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.

Our Emerald Isle – A Lot of Bull

He pranced around the arena in triumph with his head held high in a majestic pose that called out to everyone that he was superior, he was dominate, he was courageous.  He was as bold as he was black.

When I was a young man I was not what you would call a good athlete but I was able to rise to the pinnacle of a mediocre career in one sport because, as my football coach said, “You don’t mind getting knocked down.”  The ability to get up from a pounding can serve a person well in the journey of life but one can not play the game after a certain age.  Ask any NFL player.

Now my brother Brian on the other hand was the type of young athlete that participated in the type of games that he could play into adulthood.  If you were choosing up sides for almost any adult team event he would be one of the first ones picked.  But regardless there comes a time when one has to hang up the jock and leave real competition to the young and think in terms of coaching or managing or just watching.  There in lay the crux and subject of this muse.

Brian and I were closing down the pub one evening and he looked a little forlorn.  I asked him what the problem was and he said it was getting close to October and it had just occurred to him that this past summer was the first summer in a very long time that he had not played baseball and that he couldn’t play basketball this winter due to there being no basketball court in Dever.  In fact, he said, that other than an occasional dart game there was absolutely no competitive or even non competitive games taking place anywhere in the village.

I could tell he was still pondering the situation while we kept cleaning and when we were through for the evening I decided we ought to dirty two glasses.  Over a black and tan or two I thought I would try to lift his spirits.  It was my duty as an older brother to give guidance and solace and care to my younger and weaker siblings. (Which also brought to mind that I was going to have to have a talk with Traci-she was staying out way to late these days - but to continue about cheering up Brian.)  I suggested that perhaps we could sponsor some sort of athletic event.  He thought that over for a moment and then said that was an excellent idea. (Most of my ideas are excellent and I am sure I stand in front of my kin and peers while they look at me in ah.)  So we started our planning process, which consisted first of drawing another black and tan.  Now what kind of sporting event should it be?

Football and basketball came to mind, but neither of us could name an Irish football (perhaps with the exception of Pat O'Brian) or basketball player, must not be in the blood.  Besides outfitting a team and preparing a suitable playing area would be very expensive.  Baseball was out because it reminded the Irish of cricket thus reminding them of the hated English.  Golf took to much room; boxing was not seriously considered due to the fact that there were enough fights on Saturday and Friday here at Dever’s and at every wake and funeral around the community; and Soccer and rugby were dismissed because we figured no one wanted to work that hard.  Boat racing was a possibility because of the lake near by but the boats at the wharf were more for commercial fishing and cargo and not for sporting.  Swimming?, to cold most of the year, volleyball?, too many short people due to intermarrying with the leprechaun county to the north and in the same token we both agreed that Dwarf tossing was a little insensitive and might alienate some of our customers.  Horse racing might have been a possibility but those who owned horses used them to pull carts and plows.  We thought we came up with a winner when chariot or plow racing sprang to mind, but the carts were old and rickety and I am not sure plow racing is even a sport.  If Bev, Abdul, or Taci were at our meeting, bocce ball, camel racing, and spin the bottle would have been suggested, but they weren’t so they weren’t.  Like Brian said, “Who can get excited over someone throwing big balls at a little one and most of the town wouldn’t be able to climb on a camel because they are so short and Traci would cheat.”

Brian eventually grew tired and said, “You know this is all just a bunch of bull, I am tired of wrestling with the problem.”   ‘Epiphany!’ or would ‘Eureka!’ fit better?

 ************

It was billed as the Dever Bull Wrestling Championship.  The village butcher donated an old bull just long enough for us to use it in the championship before it went under the knife.  It had just arrived by cart transport which as I found out later was the standard mode of transporting a bull in rural Ireland whether it for butchering or breeding. 

The bull appeared rather docile and walked around the pen like a whipped pup.  He really could be lead by the nose.  I think he must have been depressed because he realized that when there were no cows waiting for him in the corral, the end was near.  The fight had gone out of him.

The object of bull wrestling, Brian and I decided, would be sort of like regular wrestling.  The bull would be thrown on its back and made to stay there for 10 seconds one way or another.  Now we realized that no one man could take down a bull by himself so keeping in the spirit of having as many as we could participate we decided that there should be teams of a 5:1 ratio - five humans to one bull.  There was no particular reason for the number 5.  It was selected because we had five fingers on one hand.  Given that reasoning I guess it could have been 10, 15, 20 or in some cases 21 to 1 if all digits were counted and a male was doing the counting but 5 sounded about right.  I know too much information.

Seven teams entered in all.  All were sponsored by local entities.  The Catholic Church had a team of young seminarians who “just happened” to be transferred to Devere prior to the event thus making them eligible.  The police department fielded a team even though they had to use two who were serving a 30 day sentence for non support.  There were thee family teams whose sons were very large.  Being an election year the mayor sponsored a team that consisted of two women and even though he was applauded for his diversity it was thought he had very little chance.  And of course there was a team representing Dever’s Pub.

Among the odd makers it was wagered that Dever’s Pub would finish last behind the Mayors team.  They were probably right at the time because none of my regulars were in any shape to man handle a bull and those who were, were already on one of the other teams.  Brian and I were not eligible because we sponsored the event, Abdul was not a citizen he claimed, and Bev and Traci just right out refused.  Through guile and coercion and free drinks for a month we did manage to drum up four sods but were stymied on who would be the fifth. 

We were having a training and strategy session around the bar one morning, when a stranger walked in and ordered a pint.  He sat at the end of the bar and listened to our ‘going no where’ banter, which mostly consisted of trying to figure out who would be the fifth man on the team.

“Excuse me gents,” the stranger interrupted, “But I seem to understand that you are looking for one more team member.  I might be able to help given some sort of consideration.  I just arrived in town and know a little about bulls.  You see I am a Bull Baller, the name is Sandy.”

******* 

Dever’s Pub’s, team lead by its captain Sandy, having been duly elected by the team members, with a little help of a pint of two provided by the sponsor, was the last team to try their luck.  All other teams had failed.  No team even came close.  What appeared to be a docile creature when he arrived in Dever had regained some energy when a shipment of cows were herded into the corral next to his.  It sort of gave him some vim and vigor and like all lecherous old men he thought he might have one more time in him.  He needed to show off some is what I guess.  Typical male, but we Alpha males have no choice, it is our DNA.

I really didn’t think our team had any chance at all given the plan Sandy laid out but what did I know.  As the bull was prancing about flaunting his stuff four of our team, Sandy was no where to be seen, entered the arena ever so cautiously.  Instead of approaching the bull they stood by the fence separating the bull and the cows.  The bull kept alternating his attention between the intruders and the cows behind them.  He must have been concentrating very hard on if the new additions to the corral were a threat or perhaps he was just wishing they would get out of his way so he could gander on the cows and make his selection.  Regardless he was not paying attention behind him.  Sandy walked up behind him very stealthily and took the bull’s @#%& in his hand and started massaging them.  It looked like he said something out loud as he fondled the bull’s @#%& and then with a nod of his head, the bulls, Sandy nodded his head and the other team members approached.  Each member took a position by a different bull leg and gently bent each leg at the knee and the bull slowly sank down, first on all four knees, then on its side and eventually rolled over with a little nudging.  All the while Sandy was massaging the bull’s @#%&.

All climbed on the stomach of the bull, took the 10 count and all but Sandy jumped off and walked out of the arena.  Sandy positioned himself in such a manner as to make a fast get a way when he let go of the bull’s @#%& and ran towards the fence.  The bull jumped up and went in hot pursuit.  The bull might have gored Sandy but with great timing the butcher opened a gate leading to the cows.  This immediately got the bull’s attention and must have confused him some.  He looked at Sandy, then at the open gate and made a decision.  Instead of running Sandy down or even running though the gate like a young bull and having his way with one of the heifers, the wizened old bull walked over to the opening, through the gate, and, how should I say,  “A good time was had my all.”

During our celebration at Dever’s Pub that evening I got Sandy aside and asked him what exactly happened and how he did it.

“Well you see sir, I come from a long line of bull ballers.  You not being from these parts I suspect you don’t know that when ever we transport a bull from one breeding function to another we have to do it by cart.  Some bulls can get very obstinate and cause a lot of havoc, so a bull baller is hired to sit in the back of the cart, and place a bull @#%& restrainer on the bull’s @#%&.  You can imagine that in and of itself that can be sort of awkward.  But though a series of touches and massaging that have been handed down father to son over many years a technique has developed that enables the bull to realize that after the touch and massaging is finished one of two things are going to happen.  He will either be let loose to breed with a cow or @#%& clamps are going to be put on him.  If he protests the clamps come out and put on and tightened and the more he protests the tighter the clamps become.  A bull as old as the one this afternoon knew the drill very well and even understands the human voice.  He also knew me.  When I took his @#%& in my hands he recognized the touch and I told him to behave himself, do what he was instructed and I would not get the clamps out like I had on the way down.  See I was the bull baller who came into town with him.  So when he noticed the cows in the pen and my hands on his @#%& he figured out that if he did behave himself he would not receive the clamp and get to visit the cows.  Bulls are not stupid you know, they are like men.  Both can be lead around by their nose but are much more willing to behave if some one has them by the @#%& and a woman is waiting on the other side of the fence.

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  -  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

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 i O ncrease 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.