Wednesday, August 25, 2021

After forty years my heart hasn't changed

 

 

 

                At 19, I wore blue jeans and bright colored blouses during the week and a dress on Sunday. I attended Mass, most often by myself and was a student at the small local community college. In the spring of 1981, I would graduate with a two-year degree in journalism in late May and the plan was to transfer in the fall to the larger college twenty miles up the highway. I had worked on campus in a variety of jobs, had a strong circle of friends, and life was overall sweet. The promise of the future lay ahead.

            I had always been proud of my heritage, a blend of Irish, German, and English with a bit of Cherokee tossed in for variety. Even at that age I was devoted to tracing family history. At the time, that took far more research than it does now. There was not yet an easy to access internet so I grew up listening to the elders talk about the past, writing to them, documenting what I could and remembering it all. I had a green plastic file box – which I still have – filled with notes, a few photos and other genealogical items.

            Both of my grandfathers died before I was born, one in 1943 and the other in 1945. Neither death had anything to do with the war at that time. Both of my grandmothers remarried and so I had two grandpas, just ones who didn’t share my DNA.  Years later, I would learn to my delight that Pop, my Granny’s husband, was related to the Daniel Boone family and so I am through the Zumwalts, one of my great-grandmother’s, and so somewhere we are indeed linked.  My Granny had always told me that I had the deep blue eyes of my late grandfather but my other grandmother talked little about the man she’d lost so young.  She loved him, that much became evident in later years when she did speak of him on occasion but I had learned that my hair, an auburn shade, came to me from Pat Neely. I had asked all my life whose hair did I inherit and no one told me until I found a lock of his hair, saved in a cedar chest with his name and date. When I placed it on my head, it was impossible to tell where his ended and mine began.  These days, my hair has faded and become heavily gray, however.

            From my Granny, who in another life could have been a seanachie, I learned many of the old ballads and stories of how her family came from Ireland.  After decades, I also learned that my ancestors who came from Ireland all came from what is now Northern Ireland, from Belfast and a small town named Keady and from Donegal. That explained, at least to me, why I’d always had such strong feelings about Ireland and about the Six Counties.

            At 19, I could sing many of the old songs brought across the water. I could recite some of the poetry, often by heart. I dreamed of going to Ireland one day (haven’t made it yet but I’m still hopeful. I tell my kids, all grown now, that if I get there, I plan to stay for good and I believe that I would.)

            That spring, I, like many others around the world, followed the ongoing Troubles and the Hunger Strikes that were taking place at Long Kesh prison. Bobby Sands was the first to die and I wore a black arm band – something I repeated for each of those who died. But then something happened I can’t explain.  I was watching the evening news and saw footage of one of the hunger strikers, Patsy O’Hara. You can look up the images and see them now thanks to the internet but then, it was rare footage. It was taken not long before he died and he is emaciated, in poor physical shape, but the site touched my heart. I know it sounds crazy but when he raised his head in the film, I felt as if we exchanged glances, as if we connected.

            This year marks the 40th anniversary of those hunger strikes. If I could have, I would have been there for some of the events of commemoration. Forty years ago, I did write a letter however to the O’Hara family. In it, I also sent a wee bit of money for flowers to be placed on Patsy’s grave. Eventually, his brother answered my letter which began a correspondence of several years. I have a poster of Patsy which hung in my bedroom for years, one that drew my grandmother’s attention whenever she came to visit. She would stand in front of it and stare, as if she too felt a connection.  Other bits of memorabilia were sent, along with some photos of a band called Moonshine and a Gaelic book with cassette tapes. I still have that book and the letter in Gaelic I found much later tucked inside. By then, I could read it. I still have Tony’s letters tucked away.

            When I moved to Missouri Southern State University, the letters went with me. I would read them over again in class and I had hoped to move to Ireland to stay.

            Although the poem A Butcher’s Dozen: A Lesson In The Octave of Widgery by Thomas Kinsella is about an earlier event, Bloody Sunday in Derry in January 1972, I wanted a copy. Today it’s possible to just type it into a search engine and there it is but then, I had to get a copy via interlibrary loan. It took some time and the small chapbook I received was a professor’s personal copy.  I took an advanced upper division poetry course and my thesis was all about that poem.  I read it for the class – I’m not at all sure that most appreciated it. I am certain the instructor didn’t – but we won’t go into details.

            I recently found this reading by Irish actor Donal O’Kelly for the Derry Free Museum on January 20, 2021. I’ve watched it several times and although he does it far better than I’m sure I did, I’m taken with how he uses the same inflections I did.  The link is below.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4bZfRb0aaso

Should you see me wearing my Free Derry t-shirt or my Saoirse t-shirt, now you’ll know why if you didn’t before. I wrote many poems back forty years ago about the hunger strikes and Ireland. As I aged, my writing focus turned to other things but I’ve found myself penning a new poem which I’ll share perhaps.

My son Patrick, in case you wonder, is named for Patrick Patsy O’Hara. I said I would name him after Patsy and did, years later. He’s well aware and in middle school, he did a presentation on the Irish struggles for freedom. The teacher, with some Irish heritage as well, was impressed and became the one local person who could understand me if I spoke Irish to him. Sometimes I call my son Padraig and often mo buachaill.  And, my grandfather was Pat Neely but his name wasn’t Patrick. He was nicknamed Pat because, as my grandmother explained, he was young and Irish. 

Forty years and I’ve never forgotten and never will. Earlier this year I received a copy of a book written by Patsy’s brother, Tony O’Hara or Antoin O’Hara.  It is an amazing, brilliant, emotional, in depth read and I recommend it highly for anyone who wants insight and understanding into The Troubles, to Northern Ireland, or Ireland today.

The title is The Time Has Come.

If you want to order it, let me know - I can point you in the right direction. And something to know - all proceeds from the book go to help Ireland's homeless.

 

Tuesday, August 17, 2021

Ruby slippers and more

Dorothy and her ruby slippers, her little dog Toto, and the Wicked Witch of the West have all become icons in our culture.  Very few Americans haven’t seen the classic film, The Wizard of Oz, at some point and it continues to delight viewers of all ages after more than seventy-five years.  The film  remains a personal favorite, I thought I’d share my history with it.

Back in the days when I wore plaid dresses and patent leather shoes that buckled across my feet, the annual showing of The Wizard of Oz was a major event for me.  It seems it was usually shown in the spring, often around Easter time and I looked forward all year to the night when I could watch Dorothy be swept up into the tornado and carried to the magical Land of Oz.  I may have first viewed the movie at my grandparents’ home because they had color television before we did.  The contrast between the drab sepia tones of the film’s opening scenes and the vivid color were always striking.  I can imagine how much more so it was to movie audiences because it debuted when few films were made in color.

I had a copy of Frank L. Baum’s book as well and over the years managed to read a few more of his Oz stories.  Many people may not be aware that The Wizard of Oz was just one of a series of stories for children Baum penned.  Although most of those titles are long forgotten, the movie version of his classic tale will live forever.

After my children were born, The Wizard of Oz was one of the first movies we bought for them to watch and it remained a favorite for a long time.  My daughter Emily was so taken with the tale that she often insisted on wearing her blue and white gingham checked “Dorothy” dress to school often.  And yes, she managed to find a wicker basket and a stuffed dog, too.  Megan and Patrick both also enjoyed the film.  We haven’t watched it for a long time but when I one day sit down to view it again, I have no doubt I’ll be just as entranced by the story, the music, and the setting as I was when I was a child.

Beyond the entertaining story, there’s a lot more to Dorothy’s journey.  It’s a story about friendship, about courage and endurance, about making goals and reaching them, and most of all, it’s a reminder that there is no place like home.  Whether home is a lonely farm on the Kansas prairie or a house here in Neosho or an apartment in Manhattan or Brooklyn, home is where we bring our hearts and where we take our respite from the world.

In the past I’ve traveled as far and wide as I can go and hope to again in the future. In recent years, due to my late husband’s health, to becoming a widow, to work constraints, the travel has been closer to home. One of these days, though, I will put my traveling shoes back on and head for places like the Holy Land, Ireland (Derry and Dublin and Keady and more), and back to the ocean…..

But, for now, I’m home and I didn’t even need a pair of ruby slippers to get there.


 

Friday, August 6, 2021

Elvis Presley - Long Live The King

On a hot August afternoon in 1977, almost forty-four years ago, I was riding in the backseat on a family vacation that had taken our merry band down in Oklahoma. We’d gone to Woolaroc, the great salt flats, and much more. I remember it was sunny, the sky filled with a few white, puffy clouds. We weren’t listening to the radio but to the CB at the height of the CB craze.

And the chatter started talking about Elvis and that he had died.

My mom had my dad switch over to radio and an Elvis song was playing on every station. In a short time, we learned it was true.

Years later, my husband and I took our kids to Graceland. We wrote on the gate as tourists do, stayed across the street in an Elvis themed hotel with a guitar shaped swimming pool and 24/67 Elvis movies.

Despite all the hype, I’ll admit I like Elvis. The man could sing like no other. Since I’m also a major fan of Johnny Horton and thus the Louisiana Hayride, I am fond of Elvis’ early years on the same program.

My late Aunt Janet was a major Elvis fan – she loved that man so much.

So a few years ago, thinking about Elvis, I wrote a little novella that gave the King a second chance at life – too bad fiction can’t be fact.

Elvis, the uncrowned king of rock and roll is still known and still loved by many decades after his death in 1977.  But what if things had been different?
That’s the story in my novella Long Live The King – thanks to a little unexpected time travel, a Delta beauty, and a young Elvis, his life changed for the better – what better month to indulge in an Elvis fantasy romance!

Here’s the blurb, a link, and an excerpt:

Lacie Logan is just another Delta raised beauty until her attempts at a movie career fail and leave her working as a professional escort in Las Vegas. She doesn’t like it, but what's a girl to do? Then, during an unexpected thunderstorm, she walks into a coffee shop and is suddenly back in April 1956. When she meets Elvis Presley, she’s sure she must be dreaming but when their chance encounter becomes a full-blown romance, she realizes that she has the chance to both win the King of Rock and Roll’s heart and change history.

https://www.amazon.com/Long-Live-King-Sontheimer-Murphy-ebook/dp/B00819O5GC

 

 

She did not remember the place, but it must have been here before, with its’ red vinyl booths, Formica topped counter with eight stools, and waitresses with bouffant hair backcombed high. They wore nylon pale green uniform dresses with white aprons tired around their waist into a bow. Each had a small white, crown style hat perched on their heads. This place looked authentic, she thought, dripping just inside the door. Vegas did retro well.

Because of the heavy rain, the place was all but empty. Two lone men sat at opposite ends of the counter. One stirred coffee in a thick white china cup on a saucer decorated with a dark green ring. The other picked at a piece of pie.

Behind her, the door opened with a rush and rain sprayed in, enough she jumped forward with an exclamation. She tottered on her heels and almost fell over.

“Oh!” she cried just as a pair of strong hands caught her and put her upright.

“I am sorry, ma’am.” The voice sounded familiar, a deep voice touched with the richness of the South, dark and sweet as chocolate. “Are you all right?”

She was soaked, had a couple of dollars in her purse, and was miles from the cheap motel, she called home, but she tried to smile.

“Oh, I’m o-“

Lacie’s voice stuck in her throat like a bite of peanut butter sandwich as she turned because the hands staying her fall belonged to Elvis Presley, a young Elvis. She looked into his familiar face, stared into his blue eyes, and gazed up at his combed back light brown hair. There was no doubt – it was Elvis Presley.

Her body shook; she could not control it and she trembled, chills taking over. He was young, the King, alive, and in person, he was far more handsome than any photograph or album shot portrayed. Those full lips looked as ripe and sweet as plump strawberries and his face, almost but not quite heart shaped, combined a sensual wickedness with innocence that summoned up the familiar look of a boy from back home. He was taller than she was, by a fair bit, and dressed in simple jeans, a jacket, and a button-down cloth shirt. However, this could not be real; it was impossible. Elvis got old, grew fat, and died too young more than thirty years ago. Maybe she hit her head out in the nasty weather or maybe this was a dream. Gosh, she thought, with growing horror, what if she died, hit by a car or struck by lightning. Something went askew, somewhere, because what she saw had to be fantasy.

“Hey, now, take it easy,” Elvis said, putting one arm around her waist. “Everything is all right. Come on, sit down, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

 

 

From the land of Oz to your own backyard

  As a young child my imagination was forever captured and my mind warped by the classic film based on Frank Baum’s book The Wizard of Oz . ...