Our Emerald Isle - Killer Sheep

Our Emerald Isle -Killer Sheep

Traci said she would do anything she could to insure that Brian's Black and Tan would be a success.  She had noticed over the last several weeks that there was a lull in business before noon each Saturday and thought that if some method could be devised to get patrons in earlier that sales would increase in the early morning hours and by virtue of already being there those present would stay for lunch.  Her plan worked.

Every Saturday morning beginning precisely at 9:00 she would take a bucket of soapy water and sponge and begin washing the outside of the windows.  Now washing windows in and of themselves would not normally draw a crowd but she had devised a method of washing three pains at the same time.  Being a family type of narrative I will let your imagination conjure up how this task was performed.

There were no seats available near the windows on this one particular Saturday morning so when O’Gradey came in like he always did around 10:30 he sat at the bar and listened to me finish up a story about the time I tracked a polar bear while living in Alaska.  All were very much impressed. 

“So you see my friends there is not a meaner or more dangerous animal in all the world.” I concluded.

O’Gradey while hunched over his first pint of the day said that sure enough a polar bear was an animal that deserved respect but he took issue as to it being the most dangerous animal in the world.  “It’s undoubtedly the meanest animal in the arctic, but not the world, that would be our Killer Sheep not found far from here in the Thickets and Hills of O’Clare.”  The crowd nodded their heads in agreement.

I could not let the comment go unchallenged.  “Why I have never heard of a killer sheep.”

“Well it is nothing we talk about much, it’s bad for tourism.  In fact I am one of the few men alive that has ever hunted the beast and lived to tell the tale.”

This I had to hear.  “And what may tell would that tale be?”

“It was a blistery cold day,” he began as the crowd gathered around, except for the young men sitting by the window pretending not to watch Traci wash the widows, “and the towns people of De’Vere realized that something had to be done.  One of the killer sheep had wondered down from the mountains and had been killing pigs, chickens, and peaceful sheep.  The Town Council knew that I was a veteran of the troubled times and had spent time away having found it only prudent that I leave our beloved country for awhile until things cooled down and reside in Africa..  While in Africa I took up big game hunting.  The Village people knew I was the only one who could track and destroy the Killer Sheep or at least chase it back to the Thickets and Hills of O’Clare.  They were right of course and I deemed it my duty to protect our town.  Pigs, chickens, peaceful sheep today and our little children tomorrow, yes I would take the challenge.

“I went to the place where the last kill was reported.  Near the carcass of a bonnie looking sheep I saw the tracks leading back toward the Thickets and Hill of O’Clare.  I could tell by the size of the hoof prints and the stride that this was a big one and that my task was a challenge.  I was not deterred, I had my spear and sling I had taken off a Zulu warrior and a trusty British Enfield I had acquired during the troubles, nothing would stop me from by task.

“I came to the first row of thickets and pressed thru, cutting my skin and tearing my clothes but on I went.  I proceeded this way for an hour or so until I stepped in a bog and sunk to my hips.  I struggled out of the muck but in so doing I dropped my Enfield and it was sucked down in the mud.  There was no way of retrieving it.  My spear and sling were looped over my shoulder so I continued my hunt.

“I clawed and crawled through the thickets that ran up hill for another hour or so.  I finally came to a clearing and paused to rest.  I must have dozed off for I was awoken by a sound that immediately put a shiver in my spine.  I looked around to where the sound was coming from and saw the biggest Killer Sheep I had ever seen.  Bigger than the one they use to keep stuffed at the terminal at the Shannon Airport until the tourism commission protested.  For some reason though the Killer Sheep was not aware of my presence.  I silently said a Hale Marry and an Our Father. 

“Gently and quietly I rose to my feet, assembled by spear and sling and with all my might through the spear and hit the Killer Sheep right above his shoulder blade.  To my horror however the spear bounced off.  The Killer Sheep turned and sat its eyes upon me.  It snorted like a wild hog, pawed its front hoofs like a raging bull, and charged at me like a white rhino, all of which I had seen before, but never without a weapon in my hand.

“A Killer Sheep’s speed is legendary, but this one seemed faster than legends.  The closer he got the faster he got and when there was just a few yards separating us he opened his mouth wide as if to engulf me like a whale did one of my companions when I was whaling off the coast of Madagascar and continued his attack.

“I stood my ground however knowing I could not out run the beast and just as he was about to make me no more I reached inside its mouth with my right arm plunged it to the rear of the beast, grabbed its stubby tail pulled back as hard as I could turned the creature inside out and he started running the other way.” 

I told Brian to get Mr. O’Gradey a quart of whatever it was he was drinking.  On this day I had been out done.

Our Emerald Isle - Mc and Mac

 

Our Emerald Isle – Mc and Mac

McSahne and MacDougan were about as much a fixture at Brian's Black and Tan as anything else.  They would arrive every morning after morning Mass, sit at the same table off in a dark corner only lit by the Irish morning sun, order a cup of coffee and two shots of whiskey each, then play dominoes till around noon when they went home and took a nap.  They would return around 7: 00 PM and repeat the process except they drank Guinness with their shots of whiskey till closing time.  During their vicious domino games, sips of coffee, shots of whiskey and glasses of Guinness they would argue.  Their sometimes heated banter had no particular topic.  If McShane was for it MacDougan was against it. The village had been watching the two battling over the years with great amusement but never took sides as to who was right and who was wrong.

Their arguments while very serious did not deter their friendship but to the casual observer kept it well hidden.  Their true feelings had been cemented many years ago by a common tragedy.  They were widowers - their wife had died.  I say wife and not wives because they had been married to the same women, not at the same time of course except in the eyes of the church, but when Marry divorced McShane she had married MacDougan and when she divorced MacDougan she left town and married a dairyman from Sallyport a few miles down the road.  She was glad to get rid of McShane and MacDougan and looked forward to a life of luxury, for the Dairyman was very successful and did not drink.  She did not count on the lead milk cow getting her utter in a ringer and kicking her, Mary, in the head which I guess one never does think. 

At the funeral McShane and MacDougan started arguing about who was really the widower, giving no credence to the Dairyman’s claim.  The Dairyman returned to Sallyport never to be heard from again in De’Vere.  That was twenty years ago and the two old combatants had argued ever since.

One morning, during an especially heated game of dominoes, MacDougan said that all St. Patricks Days ought to be celebrated on a Saturday like Easter was on Sunday.  McShane said that would be ridiculous.  The argument was on.

“How would we know what the proper Saturday would be, if that were the case.”  Said McShane.

“The same way we know when Easter is you stupid Irishman.”  MacDougan responded.

“Well how do we know that?” snapped McShane

“It’s always on the calendar.  You could just look at the calendar if you knew how to read you drunken sod.” Replied MacDougan.

The argument and insults kept going on for about a half hour when I decided to step in and put in my two farthings worth.  It wasn’t the brightest thing I ever did.

“Alright my fine Irish gentleman,” I interupted, “I do not wish to take a particular side at this point but I think I need to add some reasoning to this banter.  If one wants to debate you must define your terms and establish some agreed upon facts.  First of all Easter is always the first Sunday after the first full moon after the vernal equinox and St. Patrick’s Day is always on the 17^th of March.  Can we agree on that?”  There was a little grumbling but finally they both agreed that the 17^th of March was correct but they were not sure if Easter was really established the way I said.

“I know it may be a little confusing,” I continued in my professorial tone, “If we want to stay consistent about such things we could stay with the St. Patrik’s Day date and change the Easter celebration to a specific day also.  The only problem I see with that is that Easter would be celebrated on any day of the week and not just Sunday.  If we kept Easter following the vernal equinox tradition, and wanted to keep consistent we could make St. Patrick’s Day be the 1^st Saturday after ground hog’s day, or something like that.  No gentleman I think you have been arguing about a system that has lasted for years and done us all very well.  McShane I agree with you, MacDougan you are wrong.”

A hush fell over the Pub.  No one had ever taken sides with McShane or MacDougan at least publicly in one of their arguments.  All were waiting to see what would happen next, but silently agreeing with either McShane or MacDougan.

“Sir,” McShane said in an angry voice, “you have just insulted my friend.”

“I agreed with you McShane,” I said perplexed.

“MacDougan may be an ignorant drunken Irish sod, but he is my ignorant drunken Irish sod and not to be insulted by the likes of you.”  He challenged while raising his shaleigh.

The next morning the local newspaper, reporting the events that followed, used as its lead in sentence to the story: “Among the injured were…”

Our Emerald Isle - The Dinner and Organization

  

Our Emerald Isle – The Dinner and Organization

I awoke Sunday morning to the smell of Italian red sauce.  Bev had pulled it off and I was not surprised.

After her inspection of the kitchen the day before Brian told her about his apprehension about the dinner the next evening.  Bev said she thought the kitchen was clean and in good order and the cook, Abdul, was a very pleasant fellow and was not threatened at all that she would apparently be taking over the executive chef position.  In fact he welcomed the change.  He too had become weary of lamb stew.

Bev brought out a tablet and pencil, made some notes and gathered us around after her observation of Abdul and the kitchen.

“Here is what we need to do today so we are on top of things tomorrow evening.  Brian you go across the lake to Rockenshire and pick up a barrel of Chianti.  Tell Jarome we want the good stuff he keeps behind the boat dock.”  I looked at her in a puzzled way.  She had only been here less than three hours.  How did she know about Rockenshire, and who the heck was Jarome.  I was about to ask but she anticipated my question.  “Jarome’s great uncle and my great uncle use to do business together.  Great Uncle Solito use to import wine and Irish Whiskey from him back in the late 20’s.”

“The late 1920’s?  Why that was during pro…, Oh.” and I dropped the subject.

‘Traci and I will go to the meat and fresh produce market and pick up a few things.  Abdul, you stay here and mind the store and watch the P’s and Q’s, especially your own.”

“What about me?” I inquired. 

“As far as I can tell you have not slept for over 24 hours.  Go to bed.” she said with authority.  She was in her element I could tell. 

The meal was a hit.  Spaghetti, meat balls, Italian sausage, baguettes, olive oil laced with Ramona Cheese and garlic were devoured by all present.  If it had not been impolite to clamor for more the throng would have.  Mrs. O’Malley and the mayor told us that they were very impressed and knew that the pub would once again become the social center of the village and county.  The Mayor did inquire as to what the new name of the pub would be.  I told her we had not decided that yet, but would shortly.

I knew we all loved Spaghetti and  meat balls but also knew that we could not serve such a dish all the time or folks would be looking upon the Italian feast like the lamb stew before long.  I broached the subject Monday morning over biscuits and tea. 

Bev said her plan was simple.  As far as Abdul, he was very capable of learning how to prepare different kinds of food, but he needed to focus on one thing at a time.  Also if we had a full menu slate like most restaurants the spoilage would be greater, causing waste thus depleting profits.  Her solution was to have a specialty each day.  That way Abdul could keep focused on what he did and we could buy specific items for specific days and if planned correctly, what was left over could be used for the next meal the next day or even the day after that.  She also said that we all had to specialize in a specific area but cross train as much as possible so we all could get a day off now and then and fill in when one of us fell ill. 

The daily meals would consist of pasta on Sunday, chicken noodle soup on Monday, potato soup on Tuesday, Polish sausage and sauerkraut on Wednesday,  Tacos and Bar B Q on alternating Thursdays, Catch of the Day from the boats in the harbor on Friday, and baked chicken and boiled potatoes on Saturday.  On holidays we would serve lamb stew and she was sure that the villagers would flock to eat it because it was not the quality but the frequency everyone complained about.  We would not serve breakfast, but always have plenty of biscuits available for the early morning crowd.  As far as lunch went, she would arrange for the meat market and bakery to provide a tray of meat and bread each day on a consignment basis, and we would take a 10% cut handling charge based on the sandwiches we sold. 

As far as our responsibilities went - Brian would procure all the liquor and food needed for the following week and stage it in the kitchen.  Also he would be the chief bartender.

Abdul would keep the kitchen clean, wash dishes, and assist in food preparation, sort of like a Sue Chef.  Abdul loved what he saw as a new title.

Traci would wait tables and tend bar.  She said Traci would be the heart of the operation and key to its success.  Bev had observed that Traci turned the eye of every young man in De’Vere and given a little more cleavage on Traci’s part more men would flock to the pub.  The more men that came to the Pub the more the young girls would come, and the more young girls,the more old men, and the more old men the more old women. 

Bev said she would supervise Abdul, keep the books, plan special occasions, and be in charge of entertainment.

Well I was beginning to feel like the redheaded step child.  What was to be my job I wanted to know.  Bev said, “Back up for everyone else and our ambassador of good will.  You will regale the patrons with stories of your travels, engage them in intellectual conversation, in other words set around and lie to them as they lie to you and see who can tell the bigger lie.  Believe me, next to Traci it is the most important job here.”   “Do I have to show more cleavage,” I asked with a grin and soon after ducked a dish towel she threw at me.

"We have one more thing to discuss." I said.  "We need to come up with a new name for the pub."  We all sat there and tossed out ideas.  It was getting late and we were all weary.  "Gee, guys I don't know nothing quite fits. Oh, well, Brian, another Black and Tan would you please."

Our Emerald Isle - Tour of De'Vere

                  

Our Emerald Isle – Tour of De’Vere

Brian and Traci were ecstatic and thrilled to finally meet Bev.  The three of them took an immediate liking for one another. 

After showing us to our room and allowing Bev and I to freshen up a bit they took us on a tour of the pub and the town.

The pub looked like what you expect an Irish pub to look like.  There was a sign protruding from just over the entrance that had once held the De’Vere Crest. "We, need to talk about that," Brian said.  The inside of the pub had walnut ceiling beams and wall joists were exposed against a white stucco background, there was a dart board in one corner along with a slate blackboard that one could keep score and place P’s and Q’s as the dart throwers drank their pints and quarts.  The tables, chairs, and benches were of dark oak and occupied by characters that must have come out of central casting.  The bar was a long dark wooden affair with several draft handles growing though the top it appeared and the wall behind the bar was lined with every sort of alcoholic beverage one could imagine and the schnapps were of more flavor than I thought existed.

De’Vere itself was just as quaint.  We were shown the post office, the Catholic Church, named St. De’Vere of course, the barbershop, meat and fresh produce market, laundry, tailor shop, bakery, local news paper, and all those who owned and ran such.

At the Town Hall we met the Mayor and Town Council, police chief along with the president of the De’Vere historical society, Mrs. O’Malley.  She had been the driving force in restoring the Pub and was especially pleased to meet us.  Mrs. O’Malley thought that it would be a proper thing for us all to have dinner and a few drinks tomorrow evening to celebrate the arrival of the new co-owners and proprietors and we all readily agreed.  Brian was a little hesitant I could tell but I did not say anything to him at the time.

On our way back to the pub Brian’s mood improved as he waved and spoke to all the lasses that passed.  Traci beamed and kept a coy and flirtatious smile on her face as she only nodded to the lads that seemed to cross the street just to tip their hats and wish her a good day.  It is the McAnally charm I guess.  They take after me.  All the men were good looking and the women appeared strong and I was sure all the kids were above average like in Woebegone.  I noticed Bev reached out and held my hand as if establishing property rights so no Irish winch would think I was available.

As we all four sat in one corner of the pub drinking a black and tan, except for Bev who does not drink often and only then in much moderation, I asked Brian why he seemed a little hesitant about the dinner tomorrow night.  Traci averted her eyes and cast them upon a young man who had just entered and excused herself to speak to him.  Brian looked at me than Bev and Bev got the hint and excused herself and said she wanted to check to see what was in the kitchen and how it was arranged. 

“That’s the problem.” And he pointed to Bev walking away.  “I thought you really liked Bev,” I said surprised.  “Oh no,” he quickly responded, “It is the kitchen or what comes out of the kitchen I should say.  You notice that Mrs. O’Malley suggested we eat dinner and have a few drinks.  She did not say lets get together and have a few drinks then eat dinner.”

“Well,” I replied, “You seem to be making a big deal out of nothing, so we eat then drink or drink then eat, what is the problem.”

He said, “It’s our cook.  He makes the best lamb stew you have ever tasted.  The problem is that that is all he knows how to make.  The town’s people are getting sick of it and have started to bring in their own sandwiches from the meat market and only buy drinks.  Besides I am getting pretty sick of it also and starting to do the same.  Doesn’t make for a good marketing plan when the owner doesn’t eat the food prepared in his own establishment.  I told the Town Council and Mrs. O’Malley that my brother, you, and his new wife, were excellent cooks and would be expanding our menu.”

“Well,” I said, “I don’t think that will be a problem, I have a lot of old Irish recipes floating around in my head that were handed down by our grandfather and Bev is a tremendous cook and can make much out of nothing.”

“It is pretty short notice, you think Bev is up to it?” he asked.   

“It isn’t a problem, take my word for it,” I said emphatically.  “Bar made, bring us another round of Black and Tan and leave that poor boy in the corner alone.”   Traci brought the drinks right away.

Our Emerald Isle - Our Greeting

Our Emerald Isle – Our Greeting

As we entered the terminal we saw a man holding a sign that read “McAnally.”  We identified ourselves as being one and he said, “ Ceao mile failte, welcome to Ireland.  My name is Mike and I am here to escort you to the next phase of your journey.  Please follow me.”  I asked about our bags and he said his man would pick them up and put them on the train for us.  I was a little skeptical about letting all our worldly possessions out of my direct control and intrusting them to a stranger but what were the odds. 

We took a short limo ride to the train station and Mike was as good as his word.  He escorted us to our compartment and our baggage was already there.  He handed us tickets to, what I assumed would be De’Vere, made a slight bow and then just stood there with his hands folded in front of him.  Bev nudged me in the side with her elbow and I said, “Oh, yes.” and handed him a five dollar bill.

As the train was pulling out of the station the conductor came by, asked for our tickets and he told us to enjoy our trip to Beganborn.  I told him there must be some mistake.  He looked at the tickets again and said, “No there is no mistake it clearly says on the ticket here that you are traveling to Beganborn.”  “No I said we were supposed to be heading for De’Vere.”  “Well I understand now why the confusion,” he replied, “one has to go to Beganborn and catch the cart ride to De’Vere.”  There is no problem he assured us.  The carts run every day or two usually, on time.

About two hours later after a short stop to allow sheep to cross the tracks the conductor came around again and announced, “Beganborn, we will be here for five minutes.”  Bev and I quickly gathered our belongings and got off the train.

As the train pulled out I saw no one around and the small little train station was locked.  There was a bench so we sat on it and waited around for something to happen.  Soon a dilapidated cart came lumbering down the cobble stone path that I gathered connected the station to what I assumed would be the center of Beganborn.  The cart was pulled by the poorest excuse for a horse I had ever seen.  It was lopped eared like a rabbit, had a sway back and the two wheel cart was driven by a man that did not look much better.

“Are you Sir Snapper and Lady Bev,” he asked. 

“Yes.” 

“Toss your things in the cart here, it will only be a short ride.  Sir you ride in back with the luggage and Lady you ride up here with me.”  We then clip clopped down the road, through the little hamlet of Beganborn, which seemed like a nice little place.  I thought to myself, if De’Vere looks anything like this it will be a delightful next few months.

However the further we journeyed away from Beganborn the more bleak the country side became.  The stone walls on either side of the road were crumbling, the road was mud and ruts , the fields were over grown, what few sheep we came across looked like they had the mange, and the stone houses were deserted and in much need of repair…Brian had done it again. 

The only thing that kept me from dwelling on fratricide was that Traci was part of all this and would not do anything particularly harming and besides I would not know what to do with the body.

As I was about to tell the cart driver to turn around and take us back to the train station we came over a rise and there in the valley below stretched a lake side village that was only half as big as Beganborn but much more typical of what one thinks of when one thinks of an Irish Village.  I immediately thought of the old musical “On A Clear Day You Can See Forever” and I started humming the signature tune.

At the top of the hill the driver turned to us and said, “Welcome to De’Vere, County of O’Malley, along the Lake Donnie Man.”   There was a twinkle in his eye and a smiling face that stretched out his wrinkles and made his warts disappear.  The horse’s ears and back straightened, stone walls and houses were well maintained and both nestled up to clean well kept green fields.

Bev and I proceeded down the path and entered the village of De’Vere to what was to be our next great adventure.

Our Emerald Isle - The Trip Over

Our Emerald Isle – The Trip Over

Bev had always told me that she never goes anywhere on a plane without something going wrong.  I have always thought that to be a wee bit of exaggeration because nothing of any consequence happened when we flew to Alaska.  Will that is not entirely true.  Our plane did abort its take off when we left Tucson and the cabin door got stuck and wouldn’t open for an hour when we landed in Anchorage, but things happen.  No big deal.  However, our trip to Ireland proved to me that perhaps there is something to what she says and causes me to seriously consider booking passage on a steam ship when it comes time to return to the states, unless the name of the ocean liner is the Titanic II, Lusitania II, the  Andrea Doria II, or something like that.

Our flight was to be nonstop to Shannon and as soon as we took off Bev went immediately to sleep.  However, about two hours out of Anchorage the captain came over the intercom and asked if there was a doctor or some sort of health practitioner on board.  A few minutes later the Captain came back over the intercom to announce that we would be making an emergency medical landing in Yellow Knife, Canada.  Several of the passengers asked our flight attended what the problem was but she declined to provide us with any information and for us not to worry.  “We will not be long in Yellow Knife,” is all we could get out of her. 

We found out later that a man had been found dead in First Class and the Air Marshall and Captain thought it only prudent to land at the nearest Air Port and remove the body.  The Air Marshall would not have been involved normally but the dead man’s sister raised such a fuss that the Marshall had to be called upon to quite her down.  She said her brother was going back to Ireland to die anyway and since he had already purchased a ticket she did not understand what the big deal was.  I sort of agreed with her.  The Flight Attended was correct, we were only in Yellow Knife for a short while.  The body was unloaded and we took off without wasting very much time.  Bev remained asleep through all of this.

A little while later the Captain came over the intercom again and said we would have to land in Portaland, Main to change crews.  We found out later that it was because of our stop in Yellow Knife and it was not possible and against regulations to travel across the Atlantic within the time limits established by Ireland’s version of the FAA and the Irish Pilot’s Union, with out changing crews.  To the credit of Aer Lingus the crew swapped places in record time and off we went.  Bev was asleep during all of this.

I finally settled down and tried to sleep thinking there would be no further problems while crossing the Atlantic.  I am not a nervous flyer but don’t really care for it.  I have always maintained that if God wanted man to fly he would have had him be born with a boarding pass.  I cannot sleep on an airplane and thought of waking Bev to see if she wanted to play cards or something, but decided to let her be.

A couple of hours went by when our new Captain came over the intercom and told us that we had to make an emergency landing in Reykjavik, Iceland.  This caused a little commotion in the economy class, it was of such a nature that Bev changed positions once in her seat.  The Captain did assure us however that it was only a safety precaution, that some sort of light had come on and they just wanted to check it out before we finished the last leg of our trip.

We were only on the runway for twenty minutes so the light thing must not have been that big of deal but I did notice that the Co-Pilot got off the plane and met a Pizza Delivery Van and exchanged a handful of money for one large pizza.  I have a suspicious mind, but no matter we were on our way again.  Bev was fast asleep.

A couple of more hours passed and as I was just about to drift off to sleep the Captain came on the intercom. “Ladies and gentleman we have started our decent into Shannon, Ireland, temperature is 12.4 C, wind out of the west south west, over cast with possible rain expected this afternoon, local time is 1 PM, attendants prepare for landing.” 

The landing went smooth enough with only one minor bump.  As we were taxiing to our gate Bev woke up.  She stretched and said “well that was a pretty uneventful trip.”

Our Emerald Isle - Farewell

Farewell

I had wrapped things up with the School District and the University, was all but packed, and could not put off any longer my final rounds of good bys to my students.  I thought about what to say to them, what words of encouragement and wisdom I could impart but nothing seemed to jump out.  I decided that when they were needed the words would come. 

I loaded up the four wheeler convinced my pet raven, Ray the Raven to accompany me and headed off. My first stop would be the Finks.  Luckily they were not home.  I say luckily because I did not want another lecture on me being a heathen no matter how nice they presented it last time.  Besides I assumed that they knew I was leaving the next day.

Jimmy Green was chopping wood in the back of his cabin.  His mother ran out to greet me and hugged me tight.  She said she wanted to thank me for all I had done for her and Jimmy.  Jimmy came from behind the cabin and upon seeing me dropped the load of firewood and also gave me a big hug.  I asked them what their plans were, thinking nothing would be changing, when Jimmy’s mom showed me a letter of acceptance she had received from the University of Missouri, Rolla School of Engineering.  I was shocked and delighted that Jimmy had decided to continue his education in such a way at one of the better schools in Missouri.  I was even more shocked upon examination of the letter to find it was not Jimmy who had been accepted but his mother.  She had been doing all of Jimmy’s class work also and it became apparent she had a gift for math and those skills that are necessary to become an engineer.  I took a little pride in the fact that I might have been helpful.  Jimmy was going to stay in the area and live with Big Bear and be a Shaman in training.  I was not surprised.

My next stop was Eddie Joe.  He informed me that he had joined the Coast Guard through a program that would allow him to go college every other semester with all expenses paid.  He was not sure what he would do after finishing his degree and was toying with the idea of going to OCS and perhaps making a career out of the Coast Guard.  His parents were very proud and I was very pleased.

The Twins, Sally and Sara were next on my list.  They too had decided to go off to school both to the University of Alaska and study Native Anthropology.  However Sally was going to the university at Anchorage and Sara to the one in Fairbanks.  I was sort of surprised because they had never been separated and I was concerned initially how they would take the separation.  But they both said, one finishing the other sentence,  ‘Twins are”, Sally said, “Never far apart.” Finished Sara. 

I asked where Uncle Frank was and about that time he came from around the corner of one of the out buildings.  I started to given him the Caribou Skin map back when he stopped me by holding his hand out like Indians do in the movies to say “How.”  “Keep it, you might need it.” He said.  That is about the longest conversation I had ever had with him.  You don’t turn down a gift from a Native American for it would be an insult so I rolled it back up and decided I would take it to Ireland with me.  One never knows. 

My big concern was Sally Deer.  She was the brightest of all my students but never seemed to come out of her shell, she was just as withdrawn the last time I saw her which was a week ago as she had been the first day I had met her.  I hoped that whoever took my place up here would realize she was a very gifted child and continue to give here what academic and emotional support she needed.  Again to my surprise she ran to me as soon as I dismounted the four wheeler.  She grabbed me around my neck, gave me the hardest hug I had ever received and started crying.  She said she would miss me.  She calmed down and then went on to tell me that she also was going to college next year at the Sheldon Jackson University in southeast Alaska.  She planned to be a teacher and do the same thing I was doing, teach in rural Alaska.  No greater joy can befall a teacher.

We all promised to keep in touch and I will certainly make an effort to do so.

When I arrived back at the cabin there were only two things left for me to do.  I took Ray the Raven down to the dock and told him it was time for him to fly away and find someone else to be his friend.  I told him where I was going and that I had appreciated his companionship, that I would always remember him but he couldn’t go with me.  He cocked his head to one side, flew back to the house, picked up a biscuit off the table and flew east.  I watched him as he went out of sight.

I went inside and asked Bev if she had seen Big Bear.  She said he had stopped by to see if  we were ready to go and to take an inventory of the items we were to leave and to make sure they were clean and in no need of repair.  He told her that our plane would pick us up at 9 o’clock the next morning and our replacement would be on it so the new teacher, a she, could begin preparation for summer school.  He would see us then.

Big Bear showed up about a half hour prior to the plane and sat with Bev and I while we all had our last biscuit and cup of tea together.  He told Bev he hoped that the new lady teacher could make as good a biscuit as she did.

The plane landed, taxied to the dock and a lady and her, I suppose husband, got off the plane.  We were introduced, their gear was off loaded and ours was put on. 

Bev and I had grown very fond of Big Bear and found ourselves feeling a touch nostalgic about leaving.  Bev gave him her Sicilian hug and he and I shook and held each other’s hand a little longer than was customary,  Bev slipped a piece of paper to the lady then we  got on the plane and did not look back.  I asked Bev what was on the paper she had given the new teacher.  “Big Bear’s favorite biscuit recipe.” She said. 

We flew directly to Anchorage and caught Aer Lingus that would fly nonstop to Shannon, Ireland.  As I walked up the ramp of the plane I turned and took one more look at Alaska and wondered if we would ever return.  I mentioned such to Bev.  She said that I had once told her that one should never discount the call of the wild, the lure of the last frontier, or the spell of the Yukon.

Our Emerald Isle - Sir Snapper

The De'Vere family crest

 Sir Snapper

Given information about the inheritance of the Irish Pup in Devere and the Sir business, I started to check out such just to insure that Brian was not full of blarney. While Bev busied herself packing for our upcoming trip to the Emerald Isle I spent my time on the computer

.

Charles McAnally came to America via kidnapped by sailors that were looking for an additional crew member.  We know he came from Glasgow, Scotland but not being of the nobility no records are available as to who his parents were.  Charles had several sons one of which was named Huge.  Huge ended up marrying a lady named Elizabeth De’Vere.  There was a lot of information about Elizabeth. 

Her father was the fourth son of Robert De’Vere the 18^th Earl of Oxford who was sent to Ireland to manage the family holdings because his three older brothers had either had inherited the title, gone into the Church of England priesthood or joined the army and there was nothing left for him to do in England.  Apparently Elizabeth’s father was not a very good estate manager, for the De’Vere’s holdings in Ireland went bankrupt and the De’Veres moved to America leaving Elizabeth’s older brother, Albert, in Ireland in a small house in a much smaller Irish cross road village.  Elizabeth eventually met and married Huge in Ameria. 

Albert was apparently much more adept in business than his father because he started a little business selling Irish cakes and pies to passer bys.  This eventually grew into an Inn and Pub.  The locals started calling the Pub and Inn De’Vere’s and the establishment was handed down from one son to another until there were not sons left to run the place which apparently happened several years ago.  The Pup and Inn had seen better days and remained vacant for a very long time but the village had been named De’Vere.  The Village council decided to demolish the long time Pub because it was in ruin anyway but a member of the De’Vere Historical Society stepped in and raised such a fuss that the Council relented if the Society could find the rightful owners and restore the place and re name the pub becasue they did not think it proper for a pub to be named after the town.  The search began. 

While searching though some old records the Society found Albert’s will which stated that if for some reason no son of the De’Vere line was living in De’Vere that the Pub and Inn should be given to the oldest living children in equal shares to the direct decedents of his beloved sister Elizabeth.  That ended up being Brian, Traci and me as best anyone could tell and such was certified by the Royal Irish Inheritance Act of 1754.  That is how we became owners of the Pub and Inn which the De’Vere Historical Society still had no name for.

The Sir Snapper comment in Brian’s telegram was based on the fact that we are decedents of English Royalty and the Earl’s of Oxford are part of our blood line which can be traced back to 280 AD.  That is staggering.  I don’t know if a Sir is appropriate given the fact that I have never been knighted and have thought about sending Queen Elizabeth II a note just in case it was overlooked.

Next week I make my final rounds visiting my students and bid them and Alaska good by, at least for awhile.

Our Emerald Isle - The Telegram

 The Telegram

As of last Monday there were only two weeks of school left.  Bev and I had to make a decision.  I had been offered contracts for the upcoming school year from the District and University for more money than I had ever made before in my life and given the fact that my expenses are very minimal the amount of discretionary income available stagers a boy from Fairmount.  We have been able to save a little money this year but not a tremendous sum because of the initial cost of relocating, but we aren’t in the hole either.  If we come back next year we would be set for life, well not to the degree some would like but sufficient for us along with social security and my army pension.  However money has never been a motivating influence for Bev or me.  But then again given the fact I had nothing better to do, at least at the time I was reading my contract, I had no real reason not to return.  We could visit the kids this summer, spend a month or so at our place in Tucson, and return to the wilds and mysteries of Alaska in early September.  I was just about ready to sign the contract when I received the telegram.

Big Bear showed up around noon the other day decked in his Western Union outfit.  The telegram was from my brother Brian and sister Traci.

“Dear Sir Snapper,” the telegram began, “Stop Sorry we have not kept in touch more frequently Stop We have exciting news and opportunity but need your help Stop Don’t make any plans for this summer or next year before you talk to me Stop Will call you this evening with details Stop Love Brian and Traci Stop”

Well Brian was always coming up with some sort of scheme and my first reaction was to send back a telegram reminding him of the last time he sent such a message.  That message ended up costing me a few dollars and a lot of grief.

 He at one time wanted to open up a Greek Bar and Grill near his home in Chicago.  He was very well connected with the Greek community via his marriage to a nice Greek lady and just knew such a business would be a real money maker.  He had it all planned out.  Greek food, Greek music, Greek dancers, Greek décor, and waiters and waitresses that spoke nothing but Greek.  He said that the place would even be blessed by the local Greek Orthodox Priest.  He just needed a little more start up money.  Our father had died not to long before and left us a little life insurance.  He knew I still had money available.  I really didn’t need the money so I figured why not.

 He did open the place but then a few things happened that sort of put a crinkle in things.  He failed to tell me that he was running a high stakes poker game in the back room that the IRS didn’t appreciate, the INS didn’t condone the manner in which he conscripted the cooks, waiters and waitresses, and Ouzo became his drink of choice.  What little profits there were sort of vanished between the poker games, the anise flavored beverage, a divorce, and attorneys.

 Bev tried to take care of the situation by placing a few strategic cryptic phone calls to her friends that she thought still remained in Chicago only to find out that most of them were no longer available having either having died, left town suddenly, moved to Joliet as guest of the government or, through her contact with the Federal District Attorney’s Office, had moved on to places known only to the folks who ran the witness protection program. 

Well needless to say the Greek Bar and Grill went belly up.  The only good thing that happened was that Brian and I had no legal repercussions after all was said and done, and to his credit after liquidation of all assets my investment was salvaged and returned.

 I looked upon his telegram with some skepticism to say the least.  The only reason I did not immediately send off the contracts for the next school year was the fact that Traci seemed to be involved and she always had a level head and would not be part or parcel to any of Brian’s shenanigans.  Besides he is my brother, I would hear him out. 

Sure enough that evening I received a conference call from Brian and Traci.  I won’t try to transcribe the exact conversation but the jest of the call was this:  Brian and Trace were living in Ireland in the County of O’Malley in a little village called Devere just a days train ride from Shannon.  Apparently we three had inherited a Pub, the only Pub in Devere.  He and Traci had flown to Ireland to check the inheritance out after Traci had insured that the inheritance was real.  The Irish solicitor could not find me and neither Brian or Traci wished to contact me until they had checked things out given my last foray into that Greek Bar and Grill business.  Sure enough the inheritance was real, the place was quaint, it only needed a little work to get it up to snuff and the best part was that no money was needed on my part. 

They knew that I would be off during the summer, they could use the help, and that Bev had experience running such establishments.  They wanted us to come over and help really get the place off the ground.  Their first two months of operation had been successful and would be even better with our input but they realized that a third and fourth person was desperately needed to lesson the work load and save their sanity.  Would we please come over as equal partners.  To top things off he would buy the airline tickets out of his share of the profits already made..

  It did not take me very long to decide what to do and as I was about to discuss the matter with Bev I discovered she was already packing.

I only had two question for Brian and Traci:  What was the Sir Snapper business and who the hell would leave us an Irish Pub?  I was soon to find out.

.