Seeking Out Memories in the Auld Sod

By Mel Miskimen

I told my mother that before she hit 75, I would take her to Ireland to see the tiny town (Callan) where her grandfather was born. I said this to out-gift my sister. She had presented Mother with a pair of Waterford brandy snifters. I had gotten her a nice card.

I thought that she would poo-poo this whole trip thing once I started talking details – like getting a passport. I made it sound harder than getting a political prisoner out of China. I told her about jet-lag. How people -- a friend of a friend’s cousin -- had suffered hallucinations, peed themselves, had flashbacks. None of my scare tactics worked. She would not be deterred. 

On her 72nd birthday we talked again. About The Trip. It was going to be her and me. A guided bus tour. Ten days. Hotels and meals included. All nice and taken care of. Not too much walking. Clean hotel rooms. Ten days that she’d remember forever and 10 days I would want to forget. 

And then, when my mother hit 74, The Trip morphed into a self-guided guerilla tour in a rented car piloted by my older sister, involving Bed and Breakfasts in the back of pubs – convenient staggering distance according to my 25-year-old niece who would also be joining us. It all sounded great to me! 

We pointed. We clicked. E-ticketed. B & B’d. Car rentaled. It was all settled. In one month, we’d be in Dublin for three days, then Kilkenny and then on to Callan to meet the unsuspecting relatives. 

During the months, weeks and days before we left, my mother called me. Five times a day. What kind of clothes should she pack? Does it rain everyday? Roll or fold? What should she bring in her carryon? Would three pairs of shoes be enough? What about an iron? Should she bring her hair dryer? She’s thinking of packing some cereal and a few snacks in Ziploc bags. For the plane. What would I like? Do I like nuts in my chocolate chip cookies? 

On all our family vacations, she had been the copilot in charge of side trips and snacks. My father did all the packing. The planning. He’d sit up until midnight, the AAA TripTiks spread out on the kitchen table while he wrote and revised his lists. And now, on this trip -- the first time she had ever been out of the United States, let alone Wisconsin -- I had to be my father.

So, I told her what to bring. What not to bring. She said she would be using a purse for her carry on bag. Perfect, I thought. Until she showed up at the airport. My definition of a purse? Oh, something the size of a big envelope. Hers? An ocean liner. 

She set off all kinds of security alarms. Tucked away in the numerous pockets of her Queen-Mary-of-a-carry on, a dozen metal hair curlers with threatening four-inch metal picks, Ziploc bags full of prescription pills (she had to tell the screener which pills did what and for how long), underwear, toilet paper (two rolls), soap, make-up and twenty tubes of lipstick -- that looked very much like shotgun shells in the x-ray. 

She wouldn’t sleep on the airplane. She didn’t want to miss anything. Especially when we landed in Dublin where she was sure that we would be met by some Barry Fitzgerald-y man with a donkey and a cart.

I love Dublin. It’s so much like Milwaukee -- my home town -- but, with more redheads.

We arrived at the Bed and Breakfast – a beautiful renovated Georgian Townhouse. My sister, niece and I wanted to get some air, our bearings and possibly a pint. My mother needed to nap. No problem. 

Whenever we stopped someone and asked for directions, or a good place to eat, there was never an easy answer and always a crowd. An elderly lady gave us several names of several very nice places which were quickly dismissed by a group of heavily pierced and tattooed youth who crossed the street to see what the commotion was and then their opinions were discussed and weighed by several business men who rounded out our impromptu cross-section.

We agreed to heed the advice of the old lady. Why? Because she told us, that if we wanted to wait, her son would be by any minute and, "Wouldn’t he love to drive you and your mam and show you a bit of the City." Free ride trumped trendy bistro.

Sure, sounds great, except that my mam was stuck in our hotel room, unable to figure out how to work the strange door knob, or the toilet. She had been banging on the plate glass window trying in vain to get our attention. So that’s what that noise was.

By the third day, we had figured out how to get from point A to point B. My, mother still had mechanical difficulties. 

With toilets. "Flip the lever!" 

With telephones – "Wait for the prompts!" 

Door knobs – "Mom! Turn and push!"

We took a bus to Kilkenny where we rented a car -- something smaller than my mother’s suitcase, but with better wheels. My niece sat in back and read the non-too-frequent road signs, I was the copilot in charge of yelling, "Left side!" and "Hedge!" and "You’re yielding. You’re yielding. You’re yielding," in those pesky roundabouts, and my mother prayed the rosary and puked.

Kilkenny was good to my mother. It was more her speed. Slow. Sauntering. More of what she wanted Ireland to be. Cozy. Green. Peaty. 

Callan, was even more to her liking. Compared to Kilkenny, it was comatose. But cute. Not stereotypical-Irish-post-card cute. More like small-town-America cute. One main street. A couple gas stations. One grocery store. A post office. Bank. And a dozen pubs.

We stayed in a Bed and Breakfast just outside the town. It was called the Moonarche. Impeccably managed by a woman named Margaret and her husband, who was the local version of Sheriff Andy Taylor. Margaret filled us in on the goings on, the gossip, the rowdy youth, the local scenic attractions and, offered to drive us anywhere at anytime -- day or night. She tsk-tsked about our unfinished breakfasts and ran after us because we forgot our umbrellas. It was like living at home.

There were distant cousins who owned and operated the walk-in closet- sized local newsagent’s. Kerwick’s. On Green Street. Crammed floor to ceiling with candy bars, chips (I mean crisps), newspapers, magazines, cigarettes, Lotto tickets, blackening bananas, cold drinks. An Irish Seven-Eleven. 

We walked in. This was the Big Moment.

Paddy Kerwick flew out from behind the counter (I had run ahead, introduced myself, gave him a brief Cliff Notes version of our genealogy -- his uncle married my mother’s great-aunt) and made a scene. The American relatives had come back. Paddy closed the store early for the first time that didn’t involve a death. He took us to the cemetery. Pointed out where our people were buried. Took us back to his house. Brought out the box of photos. We stayed for dinner.

It wasn’t long before the word had spread. Strangers in town. With exotic American Midwestern accents. I don’t know what it was about us or them. We effortlessly bonded with these people. Maybe it was the shared cynical sense of humor. Maybe something awakened deep in our mitochondria. 

It wasn’t quite like the Master Card commercial -- where the daughter takes the mother back to Ireland and they go to the village pub where she met the father, bla, bla, bla. But nonetheless, it was priceless.
 
 

Mel Miskimen is a Milwaukee-based writer and humorist, heard regularly on WHAD-FM’s "Higher Ground." Her autobiography, Cop’s Kid, was published in 2003 by the University of Wisconsin Press. Miskimen can be reached at miskimen@globaldialog.com.