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.
