Darwin Cherries

Our Emerald Isle – Darwin Cherries

While out on one of my weekend walk-a-bouts I came across a grove of trees that after closer examination was an orchard.  Not being one who knows one tree from another I was not sure what type of orchard it was.  It was very well kept and I noticed that in between the rows of trees there were potato hills.   

I sat down to rest when I noticed an old man walking between the trees and mounds straight towards me.  I figured he was the owner and going to tell me I was trespassing and for me to leave.  Quite the contrary.  He introduced himself as Jamie O’Rilley and yes he was the owner of the orchard and the trees were cherry. He was a very nice sort of chap and talkative too.

He told me he had been developing this cherry orchard for over 20 years and it produced more cherries per tree than any other like size orchard in the country, possibly the world.  I told him that I really never associated Ireland with cherry trees and he responded that is normally the case but for some reason they seemed to flourish in these parts.  “Even the horticultural society in Belfast can’t explain it.  But here it is.”

“Have you always grown cherries?” I asked.

“No, like most people in these parts I use to grow potatoes but like most people it was boom or bust each season.  I was reading a catalogue one winter and decided to order a couple of cherry tree seedlings.  Just for fun if for no other reason.  I mean how excited can one get over potatoes?

“When the seedlings arrived I followed the instructions very carefully and it seems like in no time at all I had some sprouts and the next thing you knew I was able to plant some between potato rows.  It was just a hobby at that point.  I really never expected to see any cherries.  However after a couple of years or so there were some blossoms and then the biggest reddest best looking cherries I had ever seen appeared.  I was just about ready to pick my first harvest when a flock of birds swooped down and ate every last one of them cherries right off the limbs. 

“Well I was a little annoyed but it was not a great loss for I had very little money tied up in the endeavor but I took it as a real challenge and decided to outwit the birds.  The next winter I got a bunch of rubber snakes and hung them from the branches.  I had read that birds do not like snakes and thought that my decoy of sorts would scare them off.  The next spring, blossoms, cherries, bigger and better than the year before, but the birds came again.  I guess that since there are no snakes in Ireland the birds didn’t know they should be afraid of them.  I was not deterred.

“The next winter I hung aluminum pie plates and strips from the branches.  I thought that perhaps the glitter from the constant swaying in the sunlight would confuse the birds and even create an obstacle for them to land on the branches and eat my cherries.  Well as you can guess that didn’t work either.

“I decided that cherries were not in my future and I would just let the trees go to seed and fend for themselves.  At least I would be feeding the birds through a natural process. 

“It was around Christmas when I received a tin of popcorn from by cousin in America.  It contained three different colored kinds of popcorn -  yellow, caramel, and red.  The yellow had a cheesy sharp cheddar taste much to my liking, the caramel as you would suspect tasted of caramel and satisfied my sweet tooth, the red would be cinnamon I assumed.  When I tried the red it was cinnamon but it tasted terrible and burnt the inside of my mouth.  I spit it out immediately.  Who would eat this more than once was my first thought.  Then on my second thought it dawned on me. 

“After the last snow of the winter while the snow was a crystal white I spread the hot cinnamon popcorn, doused by a little red pepper, on the ground under the cherry trees.  The birds spotted the red specks on the ground and welcomed the early food supply.  However, when they started eating the red popcorn it tasted to them like it did to me but even worse.  They started identifying red with a hot bitter taste which they found repugnant and looked for another food supply as it turned out. 

“That spring the blossoms came the cherries came and they have been coming ever since.  The birds have returned but they are attracted to the insects that can ruin a potato crop and the additional insects that are drawn to cherries and not the cherries themselves.  The birds don’t leave this inexhaustible food supply of insects thus increasing the fertilization required for my cherry trees and potato plants.  Not only do I now have a huge cherry crop each year I haven’t had a bad year growing potatoes for a long time.

“Each year I add a few more trees, throw out some hot cinnamon popcorn laced with red pepper, and the result is what you see.  I sell most of the product under the brand name of Darwin and have made a comfortable living.”

“Darwin, Darwin Cherries, uh, why not O’Rilley, Devere, or O’Malley cherries after you or the community?”

“Oh, I don’t know the name just seemed to me like a natural selection.”

Lake Donnie Mann

Our Emerald Isle – Lake Donnie Man

Lake Donnie Man is the largest lake in the County of O’Malley.  As one might expect it was named after a chap called Donnie Mann some years ago but until just recently that was all I knew.  Partly because I never bothered to ask. 

A man will lie to his wife.  He will lie to his priest.  He will lie to the police.  In fact a man will lie to just about anyone or anything if he thinks the truth will cause him pain or embarrassment or increase or decrease his status in the community.  One person though he will never lie to is his pub keeper no more than I would fabricate my blog entries.    

It was late.  Devere’s Pub was about to close.  The last patron was Shamus O’Malley.  Outside the wind picked up and the shutters blew open.  Shamus although a few cups into his own wind helped me close and secure the window shutters.  For his help I drew him one more pint and we began to chat.  As he was about to finish his free brew I indicated it was time to leave but felt a little bad about putting him out in the pounding wind and rain.  He was feeling about the same I guess because he asked me if he could stick around a little longer.  Well he looked so low I couldn’t say no so I drew another pint, which he bought by the way, and we continued our aimless conversation. 

We finally got around to talking about fishing, which finally led me to ask how Lake Donnie Mann got its name, more rhetorical than anything else.  I did not expect illumination let alone a saga.  He hunched over his beer, looked over his shoulder like he was making sure no one was around and said, “Since you have shown me some kindness I will relate to you a story told to me by my Grandfather.  It is not a secret story but no one believes it except me and I have been made fun of more than once in my telling.  Grandfather was an honest man and he swore to me that what I am about to relate is a true story and I believe him.  I have no children, thus no grandchildren so I might as well tell you because if I did have children they would be about your age.  After hearing what I am about to tell you  feel free to pass it on to whoever you want just be prepared that knowing the truth does not always free one from ridicule.  Not relating the story as often I think it deserves has burnt a hole in my soul for many years.  I have been afraid I would die without anyone believing me, and I sense you will.”

“Donnie Mann was a trader in salt.  He would pick up a load of salt at one end of the lake and deliver it to the villages dotted around the shore.  It was the custom in those days for people to name their boat after themselves and The Donnie Mann was known far and wide and so dominated the salt trade and other necessary cargo delivery that people started referring to the lake as Donnie Mann’s.  Donnie Mann was a proud and arrogant man and began to think of the lake as his own and its master.  However the lake had a mind of its own so it seems.

 “It was sort of a night like tonight my Grandfather said.  The wind was howling, the waves were gigantic, and it was blistering cold.  Donnie Mann had one more load of salt to deliver and he sat here in this very pub with his three man crew waiting for the storm to pass.  Put pass it did not.  Donnie Mann became impatient.  He decided to make the run across the lake to deliver his last load.  He was bound and determined to leave and collect a large fee for his even larger stash of salt this trip. Every one in the pub even his crew begged him not to go.  He would not listen and called his crew a bunch of cowards when they refused to accompany him.  He marched down to the docks, set sale, and Donnie Mann and The Donnie Mann were never seen nor heard from again or so it was in the life time of those in the pub that night.  Eventually the lake began to be called Lake Donnie Mann.” 

Well I thought that was interesting but it didn’t seem much like a story others would not believe and ridicule, and I told him so.

“Me lad, that is only half the story.”  He continued:  “Many, many years later a fishing boat came across a drifting derelict floating aimlessly far from shore.  The crew of the fishing boat realized that the boat was crewless and must have been abandoned, so  thoughts of salvage took the place of fishing. 

“When they boarded they searched for cargo but found none.  They did not understand why the boat had been abandoned because it was in pretty good shape. Their search eventually led them to the helm where they found the ship’s log.  Having a some what limited interest in books they did realize however it might help to secure salvage rights.  Instead of reading the log right away they gave it to the youngest member of the crew for safe keeping.  That was my  Grandfather.

“They secured the boat for towing and headed towards land.  It had been a clear day but from out of nowhere a northern squall appeared.  It was like the lake had its own idea about salvage rights that day and did not want to give up the boat and claim it as its own.  Both boats were capsized and sunk with all hands lost, save my Grandfather who was found two days later clinging to the side of an over turned dingy.

“At the formal inquest at the Maritime Court held in Dublin an investigation tried to determine what had actually happened to the fishing boat.  They called my Grandfather to give testimony.  They believed him about the storm, the capsizing, and the loss of the crew.  When asked if there was any indication as to the name of the boat trying to be salvaged is when doubt crept into the proceedings.  ‘Twas called The Donnie Mann me Lord,’ Grandfather told the Court.  From that statement he would not budge although he was laughed at and threatened with imprisonment for piracy gone awry.

“More rational thought finally prevailed given my Grandfathers youth and the Court took pity on Grandfather and cleared him of any wrong doing.  They did order that since The Donnie Mann had gone missing over a hundred years ago it could not have possibly been the boat in question.  The poor lad must be delusional the inquest determined and he was ordered to the Saint Patrick’s Hospital for the Insane until such time as Grandfather sort fact from fiction.  At that time and no sooner he could be released. 

“Grandfather decided after three months of incarceration that unless he changed his story he really would become insane and decided that honesty and integrity were not that important.  He petitioned the court and changed his story, saying he realized he must have been hallucinating after all.  Grandfather returned to Devere took up farming and never sailed on a ship again.”

I immediately saw a flaw in his story, an inconsistency, one that did not close the loop to any great mystery.  The story I decided was just a bunch of the blarney.  “What happened to the Ship’s Log that was given to your Grandfather? I suspect he lost it when the ships went down didn’t he?”  I was trying to give him an honorable way out of the corner he had told himself into.

“Well yes the Log was lossed.  Like I said he was floating around for two days clinging to a dingy.  Having been given the Log Book for safe keeping he had tied it around his neck.  While he was floating around he had nothing to do so he started reading the Log.  Most of the log had been ruined and he only was able to read the cover page and the last entry with any clarity and other bits and pieces.  The cover had ‘Ship’s Log: The Donnie Mann.’  Captain Donnie Mann’s last entry was ‘To much salt, ship taking on water, am foundering.’  He had always heard about Donnie Mann and realized he held an answer to a mystery in his hand.  He also realized that he would probably die alone at sea and his discovery concerning The Donnie Mann would never be known. He began to carve on the side of the dingy a very short version of what I just told you. 

“He eventually passed out and when he awoke on a life saving trawler that happened by his saviors had no knowledge of the Log and the dingy had not been retrieved.  The Log no doubt was destroyed and it and the dingy rested somewhere at the bottom of Lake Donnie Mann.  It is a story that is true, Grandfather had no reason to lie about his finding but without proof he was never believed outside the family, and spent the rest of his life walking along the lake shore early in the morning just in case the dingy had broken apart and a tell tale portion drift ashore.  If one did it may not have been actual proof of his story but it seemed more important to him the older he became.”

The wind and rain had calmed down.  We made a little toast to Donnie Mann, The Donnie Mann, Lake Donnie Mann, and finally Grandfather and bid each other a good night.

Over biscuits and coffee the next morning I was relaying the story to Bev.  She looked nonplussed but said it was a mystery but not a great mystery.  “I have heard something like that before albeit off the coast of Nova Scotia.  As I remember the story my Great Uncle Vinnie was smuggling a load of whiskey from Canada.  He over loaded the boat and when a northern squall came up the weight of the whiskey in the casks was too much and the boat went down. Uncle Vinney and the crew survived but the loss was not made known to the authorities naturally.  Some months later the boat reappeared floating about the same place where Uncle Vinney claimed it had sunk.  The Coast Guard traced the registration to a corporation in Chicago but the company did not exist naturally and those listed as company executives and board members were all dead according to Cook County records.  The Coast Guard was at a loss to explain anything.  It was Uncle Michael who postulated among the family that the whiskey had probably seeped from cracks in the kegs while on the bottom, said cracks caused by the pounding storm, lightning the load, thus allowing the ships normal buoyancy to bring it to the surface.   If The Donnie Mann was overloaded with salt the weight could have easily taken it to the bottom and when the salt eventually dissolved the ship would resurface.  If The Donnie Mann’s cargo compartments were water tight, as one would expect it to be in the salt trade, dissolving could take a long time and given the coolness of the lake bottom the wood would have rotted more slowly than normal and what little wood rot that had taken place would not have prevented it floating again.  The boat became lighter at the bottom of the lake ergo up she went.”  Well I can always count on Bev to come up with a rational solution to any mysterious encounter I come across.

Ray the Raven and I went out for our morning walk along the banks of Lake Donnie Mann as we did every morning and as every morning we passed Shamus O’Malley doing the same.  This time though we eyed each other knowingly like we shared a secret which in fact we did.  I will never be able to walk the lake shore again without keeping a look out for flat pieces of drift wood that just might have come from a dingy supposedly lost many years ago.

Our Emerald Isle - A Little Vote

Our Emerald Isle – A Little Vote

Two years ago an astounding thing happened in Devere, a Leprechaun was elected to the village council.  This had never happened before.  The Leprechaun community is not large nor were active in Devere politics before that and never seemed to agree on anything amongst themselves as a group anyway.  The Catholic and Protestant majority would always court the “Little” vote as it was referred to and now and then throw a shamrock their way but all in all the “Little” vote was not considered important let alone a threat.

From out of the green however a leader arose from the Leprechaun community that was able to pull all the different “little” factions together.  He was a little taller, a little less green and more educated than most Leprechaun’s.   His rhetoric was superb, his ability to speak about how things should be, and the wholesomeness and kindness he projected appealed to all those historically ignored and appealed to more than just a few of the Catholics and Protestants who were normally at odds with each other anyway. 

It was the first time a Leprechaun had run for office as a serious candidate and the Leprechauns along with the dwarf community voted in a block.  That along with the disenfranchised Catholics and Protestants  John Littleman was elected councilperson of District Two.  District Two just so happens to be the district Dever’s Pub is located and Dever’s has the added distinction of being the polling place for the village.  It is a great honor and I respect the fact that the sale of alcohol is not allowed until one has casts his or her vote.

After John Littleman took office it seems like he could do nothing right and was unsuccessful or least that is what the Catholics and Protestants that had not defected to John’s side contended.  They had a point because every time he would introduce a village ordinance it would either be shelved or voted down.   The promises he had made he was unable to fulfill and he took much abuse from those who were against his policies.  Most of those who were opposed to what he espoused did so because they considered his positions radical but those who were most opposed to him, were so because he was a Leprechaun.  They let those who opposed John Littleman, based on his governmental philosophy, take the lead in the vocal opposition while the anti Leprechaun forces egged the others on and financed the hate campaign hidden from critical analysis.   

John Littleman was a gentleman though and took the attacks and hidden slander in stride and just chalked it all up to politics.  Because of his success at least to being elected some other Leprechauns and one Dwarf decided to run for the council seats coming up for election this November. 

The village council has realized that if the Leprechauns, Dwarfs, and disgruntled Protestants and Catholics voted as a group again the village “will be run by a bunch of midgets,” I have heard it said more than once in Dever’s.

To counter this threat the village council passed an ordinance that stated that milk crates would no longer be provided by the village election commission for those who happened to be too short to reach the counter of the polling booth.  The ordinance went on the say however that any voter could bring their own device that would boost them vertically but only after a safety inspection certificate was provided to the election commissionaires certifying that the device used was not a hazard.

A protest was immediately made by John Littleman to the village council.  He demanded to know why after all these years such an ordinance was necessary.  In unison the other members of the council said nothing.

I don’t know if not having milk crates provided by village expense immediately made available for those wanting to cast a vote will hinder the Leprechaun and Dwarf turn out or not.  They are allowed to bring their own the ordinance says and the people who support the measure insist it is because of the liability issue and besides “what is the big deal anyway, if one is too lazy to get their own milk crate they shouldn’t vote.”  

In our weekly Dever’s Pub business meeting the matter was discussed and we thought that perhaps we could rent milk crates at the font door when people came into vote if one was needed.   Then when they finished voting they could redeem the milk crate at the bar and get a “free” drink.  Bev suggested that if people turned in a milk crate that we had not rented we would charge half of what we normally would and thus create a surplus of milk crates for the next election to be rented at a reduced price because of the decrease in capital expenditures.  How does she come up with these ideas?  Anyway I have not played politics for a long time and only getting involved now reluctantly, but the combination of doing ones civic duty and making a dollar or two is irresistible.   

The Emerald Buffalo

Our Emerald Isle – The Emerald Buffalo

I have seen several people who are internationally famous.  I have shaken hands with a couple of senators, one president, and even a man who shook the hand of Neil Armstrong, but I cannot truthfully say I have met them let alone their being my friend.  However there are many who reach the pinnacle of their profession and are icons to a small but fanatical following.  I do know one of those types and even count them as a friend.

Bev and Abdul were contemplating on how the menu at the pub could be improved.  We had plenty of Irish dishes, pastas, Mexican food, and schnitzels but just lacked what one might call the signature dish.  While they were stewing over the matter I was reading the latest addition of Pub Weekly International.  As I turned the page  I saw that Dublin was holding its annual barbeque competition and saw that the featured judge was none other than the world renown barbeque extraordinaire Bill Pittman.  The advertisement went on to say that he would hold a special demonstration of the finer points of barbequing using his just as famous mobile barbeque pit known the world over as The Emerald Buffalo.

Bill started his barbequing career on a regular charcoal grill. Being a fireman he had plenty of time on his hands between fires and rescuing treed cats to hone his ability and modify a discarded grill he had found at the site of a house fire. He became so proficient in his preparation and cooking technique and the charcoaling apparatus he improved on became so ingenious that he was soon doing all the cooking for the fireman at his station.  Word soon spread around the other station houses and they clamored for his food.  At about the same time the labor contract ran out with the city and an agreement was finally met only after Bill was given one duty free day each week to prepare barbeque for the entire department. 

He continued cooking for the department in this fashion until he retired and then he started entering local competitions and winning most of them.  He kept entering bigger and bigger contests and eventually won the New York City Barbeque Open, the Memphis Regional, the Atlanta Southern Invitational, and the Kansas City Royal Barbeque Masters.  He got an agent, acquired some sponsors, made several endorsements, and began entering international events that were held in Europe and Australia.  His crowning achievement was winning the prestigious Paris International Cuisine of Barbequing event.  Bill was thus established as an icon to those who follow barbequing and to this day is treated like a rock star where ever he goes demonstrating barbequing techniques and judging those who dream of achieving the success and living the good life like Bill.

I had not seen Bill for many years and suspected he had no idea I was in Ireland or perhaps even if I was still alive or even if he had thought about me much if at all.  I thought it would be great sport to show up at the Dublin event and surprise him.  One thing might be a problem I thought and that was how I was going to get around the security that must follow him where ever he went, but that was a problem I would face when I got there.  Tomorrow I would head for Dublin I decided and let it be known at the pub that evening.

As I suspected the arena Bill was to perform in was packed and security guards were surrounding the place.  I went up to one security guard and told him I was a friend of Bill’s from the states and wanted to say hi.  “Ya, you and everyone else, move along mate,”  That was about as nice of a response as I got from all the other guards I asked.

I was just about to chalk up my trip to Dublin as a misadventure when I spotted a familiar looking face talking to one of the guards.  From a distance it appeared like he was giving orders and directions so I suspected he might have some authority.  As I approached him I kept trying to figure out who he was and if I really did know him.  Just as I was about to tap the guy on the shoulder he turned around and cried, “Snapper?  What in the world are you doing here, I can’t believe this?”  As soon as he spoke I realized who I was talking to.  “Well my gosh Skip this is a surprise.  What are you doing here?”

Skip was Skip Coombs.  He was a year behind me in school and the last I heard he had joined the Marines and gone to Viet Nam.  I remembered that he and Bill had been good friends.  We spent a few minutes catching up and explaining to each other why we found our selves after 45 years or so standing in front of the Civic Arena in Dublin.  Not to dwell on what he was doing there but the short story is that after he retired as a financial manager he went to work for Bill as his road and business manager.  I asked him if he thought it was possible for me to say hello to Bill and he said he would do better than that and escorted me to Bill’s trailer where he was preparing for the nights demonstration.

Bill was surprised to see me as you might expect but we were not able to do a whole lot of catching up right then because Bill was on in a few minutes.  It was decided that I would sit with Skip and watch the demonstration and afterwards visit some more.

The presentation Bill gave was impressive and words cannot describe the skill and dexterity he displayed so I will not try.  Besides, Skip told me that licensing and copyright prevented any descriptive publication. 

After Bill was through we all sat around and had a drink or two and discussed the old times and all those types of thing one discusses given absences of almost five decades. 

When we began to repeat stories I thought it was time to leave and Bill asked me to stay the night.  I thanked him but said I needed to get back that I had a pub to run.  “That’s too bad,” he said, “Bobbie will be disappointed she missed you.” 

“Bobbie?” I asked puzzled.

“Yes, you remember Bobbie Martin don’t you?  She travels with me a lot and acts as my on the road spiritual advisor.”

Well of course I remembered Bobbie, she had gone to high school with us also and had known Bill and Skip ever since elementary school.  I asked if he and Bobbie were an item now and he said no, that she really was his spiritual advisor and kept Skip and him on a moral compass during their tours.  He explained that “Paul and Ringo told me that such guidance was necessary when one toured internationally,”   (I guess international icons have their own little network) “She wont be back till tomorrow morning however because she is writing a book on spirituality and doing some research at an all night Druid ceremony.” 

I was disappointed but I really did have to leave.  I told him to give her my best and if they had some down time to swing by Devere and stop in at the pub for a pint and a new sandwich I had just thought of.  “I think I will call it the Bill Pittman.” 

Bill looked a little stressed and said that he could not authorize the use of his name. “You cannot believe international copy right and licensing laws.  We would both get into trouble.  I do have a suggestion though.”

I stayed a little longer, we all hugged in a manly fashion of course and I started my journey back to Dever.

Bev and Abdul at last have a signature dish for the menu and the new item has proven to be a big hit at O'Brians Black and Tan.  It is a barbeque pulled beef or pork sandwich called the Emerald Buffalo.  Cole slaw and baked beans are extra.