A Wee Irish Tale…
Amid the rolling green hills of County Cork Ireland, where tiny villages dot romantic landscapes is a land ripe with legend. You see, it was in one of those little villages, within the confines of County Cork, that our Irish ancestors lived. You know, some great grandparents, great aunties and uncles, random cousins … all who are now names assigned to old black and white photographs. But some of their stories have survived, and some of our family’s folk-lore still lives. And what better day to dust off the stories handed down from generation to generation than St. Patrick’s day.
My dad has been telling me this story for as long as I can remember. Each year, when St. Paddy’s rolls around, at some point he reiterates the tale handed down to him by his grandmother and a great-aunt. So let’s breathe a new life into the tales once again.
The story goes like this…
It was a gray, stormy night in Ireland, which might just be any evening in Ireland. But that night, the rain was especially dismal, coming in sideways, “a fair gale of wind pushing the rain”, making sure to cover the whole expanse of the island.
In this small village, locals gathered at the village pub. Most had a wee dram to keep the chill away while catching up on the recent news and possible gossip.
On this particular evening, the horrid weather ushered in a young man whose mood was as foul as the storm he’d just left. With a frown and not a nod of greeting to any in the public house, he arranged himself at the bar and began to drink until he was good and drunk. A few hours later, he slammed his glass down and said loudly, “I’m tired of this shite, we live in fear of ridiculous legends. I don’t believe in the little people. Not one among you does in your heart of hearts, so don’t go tellin’ me to stifle my voice.”
You could have heard a pin drop. Even the rain held its breath for several heartbeats waiting for the young man’s declaration to dissipate into the rafters.
“Son, you shouldna be sayin’ such things.” The bar keeper warned.
“Or what? The wee folk’ll come for me? I say piss on their tales and their gold.”
The bar keeper pulled the glass away from the young man and whispered, “Get yerself home now.”
The young man slid off his stool and wobbled toward the door. He turned, tipped his hat to the gathering and slammed the door as he left.
A few days passed, no one heard from the young man. Which was fine, as everyone thought perhaps they had enough of him for a while and he needed some time to cool off. Not sure what had brought on such a reaction and declaration in the first place.
It was a great great cousin of our family, a farmer, that came across an old man who was propped up against a stone wall one morning.
“Dia dhuit.” Hello, the farmer called.
The man didn’t move. The farmer smiled to himself, thinking of the times he had found himself a bit under the weather after a long evening at the pub. Finally, close enough to the man, he called out a greeting again and tapped him on the shoulder.
The man turned, looking through the farmer. His eyes had a crazed, wide-eyed look about them. The farmer took several steps back and crossed himself for fear. It wasn’t an old man who was looking back at him, but the young man who had bemoaned the existence of the wee folk just a few days ago. His hair turned completely white.
He was never the same again and spent the rest of his days jumping at every slight sound and scared of his own shadow.
The moral of the story, if there is one, is that you don’t have to believe in Leprechauns and the likes, but you might think twice before saying such a thing out loud.
Now, we have another family story about a great auntie who, through some peculiar circumstances and perhaps an interaction with a Leprechaun in disguise, came home one day to find her house turned completely around – the front door where the back door had been and the back door where the front door had been.
I need to look into the particulars of that story some more and I’ll get back to you. Maybe that’s a good one for next year.
So there you have it, a bit of Sharp family folk-lore for St. Patrick’s Day. Until then, I offer you an Irish blessing.
May those who love us love us.
And those that don’t love us,
May God turn their hearts.
And if He doesn’t turn their hearts,
May He turn their ankles,
So we’ll know them by their limping.
