Last month I was in Dublin for the wedding of two of my very good friends, Donal and Issy.
They've been mentioned many times on this blog, as my travels overseas seem to be the only thing I write about these days. They're the best stories to write about anyway, the ones about faraway places and friends found over there.
The night before the wedding I met up with Elisa and a fellow by the name of Chris Cope, a fellow American that has a shared friendship with my Dublin gang. We drank beer and made MST3K jokes and had a fine time.
Earlier, Elisa and I grabbed some tea and cake for lunch and I got talking about family. I told her a bit about our past, about the farming days long gone, and I lamented the fact that my family never seemed to get over the fact that the old family farm was long gone, that that way of life was gone, and wasn't going to come back. I didn't grow up on the farm, and while I worked on my cousin's farm for a few years as a hired hand, it's something that is still somewhat alien to me, a life I never lived.
Now, I told you that story so I could tell you this one. (Chris will enjoy that bit of Cosby-reference.)
The wedding was held at a hotel about thirty minutes outside Dublin, on a rainy Friday in late July. We all checked in, milled about, shook hands and had a drink with some of the others that I knew. Linus was the best man and Elisa the maid of honor, so they had duties to attend to. I grabbed a seat with Ken and the service started.
It was a Humanist service, and it was about the people in the room, about the deep bonds of family and friendship and the joining together of two people. There was no need for God in that room.
Speeches were given, a song was played, and Donal and Issy became husband and wife.
I sat at a table with an American living in Wales, a Scotsman, an Italian, an English girl and her Irish boyfriend, and others.
More speeches were given, all lovely and heartfelt and true. Donal mentioned something I once wrote about Issy, and gave me a quick look, and I felt so, so lucky to be there, amongst friends and strangers alike.
The celebration went deep into the night, and at some point Linus and I started drinking whiskey. Issy's brother tried on Elisa's shoes. I sent email updates to a couple of young actors who were fascinated by my journey.
The next day was a rough breakfast, a long trip back to Dublin, and a short nap before we headed to Donal's parents' house for a cookout. I nibbled a bit, had some tea, chatted with the gang, but I was hung over and jet-lagged, and I kept thinking about the big bed back in my hotel room.
The sun started going down, those with young children (or those about to have young children) left, and it seemed as if the night was drawing to a close.
That's about when I heard "Wild Mountain Tyme" coming from the kitchen.
A few of Donal's older relatives were sitting around singing, and after the third song Donal started gathering us up from the garden. "Come on, we'll go inside and get warm." (Even though it was the end of July, it was still Ireland.)
We wandered into the front room, where chairs were brought in for about twenty of us, all sitting in a circle. Uncles and Aunts, cousins and friends, Donal's bearded father grandly arranging everyone, filling up drinks, bringing me red wine.
While I have spent years trying to shove off any preconceived notions I had about the more cliche and mythological parts of Ireland, one thing is true: they do like to gather together and sing.
Everyone took turns, the older pros and the scared-shitless newbies. They sang songs I knew, the old ones like "Raglan Road" and "Country Roads" (they love John Denver over there), and a lot of Dylan, and some I didn't know. A guitar was brought out to accompany the singers here and there, but most were sung a cappella, and had that sad-wistful and very-Irish quality of lamenting about times come and gone.
Once I realized that I would be expected to sing, I started to quietly panic. I couldn't remember the lyrics to anything decent, and thought it would be too cliche to bust out something by The Pogues. Elisa and I both hunched on the couch and searched lyrics on our phones. I am sure this was considered very bad form by the older pros in the room, but singing together in a room is not something most Midwesterners do. After we've had a few, my family and I will warble a Beatles song or two, but it never goes farther than that. We're too German and Scottish for such things.
As my turn came closer and closer, though, I knew there was only one song I could sing. And, in fact, it was the only song I sang that night, even though my turn came 'round at least two more times.
"This is a song written by a guy from the western suburbs of Chicago, so it seems appropriate."
Terrified, I launched into "Paradise" by John Prine.
When I was a child my family would travel
Down to Western Kentucky where my parents were born
And there's a backwards old town that's often remembered
So many times that my memories are worn.
And daddy won't you take me back to Muhlenberg County
Down by the Green River where Paradise lay
Well, I'm sorry my son, but you're too late in asking
Mister Peabody's coal train has hauled it away
The only time we really tried to do something like this was about twenty years ago, at a big family Christmas. Everyone had to bring a poem or a song or something interesting and take turns reading it around the table. I picked something naive and cliche, but my grandpa changed the lyrics to "Paradise" and sang, without accompaniment, about the loss of the old farming community that he had known as a child and a man. It was devastating.
After that, we never tried something like that again.
(A bit of an aside here, but after Grandpa died Grandma asked if I wanted any of his old records, since she knew I liked folk music like he did. I took his copy of John Prine's first album.)
Then the coal company came with the world's largest shovel
And they tortured the timber and stripped all the land
Well, they dug for their coal till the land was forsaken
Then they wrote it all down as the progress of man.
Two years ago I wrote a play called Heroes and Villains. It was the final installment of a trilogy I did about growing up, performed with my steady company of actors I had worked with for a long time. It was our farewell play, as I knew after that many of them would be leaving for school and other things. It was supposed to be about college, but it was really about family. At the end of the play, the main character, Ben, reads the final verse of "Paradise" at his grandfather's funeral.
When I die let my ashes float down the Green River
Let my soul roll on up to the Rochester dam
I'll be halfway to Heaven with Paradise waitin'
Just five miles away from wherever I am.
By the third verse the rest of the room was trying to sing along with the chorus, and Donal's father Jack started following me on guitar. We sang the final words, and the song ended, and I realized that I was shaking. There was a lot going on in that moment, too much to even fully explain here, but I think you know enough.
* * *
My trip was supposed to be for three weeks. After the wedding festivities, I headed to Scotland, and planned to wander south through England, and perhaps jump over to the continent, see Germany, ride the Glacier Express, and enjoy being alone for a while. Donal and Issy had even offered up their place to me while they honeymooned in Italy. That was the plan.
Sitting in my hotel room in the lower highlands, the lands of my ancestors, no less, I realized that I wasn't really interested in being alone. I have been alone way too much this past year. I worked myself to the point of exhaustion, and didn't take near enough time to see my own family and friends.
In a very real sense, Dublin has become home to me, and Isobel and Donal, Elisa and Linus have become some of my dearest friends. I felt a part of that celebration, all that love amongst family and close friends. But once it was finished, I realized that I needed to be home, to reconnect with my own family and friends too long-neglected.
I made it home in time for my step-dad's birthday. A year or so ago I took him and Mom to see John Prine live at the Chicago Theatre, since Dave was also a fan.
He sang along to every word he knew.
