About their life and what I witnessed.
Every night, after dinner the entire family knelt and said the rosary out loud. The entire village seemed to be dressed in black. Was that because it didn't show the dirt or Irish rural modesty. Color would be ostentatious and bring attention to yourself; pride was to them a great sin. You weren't to brag, wear makeup, swagger, flirt, or any of a dozen other things. The parish priest was the center of power. For the entire month, I never saw or heard a word about any political representative. But every Sunday all went to church and the talk was of the priest's sermon, and that talk was always positive.
There was a night in 1961 when three Jimmy Dolan's were gathered, myself, my Uncle and my Granduncle. It was around the fire in my Uncle Jimmy's home. It was not the parlor. The parlor was a small formally furnished room off to the right as you entered. This room where everyone gathered I don't remember ever having a name. As you walked in you might turn to go into the parlor but they would take your arm and say 'come into the fire' and there it would be, a great fire with a large pot off to the side or if dinner was being prepared it would be directly over the fire. A kettle would be laying on the side in the embers filled with boiling water for tea, the beverage always offered to a guest first, with lots of milk and sugar. Well, this night all were gathered around the fire and my Uncle Jimmy asked his Uncle Jimmy to show the young Yank his 'health'. The elder 90 something Jimmy, the tallest and thinnest of the three of us, a quiet bachelor who lived alone 'up the road', proceeded to bend at the waist without bending his knees and then untied and tied his shoe laces. Everyone applauded and that was the gist of my visit with my Grand Uncle; we were that shy with each other.
The younger Uncle Jimmy always used the word 'fag'. Not in reference to a cigarette; actually I don't think he smoked but about everything: he was 'fagged'; they were 'fagged'; "I'm going to be fagged". It took me a while to realize 'fag' meant tired.
There was poverty but after awhile I didn't see it. Entertainment was just the radio played for about an hour each night if there were no visitors and there was almost always visitors. On those nights the entertainment was the talk. A lot of reminiscing with my father about those he knew and had grown up with. They all had nicknames. 'Pat the pusher' was a favorite of mine. Of course, there were no drugs for that kind of a pusher. What he did to earn that nickname no one could remember. Names over names: "Sure, don't you remember", someone would ask Dad and then there would be the stories of that one's family often leading to the tragedy that had befallen them. Then everyone would nod; someone would say something if it were a self-imposed tragedy: "well that's what comes from that sort of behavior". Except when the tragedy was due to alcohol which they called the drink. "It was the drink" would sum up a tragedy. "Ah, it's a terrible thing, the drink. The downfall of a good man." I heard that a lot.
There would be some who were die-hard nationalists. They spoke Gaelic most of the time and would go on in English for my Dad about the bloody British. Their stories of oppression were hundreds of years old and Dad had no problem telling them so. He would add that Ireland had nothing to offer because it's a rain and stone filled land. The only solution he saw was cooperation with the British for jobs and resources.
The young people were compelled at around the time of their Confirmation to take the 'pledge', a vow never to drink alcohol.
About the Irish and alcohol, I've always felt it was situational. The climate is a major depressant; their church's strict moral codes of behavior; their lives in and of itself, filled with death and helplessness in the face of disease. Many were isolated living alone far from any town. The drink was recreational, a necessary vacation to get you through it.
A few words about myself that first week:
I got so drunk one night I fell off a bridge. Fortunately, I fell not far and into a soggy wet bank, no injuries. Another day I crashed a bicycle into a wall, sore groin for a couple of days, I self-medicated with Irish and orange. Then there was the time I took a bath. It was Saturday night and I was directed to a room where there was a bath filled with steaming hot water for me. I had not had a moment alone since I arrived. Dad and I even shared a bed. It was so relaxing. Then when I got out and started to drain the tub there were all sorts of banging and shouting.
Now there were times I couldn't understand what they were saying because of the heavy brogue. This had become a joke between Uncle Jimmy and I. "Could you please speak the Queen's English for the Yank", he'd say.
Well, I got the gist of why they were yelling. This wasn't my bath; this was everyone's Saturday night bath in preparation for Sunday Church. I pretended I didn't understand. That was the slowest draining tub I've ever seen.
Let's leave Glan for awhile. Traveling out of Glan, next.
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