12 - Apart Yet Together

Grandpa Jack loved springtime the most and up ‘til now, Chelsea had never known why. Without fail, however, he always told the same old joke.

“Where do slow rabbits go?” he whispered to Chelsea.

“Hassenpfeffer!” shouted Aunt Meg, as if it were a curse word. The family had just returned from Saturday evening mass on the first weekend of May. Unlike most weekends, when everyone attended Mass on Sunday mornings, the first weekend in May was different. Monday was a national vacation known as May Day.

Mother was busy at the stove, cooking fresh game hare, which Aunt Meg never liked, especially since it was once a cute little bunny rabbit. Chelsea, who was nearby, felt quite the same.

When she was a child, Meg owned a rabbit, which her father jokingly called “hasenpfeffer.” When her bunny passed away, Grandpa Jack performed a proper burial, grave cross and all. Still, on that evening, Meg stuck to mashed potatoes and vegetables only.

“Who is making the potato soup?” asked Grandpa.

“I will,” said Aunt Meg.

“I can help,” Chelsea offered.

Chelsea scrubbed potatoes and celery while Aunt Meg chopped them into bite-size bits. Then, it was time for the leeks. Aunt Meg quickly diced the leeks and tossed them in the pot. She added the remaining vegetables and filled the pot with whipping cream and spices.

“Chelsea, put it on low and we’ll let it simmer for a bit.”

While they waited for supper, Chelsea joined her father, Uncle Danny, and Grandpa Jack on the porch. They were busy talking about tomorrow’s big match.

“Antrim doesn’t have a chance,” spouted Grandpa, “all the real hurlers are from the south: Kilkenny, Kildare, Tipperary, Galway, Dublin. You name a great hurler and he’s from the true Ireland.”

“What about the Hickey boys?”

“They’re nothing compared to the boys from Kerry.”

Chelsea listened intently to her Grandpa and Uncle bicker about sports. At the same time, she pondered over something Grandpa Jack said.

“What does Grandpa Jack mean by ‘true Ireland’?” she whispered to her father.

“Pop,” Mr. Cahill interrupted, “Chelsea wants to know what you mean by ‘true’ Ireland.”

“You see,” said Uncle Danny, “every Irish child knows, the year 1594. That marked the beginning of the Nine Year’s War. The English fought with the Irish over a northern province of Ireland called Ulster. When the English won the war, they colonized the province in the ‘Plantation of Ulster’. Scottish and English colonists supplanted the native Irish.”

“What happened to the Irish people?”

“Just like during the famine, the displaced Irish emigrated. Some headed to the south and others fled overseas. This created great stress between the north and south. To make matters worse, the different parts of Ireland had different beliefs. The southerners, like us, were Catholic. The northerners were Protestant.”

“What does it mean to be Protestant?”

“Protestants believe in the Lord, just like you or me, but they don’t accept the Pope as their divine connection to heaven.”

“I have a classmate from Belfast and she says there was a time when the Catholics and Protestants fought for a time.”

“They fought ever since 1594, but she may be talking about ‘the troubles’.”

“What are ‘the troubles’?”

“Before I can speak of that, maybe I should talk about the United Kingdom. Way back in 1801, Ireland and England formed a United Kingdom. Still, Ireland was under English rule. Some Irish remained loyal to England while others wanted Ireland to be its own nation.

‘Round ‘bout World War I, the Irish had enough of English Rule. On Easter of 1916, they clashed with the English in a skirmish called ‘Easter Rising’.Although it only lasted a few weeks, it eventually led to the adoption of the tri-color orange-white-green flag of the southern Republic and independence from England.”

“The orange-white-green is true Ireland,” said Grandpa Jack. At that very moment, Grandma Georgia appeared at the door,

“Hassenpfeffer!” she said to Grandpa. It startled the entire group of porch sitters.

“What is this rubbish about true Ireland?” she said, “you know I’m Scottish and I have a fondness for the Scots-Irish, too.”

“Yeah, I know,” grumbled Grandpa. He pulled up the rear as everyone gathered at the supper table. Grandma led a prayer before everyone began to eat. Aunt Meg and Chelsea shared the potato soup while everyone else enjoyed the freshly prepared peppered rabbit known as Hassenpfeffer. It wasn’t long, however, before Grandpa Jack had cleaned his plate and walked it over to the sink to clean it and put it away.

“You’ve sure got a pep in your step,” said Aunt Meg.

“Must be the hurl,” said Grandma.

She was referring to the big hurling match between Club Kerry and Antrim GAA. More than any other, hurling was the national sport of Ireland – all of Ireland – north and south. Of course, she was absolutely right.

“We still have a long trip ahead of us,” said Grandpa and he was right, too. The men gathered their things and headed for the door.

“Come on, Chelsea,” encouraged Mr. Cahill.

“I’m not finished!”

Grandpa emptied Chelsea’s potato soup into a drinking cup and handed her a clean spoon.

“You can finish eating on the way.”

In a flash, they were off to Belfast, in far-off Northern Ireland.

Traveling from one end of Ireland to the other, however, wasn’t some great trek, but a long daytrip. They arrived in Belfast less than four hours later including rest breaks. The signs for Windsor Park loomed overhead.

“Windsor Park,” said Grandpa, “that brings back so many memories.”

The truck curled through the streets of South Belfast and approached the exit ramp to the Stadium. It rose nearly 100 meters overhead, a great coliseum of concrete and steel encircling a relatively tiny pitch of lush, green grass.

“It’s not like I remember it,”

“It’s just been renovated,” said Uncle Danny, “to house all the fans.”

Chelsea’s eyes widened as she journeyed into the stadium with ‘the boys’ surrounding her on all sides. Grandpa Jack firmly grasped her hand as they found their way to their seats.

“We’re in the North Stands,” he said.

Chelsea settled into her seat between Grandpa and Uncle Danny with her father on the far end. It felt like home with the green shirts of the Kerry fans filling the seats. On the opposite end, Antrim fans wore yellow.

The hurlers came onto the pitch. Each carried a hurley stick and wore their team uniform, helmet, and cleats. The hurley was shaped like a short hockey stick, but it had a small, wide blade. The field was as long as a soccer field with goalposts on each ends. Each goalpost had a standard soccer net with posts extending upward.

“Here they come!” said Grandpa.

The players used their hurleys to slap the small leather sliotar back and forth. Some caught the ball in their hands and tossed it to their sticks or ground. Others simply slapped the sliotar with their open hand, passing it up field.

The Kerry boys advanced it towards the goal. Then, a hurler slapped at the sliotar, sending it straight into the net.

“A goal!” exclaimed Grandpa, “three points!”

Antrim quickly returned the favor, driving to the opposite end. Padrig Hickey took a pass from his brother and teammate Steven. He slapped the sliotar through the uprights: 3-1.

The fast-paced action was a lot for Chelsea to keep up with as fans cheered and booed. But, when it was over, the Hickey boys and Antrim came out on top, three goals and twenty points to one goal and eight.

After the match, Chelsea went with the men to Hickey’s Public House, owned by the same Hickeys that Chelsea had just seen hurling. The pub was not only a drinking tavern, but a restaurant, too.

“We’ll have four orders of fish and chips,” said Mr. Cahill, “three whiskeys, and a glass of milk.”

Unlike Grandpa Jack and the rest of the clan, the locals at the Hickey Pub House were Antrim fans. In fact, when a whoop went up, it was three cheers for Antrim. Then, it was three more cheers for local favorites. A crowd surrounded the server as he approached the table. It was hurler Steven Hickey himself.

“I hear we have some Kerry fans!” he shouted to the crowd. The crowd booed and hissed.

“Now, now,” said Steven, “we cannot all be as good as the boys from Belfast!”

A resounding cheer echoed off the pub house walls, along with stamping and singing. The taunting, however, was soon replaced with applause as Mr. Hickey kindly served his guests. Chelsea blushed as fans greeted her table cheerfully. She bent down as she dutifully ate her fish and chips.

“He’s good people,” said Grandpa Jack.

Chelsea shot him a glance.

“He is, even if he’s not a Kerry boy.”

After they finished eating, they said their good-byes to the Antrim fans and Mr. Hickey. Soon, Chelsea leaned against Grandpa Jack and Eric was cuddled next to Uncle Danny as they slept the whole way home. Chelsea and Eric’s fathers carefully carried the two children to the living room and placed them on facing sofas, where they’d sleep the whole night long.

Although it was Monday, the long weekend was not over. Today was May Day.

“Good morning!” greeted Aunt Meg, “How was your Sunday with the boys?”

“It was good. How was your Sunday?”

“We went to Morning Mass and played board games through the afternoon.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“It was, but today we have the real fun!”

Aunt Meg was as right as rain, but so, too was the day ahead. After tall glasses of milk and a hearty Irish breakfast, it was time to put on rain slickers and puddle-jumpers to go celebrate May Day.

“Look at these streets,” exclaimed Aunt Meg.

“We’re going to get floods if it keeps up,” said Mrs. Cahill.

Rivulets of rainwater ran down the road, nearly drowning any who dared sit at the curb. Still, pipe and drum corps could be heard and seen warming up the crowd. Patiently, Chelsea and her cousins lined the sidewalks, ready for the parade to start.

“It’s awful chill,” said Chelsea.

“It’ll begin soon,” promised her mother.

Indeed, a little girl dressed in white led the parade. She wore a crown of ivy upon her head.

“Look,” whispered Chelsea, “here comes the May Queen.”

Next came the Kilkenny bagpipers, which consisted of, some Scots-Irish that had migrated from Northern Ireland and beyond. Along marched the various fife and drum corps – a whole slew of them in fact – mostly playing marching standards. At the end of the parade, it was time to head toward the town square and the Mayor’s house.

Outside, a giant Maypole was planted where the Christmas tree had been planted only a half-year ago. It loomed overhead, waiting for the festivities to begin.

Dancers formed a circle around the pole. Ribbons were drawn from the top of the mast to their hands and when the music started, the dancers weaved in and out, tying the ribbon to the Maypole.

“Could you tell me about May Day?” asked Chelsea.

Grandpa crouched down and whispered into Chelsea’s ear.

“The ancient druids were always aware of nature. They celebrated each season for the gifts that were brought to them. May Day celebrates Beltane – the Summer Festival. Just like Easter, when we look for signs of spring, like bunny rabbits or young chicks, we use the Maypole to remind us how everything is connected – absolutely everything. See how those thin ribbons are interwoven? See how the dancers join together? This is what May Day is all about – togetherness.”

Grandpa Jack dug into his pocket. When he brought out his hand, he had something grasped in his fingers. Chelsea knew it by the silver glint.

“Go ahead,” he said, “take it.”

Chelsea’s eyes grew wide with excitement. She looked up to her father. Mr. Cahill nodded. Little Chelsea took the Claddagh ring carefully into her fingers.

“Remember?” asked Grandpa.

“Left finger, woman taken, right finger, girl single.

Chelsea slipped the ring onto her right hand.

“Pointing out, looking out, pointing in, looking within.”

“Yes,” said Grandpa.

She pointed the heart inward.

“Because I always have you in my heart, Grandpa.”

“This, dear,” he whispered, “I know. With each spring, you grow older and the boys will gather ‘round like bees to daisies. Still, I will always see the little girl. If I reach out my hand, will you take it?”

“Of course I will.”

Grandpa Jack reached out his right hand to little Chelsea. She grasped it tightly with her left hand, which was free at the moment. Then, she pondered over the weekend’s events. Even as an old man, his mind wandered in the springtime of his youth – whether it was telling tales about ancient ancestors or watching a fine hurling match with his boys (and Chelsea, too).

Chelsea tightened her grip and Grandpa Jack responded by doing the same. She rubbed her thumb over the surface of the Claddagh ring, twirling it around her ring finger. Just like the ring said, Grandpa Jack always had her heart.

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11 - and Clover and Sorrel and...

It may have been funny how fast Winter came and went, but it was surprising how much faster the Spring fluttered by as everyone was consumed by his or her individual pursuits. Even St. Patrick’s Day, a National Holiday, escaped without the usual fanfare.

It was, however, not to the case when Easter came to pass. Even on Good Friday, all eyes were looking to Sunday. As were the numerous traditions every Easter, Chelsea and her family as well as little Eric and his would head to Tralee to visit with Grandma and Grandpa.

Chelsea and her family arrived early in the afternoon of Easter Eve. Grandma Georgina was hard at work, making a Haggis full of pluck – sheep’s pluck that is. The pluck of any animal in Irish cuisine referred to the animal’s inner workings: heart liver, and lungs. Grandma had stuffed these organs, along with rice, oats, onions, and chicken broth, into a sheep’s stomach. Then, she tied the ends with baker’s string and set it in a crock pot to boil.

“Isn’t haggis from Scotland?” asked Korrit.

“Yes, is it dear, just like me.”

Just like many other Irish customs, the haggis had been imported a long time ago by Scottish clansmen and other immigrants. Just like Grandma, the haggis became part of Ireland.

While Grandma cooked, Chelsea dug into her backpack, only to pull out a James Joyce novel.

“Are you still reading that thing?” asked Grandpa Jack.

“This is ‘Dubliners”, not ‘Ulysses’.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” exclaimed Grandpa.

Chelsea shrugged.

“Liz,” Grandpa said to Mrs. Cahill, “I thought you said Chelsea was reading the book about the citizens of Dublin.”

“I always get them confused, pop.”

“Aye,” he snarled, “but there’s a wealth of difference. ‘Dubliners” may be a fine book, but ‘Ulysses” was possibly Ireland’s greatest pieces of literature.”

Grandpa proceeded to discuss the two Joyce novels with young Chelsea. Meanwhile, Korrit and Sallie played chess while Meg watched television with the parents.

It wasn’t until later when the Pyle family arrived. That Chelsea realized how quickly time had gone by while she talked with Grandpa Jack. She didn’t mind it though. In fact, their talks were always quite enjoyable. They stopped briefly as hugs and hellos circled about the room.

Afterwards, Chelsea and Grandpa continued their conversation on the porch swing. Chelsea spotted a cluster of plants spitting up through the planks of wood. She picked one and twirled it between her fingers. Three little lime-green leaves faced her directly, as if to say hello.

“Can you tell me the story of St. Patrick and the Shamrock?”

“I suppose I could, but that’s wood sorrel. It’s a relative of the Shamrock.”

“It is?”

Grandpa Jack nodded. “In fact, many also call it ‘sourgrass’. Take a bite.”

“It tastes like bitter lemons.”

Grandpa chuckled, “You can use it to make tea or just eat on a Saturday afternoon. Still, the leaves of wood sorrel are not that much different than Shamrock – or purple clover.”

Grandpa Jack snatched a piece of sourgrass from the soil and pointed to each of the three leaves.

“When St. Patrick was just a Catholic priest roaming the Irish countryside, he often spoke of the Holy Trinity. Like all Catholics, he believed in the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost – the three parts of all Christian belief. See how they are three parts? This is how the holy trinity works. They are three and they are one.”

Grandpa Jack handed the sourgrass to Chelsea and she twirled it gently between finger and thumb as she thought about the Holy Trinity and Saint Patrick.

“Hey, you two,” said Aunt Meg, “get in here before supper goes cold.”

Chelsea ate the sourgrass in a single bite and led her Grandpa to the dining room table. He sliced the haggis into healthy rounds and served them onto everyone’s plates with mashed potatoes and gravy. Everyone dug in as soon as Grandma Georgina finished an Easter prayer.

“What time are we headed to Vigil?” asked Uncle Danny.

“We should probably leave thirty minutes ‘tiil midnight,” said Aunt Meg, “you know how busy it was last year.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

Everyone enjoyed a hearty Easter dinner before relaxing in the living room. Chelsea, however, went up to the guest room and laid on a trundle bed. She opened her book and began reading. A short time later, she had a visitor.

“What are you doing?” asked little Eric.

“I’m reading a book.”

“Can you read it to me?”

“It’s a big kids book.”

“You’re not a big kid.”

“But I read big kids books.”

Eric stared Chelsea down, unwilling to let up until he got his way. He was going to listen to ‘Dubliners’ whether Chelsea liked it or not.

“Alright,” she said, “sit here beside me.”

Chelsea waited as Eric took his place. She cleared her throat and then began to read.

“In the morning, I was first-comer to the bridge as I lived nearest. I hid my books in the long grass near the ash pit at the end of the garden where nobody ever came and hurried along the canal bank. It was a mild, sunny morning in the first week of June. I sat on the coping of the bridge, admiring my frail canvas shoes, which I had diligently cleaned ocwenifhr and watching the docile courses pulling a tramload of business people up the hill…”

“Chelsea?”

“Yes?”

“I think you’re right.”

“Right about?”

“I don’t like this book.”

Chelsea looked at little Eric before checking her place in the book. As she flipped through pages, scanning for something Eric might like, she soon realized there would be nothing of interest for a six-year-old boy who loved games of six-year-olds.

“It’s all I have…”

“Okay,” said Eric. He listened for a little while longer, only to interrupt again by scooting off the edge of the bed and hurrying downstairs. It didn’t matter much anyway, as Meg entered the room.

“Time to get ready for Vigil.”

“Thank the Lord!” said Chelsea as she dog-eared the page and put her book away. The girls dressed in their Easter best and gathered downstairs. When everyone was ready, the whole group was quickly on its way to the Cathedral.

Easter Vigil, which occurred at midnight, attracted the same sort of gathering as the Midnight Mass of Christmas. The service was similar, too. The only thing different, thought Chelsea, was the weather. It was mild, with brief winds warming her slightly as they blew across her face and over the candles that the priests and bishops were using as part of the Vigil. They lit the Christ Candle last.

“The Paschal Candle,” said the priest, “represents the ever-burning light of Jesus – the Christ. It also represents the never-ending love he gives to us through his sacrifice. In Jesus’ name we pray…”

Chelsea bowed her head in prayer as the priest continued his service. Her thoughts rambled, though, as she thought about the boys on the bridge in her novel. She tried concentrating, but the story was loud inside her head. When the service ended, she followed the file of family members out to the parking lot. She remained silent all the way home.

Her guilt, however, was short-lived as she got upstairs and changed out of Easter clothes. She continued reading her book late into the night.

“Chelsea, it’s getting late,” said sister Meg.

“I know, but…”

“The book will be there tomorrow.”

“Always tomorrow,” said Chelsea.

She dog-eared her new stopping point and folded the book closed. As she tucked it under the pillow for safekeeping, the cold cover was comforting to her tiny hands. She closed her eyes and went to sleep.

All of Easter morning, however, she would not have a chance to return to her book. There would be other traditional Easter activities: a big bacon and eggs breakfast followed by egg hunts and the search for the chocolate bunny.

“These are just as much a part of Easter as the Easter Vigil,” said Grandpa.

“Oh, Jack, hush!” scolded Grandma Georgina.

“Why should I? You know it is. Ancient Irish who lived before the time of Jesus, believed in the holiness of nature itself. They celebrated spring with bonfires and rabbit hunts. They searched for bird nests – keeping the eggs for a great feast.”

“That’s not our belief nowadays,” said Grandma.

“They can live side-by-side,” said Grandpa, “one celebrates the other. The morning sun is a celebration of nature and a celebration of the Lord, too. Didn’t he create the sun and all animals beneath it, including you and me?”

“I guess you’re right, old man,” sighed Grandma.

The children continued searching for quite some time. Nobody, however, located the chocolate bunny. Grandpa fetched an old wooden ladder and propped it against the barn.

“What are you up to, old man?” asked Grandma.

“Fetching the chocolate bunny.”

He climbed higher and higher. He had skewered the chocolate bunny with the weather vane.

“There it is!” the children shouted in unison.

“Closer to the Lord,” said Grandpa.

When he brought it down, though, it had been too close to the Lord. It was a clump of foil and melted chocolate.

“Luckily,” he said, “I have chocolate bunnies for all of you, even the oldest children.”

Grandpa gave everyone a chocolate bunny before it was time for hugs and good-byes. Everyone fetched their luggage and packed it away before heading home.

As Chelsea ate her chocolate bunny, she thought about her weekend. She was glad she had both Grandma and Grandpa’s version of Easter. It made her heart twice as full.

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10 - Tales of the Poor Old Woman

Late on Saturday afternoon, Chelsea was stretched out on the dining room floor with her head propped on a pillow and James Joyce’s ‘Ulysses’ firmly grasped in her hands. She squinted as rays of sunlight angled through the kitchen window and shone in her eyes.

She stopped between chapters and looked up toward the sun as it hung low in the winter sky. She closed her eyes for a moment before opening them again.

It was an unusually warm day, she thought, especially for late January. Her mother clothed her in a long brown corduroy dress and a soft lamb’s wool sweater. Chelsea felt especially warm, but quite comfy, too.

She turned onto her belly and propped herself on her elbows. Aunt Meg and her mother sat in the living room snapping green beans.

“Hello!” she called out.

“Hello!” her mother replied.

“Do you need any help?”

“If you’d like.”

“I would like it very much.”

She placed her novel facedown on the dining room floor, holding the place where she paused between chapters.

“Here,” said Aunt Meg, “snap this pack of green beans for us.”

Chelsea on the couch between the two women as Aunt Meg put a large catch-pot between Chelsea’s feet. Chelsea placed a pile of green beans in her lap and began snipping the ends of the beans with a small paring knife. Then, she snapped each bean in half and deposited them in the catch-pot.

 “Just snap them once,” said her mother.

“I am.”

“It’ll be easier if you press with both thumbs,” said Aunt Meg.

Aunt Meg demonstrated proper bean-snapping technique, but it didn’t apply to Chelsea’s tiny fingers. They were much smaller than the fat string beans. Instead, Chelsea used both hands to snap each bean in half. It was a slow but workable solution, even if Aunt Meg finished three bunches of beans in the time Chelsea finished half of one.

“I think we’re done as soon as you finish up,” said Aunt Meg.

“Already?” Chelsea furrowed her brow.

“There’s still a lot to do while the green beans soak in ice water. For one thing, we can check the winter vegetables.”

Aunt Meg watched as Chelsea fumbled with the last few string beans. Aunt Meg offered help to her niece, but Chelsea insisted on doing it alone. After Aunt Meg took the finished beans into the kitchen, she took Chelsea by the hand and led her to the greenhouse out back.

“What are the winter vegetables?” asked Chelsea.

“Anything, really, but I grow potatoes, carrots, peas, and beans in my greenhouse.

The greenhouse sat just behind the horse barn, its glass-paned walls were covered in condensation. A gust of hot, wet air greeted Chelsea as Aunt Meg opened the door.

“It’s so hot.”

“That’s the Lord’s solar heater at work.”

Chelsea peered up towards the sun. Outside, she barely felt its warmth; within the greenhouse, however, Chelsea felt even hotter than she had in the dining room. She removed the heavy wool sweater, leaving only a plain short sleeve t-shirt on her back. Inside the greenhouse, it was more than enough.

As green as Irish hillsides in late spring, the greenhouse plants were verdant and lush. Crates of carrots, peas, and beans showed their leafy green heads. A tower of tractor tires sat at the back. It, too, wore a leafy green crown. Aunt Meg dug her hand into a mound of newspaper and hay at the top of the tire tower.

“Make a basket of your dress,” she told Chelsea. Chelsea held her dress at two points. Aunt Meg dropped tiny potatoes into the folds of Chelsea’s dress. She filled the pockets of her own apron with potatoes, too.

“Why don’t you grow potatoes in a garden like Grandpa? He has lots of potatoes.””

“We have lots of potatoes, too. Instead of growing potatoes in the ground like Grandpa, our potatoes grow up.”

Aunt Meg tipped the top two tires backward, exposing the root system growing within the tires. She dug into the peat and retrieved a handful of white fingerling potatoes.

“How do potatoes grow throughout the stack of tires?”

“The potato is a tuber, which is like a root, but each potato bulb stores nutrients to help feed new stems and buds. See each of these eyes? Those are leaf scars called nodes. New stems can grow out of the nodes and produce new potatoes.”

“And they’ll keep growing like this?”

“They die back, but they still grow year-round, more of less. That’s because we cultivate our garden.”

Chelsea furrowed her brow again.

“We use compost like decaying plants, leaves, and old newspapers, to create rich peat moss to feed the tubers.”

Aunt Meg took a scoop of white granules out of a feedbag that sat beside the tower.

“Also, we mix fertilizer into our peat before adding it to the tower.”

Aunt Meg dug her hands into the peat moss to mix the fertilizer and peat. She added another tire to the tower and added peat until the stems were mostly covered.

“I think that’s it,” said Aunt Meg.

They went inside and dumped the harvested fingerlings into the kitchen sink. Aunt Meg carefully scrubbed the potatoes with a brush until they were clean. Then, she scrubbed her own hands, making sure to get beneath the dirt-caked fingernails. She did the same for Chelsea, too.

“Potatoes again?” groaned Korrit.

“Potatoes again?” mocked Aunt Meg, “of course Potatoes again. Consider this tiny tuber a record and reminder of Irish history.”

“I know, but it’s boring. It’s all boring.”

“What would you like to do?”

“I don’t know,” said Chelsea, “I think I’ll return to my book.”

Chelsea curled up on the couch with blanket and book. Then, she returned to her reading.

“I have an idea,” said cousin Stephanie. She whispered into her sister Colleen’s ear.

“That’s fantastic!” exclaimed Colleen.

The girls scurried upstairs to their rooms. Their shoes clip-clopped on the steps as they returned downstairs.

“We’ll demonstrate our clog dancing for you.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” said Aunt Meg, “you’ll scratch the wood on the living room floor.”

“We can do it in our bare feet,” said Colleen.

“It won’t be the same. How about we clog on the carpet?”

“No clogging at all.”

“How about we use our flats?”

“Why don’t you put on your ghillies instead?”

The girls scurried up the stairs and back down again, carrying soft, flat shoes, that looked like ballet shoes, only black with shoestrings. The girls tugged them onto their feet and laced them up as everyone cleared space for the girls. Colleen looked to Chelsea.

“Can you turn the radio on?”

Without moving from her place on the sofa, Chelsea arched backwards and turned on the radio. And tuned it to an Irish folk music station. Colleen and Stephanie whispered between themselves for a moment. Upon agreement, they readied themselves for dancing.

“We’ll start with the traditional Ceili,” said Stephie, “it’s usually performed in four pairs, like a quadrille, but since there are only two of us, it’ll only be two of us.”

After a light laughter lilted about the living room, everyone fell silent and waited for the dancing to begin. 

“One, two, three, four,” the dancers counted in unison.

Then, Colleen and Stephie began to danceTheir nearest hands came up and touched lightly. They held their outside hands firmly against their hips. Their ghillies scuffed and stomped on the floor as they circled about in a fashion similar to any common square dance or reel.

“Mother,” said Colleen, “this just won’t do. “Can we clog on the porch?”

“I guess that would be fine.”

The girls nodded enthusiastically and quickly donned their clogs. As they walked to the door, the firm leather taps clicked against the living room floor. The girls were mindful of this, so they tiptoed softly to the door. The rest of the family followed them to the front porch.

“Here we go,” said Colleen.

“One, two, three, four.”

The two girls filled the porch with the sound of double-steps, brush-ups, rocks, and stomps. Their heels clicked energetically as the girls rhythmically tapped out a precise percussive beat.

“This is Celtic history, too,” Aunt Meg told Chelsea..

“I know.”

The Ceili, as well as any number of other traditional Irish dances, had been with the Irish for as long as Irish history itself. The dancers not only used the dances for relaxation and entertainment, but to tell the stories of ancient Vikings and Monks and Celts and even the Tuatha.

As moon rose high in the sky, everyone in the Pyle’s farmhouse began winding down. The girls settled themselves into their respective sleeping bags, still chatting throughout the night with their cousins.

Early on Sunday morning, the two clans woke early and enjoyed a hearty breakfast of eggs and chicken stew. After that, they headed out to the early Catholic Mass. After Mass, they convened in the church parking lot.

“I think it’s time we head back to Kilkenny,” said Mrs. Cahill. Korrit and Chelsea and Colleen and Stephie and little Eric all groaned in unison.

“Come now,” said Mrs. Cahill, “you’ve had a full weekend and it’s a long way to County Kerry.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Colleen.”

“She is right,” added Aunt Meg, “you’ll see each other again soon. That, I promise each and every one of the lot.”

“Anyway,” concluded Mrs. Cahill, “tomorrow will be another day.”

After a long, sad good-bye, the Cahills and Pyles parted ways. It would not be long, however, until they saw each other again. That was just the way of things.

Although it was only a short two-hour drive for Mrs. Cahill, the ride for the girls seemed much shorter as the softly bounding county roads quickly lulled them both to sleep.

“Alright, we’re here,” said Mrs. Cahill.

“Already?”

The girls were glad to be home. They shared stories with their sisters and father. Meanwhile, Mrs. Cahill, found her way to the bedroom and caught up on her beauty sleep, too.

  Indeed, tomorrow would most certainly be another day.

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09 - Just Beyond the Pale

Even though Christmas marked the year’s end, winter was far from over. Even in these, the shortest (and coldest) days of the year, Chelsea and her family tried making the best of it. Snow fell for four straight days. The pipes at Kilkenny Primary School froze and burst.

Korrit and Chelsea spent their snow days indoors trying to keep warm. Because of this, they constantly fought. Mrs. Cahill decided it was time to get the girls out of the house, so she called her sister.

“Hello, Meg?”

“Hey, Liz. What are you up to?”

“Surviving the snowstorms and two girls here in Country Kerry.”

“It’s been raining here in Dalkey, but there hasn’t been any snow.”

“Could I visit with Chelsea and Korrit for the weekend?”

”You’re always welcome here.”

After that, the only thing left to do was getting ready. That was easier done than said.

“Korrit and Chelsea, would you like to take a trip to Aunt Meg’s?”

“Now?” asked Korrit.

“Right now.”

The girls were off their spots on the couch and upstairs in a flash. They quickly returned downstairs with stuffed daypacks.

“We’re ready!” announced Korrit.

“Let me take a quick inventory.”

“We’ve got everything,” Chelsea reassured her mother, “I double-checked.”

“What’s with all these reading books? You’ll have plenty to do at your Aunt’s house.”

“Just in case.”

After the triple check, Mrs. Cahill packed everything into the SUV, including Korrit and Chelsea.

“I get the front seat!” said Korrit.

Chelsea shrugged, “I prefer the back seat anyway. I have all this room and I can finish my assignment for reading class.”

Chelsea opened James Joyce’s The Dubliners, ignoring Korrit altogether. She anticipated a good read. Meanwhile, Korrit entertained her mother and simultaneously controlled the radio and ice cooler.

“Mom, have you read The Dubliners?” asked Chelsea.

“A long, long time ago.”

“What is it about?”

“I seem to remember something about everyday people living in Dublin.”

“Ah,” said Chelsea thoughtfully as she returned to her book.

The big, green SUV turned from the city streets of Kilkenny onto the entrance to the turnpike. Unlike the freeways found in most countries, the turnpikes were toll roads. Mrs. Cahill paid the attendant at the booth and up went the gate.

Unlike the bumpy county roads the Cahills took on trips to the Donaldson’s farm, the turnpike was well kept and straight as an arrow. Chelsea had no problem reading under these conditions and Korrit had no problem tuning the radio as stations faded in and out. As they neared Dublin city, all radio stations came in loud and clear as Mrs. Cahill exited the turnpike and headed the car north through the city. After passing Dublin, the city streets gave way to the rough country roads leading north.

“This is the worst part of the trip,” said Chelsea.

“I’ll drive as carefully as I can,” reassured mother, “but we won’t be on the togher road for long.”

The few togher roads that remained in Ireland were a far cry from the original togher roads. When carriages couldn’t pass through the mossy swamps, men felled trees and buried them in the bog. The travelers used extra timber to lay the road’s foundation.”

“Hold on,” said Mrs. Cahill.

The SUV rumbled over the timbers that were laid side-by-side like narrow train rails. It was only a short part of the journey, but everyone was relieved when the green SUV turned onto a county road. Old gray cathedrals and townland homes replaced old gray trees and bright green hills.

The road led upward to the townland and the Pyle’s farmhouse. It was stately with five windows sitting over four windows. The front door sat directly in the center. Mrs. Cahill parked behind the station wagon in the circular drive. Everyone unloaded their things and went inside.

“Thank the Lord you made it safely,” said Aunt Meg.

“The ride was fine until the end. It was all bumpy. The togher roads, you know.”

“I couldn’t read my book,” grumbled Chelsea, “I wish they were smooth like the turnpikes.”

“They can’t do that. Togher roads are an important part of Irish history.”

“I know, Ireland was once swamps.”

“More than that, without toghers, the people who lived in the swampy mainland were protected from Viking invasion.”

“The Vikings still invaded,” stated Korrit.

“They weren’t able to invade the mainland. They settled mostly on the coasts,” replied Aunt Meg.

“They were called Norsemen,” added Uncle Danny, “because they came from the North in small Viking raiding parties. They began in Shetland, just off the coast of Scotland. Then, they advanced further south until they attacked most of the United Kingdom, including Wales, England, and Ireland, too.”

Uncle Danny grabbed the small throwing axes mounted over the mantel and gripped it gently in his hand.

“These Viking raiders are as much a part of Ireland as the native Celts. Eventually, Vikings built settlements in coastal towns like Dublin, Wexford, Waterford and Cork. Monks escaped to the swamps. Meanwhile, Vikings and other barbarians attacked Europe and changed the face of culture. Classic buildings, art, and even books were destroyed. That’s why it was called the Dark Ages.”

“Be thankful for the monks,” said Aunt Meg, “because they lit the Dark Ages with the monks and the bards.”

“I like modern poets like Keats, Yeats, and Swift,” said Korrit, “I just don’t get the bards.”

“Bards were poets and court scribes during the Dark Ages, keeping records for kings and tribal chieftains. The bards also composed songs known as ballads in praise of the chieftain and his clan.”

“Wasn’t William Shakespeare a bard?” asked Chelsea.

“Yes and no,” said Aunt Meg, “He was called ‘the Bard of Avon’ but he was just a famous English playwright. The bard tradition faded with the end of the Dark Ages.

Back then, Ireland was divided into several kingdoms. When the King of Leinster was exiled to Normandy, in modern-day France. The ex-King sought help from the Normans, who invaded Leinster on his behalf. After victory in Leinster, the Normans invaded surrounding Irish kingdoms. By the end of the Norman invasions, the chieftain reclaimed his throne, Vikings were being banished, and England controlled Ireland.”

“It’s not quite that simple,” said Uncle Danny, “many Normans remained in Ireland after the invasion. The native Irish didn’t like this, so they pushed them to the east coast between Dalkey to Dublin.”

“That’s right here!” exclaimed Chelsea.

“There are still places where you can see the moats and mounds the Normans used to protect their farms from Irish cattle thieves. The Irish nicknamed the Norman settlement ‘The Pale’, which means boundary. Anything ‘Beyond the Pale’ has come to mean ‘unacceptable’ or ‘out of bounds’.”

“Do you think there are still any Normans around here?”

Mr. Pyle nodded. Then, he put a thumb upon his own chest.

“My distant relatives are Normans.”

Chelsea gasped.

“It could be worse,” said Uncle Danny, “we could have Vikings around here.”

“Wait a second,” said Korrit with a pause.

“Yes, dear?”

“The Donaldsons come from Viking roots.”

Uncle Danny’s eyes shifted nervously as he peered around the room.

“Oh, stop it!” said Aunt Meg.

“Luckily, this is a clan of loveable Vikings.”

“If you don’t watch it, I’ll put you across the Pale.”

“I hope it’s not before I eat dinner.”

“You’d dare to eat Viking grub?”

“I suppose I’d be okay this one time,” he joked.

Everyone settled around the dining room table as Aunt Meg served fish stew and grilled tomatoes for dinner. However, she failed to fill Uncle Danny’s plate. He frowned at Mrs. Pyle.

“I was only kidding.”

“Yes, my dear, but when you’re beyond The Pale, it looks like I get the last laugh.”

.

08 - Boughs and Bells and Bows

“Nollaig Shona!” said Chelsea to her Aunt Meg on Christmas Eve.

“Nollaig Shona!” said Aunt Meg. It was hugs and kisses all around as Chelsea acted as the door-greeter at the Cahill house. Nollaig Shona was the customary Gaelic saying during the holidays. It meant “Christmas Greetings!”

This moment was weeks in the making. As it always was in Kilkenny, the landscape changed from autumn’s golden hues to the dull browns and grays of winter. In fact, that’s the way it was in most of Ireland. It marked the annual transformation from Halloween to Yuletide.

When December rolled around, the first matter was the Holiday concert at Kilkenny Secondary School. Meg and Sallie performed with the band while the rest of the Cahill family watched. The Holiday concert included Christmas favorites like “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” and Irish standards like “Carol of the Birds.”

While the concert began the holiday season for the Cahill\ family, it was the Christmas Spend that made it official. Shopkeepers decorated downtown with bright lights and tinsel in hopes of attracting visitors. Mrs. Cahill anticipated the Holiday Spend with great excitement.

“Meg, would you like to go into town with me?”

“I guess so.”

“I just thought you’d want to get a head start on the Christmas Spend before the shops become too crowded.”

“Can I have some Christmas money?”

“Just remember, this is all you get for gift-giving.”

“What about Grandma and Grandpa?”

“I’ll worry about them and you can worry about your sisters.”

They took the big green SUV into downtown, where pine boughs and red ribbons hung high overhead, dressing the two-story row houses that lined the streets.

The Christmas Spend started in mid-October, when Halloween costumes and candy appeared on supermarket shelves. It wasn’t until December that things kicked into high gear. They city planted a giant Christmas tree in front of the Mayor’s house. The Mayor held a tree lighting ceremony on December 8^th and that included a visit from Daidi na Nollag – the Christmas Daddy. The children called him Santy Claus. Meg and Sallie took Korrit and Chelsea to the town square on the eighth, where everyone shared their wish lists with the Christmas Daddy.

“Do you know what everyone wants?” asked mom.

“Sallie wants new mandolin strings. Korrit wants all sorts of clothes and Chelsea wants a Claddagh ring.”

“Claddagh rings are for girls with boyfriends.”

“Maybe she already has one.”

“Don’t dare say that around your father!”

Meg chuckled.

“She’s still too young for a Claddagh ring.”

Meg and her mother wandered around downtown, enjoying the sights, sounds, and smells of Christmas. Meg used her money to purchase Sallie’s mandolin strings and a beautiful new scarf for Korrit. Then, they stopped at the jewelry shop, After Meg’s first two purchases, there was hardly any money left for Chelsea’s ring.

“I told you, she’s too young for that.”

With that said, Meg and her mother returned home and ring was all but forgotten.

 The children were ready for vacation as soon as Winter Break got underway. They made ready for the arrival of their Grandparents and Aunt Meg’s family. They trimmed the house from top to bottom, just like the shops in downtown. On the evening of December 24th, the entire Cahill clan was dressed in their Sunday best. All that was left was for the arrival of the Pyles and Donaldsons.

“Watch it, Jack!” said Grandma Georgina as Grandpa veered down the crowded streets of Kilkenny in his old farm truck.

“I’ve been driving as long as you’ve known me, old woman and haven’t wrecked once.”

“Yes, but your time is due.”

The truck narrowly missed several cars and one young boy, too. Luckily, he jumped out of way in the nick of time. Meanwhile, Korrit watched the driveway from the living room window.

“Grandpa and Grandma are here!” she announced.

The girls jumped to their feet and ran to the door. Chelsea was the first to get to the doorknob and the one to open the door.

“Don’ ‘cha look like a plum?” said Grandpa as he gave a bearhug to his youngest granddaughter.

“Can we open a gift now?” asked Chelsea.

“What about me?” asked Grandma, “When do I get my hug?”

“I’m so sorry, Grandma, I’m just excited for Christmas.”

“It’s alright, I know I have to wait in line when Santy is in town.”

As was custom in the Cahill house, each child was allowed to open one gift on Christmas Eve before midnight mass. Chelsea looked to her mother.

“”Go on,” said Mrs. Cahill.

As the youngest, Chelsea got to choose her gift first. She poked around, trying to figure out what was what.

“No shaking,” said Korrit.

“I’m not, I’m just looking for my present from Meg.”

Meg sat upright. In the hubbub leading up to Christmas, she’d forgotten Chelsea’s gift. Mom had realized it, too.

“Chelsea dearest,” said mother, “it’s my fault. Meg had specially ordered your gift and I forgot to pick it up at the store.”

Without another thought about it, Chelsea turned back towards the tree and plucked a gift from the pile of presents.

“It’s from Sallie,” she said.

Chelsea placed a thumb beneath a piece of tape and broke it with one quick rip. The wrapping paper fell to the floo as Chelsea popped the lid off the plain white box. Inside, there was a lambswool sweater.

“Isn’t that just lovely?” said mother.

Chelsea frowned slightly. It wasn’t what she was looking for – she was still hoping for the Claddagh ring. Maybe it was still waiting beneath the tree.

Aunt Meg and the rest of the Pyles arrived just before midnight.

“Here’s potato soup for tonight,” said Aunt Meg.

“I’ll take it,” replied the younger Meg. She placed it in the refrigerator for safe-eeping. It was getting late and time had come to go to church. The SUV, pickup, and the family wagon went one-two-three to Midnight Mass at Saint Andrew’s Church, just down the lane from the Cahill house.

“It’s so beautiful,” said Chelsea.

The little bit of snowfall had softened and then crystallized again in the near zero weather. It formed a sheet of ice that reflected the yellow-white lights of the cathedral upon the snow pack. Holly and Mistletoe wreaths decorated the doors. Outside, the line of parishoners waited to go inside. Still, they found time to catch up in conversation with friends old and new.

“Come in, come in,” said father Thomas Terry. He, too, was dressed in his best robes, in honor of Christmas and the celebration of the Christ’s birth.

Chelsea’s entire extended family pushed into one pew, which they occupied from one end to the other. Chelsea was situated between Grandpa and her sister Meg and that was just fine by Chelsea.

The Midnight Mass was just the beginning of Christmas festivities for Chelsea’s family. After the Mass, everyone returned to the Cahill house and filled it with family.

“I’ve got mulled wine for the adults and mulled cider for the kids,” said Mrs. Cahill.

“And mulled Whiskey for me?” asked Grandpa Jack.

“And whiskey for you, dad.”

“Jack,” grumbled Grandma, “why in heaven’s name would you need whiskey on Christmas morning?”

“You know I drink it every Christmas. It’s the perfect match for roast lamb.”

“Why don’t ‘cha have some mulled wine like the rest of us?”

Grandpa Jack just smiled at Grandma.

“Quit smiling at me, old man.”

Although Mrs. Cahill didn’t want to mix matters with her parents, she served a small glass of whiskey for her father and Aunt Meg served him a glass of mulled wine.

“A little of each,” said Aunt Meg.

Large portions of roasted lamb, mashed potatoes and boiled carrots filled everyone’s plates and everyone filled their tummies with Mrs. Cahills foodstuffs.

“Who wants Kerry ice cream and rhubarb pie?” asked Grandma.

“Grandma, I think we’d all love to,” said little Meg, “but everyone’s tummies are full.”

There was certain sadness in little Meg’s voice, but Grandma understood completely.

“That means it’s time to open presents,” said Uncle Danny. The children immediately jumped from their seats.

“Hey!” he commanded, “nobody opens their presents until all the dishes are clean!”

The children groaned, but the children obeyed Uncle Danny. In no time at all, every dish was not only washed and dried, but neatly stacked in cabinets, too.

“”Now can we have Christmas, Uncle Danny?”

“Yes, Chelsea, I suppose we can have Christmas now.”

The children raced to the living room, all in search of the best seat near the Christmas tree. Little Eric, who was the youngest, had the honor of handing out presents. Once everyone received his or her gifts and was in place, they began opening presents. It wasn’t slow and orderly like it had been for Christmas Eve, but more of a race, with the youngest children leading the way.

When the bows and wrapping paper had settled, it was time to enjoy gifts. Sallie was restringing her banjo mandolin and Korrit was testing her new puddle-jumpers with long walks around the living room. Chelsea, however, was the slightest bit disappointed. She had not gotten her Claddagh. When Grandpa Jack held his arms outstretched, Chelsea sat on his lap.

“How was your Christmas, dear?”

“Oh, it was okay.”

“Horse feathers! How can Christmas just be okay? Are you tired?”

“Maybe that’s it,” said Chelsea.

“Maybe we should all get some rest.”

The night had grown long and everyone had grown tired, so nobody objected to Grandpa’s suggestion. The children unfurled their sleeping bags and found a place in the living room while the adults took over the children’s bedrooms upstairs.

“Good night, sweet grandchildren,” said Grandpa Jack as he switched off the light.

“Good night to each and every one of you,” said Grandpa.

“Good night, Grandpa,” the children said in union.

“Nollaig Shona,” he said quietly. There was a smile in his voice. There was a smile on each of his grandchildren’s faces, too. They listened to the creaking of the floorboards as he headed upstairs. As the house fell silent, it wasn’t long until everyone found his or her own way to sleep.

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07 - Lucky Rings and Scary Things

“Out of shadows and mist, the ancient Wyking swamp-men emerged from the quaking bog, their chain mail, half-silver and half-rusted, glimmered faintly in the pale blue moonlight. They were the ancient raiders, come to seek their glory in the swampy island known as Eire.”
“Grandpa Jack?” said Chelsea.
“Yes, dear?”
“Why did you call them Wykings?”
“The men from the north known as Vikings once called themselves Wykings.”
“Oh, okay. You can go on now…”
The consummate storyteller, Grandpa Jack was happy whenever he drew an audience (whch he always did). The crowd of children, great, grand, and otherwise, filled the area around the fire pit, huddled together upon hay bales and under blankets just beyond the Donaldson’s barn. Aunt Meg was there. So, too, was Uncle Danny. Also, there were all of Chelsea’s cousins including Kevin and Lauren and Stephanie and littlest Eric.
“Where was I?” asked Grandpa Jack.
“The bog-men,” Chelsea reminded him.
“Ah, yes!” said Grandpa, “the Wyking bog-men rose from the mists of the quaking bog and slogged across the swamplands just north of Tipperary. The muck and the mire was so thick, it stopped the Wykings dead in their tracks. Try as they might, they could not escape the bogs. Finally, the swollen earth consumed them, until only their souls were left.
It has been said that you should always keep your ears alert and your eyes peeled, because these ghosts lurk at the edges of great fields, looking for farm animals and young children to feast upon.”
The children focused deliberately on Grandpa Jack as he told his tale. They hung on his every last word.
“Oh, stop it, Jack!” scolded Grandma, “you’re scaring the children.”
“What good is All Hallows Eve without a good horror story?”
“Maybe that’s enough, dad,” said Aunt Meg.
“No!” called all the children but Chelsea. She focused her eyes on the fencerow where the cows lingered. As wind whipped through the pines, it whistled softly. That was just about all Chelsea could take. Still, she said nothing. Grandpa looked around the campfire. He noticed her fearful face.
“Maybe you’re right, Meg. Maybe that’s enough for tonight.”
“It’s time for snap-apple anyway,” said Grandma.
She placed a pail atop a milking stool. Large red apples bobbed around as the water inside the pail sloshed about.
“Youngest first!” she said.
That was little Eric.
Eric locked his hands behind his back and poked his nose into the pail of icy water. His tiny mouth couldn’t fit around the slippery apple. Instead, he snagged a stem between his teeth and stood upright. Everyone cheered as he displayed it proudly.
“Bring it here, dear,” said Aunt Meg, “and I’ll slice it up so you can dip it in caramel and honey.”
Before she could make the first slice, Grandpa Jack stopped her. He pulled out his pocketknife and made a cross-cut in the apple. The seeds formed a five-pointed star.
“See the five-pointed star?” said Grandpa Jack, “it symbolizes the life-giving properties of the apple and also the essence of man: two legs, two arms, and one head. The apple carries the seed just like the woman carries the baby. The ancient druids, known as magicians or witches, believed this to be so. This is why the apple is so closely tied to the witch.”
The fire began to die, but Grandpa had an answer for that, too. He walked to the back of his pickup truck and grabbed a large brick of sod.
“What’s that?” asked little Eric.
“It’s called peat and I cut it from the swampy bog just down the shore.”
Grandpa Jack tossed the sod brick onto the fire and embers shot out in an orange flash. Quickly, the fire consumed the peat.
“You see,” said Grandpa, “bogs have been around as long as Ireland itself. When plants decay, the bog absorbs the nutrients and creates peat. For centuries, farmers used peat to plant gardens and feed their fires.”
While some children bobbed for apples, Eric and Chelsea joined Grandpa Jack on a hay bale near the fire. With his pocketknife in one hand and a turnip in the other, he began to whittle.
“What kind of jack o’ lantern would you like?”
“A scary one!” said Eric.
“How about a smiling one?” said Chelsea.
Grandpa took the large white tuber in his hand and chopped off the point at the bottom, creating a round bulb with green, leafy stems where the hair could be. He began at the mouth, carving it to both grandchildren’s desires. Its smile included buckteeth and missing teeth. A simple circle, the button-nose helped Chelsea’s cause for a cute jack o’ lantern. The eyes squinted and the brows flared slightly, just so Eric would be happy, too.
Grandpa carved a hole in the center, just the size for putting a small flashlight inside.
“As the Irish folktale goes, there once was a stingy drunk named Jack. Jack loved to play tricks on everyone he met. When he saw the devil, it was a temptation he could not resist. He dared the devil to climb the tallest apple tree and when the devil reached the top, Jack quickly placed crosses around the trunk. When the devil could not climb down, Jack offered a compromise. When jack died, he’d never have to go to Hell. The devil agreed and Jack let the devil out of the tree.
Many years later, when Jack died, he paid a visit to Saint Peter.
“Son,” said St. Peter, “since you’ve been mean all your life, I cannot allow you into Heaven.
When Jack was sent to Hell, the devil had to keep his promise. However, it was the Devil’s turn to play a trick on Jack. He forced poor old Jack to wander as a soul without a place to call home.
All the villagers of Ireland did not want a visit from Jack’s ghost, so they carved turnips with scary faces and placed them in their windows. To this day, farmers use Jack o’ Lanterns to keep poor Jack’s soul from entering their homes.”
So, Grandpa Jack carved a second turnip for Eric. Then, he carved one for each of his grandchildren.
“Is that everyone?” asked Grandpa.
 “I think so,” said Eric.
“Then, off you go.”
“Aren’t you going with us?”
“I’ve got old bones. I’ll stay here with Grandma and help with supper.”
The children put on their costumes and painted their faces for a night of guising, the Irish version of trick-or-treating, with children disguised as creatures of the night: zombies, witches, vampires, goblins, and ghosts.
The kids rode into town where gusing was easiest. They trick-or-treated, going door to door to collect coins and candies. When they finally came home, it was time to count their loot. Grandpa threw extra bricks of peat on the fire, along with large pieces of cordwood. The fire blazed, lighting the barnyard from the back porch to the far cliff.
“Grandpa?” said Korrit, “can you tell us about guising?”
“Druids believed that on the cross-quarter days, halfway between equinoxes, a door opened to the other side and allowed the living to communicate with the dead. They built large bonfires and dressed as creatures of the night to keep away the evil spirits. When the church arrived in Ireland during the ninth century, they replaced the pagan harvest festival with All Saint’s Day. Still, the Christians kept the ancient pagan celebrations as their own.”
When the apple crisp was cooked the whole way through, Grandpa Jack removed it from the fire and led everyone indoors, where the fireplace was lit and the house was warm.
“I’m so hungry for apple crisp,” said cousin Stephie.
“You can’t have your dessert until you eat your stew.”
Grandpa placed the stockpot on the hearth to keep it warm. Although they ate it year-round, Halloween was a special time for Colcannon Stew. Everyone ate it and enjoyed it completely.
Afterwards, there were two desserts. Before anyone got to enjoy the apple crisp, it was time for a bit of fortune telling. That was where the barnbrack was involved.
Barnbrack was traditional Irish fruit bread cooked with flour, sugar, yeast, dates, and raisins. Grandma molded small round cookies and put them on a baking tin. Before she placed the tin inside the oven, she placed six items in random pieces of dough: a coin, a stick, a pea, a metallic cross, a tiny piece of cloth, and a ring.
“Smallest fets the first choice of brack,” said Grandma Georgina.
Eric picked a cookie out of the basket and broke it in half. It contained nothing.
“Break it again,” urged Aunt Meg.
Eric crushed his cookie on his plate, until it was only crumbles. Still, he was happy to eat the brack.
“Chelsea, you’re next.”
Chelsea cracked her piece in half. A piece of metal protruded from the break. Chelsea pulled on it until she had a toy ring clasped in her fingers.
“You’ll be the next to get married!” exclaimed Grandma.
“Ugh!” said Chelsea.
“Ugh!” Meg said, too. She was already old enough to date boys and several years closer to marriage than Chelsea.
“It’s just a game,” Grandma reassured the two.
“Hogwash!” said Grandpa.
Family members continued to break their brack and seeing what the future would hold. The pea meant another year without marriage. The stick meant  a year of disputes and fights. The coin meant riches and the cloth meant poverty. At the end, there was only one cookie left – and that was for Grandpa.
“Hmmmmm,” said Grandma.
“What?’ replied.
“Take your brack and you’ll see.”
Grandpa Jack grabbed the last piece and broke it in half. Just like Chelsea’s brack, there was a glimpse of something glimmering. Grandpa crushed the cookie until it revealed a tiny silver cross.
“I guess you’re going to become a member of the church.”
“Hogwash!” replied Grandpa.
“Hmph,” replied Grandma.
With that turn of events, Grandpa Jack was quite satisfied that the night was over, so he retired to bed. However, nobody had touched the apple crisp.
“Should we go?” asked Aunt Meg.
“You know your father,” said Aunt Georgina, “he’ll be over it in no time. It just means more for the rest of us.”
So, the family gobbled up the apple crisp until there was just one bit left. It was decided that the last piece would be set aside for Grandpa Jack.
After everyone ate their fill, it was time for good-byes. Also, it was time for Grandpa Jack to emerge from hiding.
“Aw, I can’t stay mad at you.”
“That’s good, because you’re stuck with me for a very long time.”
“Grandpa?”
“Yes, Chelsea?”
“I think this is yours.”
She placed the tiny toy ring in his hand. He clenched his large, fat fingers around it and gave Chelsea a great big hug.
“Happy Halloween,” she whispered.
“Happy Halloween, indded.”
.

06 - Stone Circles and Rhubarb Fools

When band camp ended, it was summer’s end, too. The girls returned to school and shared stories of summer vacation with their long lost friends. They also settled in for the wet white winter yet to come.

As autumn arrived, the great wild way of County Kerry turned from summertime’s emerald isle to autumn’s sun burnt coast.

September unfurled and the girls took yet another trip to the Donaldson’s farm. There was only room for three girls in the front seat with Grandpa, so Meg and Sallie rode in the back. Wind whipped across their faces, but they held on tight and enjoyed the scenery as the truck led them along that same county road to the farm. Even with that familiar feeling, there was a sense of excitement. Grandpa Jack was always full of surprises.

Trees flashed by. Leaves in bright red, green, and gold, painted the landscape and filled the girls imaginations. When the pickup rose over a bluff, Korrit pointed out the window. A collection of rocks stood alone in the clearing.

“What’s that, Grandpa?”

“It’s called a stone henge.”

“I thought Stonehenge was in England.”

“Stonehenge is in England, but all stone circles are called henges. They’re ancient monuments built thousands of years ago. They’re all over Ireland as well as England.”

“Let’s go see it!” exclaimed Chelsea.

Grandpa Jack turned onto a side road and went directly away from the farm. It took both Meg and Sallie by surprise. Sallie popped her head through the rear view window.

“Grandpa, you’re going the wrong way!”

“I bet I’m not,” he replied, “just sit back and relax. We’ll get to where we’re going, wherever that may be.”

As the pickup truck neared the standing stones, it became obvious to Sallie that Grandpa Jack was not going the wrong way at all.

 “Wow!” said Chelsea, “they must be fifty meters tall.”

“Quit exaggerating,” scolded Sallie.

Grandpa chuckled.

“I’d say they’re less than ten meters high.”

Grandpa was just about right, too. The pickup truck parked at the edge of the field and the group of five hiked towards the standing stones. They were arranged like Stonehenge, only there were no lentils laying across the top of the upright stones.

“Why do you think these were put here?” asked Chelsea as she stood next to one of the stones and reached as high as she could. The monolith dwarfed her.

“There are several ideas about that,” said Grandpa, “but I suppose two ring the most true.”

Grandpa stood between two stones and peered across the horizon at the setting sun. He squinted his eyes.

“First, if you stand over here and look through the circle, you can see the sun sitting between two of the stones. As the year progresses and the earth rotates, the sun sets at a different point on the horizon. Ancient people used the standing stones as a calendar. The sun’s position helped them plant and harvest crops.”

Chelsea walked through the circle, crossing the circular ditch before hiking up the small slope to the mound at the circle’s center. That is where she sat herself down.

“What’s this mound in the middle?”

“Ah!” said Grandpa Jack, “it could be a burial mound. Skeletons have been found below many of these sites.”

“Eek!” Chelsea jumped up and immediately ran out of the circle.

“They’re not going to hurt you,” chuckled Grandpa, “those skeletons have probably turned to dust by now.”

“Turned to dust?”

“Just like autumn leaves that fall to the ground, everything that dies decays. It turns to dust and the nutrients feed the soil.”

Chelsea rubbed her chin thoughtfully.

“They’re part of the soil?”

“We’re all connected,” said Grandpa, “the ancient druids who lived in the Stone Age depended on the earth for everything they did. They didn’t have metals like we do today. Their tools were made of stone and they relied on their farming skills for food.”

“Weren’t these the druids?” asked Meg.

“Of course they were. Little is known about the druids, but they were an Irish farming culture that lived in ancient times. They also believed in magic, like the healing powers of herbs and spell casting.”

“Our father doesn’t like those sorts of things.”

“He has a right to feel that way, but the druids will always be an important part of Ireland’s past. We carry on many of their traditions to this very day.”

Sallie gave a little cough. Meg did, too. Without realizing it, the cold weather had chilled each and every one of them to the bone. When Grandpa Jack realized it, he offered a solution.

“Maybe we should go home and try some of Grandma’s Georgina’s bergamot tea and some wild onion soup.”

The girls were ready to go and the idea of warming themselves by the fire was a welcome thought. Arms and legs developed cramps as everyone squished into the front seat with Grandpa. Luckily, it wasn’t a very long trip at all.

Everyone was excited when the pickup turned onto the long narrow drive, passing by Connor and the other livestock in the pasture. Chelsea called out to him. He just lowered his head and nibbled on the wilted springs of purple clover.

“Alright girls,” Grandpa Jack said, “let’s all get inside and see if we can get warm.”

Everyone hurried inside, where Grandma Georgina was hard at work.

“Where have you been?”

“We took a little side trip,” Grandpa replied.

Sallie’s cough, loud and sharp, cut through the quietness of the room.

“Did you take them outside in this weather?”

“Grandma,” said Chelsea, “we visited Stonehenge.”

“It wasn’t Stonehenge,” Meg corrected, “it was the old stone henge just over the hill.”

“Jack, you could’ve chosen a better day to go tromping outdoors.”

“But the girls wanted to see it and if you just fix some Bergamot tea…”

Grandma glanced at Grandpa for a split second. Then, she pulled the bottle of dried mint leaves marked ‘Bergamot’ from the cupboard and tossed a pinch of leaves into the teakettle. The smell of fresh mint filled the air, as if the teakettle had been waiting for a pinch of mint all morning long.

“You’ll all be feeling better in no time.”

Grandma Georgina had also been working on another of her delicious stews. This time, it was a traditional Irish stew with lamb chops, potatoes, carrots, cabbage, and onions.

“Since you’ve dilly-dallied at the henge, you’ve given my stew time to become fully finished.”

She dumped full ladles of her Irish stew into large bowls and served them to the girls and Grandpa Jack, too. As they sat near the hearth, everyone warmed from the outside in and from the inside out, too. Meanwhile, Grandpa Jack couldn’t resist the opportunity to spin a yarn. He’d take the children to Narnia, just as the Irish authror Cliff Lewis had taken him when he was just a child.

“And so it was,” said Grandpa Jack, “that Lucy and Edmund were sleeping in the guest bedroom of their cousin Eustace and above them hung this old, worn out and ignored painting. Within the painting, the ocean stirred a Brigadoon, a great exploring vessel named the Dawn Treader. As the two were joined by their cousin, the three of them were drawn…no…compelled back into the magic land of Narnia, where they’d been once before…”

Grandpa Jack, who had always taken a particular fancy to Irish magic and folklore, also found himself quite amused with C.S. Lewis, the author of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe as well as all the Chronicles of Narnia. His grandchildren loved when he told tales, especially those of the mighty lion Aslan, the wicked White witch, and the wardrobe – an extra-ordinary closet that teleported the story’s children (as well as its readers) to far away places.

After quite some while, Grandma Georgina had finished the dessert she’d been making in the kitchen. Anyway, now was as good a time as any – so she interrupted Grandpa Jack just this one time.

“Alright,” she said, “who wants Rhubarb Fool with fresh ice cream?”

Everyone rushed to the sink and quickly rinsed their dishes. Grandma Georgina filled their bowls with vanilla ice cream and added the Rhubarb Fool.

Rhubarb Fool was constructed by simmering cubes of fresh Rhubarb in a saucepan with sugar. After it came to a boil, she set it in the freezer to cool. Meanwhile, she whipped fresh Kerry cream and mixed it with yogurt. She folded the cream and yogurt mixture into the rhubarb. It made a sweet and yummy dish that looked like a mix of creamy frozen fruit. As Grandpa Jack and the girls ate the Rhubarb Fool, it tasted about as good as creamy frozen fruit, too.

“Alright,” said Grandma Georgina as the girls finished their dessert, “it’s off to bed with you.”

“But Grandpa’s not finished telling his story,” groaned Chelsea.

“Do you know how long that story is? There will be plenty of chances to finish it some other time.”

The girls jumped into their pajamas and hurried off to the trundle beds upstairs.

“Codladh sámh,” said Grandma as she tucked the girls into their beds. Sleep peaceful is what she said.

“Codladh sámh,” said Korrit as she kissed Grandma lightly on the cheek. Grandma Georgina placed a gentle hand upon the side of Korrit’s face and planted a kiss right on the end of her grand-daughter’s nose. Korrit, like all the Cahill girls, closed her eyes and dreamt peaceful dreams.

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05 - Over and Under and Down Below

Cabin B sat across the vale and up the hill from Cabin A. Before the girls could even get out the door, they’d have to go through Miss Sompres, their band teacher. Miss Sompres sat on the steps just outside the cabin door.
“Ma’am, would it be okay if we hiked to Cabin B?”
“Why on earth would you want to do that?”
“Our big sisters are there.”
“I suppose that would be okay, just be back here before dinner.”
Chatters, chirps and croaks of robins, wrens and crows filled the misty air as the girls hiked the trail that linked the two camps. They ambled about and enjoyed a rare sunny Irish day. Meanwhile, Mr. Cahill was back home working in the zinc mines, digging down deep with his fellow co-workers.
Mr. Cahill, however, was not truly mining the zinc. He was a foreman. He ran several of the operations for the mining company.
“Henry,” he said to the lead drill operator, “we’ve got a good vein a little deeper into the blast zone. I want you to start drilling there."
Mr. Cahill indicated the blasting area on a map for Henry. After the blast team checked the site for loose debris, the drilling team had their turn. They took jackhammers to the loose granite so it was easier to transport.
As Henry and the drilling team went to work, Mr. Cahill headed to the next part of the operation. Meanwhile, the dump trucks hauled the gravel to conveyor belts at the other end of the mine. The conveyors moved the rocks to the ground level where Mr. Cahill would soon up with other mine workers.
For Mr. Cahill, it was all work. For Korrit and Chelsea, however, it was all play. The rocky bluff gave way to a wide field covered in clover and rye grass.
“I never thought we’d make it,” said Chelsea.
“We’re notthere yet,” said Korrit.
Indeed, Cabin B sat across the field, just beyond the rambling stone fence, an uphill climb the whole way. The girls hiked as far as the fence and perched themselves upon the wall to rest their weary feet.
“Would you look at that?” said Sallie to Meg, “our sisters are sitting on the fence.”
“What are they doing out there?”
“Let’s go and find out,” suggested Sallie. Meg agreed, so the two headed outside to meet Korrit and Chelsea.
“What brings ya?” said Sallie.
“You do,” said Chelsea.
“We do? I don’t think so.”
“It was boring at our cabin.”
“It’s boring at our cabin, too,” said Meg.
“Then let’s do something,” said Chelsea.
“Let’s go exploring for a pothole,” suggested Meg.
So suggested Meg and so the rest agreed. Potholing was to the people of Ireland what spelunking was to North Americans and caving was to the rest of the world. Meg would lead the girls into the underground tunnels and potholes that would make for an afternoon of adventure. Now, it was underground for the girls and up to the surface for their father. He entered the refinery, where raw stones were ground down and put through chemical processes to separate zinc from the other minerals within the rocks.
“’Ello, Mick, how’s the latest load from the quarry?”
“It looks rich,” said Mick, “but we’ll just have to pulverize it and see what we get.”
Mick worked in the pulverizing plant, where the rock was fed through crushers and grinders until the raw materials became rocks and fine powder. Then, the zinc would be separated using several other metallurgical processes on its way to becoming several types of zinc products.
  “Hello!” called Chelsea.
She stood at the top of a small cliff, guarded by her older sisters. The pothole meandered downward, leading to a cavern called a grotto. The grotto was filled with all sorts of rock formations including stalagmites that shot up from the ground and stalactites that hung from the cave’s ceiling.
From sea caves to sinkholes, Ireland was a country filled with caves. The coasts were places where pirates, vikings, and sailors dwelled long ago. Folklore had told of wild creatures who dwelled in the grottoes. For the Cahill girls, however, the cavern was completely empty besides them.
“Hallo!” Chelsea called again. Her voice bounced off the far wall of the cavern.
“Quit it, little bit,” said Meg.
“I’m just checking for an echo.”
“It’s too loud.”
Chelsea remained quiet as everyone climbed down the rocks to the back of the cave.
“It’s getting scary in here,” said Chelsea, “Can we go now?”
“We just got here,” Meg replied.
“It’s getting cold, too,” added Korrit.
“Alright, I guess we’ll head back to the surface. There’s nothing down here anyway.”
There was, however, something back at the zinc mines and Mr. Cahill was at the metallurgical plant, overseeing another part of the zinc manufacturing process.
The powder and gravel went through a chemical bath, where chemicals washed the granite and other minerals. The by-products were sent through special filters to separate them. Then, they were sent to dump trucks that shipped the by-products to other processing plants. Some plants even worked with the zinc by-products, making things people could use in their everyday lives.
Even before the girls reached the opening to the cave, the dinner bell rang.
“We’re going to be late!” exclaimed Korrit.
“Don’t worry,” said Meg, “the Dining Hall is just across the field.”
“It looks like it’s going to rain,” said Korrit.
“Don’t worry,” said Sallie, “you can borrow my puddle-jumpers.”
“What about me?” asked Chelsea.
“Hmmm…we’ll see what we can do.”
The girls passed everyone on their way to Cabin B.
“Where are you headed?” asked Mr. Lowrie, “the Dining Hall is this way.”
“We need to pick up some puddle-jumpers for Korrit and see if we can find something for Chelsea, too.”
“How about I do it one better by driving you to Cabin A?”
“That’d be great, Mr. Lowrie.”
Meg and Sallie went inside and picked out a set of clothes for the storm clouds headed their way. Then, Mr. Lowrie drove the whole gang to Cabin A. Korrit fetched her clothes right away. However, it took chelsea a short bit longer. When she returned, she was only carrying her backpack.
“Where are your things?” asked Mr. Lowrie.
“They’re in here.”
“Let me see,” said Meg. She rummaged through Chelsea’s backpack, taking inventory of everything inside.
“Why do you have your netbook?”
“I want to write a message to daddy.”
“You just saw him early this afternoon…”
“I know…but I miss him.”
It began raining even before Mr. Lowrie’s car arrived at the Dining Hall. Chelsea put on her puddle-jumpers and raincoat while Meg carried chelsea’s backpack to the safety of the Dining Hall.
Mr. Lowrie’s truck, just like Chelsea’s raingear, had protected the girls from the rain. That was due, in part, to the truck’s metallic frame, which had been made of an alloy – metals like aluminum, titanium, and zinc, combined together in one of the many processes that happened at Mr. Cahill’s plant.
So, too, was Chelsea’s notebook. The microchips had circuits that were zinc-plated to make the connections work effectively. Members of the brass section in the band had trumpets, trombones, and English horns. All that brass was another alloy, a combination of copper and zinc.
Mr. Cahill’s plant, however, did not create alloys or zinc-plate computer chips, but his plant still made life easier for the Cahill girls – and the rest of the world, too.
.

04 - Pluck Bow Hammer and Strum

The end of August marked the end of summer for the Cahills. Summer’s end brought with it all the usual preparations. The girls visited their schools and looked for their names on the homeroom lists. Mrs. Cahill took each of the girls, in turn, shopping for clothes and supplies. She followed the lists and listened to requests as each girl’s individual personalities were tended to.
After all of the preparations for school, there was one last thing. All four girls were headed out to the hill and vale – to the band camp at River Blackwater.
“Chelsea,” said Meg, “Are you ready to go?”
“Yes, Meg.”
“Let me check.”
Then, Meg proceeded to unpack her littlest sister’s duffel bag.
“I said I was ready!”
“Just let me check.”
Meg carefully placed all of Chelsea’s things on the bed in exact, tidy groups. Then, she began counting things.
“You have four t-shirts, four pairs of shorts, four pairs of socks, two pairs of shoes, two pairs of pants…”
Meg stopped and looked around. She noticed one thing missing.
“Where’s your dulcimer?”
“You know where it is, under the bed for safe-keeping.”
Meg reached under Chelsea’s bed and grabbed the dulcimer. It looked somewhat like Meg’s harp, only that it was flat instead of upright and attached to a fret board by tuning pins at the end of each string.
Meg placed it atop Chelsea’s dresser drawer and proceeded to repack the duffel bag.
“I guess that’s it,” said Meg, “Good night to you.”
“Good night, Meg.”
Meg planted a kiss upon little Chelsea’s forehead and tucked her into bed. Then, she took Chelsea’s duffel and left it at the top of the stairs.
Morning came quickly, which meant a rush about the house. The girls took their turns in the bathroom, oldest to youngest, which meant Chelsea had the pleasure of the longest sleep.
“Chelsea?” called Meg, “it’s time to get ready.”
“Alrighty!”
Chelsea rushed into and out of the shower while Sallie and Korrit fought over space at the bathroom sink.
 Mr. Cahill was in the kitchen enjoying coffee and tea bread while Mrs. Cahill made a full Irish breakfast for the girls. It included fried eggs and hash browns, fresh from Grandpa Donaldson’s farm, slices of bacon, blood pudding, and tall glasses of goat’s milk. When Meg came down, she looked upon it with a smiling face.
“It smells great, ma.”
“Thank you, dearest Meg. Is everybody ready?”
“Chelsea just finished showering and the other two should be down any time now.”
Sallie and Korrit were down in short order. Chelsea, however, remained upstairs, getting ready for the trip.
“Meg?”
“Yes, mother, I’ll go fetch her.”
Meg hurried upstairs, only to find Chelsea towel-drying her hair.
“Come on, scooter. Everyone’s waiting for you.”
Meg helped Chelsea, blow drying her hair and combing it just right. Then, they picked out a good outfit and joined the rest of the family downstairs.
“Here’s your breakfast,” said Mrs. Cahill.
“That’s it, eggs and blood pudding?”
“That’s all that’s left.”
Chelsea frowned for a moment. Then, she tried to make the best of it, taking small bites of black pudding between large gulps of milk.
Mrs. Cahill reacted quickly, popping a couple pieces of tea bread into the toaster. She spread raspberry jam on the toast and put it on Chelsea’s plate.
“Is that better?”
Chelsea nodded as a smile spread across her face. When Mrs. Cahill stabbed the last bit of black pudding with a fork and ate it herself, that made Chelsea even happier.
“If we don’t hurry, we’ll be late,” said Meg.
Four sisters and a small collection of stringed instruments were loaded into the family SUV.
“Is everyone ready?” asked mother.
“I think so,” said Meg, “Does everyone have their instrument? Chelsea, where’s your dulcimer?”
Chelsea looked into the back. Korrit’s fiddle, Sallie’s banjo mandolin, and Meg’s harp were all accounted for, but Chelsea’s dulcimer was missing.
Chelsea ran upstairs and retrieved it from the top of her dresser drawer, just where Meg placed it the night before. When Chelsea returned to the SUV, there was no room in the back, so she rested the dulcimer across her lap.
“Now is everyone ready?” asked father.
“Yes, I think so,” replied Chelsea.
On the way to summer camp, Sallie strummed Chelsea’s dulcimer. It made a sound similar to a harp. Chelsea immediately clamped her hands over the strings, silencing the dulcimer.
“You’re not supposed to play it like that!”
“I just like the sound of it,” said Sallie, “Can you play it for us while we head to camp?”
Chelsea slid open a secret side panel that revealed a tiny opening. She retrieved two hammers, which she held lightly in her fingertips so they bobbed easily in her grip. Then, she used the hammers like gentle mallets. Each time she bounced a hammer against a string, the string let out a gentle melody. At first, Chelsea played a random song she made up as she played.
“Would you play ‘Wild Irish Rose’ for us?” suggested mother.
Chelsea clamped her hand over the fret board again, silencing the sound. Then, she began playing again as everyone listened. It was no coincidence that the word “dulcimer” came from ancient word roots that meant ‘Sweet Song”, because the sounds that emanated from the dulcimer were soft and gentle, like a waterfall or a cold spring rain. Everyone, including Sallie, genuinely loved the gentle pitter-patter of the notes as the dulcimer’s song filled the air.
Chelsea played one old Irish standard after another until the SUV arrived at Camp River Blackwater.
The first parking lot was filled with teachers, parents, and younger children. The first camp was for the Primary School children aged six to twelve, like Korrit and Chelsea.
“Chelsea! Korrit! I’m over here!” It was Miss Sompres, the girls’ band teacher.
“You’re both in Cabin A. I’ll help you get settled.”
Chelsea frowned.
“What’s the matter?”
“I don’t want to go…”
Miss Sompres reached down and gave Chelsea a giant bear hug.
 “It’ll be alright, I’ll take care of you.”
“Okay…”
Chelsea reluctantly said her good-byes and headed to Cabin A with Korrit and Mrs. Sompres by her side.
“Here’s your bunk.”
“I’ll take the bottom,” said Chelsea.
“Okay,” said Korrit, “I’ll take the top bunk.”
As Chelsea and Korrit settled in, Meg and Sallie arrived in the second parking lot. They jumped out of the SUV and grabbed their things. With a quick good-bye, the pair was off to find their cabin.
“I need a wheel cart for my harp,” said Meg.
“Here’s one,” said Sallie.
“Let me help,” said Mr. Lowrie. He led the girls in concert band at the secondary school.
They lugged the wheel cart slowly up to the cabin, avoiding the ditches on either side of the dirt path.
“Whew! That was something.”
First things first, Meg unpacked her harp and tuned it. It was a Irish harp and was known by Meg and her classmates as a clarsach. It was shaped like the traditional Irish harp with the angled base and curved top, all made with heavy wood. Strings stretched from top to bottom, held in place by steel tuning pins.
Meg struck the tuning fork and plucked the appropriate harp string until the two were in tune. Then, she plucked other strings, two at a time, matching the notes until her harp sang out in perfect harmony when she ran her fingers over the strings.
Meanwhile, Sallie tuned her banjo mandolin. It had a round drum like a banjo, but had eight strings instead of four, like a mandolin. The strings were grouped into four pairs. Sallie plucked and strummed her banjo mandolin until each set (or course) was tuned as a pair. Then, she played her banjo mandolin. Its plucky banjo melody sounded very different from the waterfall sounds of Meg’s harp and the pitter-patter of Chelsea’s hammered dulcimer.
Across the way, Chelsea had finished settling in while Korrit was still fidgeting with her fiddle. She pulled the bow across the four strings and the sound vibrated within the plastic bridge that suspended the strings over the fiddle’s base. The sound also echoed throughout the base of the fiddle. As Korrit twisted the bow over the strings one way and then another, the sound changed.
Korrit’s fiddle, however, was nothing more than a classic viola – the smaller, higher-pitched version of the violin. It wasn’t the instrument that made it a fiddle. It was the way Korrit played her viola. Instead of the long, now sounds of a voila played in an opera, the movements of Korrit’s bow across the strings was quick and staccato, forming notes that were both extremely short and high in tone. As she lay in the top bunk, playing her fiddle, Chelsea listened from the bottom bunk.
Chelsea, who had finished settling in a while earlier, was ready to go out and about.
Chelsea climbed onto her mattress and peered over the edge of the top bunk.
“Korrit?”
“Yes?”
“Let’s go visit Sallie and Meg.”
“They’re all the way over in second camp.”
“I know, but all the big kids are there.”
“Alright,” said Korrit, “but put on your puddle-jumpers. It’s muddy outside.”
Korrit climbed out of the top bunk and put her viola into its case. Then, she and Chelsea quickly put on their raingear and headed out the cabin door.
.