Eat more cookies

According to this story, Red Kites have been reintroduced to Northern Ireland after an absence of 200 years. There’s a new star in the County Down, apparently.

The Irish have been busy reintroducing other raptors as well. This link includes a photo of the majestic White-tailed Eagle that has been reintroduced in County Kerry. The photo, however, was taken in County Down. I guess it’s time for me to plan another trip to the homeland, and to make sure Down is on the itinerary!

Are we not blessed in America? When have we had the chance to choose between two fine Irishmen to lead our great country in its presidency? And here we are with Mr. McCain, and Mr. O’Bama.

What’s that now? Do you not know that Mr. O’Bama is as fine as Irishman as ever danced a hearty jig after a pint of porter down at Cohan’s? Well sit yerself down, and I’ll relay the story.

Sure’n twas down on the famed Ring of Kerry that himself, ol’ Paddy O’Bama used to turn the spade and cut peat to warm the family hearth. Out he’d come from the bogs, 60, 80, 100 lbs of turf on his blessed back, and ye’d think he’d long for to take a rest after carryin’ that load ‘cross the miles back to his own house. But ol’ Paddy would stack the turf and, just when you’d think he’d go inside for to enjoy a hot cup of tay by his own fire, the saintly man would begin his march back to the bog, all for to fill another pack with turf. This he would then take to the houses of all the poor widows in town, leavin’ neat little stacks of peat bricks outside their front doors, and them never knowin’ ’twas any but the little people who’d found favor with them, and supplyin’ them with the means for some heat and comfort.

Now in the evenings when he dangled his grandson on his knee he would tell ‘im, “Michaeleen, me b’y. Yuz always got ta give somethin’ barack when you’ve been blest as we are. We’ve the good fortune t’ live warm and dry in this house, with full bellies and quick minds and strong arms. This land has supported the O’Bama clan all these many years, and it will continue to be so for as long as we remain faithful to share our gifts. Yuv always got ta give barack.”

Young Michaeleen took those words to heart, and when his saintly grandfather crossed to the heavenly mantle, he sought fit to bless his memory by naming his own son “Barack”. The young b’y grew and eventually immigrated to Amerikay where he became interested in Chicago politics.

Now that we know him as a presidential candidate, some see fit to argue about his background, callin’ him Muslim and some such nonsense. So much the worse for those fools, for ‘twould be no shame in him bein’ Muslim and running for the presidency of that great land across the ocean. That’s the beauty of Amerikay ye know: Ye can be the president whether you’re Hindu, Muslim, Bhuddist, Catholic, or even an atheist you know, like them Protestants. Amerikay is a free land, free from the kind of tyranny that says “Ye must be this” or “Ye have to be that.” I almost wish sometimes that Mr. O’Bama was some kind of Muslim, and the good people of Amerikay show the whole world how they really live out the words in their grand Constitution by electing him anyway. Wouldn’t that be a blessed day?! A day to show the whole world that the American people are the best people in the world, and freedom reigns in that fair land as in no other.

Alas, we won’t be seein’ that day next November, as Mr. O’Bama is as Irish as any shamrock that ever greened Erin’s Isle. And now ye know the truth, may the good Lord strike me down otherwise.

A few weeks ago, I was in McAllen, Texas for a conference on bird conservation in the Americas.  On my first morning in McAllen, my students and I headed out for some birding, and we made an obligatory stop for supplies at the local Valero convenience store.  As we stocked up on water, coffee, beef jerky, and genuine BIMBO brand mantecadas, I struck up a conversation with Carlos, the man behind the counter. 

I don’t speak Spanish, but when I encounter people of obvious Latin American descent in places like Veracruz, Mexcio or McAllen, TX, I’m confident enough to say “hello” or “please” or “thank you” in their native tongue.  Carlos was impressed with my “Buenas dias, Senor”  -  apparently, the gringoes (or Anglos) mostly ignore the ethnic Mexicans in his community - and we engaged in some small talk that rapidly displayed the outer limits of my ability to carry on a conversation in Spanish.  ”Las mantecadas, que rrrrico!” 

As I gave him my credit card to swipe, he read my name and asked “You are Irrrish?”  It took me a moment to interpret his question, but then I responded “Oh yes, yes.  Si!” Then he asked me if I knew about “St Patrick’s Brigade” and he gave me an impromptu history lesson on my own people. 

It seems that during the Mexican-American War of 1846-1848, there was a U.S. Army battalion primarily comprised of Irish immigrants.  They came to be known as “St. Patrick’s Battalion.”  At some point during their battles with the Mexicans, the men of St. Patrick’s Battalion or San Patricios, decided that they were fighting for the wrong side. Reasons for their desertion are many, but there seems to be some consensus that they generally became sympathetic to the outnumbered, outgunned, poor, oppressed, Catholic Mexicans. I suspect they were uncomfortable being on the side of power and order - the Irish are always at their best when fighting from the position of the scrappy underdog.

Whatever their reason, the San Patricios deserted the US Army, joined up with Santa Anna, and became one of the most ruthless and effective forces for the Mexican side. Perhaps in part because they knew a horrible fate awaited should they ever be captured by the Americans, the San Patricios fought most bravely, and in some cases threatened (and shot!) any Mexican soldiers who tried to retreat in battle.

In the end, the San Patricios were killed or captured by the Americans, and most were gruesomely sent to the gallows following their collective courts martial, rather than being subjected to the more humane execution by firing squad.

For their desertion and taking of American lives, St. Patrick’s Battalion are reviled as traitors in the U.S. - maybe this is why I had never heard the story. For their bravery to unite on the side of justice and the battle victories they won, the San Patricios are remembered as martyred heroes in Mexico.

And as a footnote to this story, I learned today that the leader of the Patricios, John Riley, was a native of the tiny west Ireland town of Clifden - a town I know right well. ‘Twas in Clifden many moons ago, that me darlin’ wife and I teamed up with our friends Aisling and Phillip and spent a memorable evening in a colorful pub. We sat there talking to the barman about why there was no spontaneous traditional music in the pubs in Ireland. Was that just for the tourists? He replied that, sadly, his pub used to be filled with music, but no one came around to play any more.

Not 15 minutes later, a man walked in with a guitar, and asked if he could play some songs. Many hours later, after the barman had locked us inside, pulled down his bodhran to drum along, and we all enjoyed the best Irish craic you could imagine, we left his pub groggy and a bit tipsy, and filled with a warm memory of a people and a wit and a spirit that is loved and revered the world over.

What we didn’t notice, however, was that in the town square in Clifden, home of John Riley, the flag of Mexico flies every day. Traitor? Hero? Who can say? But no one can argue that those fine Irishmen of the San Patricios acted with valor to rise up against what they perceived to be a force of tyranny and oppression, and I’ll be toastin’ their memory on St. Patrick’s Day.

And Carlos? Muchas gracias, mi amigo.

According to this story, Ireland was recently named the “best place in the world to live.”  That’s high praise indeed, but well placed. We frequently daydream about just checking out from our current harried lives, and moving to some tiny off-the-beaten path town in some rural outpost in the old country. Ireland has spectacular landscapes, an agreeable climate, great music, great food, great birding, great humor . . .

And what are we doing here in America anyway? Our ancestors never would have left if they didn’t have to. Now that the famine is over, now that the Redcoats are no longer hunting the Murphys, isn’t it time to go back?

Well maybe not, that “wee humble cottage” we might be idealizing would probably goal for a cool half million in USD, and that’s without indoor plumbing . . .

I guess we’ll just have to save up for another visit.