Often, I make my annual visit to Ireland soon after Christmas. At that time in Iowa, the snow is usually drifting shut the pasture gate, the wind shooting down through my parka to anesthetize any little inch of bare skin. “Why in the world are you coming to Ireland at this time of year?” my Irish friends ask. To them, the weather in their country is miserable with steady rain and winds spraying ocean water up against the sea wall.
Love, love, love this especially because it brings up memories of trips to Ireland I made with you. I might have been the “designated” drinker once or twice. I got to see and hear all the good craic and create wonderful memories including your playing harmonica and spoons in the pub with the band, playing bingo, touring cemeteries, and visiting Inishbofin. All good craic!
Oh, to be at that table just to be a listener.
Love, love, love this especially because it brings up memories of trips to Ireland I made with you. I might have been the “designated” drinker once or twice. I got to see and hear all the good craic and create wonderful memories including your playing harmonica and spoons in the pub with the band, playing bingo, touring cemeteries, and visiting Inishbofin. All good craic!
Sweet Mary Swander, unphased by a slope of slippery shite, or a jug of poitin, she's craic day and night!
Love this tale!