“Sure a little bit of Heaven
Fell from out the sky one day
And nestled on the ocean
In a spot so far away
And when the Angels found it
Sure it looked so sweet and fair
They said suppose we leave it
For it looks so peaceful there
So they sprinkled it with stardust
Just to make the shamrock grow
It’s the only place you’ll find them
No matter where you go
Then they dotted it with silver
Just to make its lakes so grand
And when they had it finished
Sure they called it Ireland”
Little Bit of Heaven
I have been told many times that I resemble my maternal
Grandmother. I only know her from pictures, and in those
few treasures, I do not see the resemblance. No, it has
been explained, the resemblance is found in our
personalities. My spirit is like hers.
And so, I would like to write of this grandmother
today because she was born in County Mayo, Ireland.
When speaking to those who know, when I tell them
where she is from, they always say “God rest her soul”.
County Mayo is the poorest of the poor in the Republic
of Ireland. It is not an easy place for those that live there. And not surprisingly, not only did my grandmother leave the farm, but all her brothers and sisters left too. Two of her sisters followed her here, to America. Her brothers all went to England.
I have been to Ireland twice in my life, both times as
an adult. I have seen Ireland the way it is meant to be seen. The Schatz and I flew in, rented a car, and drove. We stopped when we grew tired, with very little planning.
We spoke to many people. This is almost entirely due to
the open and friendly personalitites of the Irish we met.
They are as curious about those that visit as those that
visit are about them. And so, they asked questions of
us, and we in turn asked questions about them.
St. Patricks Day in America is celebrated with gusto these days. Certainly lots of drinking. Chicago dyes their river green, NYC paints the line down 5th Avenue green. There will be
many parades from little towns to big cities. People will wear green, and sing When Irish Eyes are Smiling.
That is not the Ireland of my grandmother. It is not the
Ireland The Schatz and I found. It is there, somewhere that Ireland because we saw some of that Ireland. Yes, I kissed the Blarney Stone. Yes, I went to a medieval banquet. We visited Waterford, and went to the factory. We watched them blow the glass that became the goblets in my house.
But we also stopped the car and watched a farmer lead his
cows home from pasture. We saw war memorials to wars
that were never taught in our schools. We stood on
O’Connell Street in Dublin, in front of large planters that
were removed each night to prevent placement of IRA bombs.
And yes, I went home to County Mayo. I do not know
exactly where her farm is located. But I felt I needed to
travel the roads that my grandmother would remember.
And I spent a night in Ashford Castle, probably the only
tourist destination in County Mayo.
Happy St. Patricks Day, Grandma. I have not forgotten.
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