Legacy

Ireland is known for its stories, its folklore, its writers, and its poets. The festivals of St. Patrick and Samhain; the legend of the Giants of the Causeway; the fairy tales of leprechauns and changelings; the superstitions of fairy circles and black cats and rain at a funeral; for such a small nation, its stories are colossal.

The stories survived through spoken word. When the Irish people were taken over and their culture all but snuffed out, it was through outlawed songs, campfire whispers and secret bedtime stories that kept the legends alive. Bards, jesters, and singers were in high societal regard all throughout the ages, because people love a good story.

And no one can tell a story like the Irish people can.

My father was a storyteller. He had the gift. The gift of arranging words into beautiful melodies, no music needed, but tunes and chimes and rhythms all the same. His dream was to become a published writer and share his melodic words with the world. That was until he had two young children and needed a job that paid him money straight into the bank – a half-dozen unfinished notebooks weren’t going to feed us.

My mother believed he would be a prolific writer one day, and always told me of the kinds of things he would write. Sadly, I never got a chance to actually read any of them – my grandmother found his pile of notebooks about fantasy and magic and other “un-holy” ideas and thought it was best to burn them all. That’s Irish Catholics for you.

My father passed away when I was five years old. He was thirty-five years young and left behind an even younger widow and two little children. It was a passing that broke the hearts of all in the small sea-side town where we lived. You see, the Irish people are home-birds, they don’t often stray far from where they were born. The town I lived in is where my father’s family and my mother’s family all grew up. A town of thatched roofs, side-by-side houses, and cul-de-sacs. Cul-de-sacs upon cul-de-sacs upon cul-de-sacs. Which makes it extremely easy for everyone to see everyone, every day, all the time. You may think your town is small, but you’ve never been to my town.

My father’s family and my mother’s family and every single person they ever had contact with – which was pretty much everyone in the town – grieved for my father when he died. I was told it was the biggest funeral the town had ever seen. I was told people came from far and wide and the church was crowded and the crowd outside was even bigger. I was too young to remember, of course, but no one has ever let me truly forget.

I have memories of my father, fond memories where I’m smiling ear to ear as he plays with my brother and I, or as he brings us sweets, or lets us sit on his motorbike, or reassures me as I cling to his legs that the bonfire in the field won’t get to us because the gravel around our house can’t catch fire because stone doesn’t catch fire. My first lesson in physics. I have memories, but only those of a hazy child’s.

It was only through the stories of others that I have truly grown to know my father.

My mother tells me of how laid-back my father was. Often to his detriment and the annoyance of my mother. She tells me the story of how one time my father had booked tickets to go for a holiday in Europe and had planned months in advance for this trip. On the day of the trip, my father couldn’t find his passport. My mother was pulling her hair out looking for the thing, stress levels astronomical, and my father was only slightly phased. My mother told me of how he shrugged his shoulders, scratched his head, and decided that he was staying home so. He didn’t groan or yell or cry or even flinch. My mother was flabbergasted but he remained as calm as ever.

“That’s where you get it from,” She tells me. “If the world caught on fire, you wouldn’t panic. You would shrug your shoulders, scratch your head, and probably sit down for a cup of tea.” She’s right, as well. That’s exactly what I would do.

My mum’s friend, who is significantly younger than my parents, told me of the time my father had stood up for her when no one else did. This friend was just outside of teenage-hood and heavily pregnant. One day they were all in the pub and the friend’s crappy boyfriend was saying nasty things about her loud enough for everyone to hear. No one had ever called-out this man on his behavior before. But that day, as the silent pub ignored this man heckling this young girl, my father stood up from his seat, pointed to the man, and told him he was not welcome there any longer. My father made the man leave and made this young girl feel protected for the first time in her life. She told me this story when I was eighteen, with tears in her eyes. She said she will never forget it.

On the anniversary of my father’s death, many people reach out to my family and I, to still give their condolences to us to this day. On his anniversary a few years ago, my cousin reached out to tell me the memories she has of my father from when she was a kid.

“I walked into our Nanny's kitchen and asked Uncle Michael if he would tie my shoe laces for me,” She told me. “He looked at me, quite shocked that I didn't know how to tie my shoelaces at the age I was. He kneeled down beside me and said, “Ok, there are a few different ways you can tie your shoe laces.” He showed me, like, three different ways and spent ages going through it with me until I knew how. He always made the time for me and always had patience. He was very calm, and even though I was young and slow, he didn't care. He was in no rush, showing my tiny hands and fingers different ways to tie a knot. At the end of that session, and every day after that, I could tie my own laces. To this day I can only tie my laces one way, the way I mastered with Uncle Michael. He would lift me up and do the airplane and fly me around the place. Uncle Michael sat me on his knee and drew pictures on his sketch pad and I was always amazed. I would sit there for hours watching him. He had the most calming effect on people. He would help me with my homework, and took me with him in the truck, and bought me the nicest strawberry milkshake I have ever had. Michael was the best uncle ever.” I knew my father had been good with my brother and I when we were kids, but it touched my heart to hear that he was like that with all the kids in his life. I loved hearing the stories, but it killed me that for the most part, I was hearing them over the phone or through long messages. After a long time, I decided I wanted to hear the stories in person.

For the last twelve years I have lived in Australia. Perth, to be exact. After living alone in the most isolated city in the world, on an upside down country, on the other side of the globe, where there are barely any cul-de-sacs, I decided to come home for six months. “Coming Home” is ceremonial for Irish people. It’s up there with christenings, communions, and other sacred religious rituals. “Coming Home” is observed by those who have lived overseas for long periods of time, particularly those who work and started their families overseas, who decide to come home for a holiday. This is often because of a terrible illness called homesickness. Those with the affliction suffer from poor sleep, heartache, low mood, and social withdrawal. Temporary symptom relief can include care packages sent from the country of origin, but “Coming Home” is often the only effective cure. “Coming Home” is an especially jubilant and joyous time the longer an Irish person has been away. Families will prepare for months for the festivities. There will be talk in the town about it to no end. Mothers will tell aunties and aunties will tell neighbors and neighbors will tell friends and friends will tell cousins who are also cousins of the mother’s brother’s fiancé, and they will all agree to get together to celebrate the “Coming Home” because they all live in the same cul-de-sac and are talking about it over the fence. There is nothing else like it.

I am not particularly extroverted, but every time I come home to Ireland, I need to adorn extroversion like a suit of armor. As soon as I step foot in my hometown I’m met with “Hi”, “Hello”, “How are ya’?” and then every couple of steps it’s “By God you’ve gotten big! Are you happy to be home? Is your mother happy you’re home?”. I’m easily recognized because I look so alike my parents. I have my mother’s pale skin and long dark hair, and my father’s blue eyes and all the rest of his features. Plus, the Australian twang I’ve picked up over the years helps me stand out. They just have to listen to me speak to put two and two together and say, “You’re Michael’s daughter, aren’t you?”

This happens to me multiple times a day as I stroll through the neighborhoods or pick up my shopping from Tesco’s or order a drink at the pub. The first week of this trip I took my Australian friend to a small forest by my old neighborhood. The forest had been done up beautifully by the local council to look like a magical fairy kingdom. There were wooden arrows beckoning you in further with the promise of “Fairy Homes Ahead!” “Come See The Wishing Tree!” “Look Up To See The Fairy Bridge!”. Along the forest path, under the canopies of green and filtered sunlight, there were tiny fairy doors and tiny fairy bridges and tiny fairy toadstools, and it was as magical as I remembered. Of course, no one would dare bother the actual fairies of the forest, in fear of being eaten.

As we came out of the forest, I took my friend into the old ruins of a cemetery that no one has touched for hundreds of years. It was all stone and overgrown with green, it was small and old and weatherworn and beautiful. We made a lap around the cemetery, taking photos, and passed an elderly couple sitting by the grass, looking into the ruins, and smoking. The lady was in a wheelchair and her dressing gown, and the man was in a tweed cap and a suit.

“Lovely bit of weather, isn’t it?” The man said to us cheerfully as we approached.

“Oh yes. I’m happily surprised, I didn’t think there would be much sun this time of year,” I said back with a smile.

“Where are you two from?” The man asked, squinting up at me from his perched seat, twigging my strange accent.

“I am from here, actually, but I have been in Australia the last twelve years. I grew up just on the other side of the woods,” I said, gesturing to the thick line of forest trees peeking over the cemetery wall.

The lady in the wheelchair looked at me funny and said, “Are you Michael’s daughter?”

“Yes, I am,” I said, a big smile on my face. “Did you know my parents?”

The lady tugged on the man’s shirt and said, “This is Michael’s daughter. Mary’s granddaughter.”

The man then smiled and said to me, “I know who you are. I know your mother. I knew your father. I knew your grandmother, and I help out your great-grandmother with odd jobs still to this day.”

The warmth of familiarity began to fill my chest. “It’s nice to meet you both. What are your names?”

“My family name is Delaney. How is your mother getting on? She must be absolutely thrilled that you’ve come home,” The lady in the wheelchair said.

“My Mum is definitely happy to have me back, she has been spoiling us senseless since we arrived,” I laughed.

The lady smiled. “It’s lovely to have bumped into you now and to see you all grown up. We just come out here for a bit of piece and quiet, and some fresh air,” She said, winking as she waved her cigarette in the air.

“I’ll tell my Mum I was talking to you,” I said.

“Tell your mother Leeroy says hi, she’ll know who I am,” The man said.

We bid our goodbyes, and my friend and I continued our trek to the long stretch of grey beach outside of town. As I walked, I felt the warm presence of my father, who still lives on in the memories of the couple smoking amongst the ruins of the old cemetery.

During the second week of my trip, I went for dinner with my cousin. It was great to catch up, like no time had passed between us at all. Halfway through the dinner, I went up to the bar to order drinks and my card started having issues. There were people sitting on the stools along the bar, and a couple started to notice me going back and forth to my table. They began to make jokes, “Third time lucky!” “Ahh surely the drinks are free after all this!” “The barman will have a pay rise after this!”

On the final try, my card declined, and I had to inform the onlookers that the saga had unfortunately come to an end, and I was unable to pay for the drinks. As I apologized to the barman, the lady on the stool next to me tapped my shoulder.

“Are you Michael’s daughter?” She asked me.

“Yes, I am,” I said, smiling, falling into the familiar pattern. “Did you know him?”

The lady nudged the man beside her, “This is Michael’s daughter. She’s home from Australia.”

The man’s eyes lit up. “I knew your father! I used to play with him on Walsh’s lane when we were kids. I knew the Walsh’s very well,” He smiled a chuffed smile, seeming proud to have been a part of my father’s life.

I smiled big, the warmth of familiarity flooding my chest again. “It’s so nice to meet you both. What are your names?”

“I’m Lyn, I went to school with your mother. This is Keith,” The lady said, nodding to the man on her right.

“I’ll have to tell my Mum I was talking to you,” I said, adding more names to my ever-growing list to report back to my mother.

The lady slid her card to the barman. “These drinks are on me,” She said.

Immediately I refused. “That’s very kind of you, but I couldn’t let you do that!”

She shook her head. “I said to myself when I saw you, if that’s who I think it is, then I’m buying those drinks. Because of who your parents are.” The lady handed over her card and the barman handed me my drinks. “Have a lovely time being home, wont you? Tell your mother I said hi!”

It was not that they paid for my drinks, or that they recognized me, or even the mention of my father, that filled my heart up; it was the fact that these strangers chose to talk to me, to connect with me, to let me know that they remembered. The memory of my father lives on in the minds of the couple who paid for my drinks at the bar.

When I come home, I usually hop around from house-to-house to visit various family members. I will stay a week with my aunty, a week with my other aunty, a week with my cousins, uncles, and so on. This time I spent a few days with my uncle on my mother’s side, who, back in the day, was best friends with my father. My Uncle J was supposed to be riding motorcycles with my father the day he had his accident, but by fortunate chance, my Uncle J had to stay home that day. My Uncle J was the one who told my mother that my father died, and held her in the kitchen as she collapsed into his arms.

My Uncle J always has big hugs and smiles whenever he sees my brother and I. This time, when I stayed in his house, he said he’s not letting me go back to Australia. Uncle J now lives with a woman called Valerie, who I had known from around the neighborhood during my childhood. Valerie was always a lovely lady, but I never knew that her and Uncle J had a romance all these years. It was so lovely to see them living together and being a family with Valerie’s daughter. Valerie welcomed me into her house with open arms, made up a bed for me, and told me I was welcome to come and go as I pleased. Another thing I didn’t know, was that Valerie had also been best friends with my father back in the day.

Each day I stayed in their home, I thanked them for having me. Valerie waved off my gratitude and laughed, “Your Dad would kill me if I didn’t have you come to stay! We couldn’t do that to him!” They talked as if he was still here, as if he would barge in any moment and demand to know why they weren’t feeding me five times a day. Valerie reminded me every night that my Dad used to sleep in this house, in the room that her daughter now sleeps. She told me this proudly, with a deep smile on her face. Every night, we had drinks and smokes in their beautiful back garden. They had done the large shed up so that it was a hang-out area, with lights and couches and candles and, of course, Uncle J’s beloved motorcycle. We sat down one night in the shed, with drinks in our hands, and reminisced about their old days.

“Your Dad was a great man,” Valerie began. “We had a group of friends, a big group of us. I’d known your Dad for a long time. He would stay with us and was always around my kids. He was great with them, like your Uncle J. Your Dad passed away the day before my daughter’s christening, where your Uncle J was meant to be God-Father.”

“I didn’t know that,” I said softly.

“The day we found it, it shocked us all. We were sitting here in this house, when a neighbor popped his head over the fence and told us that Mick had died. We were all in shock. None of us could believe it.”

“That’s awful…” I said, as I couldn’t imagine losing a close friend at the age I am now.

“I still have the flowers from the funeral,” Valerie said with a small smile on her face.

“You do?” I asked, incredulously. “How?”

“I stole them!” She laughed. “We all went in for a flower arrangement to go on the coffin for the funeral. As we laid it on, I picked two to keep for myself!” We both laughed. “I dried and pressed them, and I still have them in a framed photo of your Dad. It’s there, right behind you.”

I turned around to see a large photo of my father, sitting atop some shelves. I got up to look closer at it and saw two flower heads, dried and darkened over the years, in the corner of the frame. I could tell that they would have been beautiful flowers on the day of the funeral.

“That’s beautiful…” I said, admiring the photo, tears in my eyes.

“My brother took that photo of your Dad, as well,” Valerie said. The photo was of my father hanging out the door of his large truck, the truck he drove for work. He was smiling and waving at the camera.

“Your brother took this photo? He knew my Dad?” I asked.

“Everyone loved your Dad,” She simply said. She had on that deep smile again, the smile with a thousand memories of a thousand moments behind it. The smile was bright but also sad. It was the kind of smile that would break your heart if you looked at it too long.

The memory of my father couldn’t have been more alive in that house. So too was his presence, which I could feel in every room, in every smile, and every story.

A week or two ago it was the Blessings of the Grave, and it also fell on Father’s Day. People poured into the cemeteries to visit their loved ones all day. I made it to the cemetery where my father is buried later on in the day, when it was all but empty. I bought a small orchid to place at my father’s grave. I always loved visiting his grave as a child. My mother made a point to take us there often, to visit him, to talk to him, to see how beautiful his grave was and to see the other things people left him. As kids, my brother and I thought the cemetery was the most fun place ever to play in. We would run along the small paths, jump over grave beds, climb over the ruins, and find the funniest headstone names we could find. This time, visiting my father’s grave, I did not jump, or climb, or run, or laugh. I bent down to the photo of him embedded in the shiny black granite of the headstone. I touched his face, blew him a kiss, and told him I wished he were here. I told him I have been hearing many stories of him lately. I thanked him for leaving behind such a wonderful legacy for me.

I know my father was a good man. It is evident in the impact he had on the lives of the people around him. I would not be met with such love and warmth if my father had been anything but the kind soul he was. Even though I lost him at the age of five, I never really felt like I was missing something from my life. I think that is because my father never really died. Instead, he became a story. A story told to me hundreds of times from the mouths of hundreds of people, who will never stop telling me the stories.

And no one can tell a story like the Irish people can.