Irish Potatoes

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Irish Potatoes

I think if I go anywhere in the world before I die it will be Ireland.  In my retirement I’ve gotten much joy from Van Morrison, John Banville, and recently, Toibin.  Marci nags me about traveling.  I really hate to change places.  But if I’m forced, I think I’d like Dublin for a week.  Mom and Aunt Cass visited twice.  I always thought they believed the Irish bullshit like the McGinley’s were Tinkers.  Different acquaintances enjoyed the warmth and nostalgia among their own kind.  We know about John F, Reagan and Bill.  John Huston had a little castle he had retired to and dressed like a local squire.  I’ve all these reports.  And I always ignored The Irish Question.  Let them blow themselves to England and back, I thought.  The stupid and totally distorted veneration of all things Irish that permeates my kind today disgusts me.  Attributing so much to that run of genes and their history becomes a tired drivel of Tantem Ergoes and sentimentalism, gold Irish Crosses and The Hibernian Rifles, Michael Collins, Glasnevin Cemetery, etc, shit of which I had no education or awareness as a child and young man.  Why was that?  It seemed my parents and grandparents never spoke of The Great Hunger, Ireland except on St. Patty’s Day and then in the form of Leprechauns, Irish Potatoes, and Mrs. Murphy’s Chowder, Ole Danny Boy.  They simply wanted to assimilate, fuck the past.  But now a trip to The Old County is a bragging point among my kind in the neighborhood.  They go on and on marveling in the beauty of the land and the warmth of the people.  Maybe I should find out for myself.  But no country travels, just a big city with great pubs.  No ham and cabbage.

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