Irish Reader!

My blog welcome screen has a free Flag Counter, and it tracks the countries readers are from. I've had visitors from 45 countries, the 45th being Ireland--my newest flag! [Took you long enough--I've been blogging since early February. JK.]

Was it a man or a woman? Young, old, rich, poor? Black Irish, with dark hair, or fair Irish? A student? A traveler? Someone who works in a pub? A farmer? A writer? An innkeeper? What county? Do you like tea? Whiskey? Potatoes? Fine Irish linen?

Irish Roots
My grandfather, Jim Mahon, and his siblings left their family farm [and their mother, Mary] in County Galway to come to America. It was before 1922. I don't know the exact year, or much about the farm, but I think they had a cow. They were poor. Grandpa told us a colorful story about how his brother, Martin, jumped ship and swam part of the way, but exactly why, and my memory of the details, is unclear. Here's how the siblings fared:

Jim: At 34, he married my grandmother, Alice Rooney, a pretty black-eyed New York City girl of 17. Her mother died in childbirth and Alice spent years in an orphanage, which must have been very dark and hard. Her father sold seltzer water from a horse-drawn buggy. Alice knew the landlady at the boarding house where Jim lived, so they met. He gave her a moonstone ring. They never had much money, but they had my mother, Anne, whom they doted on, and three boys, Jim, Jack and Malachy. All four went to college--my grandmother made sure of that. They all belonged to a study club run by their Catholic priest, Father Brady. My grandfather had twinkling blue eyes and worked as an elevator operator for part of his life. He had a thick brogue and used the world "indeed" a lot, which I found curious as a girl. To me, he was a charming, encouraging grandfather who lived in Dumont with my grandmother. He read avidly, books and The Daily News. But to be perfectly frank, to his children, I gather that there were disappointments that his drinking probably caused. My grandmother used to say she had to "go to the saloon on payday to get his check before he drank it all." She and my mother [who adored her Dad] would most likely not like that I am writing this. I'm sorry, Granny and Mom. I don't mean to hurt anyone but in fact think it may help someone to face and acknowledge behaviors like this.

Martin: After his swim, he headed for Connecticut, where he was a gardener, chauffeur or both. He married dark-haired Helen, who would become one of my grandmother's closest contemporaries. Martin and Helen had a son and a daughter; Sis was the adorable redheaded flower girl in the daughter's wedding. The son would grow up to have a big family of his own on Long Island, and in the category of small, small, small world, when driving to Cape Cod last year with our good friend Michael, we would connect the dots and learn that his close friend at Notre Dame, Jack Mahon, was Martin's grandson.

Peggy: She was my mother's favorite aunt. She was a nurse, and had a son [Arthur], who was nicknamed Major and had a beautiful wife named Gladys. I liked Aunt Peggy a lot, too. She was happy and optimistic and had those Irish blue eyes. Biggest irony: My paternal grandparents came from Italy, but my first taste of lasagna was at a Mahon family renuion--Aunt Peggy brought a big pan of lasagna that she had made following the Ronzoni box recipe. It was delicious, rich with creamy ricotta and melty mozzarella. And it led my Irish mother to make lasagna, too...a welcome addition to our family meals.

Julia: The legend about Julia is that her husband died when he ate bad seafood up in Connecticut. Julia was special to my mother--she was the mother of Pat and Sonny. Pat [Patricia] was my mother's close cousin; they'd spend time in the summer visiting each other in Connecticut or New York City. "Aunt Alice would curl my hair when I visited," Pat told me. When I was a girl, we went to visit Pat and her husband Bob every summer for a party in New Canaan and had a wonderful time. When I last saw Pat, sitting in my grandma's rocking chair for a visit, she looked so much like my mother that I thought for a minute she was my mother. I had to reboot inside and carry on, managing a conversation without freezing over the similarity between the two. I felt as though I saw my mother that day. It was jarring, but a gift.

Pat: There may have been more siblings, but this is the last one I know by name. Uncle Pat stayed in County Galway and published a book of ghost stories. My mother showed it to me, and I began corresponding with him. I wish I had the book and his letters now. Pat's son, Oliver, and his wife, Peggy, came to New York in the 1980s; Sis and I got together with them. They invited us often to come to Ireland to visit them, but we never have. I would so love to go. We used to exchange letters a lot, but now we've lost touch. Another goal: Reconnect with Oliver.

Irish Flower Buds
You mean we have relatives in Ireland and you didn't tell me? Can we go there? Please? Figgy has said more than once. She's also asked if they have colleges there that teach art.

Teens and their dreams--a blue-eyed young man was eager to leave County Galway for America's promised land and now, his great-granddaughter, who inherited his blue eyes, would love to follow his popcorn trail back to check out a place she has never seen.