Back in the Emerald Isle

After two weeks abroad in the San Francisco bay area, it was good to get back home to the old sod.

I can’t help but reflect that when my father left Ireland in the 1950s it was, as it was for most every Irish emmigrant, for forever. Back then it was the Queen Mary and an ocean voyage lasting close to a month. Here I was compaining about 11 hours in a 747 jumbo jet. How times have changed.

My return to Ireland was a subdued affair. Munchkin was awfully glad to see her mommy and yours truly his wifey.

Fresh, rain-washed air and green fields banished memories of itchy, miserable Californian pollen allergies. Substantive euro coins replaced the thin, space-wasting american coins in the wallet. Upon arriving home a fire was lit to warm the house against the storm outside. Cosy jumpers were retrieved from the closet and sandles were abandoned for the boots (ah, Summer in Ireland!). Butter is rich, yellow and kept outside the fridge. Crisps are either salt & vinegar or cheese and onion. Chocolate is Cadbury’s. The steering wheel is on the other side. What six years ago was strange I now greet as the familiar accoutrements of home.

And most of all, the guitar was plucked lovingly from its case. Yes, for the first time since I was 16 I spent a few weeks away from my guitar. I hear what you’re saying, but it was basically a choice between the munchkin or the guitar, so . . .