As I child I would sit at my grandmother's table, among aunts and neighbours, perhaps a postman, a travelling salesman or two, all of them laughing riotously at their tall tales of absent husbands and children and others. It begins there.
The Ghost of Willy O'Neil
“The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window...” “It’s the widow Cronin with the seven weans says she knows about it and herself is the only one. None can see it, except him it is given for being reminded and finding the way.”
A Portrait of Sorts
The station wagon clambered along the dusty trail, over the dry hills from Culcairn. It had been traveling more than twelve hours already. Dad’s mind, always too far from the present, was unable to spare more attention. Thirty miles per hour was his limit. At the age of sixteen I was still to experience the exhilaration of passing another car. The sky was overcast and heavy, as it had been for many hours. The light was fading quickly.
Memories of Childhood and Beyond
Some years ago, I fell upon page 1 of a memoir written by my great great grandfather. Reading it was startling. Although only one page, I felt he was touching me. I knew him and he was speaking to me, knowing me. Looking at his writing, I learned far more about him than the page contained. He died in 1912, one hundred and ten years ago. I became hungry to know him better and for some years I combed archives for his letters and stories of him. He remains very close to me.