The Magic of Ireland
So, this is the
tale of two women. Very different women. First, there was me, really years
short of being a woman at eighteen but, like most girls that age, quite certain
I knew the scoop on everything. It’s wonderful to be eighteen-years-old,
pretty, confident, and smug that your life is going to be a dazzling road of
utter joy. Especially since you have snagged the coolest boy in your small
town. A handsome, smart, well-off young man who would two years later propose
marriage. For purposes of continuity, I will call him Studly. But I’m getting
ahead of myself.
The second
woman’s name was Florence. Florence was fifty-years-old, had never married (Studly
and his two brothers called her an old maid). Truth be told, so did I. We paid
little heed to the fact that Florence had enjoyed a successful career in
fashion merchandising, had traveled the world, and had spent a year in Italy. I
later heard that she had been having an affair with an Italian man during that
entire time. Gasp! Florence?
Well anyway, the
way I met Florence was when Studly’s father decided to marry her. His wife had
died the year before (a long, lingering cancer death that everyone in my town
mourned). She was a much beloved figure there.
Turns out
Florence had been Studly’s mother’s college roommate at St. Mary’s of Notre
Dame a hundred years earlier and had always had a crush on Arters, her pet name
for he who would become my future father-in-law.
So, after a very
brief (some called it scandalous) engagement, Arters and Florence decided to
get married. I was invited to the wedding and traveled to another state with
Studly and his two brothers. The wedding was nice—simple and Catholic, and the
reception boozy. Coming from a non-drinking home, I was kind of surprised at
the amount of champagne Arters, Studly, and the other brothers consumed. Were I
smarter, I’d have recognized a red flag that day, but, of course, in my smug
stupor of “knowing everything,” I thought it was cool.
We drove them to
a train station. They were heading to Manhattan for a honeymoon. As the train
pulled away huffing and pouring out steam, the two newlyweds stood on a back
platform and kissed. Yuck! My three male companions started tittering. “What’s
funny?” I asked.
Studly said, “Do
you think they’ll do it?” A roar of laughter went up from his
brothers.
When I figured
out what do it he was talking about, I shook my head and said,
“No, they’re much too old.” After all, they were both fifty-years-old. Lord God
Almighty, nobody that old still did it. Meanwhile, I was coming
from the naive place of virginity with absolutely no knowledge about what doing
it was all about.
After I married
Studly at age 20, my time with Florence was challenging. I had four babies in
close succession, and Florence and Arters’ mansion was hardly child proof.
I spent most of
my visits there trying to keep one of my little hellions (Arters’ word, not
mine) from breaking some priceless chochka or smearing a poopie diaper on an
oriental rug. I developed a terrible problem with shortness of breath during
those visits and Florence suggested I needed an X-ray of my lungs.
My kids hated
those visits and so did I. But as the years passed, my girls became
civilized—relatively—and were welcome in the family manse until their own
babies came along. Funny, isn’t it that history repeating itself can be amusing
if you’re not the one responsible for the damages.
Anyway, years
later, after alcoholism had claimed the lives of both Arters and Studly,
Florence and I finally became friends. I had remarried by then, an Italian man
who wanted to show me Europe. His immigrant family, though short on funds,
always managed to travel back, whereas mine and Studly’s parents never
considered leaving America.
It helped that
my new husband, Matt, could speak a smattering of French and German and that
travel to Europe then was pretty affordable. Fly there, rent a car, and drive
through four or five countries, staying in Zimmer Freis or B&Bs that cost a
song. I loved it!
Finally, though,
I had a strong desire to see the land of my heritage—Ireland. Matt was game
because he realized how frustrated I got with my inability to communicate in
Italy, France, and Austria.
We went back to
my hometown for a visit with my folks. While there, I called Florence. She
invited me over to her apartment for tea, and I was really happy to see her
again. Here was our conversation.
“Florence, we’ve
been all around Europe now, seen the Alps in all their splendor, and now want to
go to Ireland. I know you’ve been everywhere. I don’t want Matt to be
disappointed in Ireland. It would break my heart.”
She smiled her
ancient smile. By now, Florence was a very old woman. “Jeanne, every country
you’ve seen has its own beauty. So does Ireland. But there’s a
difference. Ireland is magical.”
She was right.
We just returned from our third trip there. It has inspired for me the writing
of my first novel, Shanty Gold, which will be published
next year. Thank you, Florence. You were right. Ireland is indeed magical.
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