Guest Essay:
Each month, we will be featuring an essay from someone in the community. This month, Peter Mastroianni remembers the role libraries have played in his life.
MARCH 2008
EX LIBRIS by Peter Mastroianni
I was born and spent my early years in what is now known as
the Italian Market section of Philadelphia.
Ours was not a reading family. I can't remember my parents
ever taking me to a library or ever going into one themselves. We did have a
few books in the house and my parents were literate, just not very literary.
I enjoyed reading, but most of the books I read I owned. Most
of them were given to me by uncles or aunts. My Aunt Edna was my special
favorite book-giver. Every Christmas I could be assured of receiving one or
two books from her. Some of my favorites were Twenty Thousand Leagues Under
the Sea (I was almost thirty before I learned that a league is about 3
miles), The Hardy Boys, Tom Swift, Spin and Marty, and the ultimate boy
book, Tom Sawyer. I can still remember laughing myself sick As I read the
effect Tom's medicine had on his Aunt Polly's cat.
It may be understandable that a library played no part in my
life when I point out that the nearest one was over a mile away, on the
other side of a bad neighborhood. It looked so imposing (an old Greek temple
at the corner of Broad and Christian Streets) That I got scared just looking
at the building.
In 1959, my family moved to a different part of the city. I
was far from all the familiar scenes of my early years. Instead of a
neighborhood redolent of imported cheeses and delicacies of the world, I now
had a grassy lawn, woods to explore, and a local creek that I spent more
time in than I spent in my homework chair. At 13 my age of exploration had
begun.
As I would walk or bike to school, I would pass an old
storefront building with dark green painted trim on the large windows. It
was an old building and only by accident did I find our it was my local
library. On a sunny spring afternoon I decided to add the library to my list
of discoveries.
The aroma was the first thing that attracted my attention. I
had never smelled anything like it before. That smell of books, of learning,
of adventure and romance has ever since thrown me back to that day. Whether
I was in the Carnegie Library in the mining town of Anaconda, Montana; the
small prairie community of Blue Earth, Minnesota; or the farming area of
Healdsburg, California-- one sniff and I was at home.
I would like to say that my first forays into borrowed books
were highly intellectual and mentally challenging, but I can't. My first
borrowed books were the Hugh Lofting series of Doctor Dolittle stories. From
Dr. Dolittle's garden trip to his trip to the moon, I was with him. I have been
hooked on reading EVERYTHING ever since.
As I accumulated my own library, I never forgot the
importance of the public libraries as well. If I live near one I am living
in a truly civilized place. If I am lucky enough to have the spare time to
sit in one and read, I have achieved nirvana.
FEBRUARY 2008
SLOW NIGHTS by Hal Pratt
It was a slow summer evening. You know the type. Temperatures just beginning to drop, along with the sun in the sky. A feet-up-on-the-porch, cold-drink-in-hand kind of time. Little did we know as alien was about to land on Vinny's ramp.
Vinny, I should say, is our Pembroke Welsh corgi. That's right, the Queen's dog. Big ears, questionable brain. Vinny packs a thirty pound body atop six-inch legs. It makes going up and down stairs an adventure.
The stairs off our front porch were definitely slowing Vinny down. He couldn't dash for a ball until he slowly, step by step, got off the porch. The solution was simple: Vinny took to flight. He'd recklessly throw himself off the porch, landing with an "oomph!" before chasing his prey.
"Build him a ramp," my wife said.
"Ramps are for wheelchairs, not corgis," I said.
She glared, convincing me I'd better build a ramp or I'd need a wheelchair.
And so it was on Vinny's ramp-- see, there is a point to all this-- right there on Vinny's ramp that the alien appeared on that lazy summer night.
Vin came bouncing up the ramp-- Vinny does not walk, he bounces-- ball in mouth. I picked up the slobbery orb, prepared to throw, and spied the stranger clinging to the ramp's guard rail. It was a pale green . . . thing . . . emerging from a brown object attached to the rail.
You never quite know how you'll react to an alien until you meet one. I got down on my knees for a closer look. The space ship was opening, allowing the visitor to emerge. Bug-like eyes stared at me. No arms or legs visible. No teeth or claws or ray-guns. So far, so good.
Vinny bounced down the ramp, setting the space ship in motion, and suddenly I understood what I was looking at. The space ship was an exoskeleton. The alien was an emerging cicada.
By late summer, you can find empty cicada shells stuck to trees, their backs split to allow the cicada to escape. I remember sticking these shells to girls shirts in elementary school. Little girls used to scream and run from insects back then. They'd probably knock you flat now. I'm old.
The cicada was slowly working free of its shell. For the most part, it did not seem to move at all. A few quivers. Some undulations. But slowly, ever so slowly, legs appeared. Curly little flippers appeared as well. In time, these would become gossamer wings.
My family gathered around, watching time-lapse photography without the time-lapse. As I said, it was a slow night.
Cicada are best known for their innovative child-rearing strategy. In late spring, the female lays 400-600 eggs high in a tree. In six to seven weeks, the ant-like babies hatch, drop to the ground, and crawl down cracks in the soil. Depending on the species, you won't see them again for thirteen to seventeen years. A nice way to get past those terrible twos and always strange adolescent years.
The cicada we were watching had just crawled out of the ground to shed its exoskeleton. Next stop was the treetops, where it would make all kinds of noise. Hey, if you were buried for seventeen years, you might be ready to raise the roof, too.
Shedding that shell is a slow process. After thirty minutes, the cicada was just showing some legs. After an hour, the legs actually moved. Slowly. Ninety minutes and the cicada was leaning backwards, like a diver doing a reverse off the board, if the diver's feet happened to get stuck just before leaving the board. All this time, the green insect was easy picking for a hungry bird or the always-hungry Vinny.
Remember Vinny? He suddenly decided that bouncing up-and-down on the ramp was the ultimate expression of joy. Forget the ball. Look at me bounce! Even threats to bury him for seventeen years did not slow him down.
After two hours, with flippers that were still a long way from becoming wings just starting to move, we took Vinny inside. I returned to check the cicada's progress every fifteen minutes.
Eventually, the wings looked like wings. The cicada freed itself from the shell and perched atop it as the wings filled out. I made one last visit, by flashlight, before going to bed. The cicada was still there, wings complete, a beautiful creature at last.
In the morning, Vinny charged down the ramp without giving the cicada a thought. I removed the empty, lonely-looking shell and took it inside. It now hangs on a kitchen curtain.
Four hours of watching a bug. I love slow summer nights.
JANUARY 2008
THE LOCKER ROOM by Ann Forrester
Like many of its visitors, the locker
room had seen better days. The floor was once dark blue or perhaps dark red
or even white, since all three colors appear splotched in those areas where
feet had shuffled most wearily. The lockers themselves were once dark green,
now mottled with rust spots and adorned with faded initials declaring undying
affection. Several of them had rusted quite through, which could be a trap
for the unwary. The shower curtains are dark green, but none are fully
attached to their rings and hang like listless sails waiting for a good
breeze. Each bears a label avowing their fireproof status-- a strange
requirement perhaps to drape around shower heads, but they are of "hospital
quality," which suggests they may actually be of "hospital cast offs" when
the "quality" was no longer up to scratch.
It is anyone's guess when the tiles
around the shower heads last received a good wash and clean; no need to
consider a polish and it's better not to think about all the little verucca
viruses scurrying underfoot just waiting for you to step on one, giving it
the opportunity to take up residence.
But the locker room does have some
good things going for it. There is plenty of good hot water, not scalding
but hot, pleasant to stand under while the chlorine from the swimming pool
disappears into the drains. There are hooks for towels and shampoo bags,
even a shelf or two. Shower heads are at different levels to cater for every
size. There are also hair dryers and a decent sized mirror which avoids
jockeying for position around other people's blow dryer or curling tongs.
There are wash basins and toilets and benches for the creaky amongst us to
sit on while we try to encourage clammy skin to accept socks and underwear.
One thing there is not: privacy. It's
no use going to this locker room if you are shy about your body. Everyone
has to strip and dress in the open and trying to hide behind inadequate
towels just draws attention to your cellulite. There is, of course, an
advantage even to this this, since a sidelong glance will reveal others with
even more sagging muscles, extra rolls of fat and lumpier varicose veins, so
eyes are modestly averted before the relief is too apparent that we are not
the most out of shape bag of lard on the premises. Occasionally, a paragon
of beauty will appear, with sculpted pecs and abs and not an ounce of
avoirdupois anywhere, but she will definitely be in the minority. Which
is just as well, since she only reminds you of yourself at about 10 years
old and represents the unattainable goal which you will never see again.
Like most of its visitors, the locker
room may not have been a thing of beauty, but change happens. Recent
renovations have transformed it. The floor is now a consistent shade of blue
and the walls have been re-painted blue and white. After several weeks of
tribulation, modern, heavy-duty plastic lockers in blue appeared plus
shelving for those awkward personal belongings or even discarded bathing
suits and empty shampoo bottles. On the other hand, some things do not
change. The clientele remains much the same, dressing with averted eyes and
struggling to retain some degree of modesty behind
slippery towels with a mind of their own. Oh, and on the cusp of change and
no-change, the shower curtains have been replaced-- with hospital-quality,
fire-resistant green ones, which still dangle from their rings like listless
sails.
A CHRISTMAS WISH by Hal Pratt
I wish you memories for Christmas.
Perhaps it is the by-product of my aging, but I find
Christmas is increasingly a time of reminiscing. Society as a whole seems to
have an issue with aging, but I know aging is a privilege. My mother died
young. Aging is infinitely better. A blessing.
When I was a kid, Christmas was limited to the day itself. No
putting up the tree on December third. The only thing that appeared after
Thanksgiving was little bits of white hair (possibly cotton) tucked beneath
picture frames and mirrors. Bits of Santa’s beard. Reminders that Santa was
watching us, kind of like George Orwell’s Big Brother.
The tree appeared magically, decorated and lit, on Christmas
morning. It was part of the magic of the day, running down the stairs to be
blinded by the lights, the tinsel, and all those presents. There was no way
my old man could have done all this in one night. That magical first vision
of the tree proved Santa really existed.
One of my favorite Christmas mornings involves my oldest son,
Joshua, when he was just four years old. His brother, Andrew, was only 15
months old. Technically, this was the second Christmas for Andrew. He was
overwhelmed by the tree and the lights and all the presents piled on the
floor. Josh wasted no time in helping.
“Look, Andrew, this one is for you.”
Andrew gave a blank look as he sucked his morning bottle.
“Want me to open it?”
English was still a second language for Andrew. He said
something---it may have even been a burp.
“Okay!” Josh cried, displaying unknown skills at baby
translation. He tore open the present. “A truck! Let me show you how to play
with it.”
Andrew watched as Josh played with his new toy for three
seconds, then grabbed another present. This one was also Andrew’s.
“Get one of your presents, Josh,” I said.
“I’m helping Andrew,” he said. “He’s my brother.”
I looked at Mary, my wife. How do you argue with that? Josh
proceeded to help Andrew with every gift, evenly kindly making sure it
worked before handing it to Andrew and moving on to the next. It just may
have been Josh’s best Christmas ever.
On another memorable Christmas, we piled the kids and gifts
into the car to make the trek to Grandma’s house for Christmas dinner. It
was snowy and icy and miserable. We had a Ford Fairmont, a car both ugly and
unreliable. The radio news warned us to stay off of the roads. If you
wanted to use the turnpike, you needed chains on your tires. We had chains.
Mary was determined to go.
Within a mile of our home, it was clear we had made a
mistake. Traffic was crawling. The kids started bawling. Mary, the better
driver, was white-knuckled at the wheel as we entered the turnpike.
How many miles did we go before one of the chains broke?
Maybe five. The loose chain began whipping around as the tire turned,
lashing the car with every cycle of the tire.
“Should I stop?” Mary asked.
“No! We’re going to Grandma’s,” I shouted over the roaring
kids and clanging chains. “It’s Christmas, darn it!” (Okay, maybe it
wasn't "darn it.")
At seven miles, Josh stopped yelling. “What’s that sound?” he
asked.
“Snakes,” I said. “They’re trying to get into the car.”
“Why?’
“It’s cold out,” Mary said, “Don’t put your window down or
they’ll get in.”
Josh pressed his nose to the glass, trying to see the snakes.
“Hear how hard they are when they bang against the car?” I
asked. “They’re frozen!”
The kids didn’t utter another word the entire trip.
“The car’s going to be a wreck,” Mary said with a smile.
“It was always a wreck,” I reminded her. “Merry Christmas.”
We sang an enthusiastic version of “Over the river and
through the woods” as we slid along our way.
Our Christmas days have gotten tamer as the kids have grown
up and left. But I cling to the hope that today’s Christmas will become
tomorrow’s cherished memory. I recommend pausing during this hectic
Christmas day to remember a Christmas gone by. It’s a wonderful present to
give yourself.
AS TIME GOES BY
by Joanne Pileski
"This couldn't be the right place," I thought as I peered
into the ballroom windows from the parking lot. All I could see was an ocean
of white-haired and bald-headed old people sitting sedately in this room.
One or two of them were actually nodding off. A few others appeared to be in
a stupor.
I came to see those vibrant and cherished friends from the
Class of '57. All week I was reminiscing about those fun-loving pals who
would party all night. Ahhh-- the memories that we would share of pep
rallies, sock-hops, and the winning season of our football team.
This just could not be the group I came to see. They were too
quiet, too sedate, too old!
I snuck into the side door and asked the waiter which room
was the reunion of the Class of '57.
"What?? It was this room!"
How could these classmates have aged when I haven't changed a
bit? I don't recognize these people!
Just then, an older man from the group walked past me with a
name tag that suggested he was our football captain. Wait a minute--
our football captain sure didn't have a beer belly like that one! And our
captain had hair! To add to my shock, he walked right past me as though he
didn't recognize me!
"Hey!," I wanted to shout. "Don't you know who I am?"
Reluctantly, I moved on to the registration table to pick up
my name tag. At the table (according to her name tag) was my blessed friend
who helped me pass geometry our sophomore year. She smiled and greeted me
with a big hug! As we chatted, I was astonished at how quickly I did
recognize her. I was suddenly able to look beyond her silver hair and
character lines. Her smile, the twinkle in her eyes and her cheerful voice
were the same as they were fifty years ago. We very quickly renewed our
connection.
From table to table of senior citizens, I began to experience
the happiness of "connection." We shared memories, laughed, and occasionally
choked up. This wonderful group had experienced fifty years of personal
accomplishments and devastating heartbreaks. And, in this one night, we
bonded again like family.
"Ahhh," we lamented. "We are suffering from many ailments
created by age. And, we don't have much time left. But, aren't we glad
we lived in the era that we did?'
We were proud of our humble beginnings. It was a peaceful
time between World War II and the Korean conflict. Viet Nam had not yet
begun. It was a time of intact families and moms who stayed at home. We
lived in a small community and everyone knew their neighbors. It was a
simple life and we were blessed.
Our lives were marked with some disappointments. We did
grieve over the loss of many people we loved. Living and aging left their
mark on us-- as the graying hair and wrinkles exposed. But, why would we
want to look as if nothing in life had affected us?
As I left the ballroom, I gave one last glance back through
the windows. Some white-haired old folks still remained. They seemed
reluctant to leave.
"Yes," I thought, "we have all grown older and we are damn
proud of it!"
CLEANITIS by Ann Forrester
The suffix 'itis' means irritation or
inflammatory, so i guess the title of this piece is misleading. I'm not so
much irritated or inflamed by cleanliness itself, but by the means of
attaining that state.
Over the years, I have cultivated a
healthy disregard for dust and vacuum cleaners which, for most of the time,
allows me to drift along happily. Dust bunnies and I have learned to
co-exist tolerantly and I can live quite well, thank you, without ever
lifting a duster. Normally, I live by the maxim that if clutter is stacked
neatly into piles, the place looks clean enough for the average human.
Tidiness is next to godliness in my book.
I am fortunate that I share the
household with a man holding diametrically opposed beliefs. He is convinced
that the third rule of the universe is, "Any flat horizontal surface is
provided for the sole purpose of being covered as quickly as possible with
paper, tools, used coffee cups, and any other detritus available." On the
other hand, he loves to splash
water all over the bathroom and suction the backbone out of the carpet. So,
between us, life works out quite well: I tidy his mess into neat piles while
he vacuums around my ankles.
Occasionally, however, I succumb to
an attack of what can only be described as temporary madness. This used to
occur just before the annual visitation of my mother and prior to the
arrival of any guest who, in my estimation, was or might be important enough
to deserve at least the appearance of a well-run household. Since my
mother's demise
and our move to an area where we know few people, the occurrence of such
attacks has diminished remarkably and tends to be triggered by the impending
arrival of my daughter on one of her semi-annual inspections. Fortunately,
my husband's relatives live too far away to visit (as in New Zealand), or
the frequency of aberrations would doubtless increase.
Fortunately, most spasms are mild and
short-lived, but just occasionally I succumb to a major seizure which can
last for several hours. On those dark days when the demon of cleanliness
takes over, nothing is safe. Windows, which have been quietly collecting
dust, grease splashes and finger marks, are suddenly subjected to vigorous
soap and water, rinsing and polishing. Beds are shifted and several months
worth of dust balls sucked away. Books are moved and shelves dusted-- during
really bad attacks, each book is individually dusted before being
re-shelved. Chairs are tipped up and accumulated dust wiped from the bars
which are usually hidden underneath the table. Sometimes the
settee is not exempt, since I wrestle with the unaccustomed attachments to
the vacuum cleaner and delve down behind the cushions. If the visitation is
severe enough to outlast all this activity, the next victims are the glass
and china cabinets and it has been known to extend even to wiping picture
frames and cleaning the glass. On very rare occasions,
even the car doesn't escape my ministrations and has to suffer removal of
sweet wrappers, mislaid receipts, grit and sundry other rubbish.
During the period when we had
children at home, they learned to disappear during these seizures. Only
after silence had once again fallen over the house would hesitant heads
appear around doors. If they really knew what was good for them, someone
would tiptoe into the kitchen, put on the kettle, and produce a really
strong cup of coffee
which was, and still is, guaranteed to revive me to my normal slothfulness.
Once the attack is over, there are a
few after-shocks-- an uncomfortable awareness of polish and the glare of
reflected sunlight. Luckily, this does not usually last for much more than
twenty-four hours, by which time the house has settled back under its
comfortable covering of dust, the vacuum cleaner has sunk gracefully into
its dark cupboard, and only the washing machine sighs in anticipation of the
load of cleaning cloths and dusters which will surely come its way.
@2007 Ann Forrester
BASEBALL IS GREEK TO ME - Anne Cosper
There's only one sport language I can speak-- baseball. I
speak baseball. Fluently. I am not fooled by our team's general manger and
his annual hype about "veterans and prospects." Yeah, right-- has-beens and
kids. And I know exactly what my father means when he says, about our team,
"They won, but they tried to lose." Still, it took some time for me to
realize just why Homer's The Illiad seems so familiar.
It is more than the characters. While sulky Achilles,
egomaniacal Agamemnon and poor Hector, rendered ineffective by guilt and
indecision, could easily be people we know, it is the author's description
of battle that feels modern. There is something of our sports speak, or the
language of baseball anyway, in The Illiad.
"He was like a lion that some shepherd has wounded, but not
killed, as he is springing over the wall of a sheep-yard to attack the
sheep. . . Even thus did Diomedes go furiously after the Trojans." Who among
our current crop of commentators and color men could match that? Instead of
Homer's deft blending of familiar situations and combat, we are treated to
such insightful observations as, "They need to get ahead early and hold on
to the lead." I'm not making this up. That wisdom came from a commentator's
"Keys to the Game" during a recent viewing.
While it is unfair to expect Homeric skill from today's
announcers, the roots of baseball commentary are in his works. "Diomedes,
son of Tydeus, man after my own heart, I see two heroes speeding towards
you, both of them men of might-- the one a skilful (sic) archer, Pandarus,
son of Lycaon, the other, Aeneas, whose sire is Anchises, while his mother
is Aphrodite. Mount the chariot and let us retreat. Do not, I pray you,
press so furiously forward, or you may get killed." How's that for a
scouting report?
The game's slower pace allows for strategizing, second
guessing and living room managing. That is the true attraction of
baseball--at least for me, no stranger to brooding and angst. Now we have
endless discussions of a batter's stats, the teams he played for previously,
and possible plans of action. Thousands of years of history, all leading up
to the mantra of pitching coaches everywhere-- don't walk him, but don't
give him anything to hit.
It is amazing how some things never change. Every spring,
against all hope and reason, I can't help feeling optimistic. Every August,
when the summer starts to wind down, I find myself hoping our team will
miraculously get it together and earn a chance at post-season play.
There is much disappointment in baseball, but that's okay.
Nothing much is really at stake, certainly not like in The Illiad. I will
continue to watch baseball and there will be games that feel epic, and play
by play commentary that reminds me of Homer, although nothing equal to this:
The spear of Agamemnon caught him by the broad of his back,
just as he was turning in flight; it struck him between
the shoulders and went right through his chest, and his armour rang round
him as he fell heavily to the ground.
And his armour rang round him.
Quotations from the Samuel Butler translation of The Illiad.
THE VIEW FROM UP HERE - Hal Pratt
I’ve doubled the size of my tree house, from 24 to 48 square
feet. Now two chairs can sit on my perch atop a nine foot tree stump. I’ve
never been comfortable with crowds.
I build with recycled wood. These are warped, pierced,
sun-bleached boards that have changed purposes as many times as we’ve
changed purposes in Iraq.
They started as a pile of boards in the barn we bought 20
years ago. Most had rusty nails driven through them. Many were encrusted
with the dried remains of a turkey farm gone wrong. It wasn’t a pretty
sight.
Some eventually became a dog house for my wild black lab. The
dog house later became a small hen house. A skunk briefly moved in, but did
not stay.
Other boards were used to corral a goat aptly named Sassy.
Pounding holes in my barn was her idea of fun. Milking her was a
race- squeeze those udders dry before she finished her mash, because when
Sassy finished her mash, she turned her attention to the guy squeezing those
udders. You did not want to be the object of Sassy’s attention.
A more elaborate hen house followed, large enough to walk
into and gather eggs from a row of wooden nest boxes. It lasted several
years, until the weasels arrived.
There was a small “fort” built on an island in the middle of
Green Creek, resting on a tree that had fallen down in a flood. The fort and
the tree both washed further down in another flood, never to be seen again.
I keep expecting to hear about it showing up in Baltimore’s Inner Harbor.
Until this spring, there was a bird blind in a small stand of
trees. It’s the last thing my sons and I built before they grew up and moved
on. Strangely, I have neither grown up nor moved on, but the bird blind
seemed too large and empty for one person.
The idea for a tree house, my “perch,” came after the
remnants of a hurricane split a magnificent ash that shaded our home. The
tree needed to come down, but, to the bewilderment of the tree removers and
neighbors, we left a nine foot tree stump. I put the platform up there.
I use it observe. Don’t ask what I’m observing. Life mostly.
This Spring, I dismantled the bird blind and expanded the
perch’s size. The boards are curved, the floor ripples, and splinters are as
common as presidential candidates.
There’s something comforting about old wood. It’s
experienced. It has character. “You can trust it,” I tell my wife. “It’s
been around. It knows what’s expected.”
My perch has a home-made look. No one would ever think it
came from a kit. It comes from my mind, a sloppy, messy, and, in its way,
beautiful thing. I know librarians are supposed to like order, but a little
disorder is nice, too. I like how the boards don’t quite meet in the
corners. There are surprise gaps there, just as there are surprise gaps in
life. Live long enough and you learn neatness not only doesn’t always count,
it sometimes isn’t even a possibility.
August is known for its fabulous meteor showers, the Perseid
showers. They should look good from up on the perch. Maybe I’ll reach out
and grab one as it shoots by. Or maybe not.
If you happen by our place, don’t be surprised to see a crazy
old man sitting atop a nine foot stump, and don’t waste your time calling up
to me. My wife will tell you- when I’m up there, I can’t hear a thing.
July 2007
“The Bee-Loud Glade”: Ireland’s Literary and Spiritual Heritage
by Dr. William C. Zehringer
In this brief essay, which is based on a trip which I and my
wife, Joan, recently took to Ireland, I will attempt to describe what we
were able to learn about that country’s long and very rich traditions in art
and literature. We now know that whatever knowledge we had managed to
acquire of Irish history and civilization was immeasurably deepened while
traveling in that lovely land.
Especially did we value the opportunity to visit sites
hallowed by the most gifted Irish writers, whose unbridled literary
imagination and unsurpassed powers of expression have given to the world so
many enduring works of literary art. As we stood before the grave of perhaps
the greatest of modern poets, William Butler Yeats, who lies buried in a
churchyard in County Silo, how could we not think of the unforgettable lines
from his wistful poem, “The Lake Isle of Innisfree”:
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree
And a small
cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine
bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
How is it possible to miss here one of the recurrent motifs
of all Irish history and art: the eternal longing for a vale of peace, a
lost paradise? We ourselves were able to observe that oldest of human
desires when we viewed a work of unrivalled magnificence, The Book of Kells.
Housed in Trinity College, Dublin, that priceless,
illuminated manuscript is both a scared artifact and a national treasure. We
could sense at once the fervent faith, devotion, and joyful labor, which
made possible the creation of a work of such intricate and marvelously
varied splendor.
And yet, there is some sadness in contemplating the awful
destruction that was to come to that distant island of “saints and
scholars”, when all of its great religious houses would be destroyed.
Ireland’s subsequent history, with its attendant tragedies, may be one
reason for the sorrow that often shadows even its most charming and
affecting poetry and music.
And yet, as we were to learn, it was those very poems that
kept alive the old language and legends, in the songs and verses of a host
of itinerant bards. And Ireland was to become, in the Western world, the
very heart and home of the literary imagination, as it in some ways is to
this day.
That unique Celtic quality, a gift for eloquence and
extraordinary fancy, must have had a long ancestry in that country. What
else could have moved the ancient monks, those who composed The Book of
Kells, to weave the countless birds, beasts, and plants, that lay close
about them in that period of history, into the very margins of the Gospel
texts?
Perhaps it is fitting to close this mediation on the Irish
contribution to the lore of the written word with anonymous verse written in
a lady’s book in the eighteenth century. It, too, speaks to a longing for
repose:
If thou and I could by a tale,
Some wandering hour of life beguile,
Thy tears might cease, and we forget
To mind ourselves a while.
