had begun, dancing was sure to follow by young and old alike.  You needn't be Jean Butler or Michael Flatley to join the dance, because no one really noticed any lack of talent or rhythm.  The music and the laughter carried you like a magic carpet floating above the rocks and twigs of the earth that have caused many a sojourner to trip or stumble.

Food and drink were as bounteous as the laughter and music.  Each new arrival, at the appointed meeting placed, labored to get into the door, arms filled with pots, pans and dishes of all foods imaginable.  Thick aromas blanketed the entire house like a County Cork fog.  The kitchen was filled with more cooks than the Food Channel, with every one better than the last.  Not one of those culinary experts ever got “chopped” from the kitchen. 

There was never a time that fun did not reign as king over our family gatherings. Competitive cards, darts, and word games caused the family to meet in small clusters throughout the house.  When we gathered at Grandma and Grandpa McGlynn’s, their small two bedroom bungalow seemed like mansion with all that was going on inside.  Like the Grinch’s heart transformation, of Dr. Seuss fame, the house seemed to grow “3 times its size”.

Over the years strangers would be welcomed and eventually became family as more and more of the son and daughters, nephews and nieces, brought their prospective spouses into our family parties.  Each and every one was examined thoroughly as they were baptized into the madness and mayhem of music mixed with laughter and beer.  If they could survive the gathering, they had passed the test.

I didn't know it at the time. But my family was teaching me what it means to have an Irish heart.  The lesson was caught and has grown.

Life, Irish life, it seems, is meant to be lived with; a laughter that permeates the rafters, music and dancing that carries you thru, food and drink that sustains you, fun in abundance and family above all.