Regarding My Lineage and a Certain High King of Ireland – A (very) Tall Tale

Most know me as Tom. My actual name is Thomas though. 

When I was growing up, my grandmother, aunts, uncles, and cousins called me Tommy. Occasionally, my mother would also call me Tommy (although it was Thomas when I was in trouble). Everyone else just called me Tom.

 

As you probably know, my last name is Smith. It’s a very popular surname (in case you were not aware of that), and surprisingly, the fifth most popular surname in Ireland. A very long time ago, it was found mainly in the town of Cavan, which was home to the Mac Gabhann clan. Smith is the Anglicized form of Mac Gabhann and the Smith surname is now found throughout Ireland. 

 

According to my DNA matches on Family Tree DNA, a substantial proportion of my Irish distant cousins reside in Galway… for the superb Fish and Chips I suppose.

 

Since I am half-Irish, you can call me O’Smith if you want. 

 

Just kidding… don’t.

 

I once had a friend who liked to call me Smithinski. This was because I am also half-Polish. 

 

I have a middle name as well, but I don’t use it much. I suppose most folks don’t use their middle names… unless you are a Jim Bob, or a Billy Joe, or a Mary Lou, or a Barbara Ann, or something similar. By the way, the proper pronunciation of that last one can be a bit tricky… let me help you out… it’s /ba-ba-ba-baba-aran/. 

 

Anyway… my middle name is Brian.

 

I mentioned earlier that my mother would call me Thomas when I was in trouble. If I was in deep trouble, she would call me Thomas Brian… as in “Thomas Brian, you get your a** home right now.” It was very helpful to grow up with an easy-to-interpret verbal barometer like that… especially one with three distinct severity levels… Tom (no problem), Thomas (get your alibis in order), Thomas Brain (hide).

 

Back to my middle name. Of those who knew what it was, most knew not why I had it. It was something I didn’t talk too much about, for I was not a person who liked to brag. You see, I am named after Brian Boru, High King of Ireland.

 

When I was born, my hair was red… I’ve seen color photos that show this to be true. The red hair did not last though… gone before I could walk. Yet, in my younger days, before turning gray, my hair would exhibit unruly tints of red whenever I ventured out under the summer sun for extended periods. I am told I had a great-grandmother whose hair was red… I never met her though… she died young.

 

I did keep the red-headed skin though, and I had freckles as a child, thus my skin does not tan easily (if at all), which has left me with the uncanny ability to obtain a really nice sunburn just by thinking about going outside on a sunny day.

 

And I do check my DNA matches often… waiting for the Boru surname to show up. It hasn’t yet, but I’m sure it will… eventually. Note, I do know that Brian Boru’s actual last name was something different, with Boru being added after his death; but I’m not letting something like that get in the way of discovering my true ancestry. 

 

Besides… I don’t need more proof than I already have concerning my being a descendant of Brian Boru. Brian and I have so much in common… his first name and my middle name… the red hair thing… and also this amazing factoid: He first rose to power, as the King of Munster, in the year 978… and exactly 978 years later (in 1956), I would be born. Coincidence? I think not.

 

You can call me Mr. Boru if you like.

Florida Girl

Even though winter is a month away… winter weather is upon the northeast. Near enough to easily coax a winter missive out of me, especially with that winter weather arriving back home in upstate New York, in particular the Lake George area.

Those who read my missives and musings might recognize the following for what it is… I have mentioned it before… in passing. It is something that has stayed with me for forty-six years now.

Come with me… let’s take a journey…

 

- - - - -

 

On a snowy evening in late 1976, in the Adirondack village of Lake George, New York, I was walking a snow-covered sidewalk on the way to my favorite little pub… the coziest, friendliest, most welcoming place one could imagine, especially during the winter months, when its patrons were for the most part local and its rustic stone fireplace kept all inside warm and cheerful, even on the coldest of nights.

 

It was located north of the downtown at the bottom of a slight downhill. In the evening, from the top of the gentle rise one had to crest to get to it, warm light could be seen emanating from its windows, beckoning all who passed by to escape the cold and come inside. 

 

That night, as I came over the top of the hill, I saw a small group of people gathered there, in the light… talking… their breath visible in the cold night air… their hands tucked deeply into their coat pockets. As I began the downhill leg of my walk, the group was joined by someone who had come from the direction of the lake. The group then turned and quickly scampered into the warm pub. 

 

It was at that moment, and seemingly out of nowhere, that a taxi pulled up to the curb in front of the pub. Its rear passenger door swung open and a tall young woman with dark hair emerged. I watched as she spoke to the driver and closed the door. As she turned to face the pub, the taxi pulled away, moving slowly up the hill in my direction, a soft crunchy sound coming from its tires as it traversed the fresh snow that was accumulating on the street. It eventually passed by me and disappeared over the crest of the hill, now behind me. 

 

The young woman wore a long wool coat that went down past her knees. It was adorned with large round buttons running up the front. She also wore a white knitted scarf and two matching mittens. Her dark hair, which fell around her shoulders, was now speckled with snowflakes. 

She looked up at the hand-carved wooden sign hanging above the pub’s lighted entrance. I thought she might be trying to assure herself that she had come to the right place. Then, instead of entering the pub, she looked down the sidewalk in my direction. Upon seeing me, she turned and remained there, as if waiting for me. 

 

A few steps later, I was close enough to see her face. She had cheeks that were red from the cold, and beautiful eyes that sparkled with all the starlight that was missing from this wintery night. She looked at me and smiled the loveliest of smiles… and all I could do was bite my lower lip and stand there… frozen in my tracks, for it had been far too long since that smile, and those eyes, had brightened up any day of mine.

 

“I missed you,” she said.

 

I quickly closed the gap between us and took her face into my glove-covered hands… and with a thumb resting upon each of her rosy frozen cheeks, I kissed her… the first time since August. 

 

“How did you know…” I began but was shushed by her. 

 

“Your aunt told me where you’d be,” she said. 

 

After a long embrace, I told her, “I better get my Florida girl inside… before she freezes.”

 

We entered the pub and found a booth near its hearth. The fire was warm, and we shed our winter garb, hanging it on the hooks next to the cozy booth. As we always do, we sat across from one another. Our hands, now free of mittens and gloves, quickly found each other’s, and I raised one of hers to my lips… to prove to myself that she was truly there and not still in California.

 

We ordered hot chocolate with marshmallows and talked of her surprise homecoming… our sad goodbye in August… her travels… and our future… the one we so carefully planned in the letters we wrote to each other while she was away. 

 

The warmth of the fire was all around us… I could feel it. Its crackles and pops were a playful arrangement of random syncopations… I could hear them. Snowflakes continued to fall on the other side of the frosty windowpanes… I could see them. Laura’s voice soothed me and breathed new life into me… like sweet music in the night… strings in a summer gazebo under the stars. Everything about the moment felt real… even though it was not. And like the marshmallows in our hot chocolate, the dream eventually melted away into the night.

 

- - - - -

 

I owe much to my simple writings (for though I enjoy putting pen to paper very much, and it has helped me through many a difficult time… a writer I am not… and never will be). 

 

It was in letters written to Laura, both while she was in California, and (strangely you might think) only a few miles away from me in Virginia Beach, that I let my heart be known to her. At the time, it was the only way I seemed to be able to accomplish that. And it was because of that, I thought I might lose her, but as fate would have it, those letters and writings brought us closer together. She answered all the questions my heart was asking… took to her own heart all the words that I had written… and without a second thought, chose me as the one she had been waiting for… all while knowing I was not the easiest of souls to understand.

 

That’s all… not very much of a missive I suppose… or perhaps it is, depending on the eyes of the beholder.

Birch Trees

Did you know that birch trees were sacred to the ancient Celts? They appear in Celtic mythology as “trees of new beginnings” – symbolizing rebirth and renewal; not unlike the way modern folk behold the beginning of a new year. 

Down the road from the house I was raised in, there was a wood of white birch. I often walked amongst its trees; too young then to realize I was experiencing something only northern folk were lucky enough to partake in. Walking through a wood of snow-white trees is something you do not easily forget, especially after leaving it behind and beginning anew in a place where not a single white birch can be found.

 

In September 1976, I drove alone, north into the High Peaks region of the Adirondack Mountains, with no particular destination in mind, for I was on that day searching for a peace of mind that eluded me. 

 

A year later, in October 1977, I drove east out of the village of Lake George into Vermont, once again with no particular destination in mind; but this time, the peace of mind that had eluded me earlier now felt as if it had always been there beside me, for my heart no longer knew how to imagine life without it.

 

We followed our noses that day, my fiancé Laura and I, driving into the Green Mountains of Vermont with nothing more than a map and our whole lives before us, passing through occasional bursts of snow-white birch trees that unbeknownst to we two were heralding us… foreshadowing the best of days that were yet to come.

 

“And so I dream of going back to be.” – Robert Frost (Birches)

 

Happy New Year everyone.

Hershey Bar... No Nuts

A story for you, of two things very dear to my heart, orange soda and Hershey bars…

The young boy climbed onto the bar stool, slid forward, and rested his folded arms on the rounded edges of the bar. Behind him, a neon light glowed red in the window. To him, and the road beyond the gravel parking lot, it proudly proclaimed to all who passed by, or turned in, that this was and always had been “Mickey’s” – and the sign did so in cursive – which the young boy considered impressive.

 

The boy, as he always did when allowed to sit on the short side of the “L” shaped bar, surveyed the abundance of interesting items behind it. Row upon row of bottles lit up from behind. Stacks of glasses. A snack display and a cash register. An old refrigerator with a curved top. Large coolers that held bottles of beer that made a pleasing and often musical clinking sound when pulled out two, three, or even four at a time by a skilled bar practitioner. And there were cups of sorted plastic mixing sticks, that came in different colors and lengths, each with a different shape at the top. Stacks of cardboard coasters. And two signs attached above the archway that led to the kitchen… “No Tipping” and “No Credit”.

 

The boy is tall for his age, but still young, and his upward gaze at the man behind the bar originates from a place not very far above his folded arms. He watches as the man places a cardboard coaster onto the bar and carefully centers a glass upon it. There are three ice cubes in the glass. Then, as if by magic, a large bottle of sparkling orange soda is produced. The man undoes the stopper and with a skill that amazes the boy, pours the soda into the glass with uncanny speed and spot-on accuracy. The boy, with his chin now resting on his arms, watches as the bubbles rise until they pop and fizz on the soda’s foamy orange surface.

 

The man pulls the bottle back, replaces its stopper, and makes it disappear as fast as he made it appear; all from somewhere beneath the bar, a place the boy imagines to be almost magical.

After sliding the glass and coaster forward toward the boy, the man looks the boy in the eye. With a short-to-the-point voice, almost gruff in nature (but not really, the boy knows this is just the way the man speaks), the man says, “What will it be?” 

 

The boy knows his choices… for this is a ritual of sorts.

 

He ponders his options… a small bag of Wise potato chips, a Hershey bar (with or without almonds, a wonderful choice within a wonderful choice), or a Slim Jim. 

 

“Hershey bar, no nuts,” the boy says. 

 

This is the boy’s choice about four out of every five times. The man, unsurprised, walks over to the cash register and takes a Hershey bar, no nuts, from the rack. He returns and slides it across the bar to the boy, who quietly says, “Thank you.”

 

For a sliver of a second, the boy notices something, and thinks to himself, “He smiled. I saw it. I know I did.” 

 

The man walks away, towards the other end of the bar, to tend to real customers and perhaps talk about the day’s races at Saratoga or the latest news in our quiet little town.

 

As the boy slides the brown paper sleeve off of the candy bar, the first step in getting to the chocolate still wrapped in silver foil (that is how Hershey bars were wrapped back then), he quietly and smugly reassures himself, “Yes. I saw him smile. I’m sure of it.”

 

That was the man’s way. He never showed a lot of emotion. In all the years I knew him, I only saw real emotion one time. But it was always there. I could feel it. I just knew.

 

My Uncle Mickey built Mickey’s Tavern in Perth, NY in 1949 and ran it with my Aunt Tessie until his passing in 2001. The tavern closed after that and unfortunately passed out of family hands a few years later after my aunt passed away. It is a restaurant now. I have never been. I never will. I choose to remember the tavern.

 

For the record, it was not just a tavern. It was also a home and a hub. A place to meet when we lived in Perth, and a place to stay when we visited after our move to Virginia. Upstairs was the coziest and most beautiful home I have ever been in. It was home to my aunt and uncle. It was home to my cousins. It was home to my grandmother after the passing of my grandfather. And it was a wonderful home to me, for a short while, in 1976.

 

And also for the record… I still drink orange soda. It remains my favorite. And I still enjoy the combo when the opportunity presents itself – orange soda and a Hershey bar… no nuts.

We Did It Anway

January 1978… I’m 21 years old… just married, five months into my software career, and ready for whatever the future holds. There is much more that I could say about this photo, but I think an adapted version of a Facebook post I made four years ago will do nicely…

We’ve all heard the saying, “I wish I knew then, what I know now.”

 

On the day Laura and I were married, she was twenty years old, and I was twenty-one. We got engaged when she was nineteen and I was twenty… you know, the ages when you know everything. When we sprang our plans on Laura’s parents, her mom loved the idea, but her dad told us we were too young and that I would never finish school. For sure… the responsible thing to do would have been to wait until I had finished school and we had more money. But no, we did it anyway.

 

And then we started a family. Our first child was born only two days before our first wedding anniversary. The responsible thing to do would have been to wait until my career was more established and we had purchased a home. But no, we did it anyway.

 

In 1976, when we were first talking of marriage, Laura told me that it was her wish to have six children (Laura is the oldest of six sisters). I wanted two. So, we settled on four. It didn’t matter – six it was in the end – five daughters and a son. The responsible thing would have been to stop after two or three. But no, we did it anyway.

 

I think, when you are young, perhaps it’s a good thing to not know too much. For sure be responsible, but maybe not overly responsible, not yet anyway. And don’t overthink things. For all the times I didn’t, look at what I was blessed with in return. I am married to the love of my life, we have six wonderful children and five adorable grandchildren.

 

I thank God each day for the things I didn’t know then.