Quest for the perfect pint

For me, even after more than a few visits to the Emerald Isle, there was still one mystery left to be unraveled. What’s the fascination with “the perfect pint of Guinness?”
More importantly, is there really a perfect pint of any stout, lager or ale? Yes, there most certainly is. And if you stand behind the counter of any pub you better know how to pull one – whether it’s Guinness or anything else that comes out of a tap.
I learned that lesson some time ago when I begged Anne Mooney Gough to let me spend a few hours behind Mooney’s bar serving her regulars. Gough is the sixth generation to own Mooney’s one of the three pubs in An Rinn in County Waterford, Ireland. An Rinn — or Ring in English — is a Gaelic speaking town of about 2,000.
The stone-fronted tavern holds memorabilia and history from all six generations. Pictures of the Clancy Brothers singing decades ago hang beside portraits of long gone patrons. Ancient posters for popular cigarettes are crammed beside old bottles, tools and even train signs. The oldest is an iron sign hung out in front of the pub. It comes from Anne Mooney’s ancestor, Siobhan MicCoda’s original pub or shebeen, a 300-year-old thatched cottage that sat a few hundred yards from the present establishment. (Shebeens were well-known unlicensed and illegal pubs.)
When the road near MicCoda’s was widened the house was removed and the pub was rebuilt where it now stands along the main road. Mooney’s is also home to Anne Mooney’s husband, Tom Gough’s, extensive sign collection, one that includes the original 1947 brass Waterford Crystal business sign that he purchased at an auction years ago. Visit Mooney’s every night and there will still always be something that previously went unnoticed.
I spent a few nights enjoying the sights and a few sessions drinking Shandies, a surprisingly refreshing drink made of beer and white lemonade before I finally mustered the courage to work the bar during the day – when there were only a few patrons.
And it did require some courage. The Irish do not suffer fools when it comes to pouring their stout, lager or ale.
Tom Gough walked me through the first Guinness order. Picking up a clean glass was simple. Holding it to the tap at a 45-degree angle, without touching the nozzle to the glass, proved to be equally easy. Pulling the handle forward, while oh-so-slowly moving the glass to an upright angle, proved to be harder but do-able. Pouring until the glass was three-quarters full to allow the thick dark brew to “settle” was a judgment call, one that I accidentally happened to get right.
Settling, Tom and other bartenders say, can take up to three minutes for a good pint. As the surge or gas settles the liquid darkens to black. Once darkened the pint is brought back to the tap for a bit more Guinness and a beautiful mushroom crown that just reaches over the glass’s lip. According to Guinness instructions the crown should be no larger than about an inch.
With Tom’s help the first Guinness was so beautiful he took a seat on the other side of the bar and told me to go to it.
Ah, if only t’were so easy. My next customer, not too thrilled that an American was pulling his pint of lager, begged Tom to please fill his order. “Does she know what she’s doing,” Terry Mooney asked while clasping his hands together anxiously.
Tom said something in Irish that sounded suspiciously like “leave her alone” and then told Terry, coincidentally Anne’s brother, that the ale was one the house. That might have been good news to old Terry Mooney had I not gotten nervous with the stress of it all and pulled seven inches of froth and one inch of beer.
Luckily, Tom bailed me out by pouring off the foam and showing me the difference between pulling a lager rather than foam.
“Don’t be afraid of the handle,” Tom said as he pushed the lever and watched the golden liquid fill the glass.
Once the glass held more lager than crown, it was placed in front of Terry Mooney who, wearing a suit jacket, vest, shirt and a paddy cap, looked at it suspiciously.
He ended up with two on the house and finally, one perfect pint – pulled, who would have guessed, by me.
The next order came from two Texans looking for their Irish Mooney roots. They were Americans, so the stress was off for the moment. One-half pint of Smithwick’s and a Shandy was an easy chore and the cold glasses were placed on the aged and shiny wood bar.
A bit of a chat, a few pictures with Terry Mooney, who may or may not have been of the same clan, and they were off.
Jamesson and Smithwick’s was the next order. Jameson, I learned is whiskey. Tom was getting supplies so the customer walked me through the process of placing the glass under the bottles spout and pushing until it dispensed the exact amount of liquor. By now I was becoming – in my estimation – an expert, so no help was need with the Smithwick’s.
As a matter of fact no help was needed pulling any more Guinness either.
Is there a perfect pint? You bet. Ask anyone in Ireland.

By Denise Dube

Mystery Of the Cloak Unveiled

Cloaked in mystery describes the history of the cloak. As elusive as a scarlet-lined magician’s cape, this sleeveless garment can conceal almost anything, including its origins, beneath a round of cloth. How long that round has been around is anyone’s guess, but shorter, earlier versions of the cloak were not always totally tubular. Laid flat on the ground, a primitive pattern might be a large square of fur or animal skin and, later, a simple rectangle of woven cloth. Regardless of the geometric shape, the fabric usually had a hole cut in the middle, so the cloak could slip over the head, similar to the ponchos still worn in many cultures.

By very early Bible times, sleeved coats had already made a debut, but even Joseph’s many-colored coat (or long-sleeved coat as some translations describe it) did not displace the cloak. In the second chapter of Second Kings, for example, an outer mantle seemed to soak up the supernatural powers given to its owner. When the power of God rested on Elijah’s shoulders, the prophet could perform such miracles as staving off starvation during a drought and raising the dead to life. Prior to his own death (or being taken up by God in a mysterious moment), Elijah used his cloak to part the Jordan River so that he and his companion, Elisha, could walk across on dry land. Shortly after this incident, the younger prophet realized that his mentor would not return, so Elisha quickly gathered up Elijah’s cloak, taking on its mantle of mystery and parting the waters again to get home.
At home in European histories, the cloak became entangled in rites of wizards, witches, and warlocks. Quite likely, this sorcerer’s claim occurred because of the cloak’s power to hide whatever fit inside. Eventually, sewn-in squares of cloth or slash pockets increased the small spaces and folds, adding to the receptacles needed to harbor herbs, animal parts, and other odd ingredients used to concoct a potentially potent brew. Whether these mystic connotations or the earlier claims of the biblical prophets influenced the early Church or not, Christians altered various versions of the mantle. In black cloth or white, monks began wearing cloaks with permanently attached cowls, while priestly garments reflected the Church year from Advent to the Ordinary Times after Pentecost. In addition to the seasonal change of clerical colors, a priest’s cloak could be worn with the icons or ornamentation appropriate to either a highly festive or most solemn occasion.
Among Irish folk, colorful cloaks in vivid shades of red, blue, green, or yellow often heralded the social class to which a person belonged. King, queen, or commoner might be caught wearing a cloak with spots, stripes, or checks of multi-colors. Regional variations also occurred with one style differing from another according to the amount of fabric bunched around the body. In all areas though, poor folks mostly likely skimped on cloth.
In centuries past and in the present day, an Irish cloak usually drapes gracefully to the knees but sometimes lightly brushes the ground or, more likely, ends somewhere around the ankles. Shapes vary too, especially since some cloaks have been cut into an oblong, but most of the garments circumscribe a circle with a circumference of 180 inches, more or less. Cloaks often have a rounded or, at times, pointed hood pointedly sewn into place, but some include a detachable hood or no head covering at all. In the popular pattern of the Kinsale cloak, the hood may ruffle or fold into full pleats that billow around the neck.
The most comfy cloaks warm a body well, whereas others dramatically state a current fashion. When Irish women wore hoop skirts, for instance, a cloak would be cut to accommodate that loopy attire. A decorative cloak of satin or brocade might still knock off the chill but mainly make a knock-out entrance at such formal occasions as a wedding or a night at the opera. For functional use, a full-lined, full-length cloak has remarkable warming properties, especially when cut from cashmere, suede, woolen tweed, or velvet-lined velvet. Some cloaks include a shoulder cape, but that cape may also be used alone to wrap an Irishman or woman in ever-fashionable tweed and comfort.
A traditional walking cape flows in various lengths and, like a cloak, has only one or two hefty buttons or other type of fastener. Those sturdy but, often, ornamental clasps hold the garment in place, whereas a smaller, lighter-weight ruana may merely need a lightweight brooch or pin. Pronounced roo-AAH-na, the ruana freely forms a covering similar to a large scarf, shawl, or open poncho, so the overall effect depends on how the long oblong or circular wrap is worn. For example, the wearer might toss a ruana across one shoulder or both. Or, the cloth might drape across the back of the neck and down the shoulders with a belt or colorful sash to hold the fabric snugly in place.
Since a ruana doesn’t attempt to protect a person against the bitter cold, this lighter-weight wrap inclines to be knitted, crocheted, or woven of wool, silk, linen, or other yarns, with or without the decorative addition of lace, fringe, embroidery, braid, or appliqué. As occurs with the warmer counterparts of capes and cloaks, however, a ruana basically fits the person and the need. For instance, the wrap might top off the evening attire for ballroom dancing or be part of a lively costume worn for an Irish jig. If the seam of a dress or pair of pants splits in a particularly awkward moment, a ruana can be swiftly snatched from the shoulders and wrapped around the body like a skirt. Wrapping with the Irish produces as many interesting possibilities as the capes, cloaks, and colors that cover such occasions, but on a warm St. Patrick’s Day, a light shoulder wrap will be most likely to appear, fittingly, in bright green.

by Mary Sayler

Dempsey’s Pub, New York City

Ever stumble upon a seisún in a pub in Ireland?  It doesn’t get much better than that – relaxing to a never-ending series of reels and jigs, with nothing but the pint’s depleting level to worry about.

Walk into Dempsey’s Pub at 3rd St. and 2nd Ave. in New York City and one is instantly transported hundreds of miles across the Atlantic.
Located in the cozy East Village, Dempsey’s is as close to Ireland as you can get in the midst of the fast-paced rat race that is New York City.  Home to the longest running open seisún in NYC, (a “seisún” is Gaelic for session, an informal gathering of traditional Irish musicians; a jam session, in other words) Dempsey’s opens its doors every Tuesday night to musicians of all levels and kinds.
“The Dempsey’s session is ‘open’ in the truest sense of the word, something that is unfortunately rare,” said John Nevin, a first generation Irish American who has run the seisun for the past five years. “A lot of bars won’t take us on. People think it doesn’t fit their bar, but they don’t give it a chance.”
Tom O’Byrne did.  Owner and operator of Dempsey’s, as well two other NYC pubs, The Baggot Inn and Slainte, O’Byrne said it was always his intention to keep traditional Irish music a priority, though it was an admittedly natural process for O’Byrne who hails from County Meath.
“We don’t take people like Tom for granted,” said Nevin.
“This bar was kind of a frontier,” said O’Byrne, who came to the States in 1984. The regular Tuesday night affair begins at 8 pm and usually runs until midnight, or really whenever the musicians decide to quit. The first part of the seisún is conducted in a round robin fashion, where everybody gets a turn to play their respective instrument, and later turns into the “call the tune” format popular in most circles.
“The seisún is subject to the chemistry of the people there at any given moment,” said Nevin. “It’s a very organic thing and the feeling is quite variable.”
The players sit up near the front of the bar, so strains of traditional reels and jigs drift out into the cool air of 2nd Avenue. The bar attracts a pleasant mix of neighborhood regulars, weekenders, students, musicians and of course, the Irish of NYC. The seisún has become somewhat of an attraction and is a routine that is deeply appreciated by the musicians, the patrons, and even the bartenders.
I chatted with bartender Colin Stewart as he doled out pints of Guinness to seisun players.
“I love it.  I look forward to it every week,” said the Derry man. “They are good players; nice, personable people.  They show time and encouragement for novices, patience and guidance. That’s what’s good about this seisun.”
Like O’Byrne, many of the musicians use the seisun as a way to not only find enjoyment in their music, but keep their Irish roots alive.
“It’s a very direct way for me to connect to my heritage,” said Nevin. “I’m here now, but it’s like having one foot here and one foot there [in Ireland], and no place to call home. This takes the edge off. I feel like I’m at home.”

Road Warriors

What good Mother would say to her child, “Go play in the road!?”
An Irish or Irish-American Mother encouraging the family to a weekend game of Irish road bowling or bullets. That’s right, not in the house — it’s in the street!
A nearly four hundred year tradition rooted in 17 century Ulster with Egyptian origins, the sport of road bowling also gained favor in England and Germany, then crossed the Atlantic. From the Emerald Isle homeland to Ireland, West Virginia, Boston and New York, rain nor snow nor traffic deter spring to autumn enthusiasts, which include any lad and lassie from grade school children to adult bowlers. American ten pins and French boules move over!
The black iron bowl or bullet is similar to a baseball though heavier, with an adult 28 ounce or youth 14 ounce orb. The intention is to propel the bowl to a finish line and be the one with the least shots (throws). The preferred method is to start running about fifteen feet to the butt (the throwing mark on the road) then use a fast underhanded pitch toward the goal, typically one to two miles winding away. At the goal is a spotter who assists the hurler through obstructions and curves to avoid ditched balls. When the bowl stops, a mark is chalked at the nearest point on the road (not off the road surface) and the next throw is taken from behind that mark. The player with the fewest attempts and closest to the course target wins. The current North American champion is Con O’Callaghan, a Boston Irish immigrant. O’Callaghan began playing at age five and has won trophies at the All Irelands.
Regular stylish bowlers (not their dress, the term refers to their smooth delivery) bring bowls marked with their initials, favorite color, or painted the shades of the Irish flag to, hopefully, easily retrieve. Those who golf will understand how to tally the score (match). Initially there were no structured rules since today’s version began casually in the 1600s, though in 1954 the sport formalized by a governing organization, Bol Chumann na h-Eireann in Enniskeanne, Co. Cork. Festivities celebrated their golden jubilee throughout the 2004 year. Beginning in 1969, international competitions took place through an international central body, the Nederlandse Klootschieters Bond and the International Bowl Playing Association.
On the continent, this is a Civil War cultural sport from Irish soldiers fighting in America. The balls were originally cannonballs and the troops used to play matches between battles. The simple rules require skill and tradition now rolls along with three organized leagues in the eastern States. Road master mayhem the media often covered in 2005. Picnics and potlucks frequently conclude the long shots. Of course a bagpiper may jump in and once the whistles are wet, the blarney and howling (singing) start.
The reason for the game’s popularity is in its challenge and competitive nature, for it takes a few bruises and the luck of the Irish to succeed a bowl of odds (one full shot) lead. Spectators shout the traditional Irish battle cry, Faugh a Ballach (Clear the Way!), and search parties often scan shrubbery for missing balls. Amid rolling green hills and bursting spring thickets, it is also cheery company and inexpensive fresh air fun.
Eager to give it a try? The West Virginia Irish Road Bowling Association sponsors tournaments where potholes and street cracks dare the best hurlers firing shot for shot. They track new teams and can help you begin. Or commence your own at a local Celtic festival and keep the bowl rolling. No kilts required.

Anthony Kearns: The Man Behind the Voice

Anthony Kearns is a born entertainer. He may have snagged the title, “Ireland’s Best Living Tenor”, but he’ll jokingly tell you that he’s also got the gift of the gab, “I could rabbit on for hours. I didn’t just kiss the Blarney stone, I swallowed it.” His banter is casual and despite his success, he is not ready to sit back. “If the audience wants me, I’ll keep coming back.”
Along with his fellow members of The Irish Tenors, Anthony first broke onto the American stage when PBS aired a concert from Dublin in 1998. Up until then, the Mediterranean giants Pavorotti, Domingo and Carreras had ruled the world of tenors, but “the darlings of PBS” were fast winning over their audiences. Anthony and “the boys” took songs like “The Wild Irish Rose” out of the pub and gave them a bigger sound–the backing of a 60-piece orchestra. A mixture of toe-tapping songs and flawless arias gave concert performances a new energy, and before long they were appearing on shows such as “Live with Regis and Kelly” and “The Today Show.” This exposure gave Anthony the platform to challenge his vocal range and to branch out as a solo artist. He loves nothing better than trying out new pieces on his fans. “The audience is like a bull, ” he laughs, “you’ve got to wrestle with them.”

Hands down, Anthony is first to admit that he loves being the center of attention. At an early age, he had the natural lilt for sean nos songs and would belt out music on his mother’s button accordian in the family kitchen. “Sean nos songs are ornament to yourself. They are not strict, they have no rules.” At every given opportunity, young Anthony would jump at the chance to perform and never shied away from leading his classmates in song, “I suppose my lungs were in training from an early age when I headed my class and blew into the melodica.”
When he entered F.C.J. Bunclody Secondary School, he joined the orchestra and soon headlined the annual musicals and masses. Little did he know that this learning ground would help him grapple with all future pre-show jitters. “I learnt to control my nerves when I competed as a sixteen year old in Feis Ceoil and Scor na nOg.” But this is not to say that Anthony ate, slept and drank music, ” Like any teen growing up in Ireland, I played hurling and football and like any other teen I got into trouble.”
When it came to deciding which career path he should take, sensibility ruled, ” I knew I wanted to sing but at the end of the day, I had to take jobs for the sake of pay.” Anthony studied hotel management at Cathal Brugha Street, Dublin and then went to work at the Grand Hotel, Wicklow.  There he took up the microphone once again and earned himself the nickname, “The Singing Barman.” Itching to break into the music scene, he moved back to Dublin and bided his time selling cell phones and fax machines. “I’m a man of all trades but a master of none of them,” he jokes.
His lucky break came knocking in 1993 when a radio show held “Ireland’s search for a tenor.” The “American Idol” type competition was held in conjunction with the release of the new ten-pound note, the “tenner.” Singers battled it out down phone lines until the preliminaries. The public wagered in Anthony’s favor and despite being the only one without professional training, he walked away with the first prize. The buzz that the competition generated landed him a spot on Ireland’s longest running chat show, “The Late Late Show”–the same program that somersaulted U2 into the public eye. Anthony’s musical talent caught the attention of singing coach, Veronica Dunne, and under her instruction his voice grew and developed. “It’s very much like soccer.  You’ve got to practice to make the goal and in singing, you’ll eventually hit that range.”
Work came fast and awards began to couple up next to his early wins at Feis Ceoil. Richard Baker from the BBC invited him to perform opera cruises and Anthony went onto win the Dermot Troy Trophy in 1995 and the Waterford International Festival of Light Opera, for his portrayal of Frederic in Gilbert and Sullivan’s Pirates of Penzance. Life was changing quickly for the Wexford native but his star quality was about to open an even bigger door. Music producer, Bill Hughes had been watching the young singer and asked him to audition for “The Irish Tenors.” Within two weeks, he was standing before 6,000 people as a member of the new classical trio. “Singing with the other guys raises the bar. We don’t compete with each other but you don’t want to go unnoticed,” he says.
His first taste of the States came when he and the boys played Madison Square Garden before 15,000 fans in 1999. “It was smashing. We were treated like rock stars.” Since then he has globe trotted as far as the Sydney Opera House, sang at Bono’s 40th birthday bash and performed at the funeral of former President Ronald Reagan. But when asked which event stands out above the rest, he talks about his first solo performance in the U.S. “The most memorable performance was at the Mechanics Hall in Worcester, Massachusetts. It was my first solo concert and I was accompanied by the piano.” Irish tenor, John McCormack also played at the Mechanics Hall and Anthony’s range is often compared to the legendary great’s versatility. He can bounce between different genres of music and plans to include Russian opera to his repertoire. “I will need training, of course, for the pronunciations of the language but I pick up sounds easily.” Anthony’s love for opera is insatiable and when he has time to unwind he likes nothing better than to listen to vocal classical music on his iPod.
Anthony realizes that his fans allow him to keep doing what he loves best. “After a performance there is little time to stand and stare. I stay to meet and greet the audience and then it’s back to the hotel to rest before getting on the road the following day.” The U.S. in many ways has become a home away from home for Anthony, “I bought a place in Florida,” he says and whenever he has downtime, you’ll find him, “hanging out by the pool, relaxing and having dinner with friends.” Anthony Kearns is set to return Stateside this Fall for eight solo concerts and later rejoins “The Irish Tenors” for their winter tour of the U.S. hm

By Pat-Ann Durcan

Sweater Patterns & Aran Yarns

On the western shore of Ireland across Galway Bay, tales from the Árainn Isles drift and bobble on the Atlantic like an empty currach. For centuries those tarred wooden vessels, about eighteen and a half feet long, have carried fishermen out to sea and back, but not always as planned. On occasions of noticeable weather and unpredictable seas, fishing expeditions sometimes overturned, launching true and tragic stories into the wild ocean waves. Over the years, these tales of drownings have flowed in ever-widening circles from the three small Aran Islands until pooling among the current tide of tourists.

With native islanders descending from an unrecorded era, the Aran women may have begun the art of knitting before the Book of Kells began to circulate. Whether then or later, they looked to seafaring symbols, such as the weave of a fishing basket filled with abundant life from the sea.

Some say the well-known cable knit design signifies the fisherman’s ropes along with the ongoing desire to pull the wearer safely back to shore. Others recognize the patterns as coming from the earth in a burst of blackberries or the zigzag of a bird’s wing or the honeycomb of a bee. Perhaps some on the island had hopes for success and treasures as expressed in designs of diamonds, while others fashioned a motif of moss to symbolize the outcroppings of vegetation among the windswept rocks.
Indeed, unruly winds and water buffeted parts of the craggy coastline into the smoothness of marble.

Although remarkably beautiful, such terrain does not bode well as pastureland, and so the islanders built up the soil with seaweed and compost to produce grassy patches where their small flocks of sheep could graze. Corn began to grow in the up-built soil, and wildflowers sprang forth in hundreds of species from the wild Burnet Rose to the Blue Moor-grasses.
Into this harsh but amazingly serene scene came centuries of saints and seekers. Monasteries cropped up, and stone churches flourished. Soon, the women incorporated these religious symbols into their knitting along with stitches to represent the Trinity. Some caught symbolic threads further back than Christianity, going to the biblical roots of the Tree of Life as found in the book of Genesis. Others fashioned a ladder stitch reminiscent of the Hebrew patriarch, Jacob, who climbed toward heaven accompanied by angels. Some even say the unique sweaters began, not for the local fishermen, but as fine cardigans or pullovers knitted by mothers and grandmothers for an angelic child’s First Communion.
Characteristically though, Aran sweaters can be known by the wool. Without bleaching or scouring away the natural oils, the women would set their wooden wheels to spinning the lanolin-soaked wool into coarse yarn to be knitted into warm socks and, later, water-repellant sweaters. The tightly twisted yarn gave more insulation, heft, and pattern than hand-loomed garments, and surely no factory-made sweater could compare with the quality and intricacies knitted into 100,000 hand-made stitches.
Tradition also has it that the younger women handcrafted matchless designs for their sweethearts to approve and wear on their wedding day. For those boxy sweaters, the sleeve length came slightly shorter than usual to avoid getting the heavy wool wet around the wrists when the young man went out to sea. And, yes, many say that each fisherman’s family wove the yarn into an intricate means of identification until the stories bloomed like wildflowers in the minds of novelists, poets, and playwrights. And the shopkeepers came, and the tourists came, and the exporters came, spinning their fanciful yarns.
If truth be told, the tale might lose a bit of embellishment when reduced to the plainness of poverty that gave rise to a highly prized and marketable product. In the wake of government motions and economic trends, the cottage industry reportedly began in the late 19th century when mainlanders set up schools to teach the islanders new patterns of income. By the 20th century, the women had begun to switch their favorite stitches from hand-knitted socks to sweaters, but they still handled the yarn themselves until most of the local wheels ceased spinning in the 1970’s.
Nevertheless, the Aran women passed on patterns with designs as individualized and lively as their own family stories. Continuously, they adapted their work, too, as often done in hard times or war years when metal could not be spared for needles. Living on the windswept islands, eking vegetables from the scanty soil, the islanders had always known how to make do, and so the women knitted with whatever they found at hand. Sometimes they fashioned needles from bicycle spokes or goose quills or willow rods, occasionally dropping stitches as they knitted a new sock or fishing cap or sweater.
As for unraveling the mystery of identifiable family patterns, the famous Aran sweaters may have been fabricated from stories, and not the other way around. Yet the heritage still proves true. Does it matter that part of a history began less than a half-century ago? And what historical record consists only of aged customs and dry but provable facts? In the telling, most people drop a detail or two, carefully inserting others with pride and distinctive patterns as tightly woven and beautiful as any good Irish yarn.

Mary Sayler

The Battle of the Crater

On July 30, 1864, four tons of dynamite exploded beneath the Confederate trenches outside Petersburg, Virginia. It had been placed there by a team of Irish coal miners serving in a Pennsylvania regiment. The audacious plan blew a massive hole in the rebel line, opening the way for a Union charge that could very well end the war.  From this auspicious start, however, the ensuing Battle of the Crater turned into a stunning Union defeat.

The Battle of the Crater was the product of mounting fear and anxiety in the Union in the summer of 1864.  Despite the fact that the Union Army was now in capable hands, with Gen. William T. Sherman closing in on Atlanta and Grant driving Lee’s army south of Richmond to Petersburg, Union morale was sagging.  The war was now more than three years old and victory seemed no closer than it had in 1861.  And the carnage – Grant’s aggressive drive against Lee had produced an astonishing 50,000 Union casualties.  Yet despite losing 30,000 men, Lee’s army was still intact.  Indeed, part of it was still on the move.  In early July a detachment of Confederate cavalry under Jubel Early struck terror into the hearts of northerners when it made a surprise sprint to the north, coming within five miles of the White House before turning back.
So as the massive armies of Lee and Grant stood opposite each other, hunkered down in miles of trenches outside Petersburg, there was a palpable sense of urgency in the air.  The time had come, many believed, for bold action.  The result was one of the most outlandish military maneuvers of the war.
It began when Col. Henry Pleasants of the 48th Pennsylvania overheard some of his men declare, “We could blow that damn [Confederate] fort out of existence if we could run a mine shaft under it.”  This was no idle boast, for these men – mostly Irish and Irish American – were coal miners from Skuylkill County.  Pleasants, an engineer, considered the idea.  With the Confederates so heavily entrenched outside Petersburg, the only options were suicidal frontal assaults or a long, agonizing siege that might last more than a year.  If his men could blow a hole in the rebel line, the Union army could pour through before the Confederates knew what hit them.  Petersburg would fall, Lee’s army would be surrounded, and the war would be over.
General Ambrose Burnside, in command of the IX Corps which included the 48th Pennsylvania, found the idea irresistible.  It offered him a chance for personal redemption, since he had presided over the devastating Union defeat at Fredricksburg in late 1862.  With the strike of a single match, he might go from goat to hero.
With approval from his superiors, Gen. George Meade and Gen. Grant (both, incidentally, of Ulster stock), work began on June 25.  The miners were left to their own devices, since the Army’s engineers dismissed the project as impossible.  They managed to scrounge up spare lumber and made their own tools.  In less than a month they dug a 511-foot tunnel (with two 40-foot side galleries) the led directly beneath the Confederate line.   One potential hitch – ventilation – was solved when they rigged up a coal mine vent system that worked perfectly.  Lastly came the explosives – four tons of them.
While the Pennsylvania miners dug their tunnel, a regiment of African American soldiers trained to lead the assault.  They were eager to make a good showing, both to disprove white fears that blacks made poor soldiers and to play a role in the defeat of the slave South.
Everything was in order until the night before the scheduled detonation.  At the last minute, Grant and Meade overruled Burnside’s decision to use black soldiers.  They feared charges of racism that would come if the operation failed and the black troops became cannon fodder.  Unnerved by the sudden change in plans, Burnside lost his zeal.  He subsequently assigned a regiment of exhausted troops commanded by an officer known for drunkenness and incompetence to lead the charge.
At 4:30 a.m. a massive explosion erupted under the Confederate line, “bursting like a volcano at the feet of the men,” one officer later recalled.  It hurled 100,000 cubic feet of earth into the air, leaving behind a hole 170 feet long, 60 feet wide, and 30 feet deep.  Nearly 300 Confederate soldiers were killed, while hundreds more fled in confused panic.  The Pennsylvania coal miners had done their job and it seemed for a moment that Petersburg would fall within the day.
It was an extraordinary sight to behold – so much so that the Union soldiers hesitated at first, transfixed by the scene.  When they finally pushed ahead, they headed into the crater instead of around it, and soon became snarled in a leaderless, chaotic mass.  For Confederate soldiers now returning to their positions, it was like shooting fish in a barrel.  By day’s end more than 4,000 Union soldiers were killed, wounded, or captured.
Despite the flawless work of the Pennsylvania miners, the great Union victory and Burnside’s redemption were not to be (he was relieved of his command).  “It was the saddest affair I have witnessed in the war,” wrote a distressed Ulysses Grant to a colleague.  “Such opportunity for carrying fortifications I have never seen and do not expect again to have.”  He wouldn’t see it again and instead had to settle in for an eight-month siege of Petersburg.  It ultimately led to victory, but it left Grant ample time to ponder one of the great “what ifs” of the epic conflict between the states.

By Edward T. O’Donnell

William T. McGonagall

William T. McGonagall was born in Edinburgh in 1825. This Scotsman of Irish descent led a rather routine existence as a mill worker until 1877 – the year of his epiphany, when he experienced “the most startling incident in [his] life” and “discovered [himself] to be a poet.”
Rev. George Gilfillan was the recipient of McGonagall’s debut, “An Address to the Reverend.” Having read the offering, the holy man reportedly said, “Shakespeare never wrote anything like this.”
This quip proved rather accurate commentary, for McGonagall would attain distinction due to a consistently vivid display of distorted rhythm, inept word choice, butchered syntax, and appalling levels of effusion.
About two-hundred McGonagall compositions are on record; the most enduring is “The Tay Bridge Disaster,” a poem commemorating the collapse of the Tay Rail Bridge, in which ninety train passengers perished:

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay!
Alas! I am very sorry to say
That ninety lives have been taken away
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember’d for a very long time.

There was a German poet, Theodor Fontane, who tried to piggyback on the Scottish catastrophe. But no amount of noble sentiment could ever contend with McGonagall’s couplet:

And the cry rang out all round the town,
Good heavens! The Tay Bridge has blown down.

Years later, many readers daunted by ultra-sophisticated modernist verse would find something refreshing in McGonagall’s clumsy directness. The poet also had perseverance and, when the fallen bridge was fully replaced, he was right alongside the construction crew to memorialize the event. “An Address to the New Tay Bridge” sings praises of a structure:

strong enough all
windy storms to defy.

So many poets have dissipated their talent with liquor. As for McGonagall, he not only abstained from such poisons, but even launched one-man campaigns to curb drinking. He would enter area pubs to recite anti-alcohol poems and speeches to all misguided inebriates.
Though his impassioned rhetoric did nothing to divert one drop of booze, the patrons were said to have much enjoyed the performances. However, such enjoyment did not necessarily imply admiration, for McGonagall was frequently pelted with “eggs and vegetables.”
McGonagall’s artistry transcended the constraints of the written word. He often acted at the local Giles Theatre, where he would pay the proprietor for the honor of performing the eponymous role in Macbeth. When the scene arrived for his character’s murder, McGonagall, who had paid good money for his spotlight, would simply “refuse to die.” This absurd refusal was an ongoing crowd favorite.
In 1892, McGonagall’s ambition took him to new terrain, as he trekked sixty miles through a virulent storm to see Queen Victoria; legendary bard Alfred Lord Tennyson had just died, and McGonagall desired to personally ask Her Majesty for the distinction of Poet Laureate.
Though this effort proved unsuccessful, fortune came two years later when representatives of Burmese king Thibaw Min bestowed a “White Elephant” knighthood upon the poet. Sir McGonagall boasted of his privileged status until his passing in 1902. Dying penniless, he was sent to an unmarked grave.

By Ray Cavanaugh

John Henry Abbott

In 1944, Jack Henry Abbott entered this world on a U.S. Army base in Michigan. He was the result of a five-dollar exchange between an Irish-American G.I. and one Chinese prostitute. It was a rather unglamorous debut for young Abbott, whose hardships were only beginning. Surrendered right after birth, he was shuffled through various foster care venues. By age ten, he was spending time in detention facilities.
While incarcerated for a forgery conviction, twenty-one-year-old Abbott mortally stabbed his opponent in a brawl. Several years later, the sly inmate escaped and proceeded to embark on a bank-robbing spree. Soon overtaken by federal authorities, Abbott was hauled back to prison, where the belligerent soul was a frequent guest of solitary confinement.
Impulsive criminal though he was, Abbott also became a voracious reader and took up writing. Then came 1980; Norman Mailer was the ubiquitous figure of American letters, riding the glory of his Pulitzer-winning ‘Executioner’s Song, which profiled a convicted killer who demanded execution instead of a life-sentence.
Having somehow procured Mailer’s contact info, Abbott began sending letters to the famous writer, telling him that the ‘Executioner’s real-life protagonist was largely a poseur and that he, Abbott, could supply a more realistic account of life behind bars. Mailer was so enticed that he told the inmate to write a full-length manuscript.
The result was ‘Belly of the Beast, in which Abbott addresses topics ranging from foreign relations, to spiritual inquiry, to the cultivation of marijuana. As one would expect, he also speaks of life in a maximum-security prison – the transactions, tensions, hierarchies, grim triumphs and appalling degradations, as well as the literal and figurative opiates by which many inmates pursue an illusory escape.
Though many disagreed with Abbott’s arguments, the general opinion of his lyrical intensity ranged from stellar to riveting. Such feedback fueled Mailer’s decision to lobby for the convict’s parole, telling reporters that “culture is worth a little risk.”
Parole was granted, much to the dismay of several prison officials. Six weeks later, Abbott wanted to use the bathroom at a Manhattan café. A twenty-two-year-old waiter told him the bathroom was only for staff use. So Abbott grabbed a steak knife and sunk it into the young man’s chest. The attack was fatal.
During his brief freedom, Abbott had been the glamorous bad-boy of New York literati. It is quite possible that the café waiter was the first person to tell him no. Following a manhunt, Abbott and his terminal fury were returned to prison.
Backlash came immediately, branding Abbott as the worst sort of psychopath, one who fills his remorseless void with self-pity and indignation. The prostitute’s son had really made quite a stir, though he profited not one dime from his book, having been sued by his victim’s kin for a sum exceeding one-million times that of the 1943 transaction through which he had been conceived.
In 2001, Abbott was denied parole. The following year, having confronted the fact that he would most likely die in prison, he chose to expedite the process. His limp body was later found hanging from his own shoelace.
As sociologist Francis Glamser wrote: “Dying in prison is the ultimate confirmation of a wasted life.” One could assume Abbott realized as much, before his great escape at the end of the knotted lace. The convict’s final literary endeavor was his suicide note. Its content remains undisclosed.
Mailer continued to face widespread outrage from those who blamed him for having enabled Abbott’s slaughter of a young man. Before his death in 2007, Mailer remarked on the issue as, “another event in my life in which I can find nothing to cheer about.”
As for Abbott, he had always been close-lipped on the subject of regret. He did, however, write another book, in which he somehow blamed society for his return to prison…
…When Norman Mailer said “culture is worth a little risk,” this was probably not what he had envisioned.

By Ray Cavanaugh

Irish Society Thrive In Latin America

Estancia Santa Susana Ranch. Los Cardales, Argentina

Irish emigrants have notably contributed to the development of the countries in which they settled. Through work and social integration, they have brought respect to themselves and enhanced the reputation of their homeland in almost every corner of the globe.

So it should come as no surprise that Argentina is populated with Irish descendants. In the late 19th century, estimates of 40- 50,000 Irish immigrants were in Argentina. Most of them settled in the Argentine pampas and worked primarily as shepherds and sheep-farmers.
Today in Latin America some 300,000 to 500,000 are estimated to have some Irish ancestry, most of them living in Argentina, with lesser numbers in Central America, Uruguay and Brazil. There are estimates upwards of 300,000 Argentineans who claim Irish ancestry. In a country with a population of 35 million that is, almost three per cent of the entire population.
But let’s consider the logistics and formidable obstacles of immigrating to Argentina. First was the problem to cross the Atlantic from their areas of residence in the Irish Midlands, Wexford, Clare and a few other counties in Ireland.  The emigrants would have to use a combination of coaches and carts or the Grand Canal boats to reach Dublin. From there they would have to book passage aboard a sailing ship.
Sailing ships were used up to the early 1850s and steamboats thereafter, with an average journey of six to eight weeks. Some chartered ships sailed directly from Dublin to South America, though the majority purchased passage tickets through established companies with scheduled departures from Liverpool. Tickets cost was significantly higher than the one to North America.  The cost was an annual wage of an Irish laborer, which is a reason few were able to pay their way. In fact tickets were advanced by Argentinean employers in return for work.
Crossing the Atlantic Ocean would pale in comparison to the linguistic barrier. Only a few educated Argentines spoke English and the Spanish language was almost completely unknown in Ireland.
For the newly arrived Irish immigrants the Catholic religion was an opportunity to easily adapt to the larger society. While Admiral William Brown is well known of the Irish emigrants to Argentina other Irish men and women were also extremely influential in Argentine society. Fr. Anthony Fahy (1805-1871) worked successfully to isolate his flock and to maintain their identity as English-speaking Catholics, distinct from the native parishioners. It should be noted that many Protestant Irish settlers preferred to join the Presbyterian congregation and thus followed their pastors.
There is a proud and active Irish community in Argentina, writes Dick and Lois Miner fresh back from a visit there. They were greeted and entertained at the Estancia Santa Susana, a ranch run by the descendants of Francisco Kelly. The ranch name is homage to his wife, Susana Caffrey. The working ranch occupies 1200 acres and is mainly dedicated to agricultural activities and the raising of horses.

Estancia Santa Susana occupies 2965 acres in the district of Campana, Buenos Aires province near the town of Los Cardales. Visitors are welcomed to the ranch by “gauchos” and “paisanas” (countrymen and women.)
The distinctive seal of Estancia Santa Susana is a guided tour of the Spanish-colonial style compound. After touring the museums (picture bottom left) a bell tolls announcing the day’s meal at banquet facilities (Picture center left.) Grills prepare different cuts of Argentine meat and may be observed, while roasting over a wood fire.

Irish Diaspora in South America

‘Diaspora’ (from the Greek word ‘to scatter’) is defined as any group migration or flight from a country or region that has been dispersed outside its traditional homeland. The phrase is more widely used to describe Irish emigrants and their descendants around the world.
The dark side to this story is most he time the Diaspora is forced as with the Irish in the 17th century, when Oliver Cromwell sent many Irish rebels into slavery in Caribbean tobacco plantations. Many of the Wild Geese who had gone to Spain continued on to its colonies in South America. In the 1820’s they helped liberate the continent.
According to scholars the term ‘Irish Diaspora’ first appears in a 1954 book ‘The Vanishing Irish.’ It wasn’t until a more recent address by President Mary Robinson, in her 1995 address to the Joint Houses of the Oireachtas. Reaching out to the 70 million people worldwide that claim Irish descent she said “The men and women of our Diaspora represent not simply a series of departures and losses. They remain, even while absent, a precious reflection of our own growth and change, a precious reminder of the many strands of identity which compose our story.”

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