My mother always emphasized when I was

a green-eyed girl that we were part Irish

on my maternal grandmother’s side, her father’s

surname Owen or Owens, spelled both ways.

Many people in these misty mystery mountains

of America’s East say they’re Irish but truly

are Scotch-Irish. Years ago a friend told me

Owen is a Welsh name. I did my research

and learned the last prince of Wales carried

the name Owen and fought for Wales’

independence in the 16th century. Being of Irish

lineage carried deep significance for my mother.

My great grandfather had red hair, loved to sing,

dance, and play a fiery fiddle. I inherited two

of his poetry books, gave the inscribed one

to my great nephew, Brodie, when he was born.

Great Grandfather laughed easily, I was told.

Thank you, O Irish ancestors and ancestresses

for bequeathing the gift of laughter to me, to us.

On the other hand, my mother used to speak

of “black Irish moods.” I watched her get those

throughout my childhood, and I, too, sometimes

succumb to their dark night of hopelessness.

I visited Scotland once, delighted in the Scots’

sense of humor which equaled the Irish people’s

sublime wit. The most redheads I have met

lived in Wales, including a magical young man

called Caleb who worked at the hotel where I

stayed in Dylan Thomas’ hometown. He had

freckles and elf ears and lilted “Fern Hill” to me.

My family … part this, part that … stained glass

windows that the kaleidoscopic light of our spirits

glints through. Grandmother married an Indian,

further intensifying our smiles and melancholy.

At best, we are what happens when everyone

comes together, no one shunned, all free to rove

on a Mother Earth without boundaries or land

hogged by the mocking rich. We who carry

the ancient Celtic vision of simply being human

while singing the original gladness in a universe

strange beyond our understanding. We damned fools

whose crazy wisdom keeps getting shattered.