Debi Moseley

My sister was the one who always wanted to know where we were from. I told her we were from Savannah. Obviously I never cared. I always thought that our background was for one thing, obvious; after all, you don’t have a last name like Flannagan and think that you’re of Japanese descent, and secondly, irrelevant. Wasn’t it more important to know where you were, rather than where you came from? When I stated this opinion to Mary, she just sighed in exasperation and ignored me, going back to her databases and her old moldy records.

I was too busy learning about my future, attending classes and learning all I could about veterinary medicine. Rather than feeling pleased, I was politely annoyed when Mary told me that our however-many great-great-great grandfather had been a renowned horse trainer. It seemed my affinity for animals wasn’t my own trait, it actually belonged to some past ancestor.

"Great," I exclaimed, "I can’t even have free will in my career choice. You’re telling me I love animals because it’s genetic?"

Mary gave me an even, annoyed look. "You’d know more about genetics than I would, Maeve," she replied with exaggerated patience, "you’re the science major."

For what had to be the millionth time, I asked her, "Why are you so interested in all that crap anyway?"

"I don’t think it’s crap," Mary told me again, for what was probably the millionth time. "I'm interested in where we come from, what made our family come to America, what made us. The past is just as important as the present."

"I don’t see how you justify that," I said, walking away, thereby concluding that particular round of the ongoing debate for the time being.

I don’t know why I begrudged her the time she spent on our genealogy. It’s not as though it was an all-consuming passion of hers. Mary took good care of her husband and my nephew and worked and did a million other things. Maybe I begrudged her perfection, her ability to accomplish it all and never seem to break a sweat, while I struggled with my classes and labs and spent many long hours learning a great deal of stuff that I would only need long enough to pass the next exam. With Mary's knowledge of my opinion of her ancestral pursuit, it came as a huge surprise at my graduation party that she came up to me, hugged and congratulated me and handed me an envelope.

"What’s this?" I asked with the natural suspicion of a younger sibling.

"Open it and find out."
It was a round trip ticket to Ireland. I looked up at her and she smiled. "I’ve got one just like it. I thought you’d like to go and see the place. I’ve got some research to do and I’d enjoy the company. You need a break after graduation."

"Thanks," I said without conviction and her expression fell. Chagrined, I felt I needed to try again. "No, really-- I mean it." I put a hand on her arm, "I really would like to go. Thank you." I hugged her again and she seemed convinced this time.

We landed in Dublin and found our way to the hotel. Despite it being only midday in Ireland, I collapsed, my body still on Eastern Standard Time and recovering from seven hours in the coach section of the Friendly Skies. By contrast, Mary seemed energized, ready to go out and tackle the world. "Don’t you ever sleep?" I complained. "You’re the alien child; I knew it all along. Real people sleep and sweat and don’t have perfect hair and families and all that. You were left by creatures from another world and I want my real sister back." Mary gave me a funny look at the time-honored teasing but put her belongings away quietly; soon I was vindicated by her snoring from the next bed.

We wandered the city for a few days before renting a car and driving north. Mary said we had distant cousins in County Clare, so that’s where we headed. Ireland is a small country, so in a matter of hours we pulled into a little village and found our hotel. It was a small affair, having no elevator and five floors. I began cursing my inability to pack any lighter after I fell twice on the third floor landing struggling with my diabolical wheeled suitcase. Naturally Mary and I were berthed on the topmost floor, which was referred to as the third floor, since the Irish have a ground floor and an 'E' floor, whatever that is, before the actual numbers start. We both managed to survive the climb, settled in and freshened up. It was late afternoon by now and my stomach rumbled insistently. Mary’s answered and we both laughed.

"I don’t suppose your family records indicate whether or not our appetite is a family characteristic, does it?"

"No," she told me, " but it wouldn’t surprise me a bit."

Together we wandered off down the single street in search of a pub with food. I wanted beer too, having developed a tolerance for slightly-cooler-than-room-temperature lager, but food had to be first or I would embarrass myself before our unwitting relatives by quickly becoming sodden drunk. I was enjoying myself, almost against my will. I wasn't any closer to understanding Mary's fascination with the past, but I was becoming enchanted with the place. The country was incredibly beautiful, to all the senses. The sound of falling rain and lilting voices, the combined perfume of the aroma of sheep and grass and sea air, along with the almost unnatural green of the place wove a spell around my imagination that even my cynical mind couldn't deny.

From across the street we heard music and laughter and saw a brilliantly lacquered green door with wavy glass panels set into it. Picked out in brass letters above the lintel was a name.

Mary and I looked at one another and began laughing hysterically. "That’s the place," she said between gasps. "We have to go there now!"

The noise and boisterous atmosphere greeted us as soon as we opened the door and we waited, looking about. A few heads swiveled in our direction, nodded in a friendly manner and went back to their own business. Thus welcomed, Mary pointed out an unoccupied table and we sat down. I picked up a menu from the tabletop, passing it to my sister when I had made up my mind. Our requests were taken and food delivered in record time so we relaxed, soaking up the flavor of the food and the place. A live traditional band was set up in one corner, instruments lying about unattended: a fiddle, a lap harp, the handheld goatskin bodhran drum and a set of uillean pipes. The human component was idle at the moment, the musicians taking in a bit of restorative liquid refreshment at the bar.

I was enjoying myself immensely. Watching the other patrons of the pub laughing and joking with one another, I had to admit, at least to myself, that I was beginning to understand why Mary had devoted so much of her time to finding out about our ties with these fascinating people. Everyone we had encountered had been unfailingly kind and helpful, and I felt safe here. Still, I didn’t really feel much in the way of kinship with them; they were still strangers in many ways. Their accents were lovely but hard to catch sometimes and their mannerisms sometimes made little or no sense. Still, I enjoyed their company and had made a few friends, but I didn’t feel any further connection to them.

The band was gradually wandering back to their place in the corner, accompanied by good-natured catcalls concerning their dubious work ethic. They resumed their stations but didn’t pick up their instruments. Instead, one of them motioned to a girl sitting near the bar and beckoned her to the stage. She acquiesced shyly, seeming reluctant to join them. Her appearance was greeted with cheers and applause from the audience. This seemed to reassure her and she stood a little straighter. The harpist plucked a note and she began to sing.

I realized, with a start of shock, that I knew this song. My grandmother used to sing it, so sadly and beautifully. It told the story of a young man that was banished to France after one of the many Troubles that Ireland had endured, and of the girl that mourned his leaving. I found myself singing along with the girl onstage, with the voice of the song and didn’t even notice the tears that ran down my face into my collar. I finally felt the blood tie, the love that these people had for the land and each other, just as we did in our own branch of the family. The familiar words in an unfamiliar setting had broken down the last barrier and I finally understood.

I felt eyes on me and caught Mary staring at me, tears flowing as freely down her face as mine. She reached out and caught my hand, squeezing it hard. I squeezed it back and we listened to the last of the song. The final sweet soprano note trailed away and there was silence for a moment, then someone murmured, "Lovely job, lass; lovely," and the pub erupted in applause. I caught Mary’s gaze again and grinned at her. I leaned forward and imitated with reasonable competence the local accent we’d been immersed in for a week.

"Lovely job, lass."