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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