Our Emerald Isle - What's Up Doc?

Brian was in the back counting money from the local poker game that no one was supposed to know about.  Bev was in the kitchen experimenting with a biscuit recipe, watched over very carefully by Ray the Raven.  Abdul had gone to Saturday night mass which I thought strange because he always wanted the Friday Muslim service off, along with any Christian or Jewish holidays that might come along.  He claims he just wants to pay homage to all, my guess is that he is hedging his bets.  Traci was in the corner whispering in the ear of some young hard body, and I was once again regaling my customers with the wit and wisdom of which I was and still am so blessed.

“So you see me fine lads, America has the best medical system and doctors in the world ”  And with the word ‘world’ I slammed my glass tankard of ale down on the bar.  Apparently I slammed it a little too hard because it shattered on the hard oak bar top.  My hand slipped from the handle crashing the outside of my palm against the glass shards.  A fountain of blood started spewing forth like a Texas oil well if in fact they still let oil wells spew. 

Every one in the bar was stunned at first and I was in shock I guess because I felt no pain and was mesmerized by the blood gushing out from the side of my hand.  MacDougal happened to be sitting beside me and immediately grabbed my wrist to stop the flow of blood.  McDaniel, sitting on the other side, grabbed the bar rag and pressed it against my opened wound.  Between the hand tourniquet and direct pressure the flow of blood slowed and then stopped altogether.

We all sat there for what must have been a short time even though in retrospect it seemed like a long time, when someone said we ought to get the doctor.  Some one else said that somebody would have to go get him because his car had broken down and he hadn’t the money to pay for it until his medical subsidy came in next week.  I told them it was not necessary because if we applied enough pressure long enough coagulation would set in and all would be fine.  I remembered that from my Army or Boy Scout days.  I couldn’t recall which exactly, not that there was that much difference in the training or application of the career.  I guess the Boy Scouts did have adult leadership though.

To pass the time I called for Brian to set up a round for the house.  MacDougal and McDaniel started to sweat a little, and I think I even saw a tear come to the eye of McDaniel.  “What’s wrong with you two? I asked, “I am the one in harms way here.” 

“Yes, we know that,” said MacDougal, “It is only that it takes both our hands to keep the blood from spewing out so you won’t bleed to death and we are just contemplating how we are going to drink our free pints.  Opportunities like this don’t come around a lot you know.”

It would have been an easy fix for my sniveling two sods if we had straws available but we did not serve enough soft drinks to justify the expense.  Traci suggested that she could lift the glass up to their lips but McDaniel had a harelip and the ingredients would fall on his chin thus wasting the brew and create bitterness and jealously towards MacDougal and everyone else in the pub I suspected because no one else had such a deformity that would cause the spillage.

I must admit that I became very proud of MacDougal and McDaniel when they decided that they could do without for awhile.  They thought that coagulation would soon occur and they were determined to put aside their concerns for the good of the community and my hand.  They both said they were of sturdy stock.  They hunkered down for the duration but their commitment seemed to grow weaker by the minute, they sort of started crumbling before my eyes.  You would think they were the ones to losing blood.  Depression can do strange things to a person I guess.

After a few minutes we all decided that perhaps the blood had coagulated enough and my two medics slowly released the pressure from my wrist and wound, but as soon as they did the fountain of blood returned and spurt out like the water from the blowhole of Moby Dick.  My two medics resumed their positions to stop the flow but more depressed than they had been for they realized it would be longer till they got some brew.

“Ok, enough is enough,” came a voice from the kitchen door.  Bev had been watching all this nonsense for a while and decided that I was not going to bleed to death on her watch. 

She instructed one of the boys to fetch Doc Leep and tossed him the keys to the moped.  She too new that the Doc’s car was out of commission and we would all just have to endure the extra time it took to get him and drive him back.  Another lad she told to fetch the water hose out back.  When the water hose arrived she told Brian to depressurize a keg of beer and stick one end of the hose in it.  She then took the other end of the hose slit it down the middle to a point where eventually she had two half hose bits.  She then took some duct tape and card board and made two straw type looking affairs.  “There now Mac and Mic, suck on these while we wait for the Doc.”   The procedure immediately revived my two saviors and fortified their resolve

Doc Leep showed up later than he would have liked of course and immediately went to work.  I knew he thought it was some what serious because he did not order his usual merlot prior to his stitching my hand.  I must say for an Irishman without the proper American medical training, he did a pretty good job. 

I asked him if being without his car caused him problems.  He said just a little, but not enough to forgo the extra expense.  “I really can’t afford two BMWs, I am not an American doctor you know.”

Our Emerald Isle - The Past

 It Never Goes Away

Now and then I find myself without much to do here in Dever, so I just sit around and think.  I ponder the world, my life, what brought me to where I am and oddly enough American politics.  Even though I now reside in the land of my ancestors, or at least part of them, the coming American presidential election leaves me puzzled. 

I use to have no trouble deciding who to vote for, but being involved in a few elections and working on the inside of a political organization I have come to realize that no one ever really lies, but then again no one really ever tells the truth.  Separating fact from fiction is very hard to do in politics, and the internet has almost made it impossible and so hard in fact that those who spin get spun to the point that they actually start to believe what they espouse.  

During the last several elections I have established a procedure that is true, being tried several times.  I pick one thing I know for certain that the candidates stand for, make sure it is important to me, and then base my vote on that one single item.  Right wrong or indifferent that is what I do.  Now, what about the upcoming race?  Well just follow along and stick with me.

In the late spring of 1968 I hopped in my car and drove off to Fort Bennining, Georgia for Basic Training.  My first step that would eventually land me a commission in the United States Army and in a couple of years send me to Viet Nam I assumed.  Only half of which came true.

I had no real desire to go to war nor did I have any real moral outrage that we were fighting in southeast Asia.  I just did not want to go and get shot.  If called upon I would go of course, jail or Canada not being an option.  However I would just as soon go on the best terms I could make for myself and to me being an officer seemed like a much better idea than being an enlisted man.  If for no other reason than I would receive more money when being shot at, which I assumed was going to happen anyway.  The war had no end in sight back then.  I had no idea what would transpire that could possibly keep me out of harms way.

I was in my second year of the advanced part of the Army ROTC program,( having skipped the first two years due to an accelerated program offered by the army at that time,) when the draft lottery picked my birthday as 170.  If I had not joined the advanced ROTC program I probably would not have been drafted but I was committed so didn’t complain about it.  I figured I was still going to have to go to Viet Nam.  It is funny looking back, I never really worried about it much.  It was just something you had to do if you had to.  Few of us wanted to go, but we just resigned ourselves to the fact that we would have to unless we got lucky some how.  Most of us in my small mid west college really did not understand the war protesters and looked upon them with amusement or disgust. 

After I received my commission I also received a letter a few months later that said that the Army had too many officers right then and that my full time service was not needed.  They gave me some options ranging from not doing anything to disputing the army’s decision and ask them to reconsidered. Well that was a no brainer.

One of the middle options was to join the national guard and economics won out.  I was teaching school waiting for my orders to come though for my training obligation and making $300 per month and I found out that the Missouri National Guard would pay me $70 a month.  The money sounded good.  I joined and walked in the door of the armory and back out the door 20 plus years later.

I have taken a long time getting to the point of this narrative and I am not sure I am there yet.  

In 1971, there were four kinds of people in the National Guard.  The Full Timers that handled all the day to day administrative and physical stuff necessary to support a local guard unit were the main stays.  They were usually career civil servants or state employees and for the most part former active duty people.  Then there were a few like me that got in the guard almost by accident or default, recognized the benefits and decided to stay in for awhile.  Then there were guys who were discharged from active duty, sort of liked the military and decided to come back in for the camaraderie and benefits.  The bulk of the soldiers however were those who were evading the draft.

I know, I know.  To state that the bulk of our reserve and national guard troops back then were a bunch of draft dodgers is not popular today, but to deny it is selective memory at its best.  

I am sure there was ( but I cannot remember meeting any one,) those who joined the national guard with out prior service that did not want to evade the draft.  It is different today of course and today’s reservist and guardsman are top notch and true patriots.  But this is now and that was then.

This year’s election will probably be the last one where what a person did during the Viet Nam era is a factor.  Bill Clinton received student deferments and protested the war, George W. Bush joined the air national guard, Dan Quail was in the Indiana guard, I believe, Dick Chaney received student and marriage deferments and said he had better things to do at the time, Kerry went and came home for reasons that are still unclear, I think Al Gore served as a reporter or cook or something in the regular army, and of course we all know about and Senator McCain.  Obama was to young, so was Ryan and I am not sure about Bieden (?sp).  So that leaves Governor Romney.  He is about my age and where did he spend the Viet Nam era?  Well if the reports are correct he spent that time in college and as a missionary of sorts for the Mormon Church in France.  By the time he returned his draft number might have been high or something like that I am not sure.  I am sure if he had been drafted he would have gone and served with distinction, because those Mormons I have come across in the military are fine soldiers and actually he seems like an honorable man; but the fact remains that he could have gone and served his country by putting himself in harms way but chose not to.  That puts him in the ranks of those like John Wayne;  they look good, talk the talk, but never had to walk the walk.  Now you might say that, “Well, Conley or Snapper, you did about the same thing.”  My answer would be ‘well sort of’ but I am not running for president either, where I would be sending young men and women into battle and never had the courage, or perhaps desire might be a better word, to go myself.   

Our Emerald Isle - Snake Eyes

Our Emerald Isle  -  Snakes Eyes

Some people will do or say anything for a free drink.

Traci was washing the windows and drawing her own crowd, Brian was pouring drinks, taking inventory, and flirting with one of the town lassies, Abdul was out back making some foundation repairs, and Bev was cooking up some home made gravy in the kitchen.  I was doing what I do best.

“So you see my fine lads, Alaska was visited by St Patrick and just like Ireland drove the snakes out.  How else can you explain that neither have none.”  With that I slammed back the rest of my Black and Tan feeling quite the expert and smug about matters that my newly found neighbors and Brian's Black and Tan pup goers knew nothing about.  I was fulfilling my duties as host and story teller for our establishment while providing a little educational enrichment. 

Through the bottom of my glass I could see Mack O’Willy finish off his pint with a slight smirk about his face.  He had just returned from Dublin where he worked in a traveling carnival.  The carnival had just played our town and O’Willy decided he was tired of all that stuff and decided he would stay home for awhile.  He had just quit and was grimy with dirt scattered from head to toe.  Typical I thought of Carnies, having had Carnies as relatives of my own.

I was unable to attend the two day carnival affair and didn’t want to anyway because in my youth I would work for my cousin providing chickens for the geek he had employed which happened to be another cousin.  I had and spent more time than one should in such places and all it did for me was to make me detest chicken prepared in any fashion.  I worked the bar while Traci, Brian, and Bev sold food at one of the concessions and Abdul puttered around outside between preparing the evening meal and washing dishes.  “You don’t believe me O’Willy,?” I asked

“Oh, I believe it alright, or I should say I believe you believe it, but you are way off about your facts,”  O’Willy informed.  “Most people believe the way you do but the facts, or I should say some of the facts like St Patrick and the snakes be not true at all, for the most part.  I cannot say about Alaska having no snakes or even about our blessed saint actually making it that far west or possibly north and then dipping south or going east if had a mind to.  All I know for sure is that there is at least one snake living in our beloved homeland and it being underneath the floor in the pipe crawl where we sit.”

A hush fell over my patrons and we all seemed to dip our heads and stair at the wooden floor.  Then simultaneously we fixed our eyes on O’Willy.

I soon gathered my thoughts and told O’Willy that if he was so sure to put his money where his big mouth was and bet me a round on the house that he was right and I was wrong.  He agreed but said he needed to tell us all a story first.  The Irish are always telling a story or two to get across a point that no one else seems to understand.

“You see Pub Keeper and honored patrons,” O’Willy began, “We don’t have a lot of snakes in Ireland but the ones we do have live a long, long time.  When I was just a lad my Grandfather, God rest him, woke me one night and asked me to help get rid of a snake he had seen crawling into a whole under this very pub.  Well, Baba, as I called him, had seen a lot of spiders and snakes in his day due to his love of the grain so it weren’t unreasonable that he woke me at such an early hour, for he had given up long ago trying to get anyone else’s attention.  How can you turn your sainted grandpa down.  Besides I always liked these midnight adventures of ours.  You see this was not the first time I was awoken to go on a hunt of some sort of creepy crawly or just to assure none were keeping his skin company.  We never caught a snake however, in fact I never really saw one or any other wiggly a reptile or crawling arachnid on or off his body.  But I came to realize then as now, it ain’t the trophy but the race.

“We made our way to the back of the pub here where Baba had seen the snake vanish into a whole.  Since I was the smaller of the two, naturally, he had me bend down to see if I could see anything in the whole.  Well it being night and all, all I could see was a bunch of blackness looking back at me, if in fact blackness can look at all.  I mentioned such to Baba and he immediately recognized the problem so he took a cigar out of his breast pocket, lit it and puffed to get a red glow.  While he was doing that I busied myself digging out around the whole to get a better view and enable me to extend me head and hand under the pub.

“When he figured he had illuminated the end of the cigar enough he handed it to me and I stuck it inside the whole along with part of my head and scanned the area.  At first I could not see a thing but then in a distance I saw two little red specks moving from sided to side in tandem. It startled me and I, yes I must admit, was scared more than just a little.

“ I jerked my head and arm back out of the whole and told Baba what I had seen.

 “Quick lad, let’s cover up the whole and trap the monster under the pub.  That way he can’t get out and will starve to death.”  

“But Baba, won’t he just find another way out or make a new whole?”

‘Heaven’s no, the owners have always believed in keeping their family foundation tight and solid and I am sure that applies to their home and pub also.  Besides a snake has no arms and he can’t dig his way out.  The animal will starve to death in no time at all.’  But I was not so sure, there were enough mice and soggy ground to keep anything alive and well fed and watered for many years, and if I were a betting man which it appears I am, I am sure the snake is there to this very day.  Some reptiles live to be over a hundred years old you know.”  O’Willy ordered another pint drained half of it and slammed the glass back on the bar.

As O’Willy finished his story I realized I had him in a trap.  Everyone in the pub was going to have a free drink and I was going to make a few more Irish dollars.  How could he think that he would be able to outwit me in the art of story telling. 

“Alright Mr. O’Willy even if I were to believe your story you still have no proof that snakes in general and that particular snake has lived all these many years.  How would you know?  You never looked back into the whole did you, how could you, you covered it up, and no foundation is that strong that there wont be a crack or two during the years for a snake to slither threw.  Just ask Abdul he is out back as we speak repairing a whole that seemed to materialize out of no where last night.  Ah, a nice story but a story no less, no facts to back it up.”  I waited for the laughter to die down and ordered a round on the house and waited for O’Willy to pay up.

“Pub keeper,” O’Willy responded, “There is away to prove my facts.  Facts are a stubborn thing you know.  Let us pull up a couple of these planks that make up your floor and you crawl down there with a flashlight and see for yourself.  There should be no fear on your part for two reasons: There are no snakes in Ireland you say and secondly if there was one it has already left or even dead and it no way could hurt you, or scare you, if you are prone to be scared that is of a small little slithering reptile.”

Ha, I thought to myself.  Me afraid of a snake, never, however crawling around a space small as  crawl space below was a different matter all together.  “I tell you what O’Willy, I am not going to crawl under the pub but I will stick my head between the two planks we remove and do a visual search with my flashlight.”  That seemed to satisfy O’Willy.

We cleared away some table and chairs from the center of the floor and a couple of the regulars began the process of lifting the wooden floor planks in such a manner so I could get my head and shoulders under the floor.  As two trusted patrons held my legs I dipped my body into the hole up to my hip region, began my visual search and as I had suspected there was no sign of a snake.  I yelled back up to the crowd that was growing and was about to tell them to pull me out when I heard a noise I could not make out.  It was sort of like a springing or hissing sound.  I turned the flashlight in direction of the noise and there looking at me were two beady eyes, red, moving back and forth in tandem.  I yelled for the men to hurry and get me out of there, they seemed like they were taking their time, but eventually they got me out of that hell whole. 

I was panting and sweating.  One of the boys gave me a Black and Tan that Brian had waiting for me and I told the men,  “Quick, put the floor back we’ll keep the little devil there for a few more years.  Some one tell Abdul to fill up the wholes around the foundation, NOW!  Alright O’Willy you won.  Brian, put the drinks on my tab instead of O’Willy’s, in fact make it another round.” A cheer came from the crowd.  I am a poor winner but a gracious loser.

About that time Bev came out of the kitchen followed by Abdul.  “What in the name of the Sicilian Gods is going on out here?”   I briefly told her, sort of sheepishly though.  She just stood their for awhile then bowed and shook her head.  “Look out the window pub keeper.”

 I could see the carnival going past and the last wagon to go by had painted on its side a picture of snake with two reddish eyes configured in such a way that its eyes seemed to  move from side to side in tandem.  “Reptilian bobble heads for sale” was painted in bright red letters under the picture just above the wheel wells.  I turned to confront O'Willy, but he was no where to be found.

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.