True to form, I’d never really tuned in to the words of Danny Boy before… even with my daughter singing them. It took me transcribing the lyrics at the bottom of this post to actually hear them. And they fit perfectly.
Beautiful Eric! I always get goosebumps when I think about how our ancestors are listening in. Maybe giving us words and songs. Thanks so much I really enjoyed reading this. 🙏❤️
That was a very heartwarming post Eric, thanks. Love the rendition too. My grandfather loved Danny Boy, and so do I.
"I’ve learned through lots of inexplicable experience that the “dead” are much closer than we think." - I so agree, I'm always toying with the past and the present and the strange unknowable influences both has on the other.
"As a gifted interviewer and an even better listener, Kim was tuning into my field" - I couldn't agree more :)
I lived in Ireland for thirteen years Eric, I don't know how many times during that time I heard Danny Boy sung nor how many different artistic renditions but each time, without fail, this mournful tune made me cry. "...the pipes, the pipes are calling..." is as far as I could listen.
This is a truly beautiful and heartwarming essay, of course your Nana spoke to you again. 🎶
Thank you Susie. Well, glad you stopped when the pipes called, because it's all downhill from there! :)
I. Love. Ireland... my wife and I are traveling from the States to Kerry on the west coast in 19 days (who's counting) for her birthday. It is my dream to live there for part of the year. In what part did you live??
We lived a stones throw from the geographical centre Eric, between Mullingar and Athlone, on a different hill, just as beautiful as this one! I still miss it, though the weather less so…
Unbeknownst to her, Kimberly felt it , she was an unintended conduit ,(or maybe intended) your Nana , her messages far too strong to be contained . For me, and I think you too, sometimes we just know. Not necessarily the reason why, but the acute awareness . It comes on suddenly with no inspiration from another action or thought but nevertheless, it is there.
“While you marvel how it connects her with what is gone”. As the years go by and all that is left of my ancestors, my grandparents, and parents, are photographs, vivid memories, and most important to me, stories passed down through generations. The life of one family, the inner circles of the family tree. I can still close my eyes, find my way down the narrow hallway to the bedroom my sisters and I slept in when visiting my grandparent’s home. My gramma sitting on the edge of the bed, her face lit by candlelight. She liked to tell her stories with the added drama that only the dim soft light of a candle could bring. I remember all of them. Now, I wish the younger generation of our family, starting their own families, would find the magic in the stories, in traditions and tales, keeping them safe once again. Unfortunately, like a bird heading to the endangered species list through no fault of their own, the memories, faces and their stories will forever disappear. When all it takes is one person to tell and one to listen.
“…impossible reunion to come, that somewhere, somehow, has already happened. That is happening now…”
And there you are singing precious songs, telling the stories, and L, ready to absorb the past and carry it into the future.
“…because in the silence that followed I wrote it down: “We’ll talk again.”
I had a similar experience with my mom, though it was not COVID. She was sleeping in another room, nearer to death than alive, and I woke in the darkness, from a wretched few hours of sleep .Though I had never done this before, I went for a paper and pen and wrote words that formed a poem, becoming part of her eulogy. I am certain she helped me write it.
I LOVE your vivid memory of your grandparents’ house and especially your gramma’s stories by candle light. There really is something magical about visiting our parents’ parents home when we are young… I remember every nook and cranny of my Nana and Pappap’s entire house - it seemed massive, cavernous, unending, with an upstairs attic/sleeping area with ceilings so sloped so steeply I would sleep nestled against it in bed. Now I look back as an adult and the house was tiny, could almost qualify as a tiny house in fact.
The experience with your mom is beautiful… not so much the wretched with sleep part… but the poetic inspiration… you honor her
Funny you mentioned about the size of your grandparent’s home. Your description almost exactly matches how I remember their massive home , right down to the attic and ‘steep cavernous’ ceilings and where the bed was located ! Late last year their street address ‘surfaced’ out of nowhere , so I took the opportunity to do a search online. I found it, and just as you described, it was not the castle size home of my young memories. I sent the photo to my sisters,and we each had a good laugh. Their memories proved to be the same as mine, the magnificent old castle only lived in our dreams.
heartwarming 💗🙏 🕯️
Thanks Veronika :)
“I’ll be here in sunshine and in shadow.”
How sweet that she joined us in our conversation and now she lingers still! Very mysterious. Auspicious.
True to form, I’d never really tuned in to the words of Danny Boy before… even with my daughter singing them. It took me transcribing the lyrics at the bottom of this post to actually hear them. And they fit perfectly.
Beautiful Eric! I always get goosebumps when I think about how our ancestors are listening in. Maybe giving us words and songs. Thanks so much I really enjoyed reading this. 🙏❤️
That was a very heartwarming post Eric, thanks. Love the rendition too. My grandfather loved Danny Boy, and so do I.
"I’ve learned through lots of inexplicable experience that the “dead” are much closer than we think." - I so agree, I'm always toying with the past and the present and the strange unknowable influences both has on the other.
"As a gifted interviewer and an even better listener, Kim was tuning into my field" - I couldn't agree more :)
I lived in Ireland for thirteen years Eric, I don't know how many times during that time I heard Danny Boy sung nor how many different artistic renditions but each time, without fail, this mournful tune made me cry. "...the pipes, the pipes are calling..." is as far as I could listen.
This is a truly beautiful and heartwarming essay, of course your Nana spoke to you again. 🎶
Thank you Susie. Well, glad you stopped when the pipes called, because it's all downhill from there! :)
I. Love. Ireland... my wife and I are traveling from the States to Kerry on the west coast in 19 days (who's counting) for her birthday. It is my dream to live there for part of the year. In what part did you live??
We lived a stones throw from the geographical centre Eric, between Mullingar and Athlone, on a different hill, just as beautiful as this one! I still miss it, though the weather less so…
I love this post, Eric.
Unbeknownst to her, Kimberly felt it , she was an unintended conduit ,(or maybe intended) your Nana , her messages far too strong to be contained . For me, and I think you too, sometimes we just know. Not necessarily the reason why, but the acute awareness . It comes on suddenly with no inspiration from another action or thought but nevertheless, it is there.
“While you marvel how it connects her with what is gone”. As the years go by and all that is left of my ancestors, my grandparents, and parents, are photographs, vivid memories, and most important to me, stories passed down through generations. The life of one family, the inner circles of the family tree. I can still close my eyes, find my way down the narrow hallway to the bedroom my sisters and I slept in when visiting my grandparent’s home. My gramma sitting on the edge of the bed, her face lit by candlelight. She liked to tell her stories with the added drama that only the dim soft light of a candle could bring. I remember all of them. Now, I wish the younger generation of our family, starting their own families, would find the magic in the stories, in traditions and tales, keeping them safe once again. Unfortunately, like a bird heading to the endangered species list through no fault of their own, the memories, faces and their stories will forever disappear. When all it takes is one person to tell and one to listen.
“…impossible reunion to come, that somewhere, somehow, has already happened. That is happening now…”
And there you are singing precious songs, telling the stories, and L, ready to absorb the past and carry it into the future.
“…because in the silence that followed I wrote it down: “We’ll talk again.”
I had a similar experience with my mom, though it was not COVID. She was sleeping in another room, nearer to death than alive, and I woke in the darkness, from a wretched few hours of sleep .Though I had never done this before, I went for a paper and pen and wrote words that formed a poem, becoming part of her eulogy. I am certain she helped me write it.
Lor,
I LOVE your vivid memory of your grandparents’ house and especially your gramma’s stories by candle light. There really is something magical about visiting our parents’ parents home when we are young… I remember every nook and cranny of my Nana and Pappap’s entire house - it seemed massive, cavernous, unending, with an upstairs attic/sleeping area with ceilings so sloped so steeply I would sleep nestled against it in bed. Now I look back as an adult and the house was tiny, could almost qualify as a tiny house in fact.
The experience with your mom is beautiful… not so much the wretched with sleep part… but the poetic inspiration… you honor her
Funny you mentioned about the size of your grandparent’s home. Your description almost exactly matches how I remember their massive home , right down to the attic and ‘steep cavernous’ ceilings and where the bed was located ! Late last year their street address ‘surfaced’ out of nowhere , so I took the opportunity to do a search online. I found it, and just as you described, it was not the castle size home of my young memories. I sent the photo to my sisters,and we each had a good laugh. Their memories proved to be the same as mine, the magnificent old castle only lived in our dreams.
Yet it lived!!
Nothing beats the sound of song to hit the old heart strings. :)
Thanks Michael that’s a fact 😎