You Went Right Past It

In 1988, I traveled in Ireland with a friend. One of his missions was to contact some of his father's third cousins. He was fourth generation Irish and wanted to get in touch with his roots.

We reached a good-sized town in the late afternoon; I know it was good-sized, because there were at least 15 pubs. My friend took off to look for his relative; the best place to start a search was in the pubs. He went to 4 or 5; in each one, the bar tender told him that he had just missed his relative. We were walking down the street towards the next pub when we saw a well-dressed, elderly man hurrying towards us; the word was out, some Americans were looking for relatives.

The man introduced himself and asked if we were the ones that were looking for him. We introduced ourselves and headed towards the nearest pub. After one drink, I excused myself and headed back to the room. It had been a long day of relative hunting and I wasn't interested in the stories that were being told about the people I didn't know. I told my friend that I would see him later, that I would find my own dinner.

To my surprise, my friend returned to the room after a few hours, with a look of desperation on his face. He explained that the man would not leave. Apparently, he was quite content to sit in the pub for the rest of the night, telling stories while my friend bought him drinks; it wasn't everyday that a relative from Americay arrived. My friend implored me to rejoin them and to move the conversation along and to suggest that we end the interview.

Back at the pub, I could see that the relative was in his cups and had no desire to be anywhere else in the world. After another round, I clapped my hands and suggested that we say farewell, so we could have some dinner. Reluctantly and with much protest, the Irish relative got up from the table and we headed out of the pub. On the way out, my friend noticed there were bottles of Guinness behind the bar; he was feeling guilty at rushing out. As a gesture of remorse, he pointed to the bottles and said, "How about one for the road?". The relative said, in a wonderful Irish brogue, "What a wonderful idea!" and proceeded to sit at the bar, faster than you could blink. When my friend asked for two bottles of Guinness, the relative said, "Oh, I don't drink those; I'll have a draft."

After another half an hour or so, we again attempted to usher the relative out of the pub. We made it to the street and into our rented car, at which point the relative said, in a wonderful Irish brogue, "Now who paid for those drinks?". After my friend confessed that we had paid for them all, the relative said, in a wonderful Irish brogue, "That's not right, I owe you a round." Somehow, my friend fell for this and we went into another pub.

We walked into the pub and it was completely empty; the only sound was the ticking of a clock. I thought that the pub was closed and suggested we leave, but the relative knew better. After a few minutes, the door behind the bar opened from the living room of the flat next door, where a mother and some children were entertaining themselves. She came into the pub and tended us drinks. We had a few drinks, but I never saw the wallet of the relative.

Once again, we were back in the car, ready to drive the relative home. As we were driving, he asked, in a wonderful Irish brogue, "Now who paid for those drinks?". This time, my friend did not fall for it; we kept driving. The relative pointed ahead and told us to pull into the next pub, where he would buy the next round; we kept driving. As we went drove by the pub, the relative turned frantically in his seat, watching the pub sail past and said, in a wonderful Irish brogue, "Oh, you drove right past it!"

Ignoring more requests to "pull into the next pub", we managed to convince him that it was time to go home. We drove him up a dirt road, but he wouldn't let us take him all the way to his house; he insisted that he be allowed to walk the last bit. We said farewell and headed back to town.

A Child At Home

At the end of the 2nd grade school year, the entire class marches to the room where they will be for 3rd grade. This reduces the problems on the first day of school for the next year, in theory. This year, there are too many students for the class and students have to sit on the window sill and stand along the wall. The teacher has a reputation for being tough. To pass the time, she is rattling off math equations and wants students to yell out the answer; it goes like this: what is 3 plus 7 divided by 2 times 3 plus 3 divided by 3 minus 4. Immediately some kid raises a hand and yells 2! I'm wondering where my seat is and if I can have a piece of paper. Mercifully, the final bell sounds for the day and for the year; we all scatter, yelling and hooting.

On the first day of 3rd grade, I returned to the classroom with great trepidation; wondering how this year would be, if the teacher passes the time with complex math problems. It is a wonder that I did not suffer from math anxiety for the rest of my life. Much to my relief, I was informed that I was not in her class, that I had been transferred to another class; however, the teacher did not know where my new classroom was, so she sent me to the principal.

I only got within 15 feet of the principal when he yelled, "Room 4". I knew that Room 4 was my 2nd grade room and tried to tell him; he wouldn't listen; he just repeated "Room 4". I shrugged my shoulders and headed to Room 4. When I got there, I confirmed that I was correct. Faced with the problem of having nowhere to go and no one to ask for advice, I did the only logical thing: I walked outside, grabbed my sister's bike and rode home.

I was a little nervous about this and fell off my bike on a busy street. I survived and made it home. Not knowing what else to do, I opened a Coke and watched TV. This is where my brother and Joe the janitor found me an hour later. I was carted back to school and directed to my new classroom; I received a warm welcome when I arrived.

Lost At Home

I just returned from an inline skating excursion. I traveled a route that I have traveled many times before. Along the way, I was thinking about creating this blog; I was dreaming of the entries I would write; how I would recount memorable and unmemorable events from my life. At one point, I came out of my reverie and didn't know where I was. It was a strange feeling, since I usually know exactly where I am when I am in my home city. I didn't regain my sense of direction until I turned the next corner. It was a wonderful and scary feeling to be thrown into the unknown for a moment. I will categorize this as a memorable, unmemorable event.