My close Irish friend S.’s mother died this past week. She was in her mid 70s and had not been in good health for some time, then two weeks ago she had a heart attack and was brought from County Longford to a Dublin hospital. Unfortunately, she was unable to recover and the family decided to suspend further medical intervention after consulting with the doctors. She passed away within 48 hours. The funeral was planned for this past Saturday, and when I asked my friend S. if he wanted me to be there he said he that he would really appreciate it. I spent last Christmas at my friend S.’s place and sat next to his mother when he hosted dinner for his family. She was very welcoming, chatty, and down-to-earth. Although I did not know his mother well, S. and I have become close friends over the last year. So I booked a ticket for the evening train from Dublin to Drumod on Friday after work.
S. grew up on a small family farm near the village of Cloondara (pronounced “Clun-dra”, with the stress on the second syllable), which is located at the terminus of the Royal Canal that stretches all the way from Dublin to the River Shannon. Not far from Cloondara is the meeting point of three Ireland counties: Co. Longford, Co. Leitrim (which is where S.’s village of Drumod, is located), and Co. Roscommon. The total population of Co. Longford is 45,000, and both Drumod and Cloondara have a population of around 600 each. The closest towns are Longford, pop. around 10,000, and Carrick-on-Shannon with a population less 5,000. It’s quite rural and agricultural, as is most of Ireland outside of its few urban population centres.
Instead of a wake, a reposing was held at a funeral home on Friday evening before I arrived. My friend S. estimated that 300 people showed up to pay his respects, and that by the end of it his hand was worn out from shaking everyone’s palms. He was absolutely exhausted, and after he picked me up from the train station that’s 5 minutes away from his house, we ordered pizza for delivery and stayed up for a little while chatting and watching TV. The next morning, S. headed out early to meet up with family members before the funeral. He had arranged for a nearby friend to give me a ride to the church, since she was going to the funeral herself along with her young son. The funeral was held at St. Brendan Catholic Church, which dates back to 1835, although on the same grounds there are ruins of a church dating back to the 14th century. The graveyard around the church was filled with with many Irish / Celtic crosses, and S.’s family had obtained a small burial plot long ago — there are no other spots left at this point. The interior of the church was contemporary and fairly simple. I’m guessing it probably seats 200-300 people.
The funeral was well attended, and we sat about half way back. I had never been to an Irish funeral before, and I’ve only ever been to a couple of Catholic masses. Before the service started, the staff from the funeral home set up a stand in front of the altar, a photo of S.’s mom, and a floral spray. The priest then led the procession of family members into the church, with the coffin of the deceased being carried on the shoulders of six pallbearers, including my friend S, his brother, and other men from the extended family. There were no programmes or hymnals for the service. The priest led us through a ritual of standing, sitting, and kneeling, between prayers and readings. I followed along as best I could, although the Catholic liturgy was different from the one that I knew from attending an Episcopalian school. It was difficult to follow along with the call and response, as the congregation recited their parts in hushed voices and elusive accents. I am also unpracticed in performing the sign of the cross, which Catholics do instinctively at certain specific times, so I decided it was best not to mimic it and instead just join in with an “amen” when I could. A female vocalist with a beautiful voice sung a few selections over the course of the mass from the choir gallery located in a balcony at the back of the church, accompanied by a pianist. Occasionally the priest, who also had a good voice, joined in as well. Some female members from the extended family had been chosen to do readings from scripture, and the priest made some brief comments about the deceased, who was well known in the community. My friend S. is the youngest of three children in his immediate family. His sister, whom I had met at Christmas, had flown back from London when their mother took ill. His brother, the oldest of them, lives in Cork; he is married with two young daughters. S.’s brother delivered a eulogy, which apparently is quite uncommon in Ireland. It was heartfelt, emotional, and even humorous at times. When he was done, the congregation applauded, which I thought was odd but S. later said that this was perfectly normal.
The mass ended with communion and more prayers, then the pallbearers hoisted the coffin back on their shoulders for the procession to the burial plot right outside the church. It had been raining earlier in the morning, but thankfully this had stopped in time for the burial. The priest invoked more prayers at the gravesite before the pallbearers lowered the coffin into the ground. The family then received those who had lined up to offer their condolences. I waited patiently until the crowd dispersed and for my friend S, to find me. He had held up well throughout although at times he couldn’t hold back the tears. The funeral lasted about an hour an half in total. We then headed to the local family-owned pub in Cloondara for lunch and of course some drink over the course of a few hours. I moderated my intake so that I could drive my friend S. in his car back to his place — the first time I’ve driven under the auspices of my Irish learners permit.
By the time we got back to his place, he was completed exhausted. His refrigerator was almost entirely empty, so I offered to make a small grocery run up to Carrick-on-Shannon about 15 minutes away while he rested. I also was on the hunt for an electrical adaptor for my travel CPAP machine, which has a U.S. plug — I had forgotten to pack one. Technically, I’m not supposed to drive solo under my learner’s permit, but I kept within the speed limit and did not draw the attention of any gardaí. The rain had started up again in an earnest downpour. I headed to the main shopping centre with Tesco grocery store, a Woodie’s do-it-yourself hardware store (the Irish equivalent to a Home Depot or Lowes), and some other shops. I didn’t have any luck finding an electrical adaptor at Woodie’s, but they pointed me in the direction of a “€2 store” (similar to a Dollar Tree store in the U.S.) where I was pleasantly surprised to find a good travel accessories section. Next at Tesco, I picked up some fresh pasta and pesto at S.’s suggestion for a light supper later on if we were hungry, as well some snacks, wine, beer and some chocolate for extra comfort. On the way home, I stopped by a Circle K petrol station for a fill up as S.’s car was down to a quarter tank from all the driving back and forth over the last few days — and I knew he’d need it, because the next morning he was driving his sister to the Ireland West International Airport in Knock, Co. Mayo, for her flight back to London. With provisions obtained, we settled in for a low key evening of TV, interspersed with S. relating stories about his mother and a few momentary tearful episodes.
Sunday morning I joined S. to drive his sister to the Knock Airport. She was staying at their parent’s place back in Cloondara, and we left his place before 7am despite not quite having a full night’s sleep. I had the chance to see S.’s father again, as well as “Goldie” — the family’s extremely affectionate golden retriever who would dip her head under your hand if you stopped petting him for more than a few seconds. It was an uneventful drive to the airport, and I enjoyed taking in more of the Irish countryside, which became somewhat more hilly as we drove westward into Co. Mayo. By the time we got back to Drumod, S. just needed to crash so I ended up taking a midday train back to Dublin. There were a fair number of passengers boarding the train at the Drumod station, although still plenty of seats left. However, today was the All-Ireland football (soccer) final match at Croke Park Stadium in Dublin, and it became absolutely packed by the time we pulled into town as more and more fans in rival Co. Kerry and Co. Galway jerseys squeezed into the train until spilling out en masse at Drumcondra, one station before the end of the line at Conneely station. The weather in Dublin was dry and warm. I opted to stretch my legs and walk home, which took less than half and hour. Despite the circumstances, it was good to get out of Dublin. I only wish there was one more day in the weekend before returning to work.
One final note: this weekend marked the 20th anniversary of me obtaining Irish citizenship. Way back in 2002 when I was still in my 20s, the subject of my Irish heritage came up in conversation with a work colleague over lunch. When I mentioned my grandfather had been born in Ireland, she shared with a tinge of envy that this entitled me to claim citizenship by descent — a birthright about which I had been completely ignorant until then. I set about gathering the required documents, including an original copy of my grandfather’s Irish birth certificate from 1899 that my Aunt Pat had carefully preserved over the decades since he had emigrated with the rest of the family to Colorado in 1921. I hand-delivered the documents to the Irish consulate in San Francisco, and about six months later I was entered into the Foreign Births Register and received a Foreign Birth Registration certificate. My passport application came next and took another 6 months or so. At the time, I didn’t put much thought into the idea of living in Ireland as I had never even visited the island before, but the allure of becoming an EU passport holder was too good of an opportunity to pass up. Subsequently, my Aunt Pat claimed Irish citizenship through a slightly less rigorous process as a first generation Irish American, as well as my sister Ginny. And the rest is history… or rather, it’s the ongoing story I am chronicling in this blog.
Until next time….
