Volume 9, Issue 3
Billy the Kid Claims His First Victim
by Edward T. O’Donnell
On August 17, 1877, young William Henry McCarty became a killer and outlaw. Attacked by a barroom bully in Arizona, the seventeen-year old killed the man with his pistol and fled to nearby New Mexico where he tried to start a new life as a ranch hand. But he would soon find himself embroiled in a bitter and bloody rancher feud, a conflict that propelled him to national infamy as “Billy the Kid,” the most notorious outlaw in the west.
Billy the Kid was born William Henry McCarty in New York City to Irish immigrant parents Catherine and Michael McCarty on September 17, 1859. Like many of their fellow Irish immigrants, the McCarty’s lived in poverty in a run down tenement on the Lower East Side. When Billy’s father died soon after his birth, he and his mother headed west, eventually landing in Santa Fe, New Mexico.
There in 1873 Billy’s mother married another Irishman, a miner named William Antrim. Her death the next year from a long bout with tuberculosis hit Billy hard and set him on a downward spiral. He accompanied his step-father to a silver strike in Arizona, near a place called Globe City. His step-father alternated between abusing and ignoring Billy, leaving him to fall in with a rough crowd in the mining town. By age sixteen, Billy was known as a violent and reckless young man who possessed little regard for authority. Shortly after his arrest for stealing laundry, he set out on his own, supporting himself as a ranch hand, cattle rustler, and gambler.
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Volume 9, Issue 3
150 Years of Belleek
By Marjorie McKintry-Miller
The village of Belleek, the most westerly village in Northern Ireland, lies quietly along the banks of the Lough Erne. Visitors are lured by the town’s picturesque beauty, thriving shopping district, and abundance of outdoor activities. The gentle rolling emerald landscape is made for walking and the waters are filled with trout and salmon that entice anglers of all ages. Still, what draws most people to the village is Belleek Pottery, the home of the world’s finest parian china for the last 150 years, and one of Ireland’s greatest treasures.
Accounts differ greatly has to how the pottery began. One legend states that in 1849, John Caldwell Bloomfield, who had just inherited Castle Caldwell and the surrounding village of Belleek, was attempting to whitewash a cottage “using the flaky white powder he dug up from his backyard” (Antique). The pearl-like luster of the finished product inspired a geological survey and in the soil were found all the necessary ingredients to create a china unlike the world had ever known.
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Volume 9, Issue 3
Billy Doyle
By Denise Dube
All of Bill Doyle’s pictures tell a compelling story of Ireland’s history. It’s no wonder this 81-year-old photographic artist has, over his more than 60-year career, published five books, won The Daily Telegraph Photographer of the Year Award, three Carrolls Press Awards, Ireland’s Eye Photographic Award from The Irish Independent Newspaper, and a few from unnamed competitions in Japan, German, England and the United States.
During his career he took many pictures for magazines, including Ireland of the Welcomes and was the first staff photographer for Cara, Aer Lingus’s inflight publication. There are probably more, but getting the humble photographer to admit his achievements is difficult, at best. It was only through research and word of mouth that his accolades were uncovered. He is one of Ireland’s best photographers. Some might say his fame goes past Irish borders. Doyle never uttered a word about a Bill Doyle television documentary being filmed. It was only through communications with his long-time friend and fellow photographer, Leo Doyle, that it was finally revealed.
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Volume 9, Issue 2
Driving in the Land of Ire
By Zebadiah Beauregard
The cross Atlantic flight was uneventful. We arrived in Shannon slightly disoriented, somewhat unfocused, and a little fusty. I dutifully waited in line to participate in one of life’s most exhilarating adventures: driving a rental car in Ireland.
The first indication that I was no longer in Kansas was the cost of said rental car.
I stood dumbfounded as the agent rattled off all the extra related charges. “Lets see now, that’s daily rental for six days, collision damage waiver, vehicle theft waiver, liability insurance, premium location airport fee, plenary indulgence, VAT local tax, road fund tax, and a little something for the boys at the pub.”
God forbid, I needed a car large enough to haul three people, luggage and a cello. Yes I said cello! My daughter was competing in the All Ireland Music Competition (pronounced Fleadh Cheoil na hÉireann). No, a tin whistle wasn’t good enough...we had to haul a cello around for a week.
Sure, a larger car does have a certain charm, especially if one remembers that Newton’s Laws of Motion comes into play during the daily side-mirror jousting tourneys, or guard rail bumping. Oh wait, this is Ireland. The roads don’t have guardrails. They don’t have shoulders either. For that matter, most roads “beyond the pale” are missing the other side altogether.
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Volume 9, Issue 2
ReJoycing Bloomsday
By Pat-Ann Durcan
James Joyce’s love-hate affair with Dublin was uneasy at best. His dislike for his hometown was no secret, yet Ireland’s capital often became the bones of his works. Characters played out past friendships, and it was by no accident that Ulysses’ Leopold Bloom schlepped his way through Dublin on June 16th, 1904. As it was on this very day that Joyce and his wife-to-be, Nora Barnacle, took their first walk to the village of Ringsend. But was it fate or simply coincidence that he wrote, “Today 16 of June 1924 twenty years after. Will anybody remember this date?” Little did he realize that Bloomsday would be born.
Every year, cities from Los Angeles to Tokyo play host to Joyce’s work, but nowhere are the festivities more lively than in Dublin itself. Fans in Edwardian dress spread about the city in search of nutty gizzards to copycat Bloom’s brea
kfast and hunt out the address where he finally rolled into bed. But it wasn’t until 1954 that June 16th came to be known as Bloomsday. On the thirtieth anniversary of Ulysses’ setting, a small group of Dublin writers set out in horse-drawn cabs to retrace Leopold Blooms steps. It was an easy challenge to undertake as Joyce made no effort to rename the city’s pubs, streets, or bridges. Joyce wanted to “give picture of Dublin so complete that if the city one day suddenly disappeared from the earth it could be reconstructed out of my book.” It was because of this attention to detail that fans from across the world come to relive the epic story and take away with them a taste of Joyce’s Dublin.
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Volume 9, Issue 2
Fiddler’s Hearth
An Irish pub in the center of the community famous for the University of Notre Dame’s “Fighting Irish” sports teams is the perfect location for family-owned and family-friendly, The Fiddler’s Hearth Public House. The idea of bringing Irish and Celtic culture to the city in the form of a public house was ignited in the minds of owners Terry (dad), Carol (mom), and Sean (son) Meehan in 2002 and became a reality in the summer of 2003 after the family purchased and renovated an older building in downtown South Bend, Indiana.
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Volume 9, Issue 2
Summer Holiday in GALWAY
by Michael P. Quinlin
Galway Bay and the surrounding area is a favorite holiday destination for the Irish. The Arts Festival adds to the City of the Tribes’s reputation as one of the most successful and influential art enterprises in the country. A major attraction for all of European it is attended by over 150,000 people each year.
This year, as an American convenience, tourism officials have opened the Ireland West Airport in Knock, County Mayo. Currently there are 3 weekly flights from JFK Airport, New York an 2 weekly flights from Boston Ireland West.
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Volume 9, Issue 2
WHO IS MOTHER Mcchree?
By Brenna Briggs
Growing up Irish in the 1950’s in northern Indiana and western Pennsylvania meant that once a year, you wore something green to school on St. Patrick’s Day and a room mother treated your class to cookies with green icing. Then, if you had an Irish parish priest you made him come to the school auditorium where you would serenade him with When Irish Eyes Are Smiling, An Irish Lullaby, and, of course, the ultimate tear-jerker: Mother Machree. Father Paddy would have (or have had) a real Irish mother, and that song was supposed to make him sentimental. When my mother would sing Mother Machree to her parish priest, Father O’Hara, in the late ‘30’s in Glassport, PA, her sister Rita accompanied her on the piano and would give her the thumbs up signal if the song was having its effect and tears were spotted. I don’t remember my parish priest, Thomas Peyton, C.S.C., ever crying after the Mother Machree song, but he always seemed very touched and thanked us profusely. Then we would put off being Irish until next St. Patrick’s Day (after watching the special Lawrence Welk Irish show).
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Volume 9, Issue 1
Mystery Of the Cloak Unveiled
By Mary Sayler
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.
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Volume 9, Issue 1
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.
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Volume 9, Issue 1
Quest For The Perfect Pint
by Denise Dubé
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.)
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Volume 9, Issue 1
Give Us This Day Our Soda Bread...
By Zebadiah Beauregard
The bartender nimbly pushed the tap forward in solemn observance of the ancient rite of the “two-part-pour”. I could feel my nostrils flare as the head rose just proud of the rim.
“The perfect pint”, he winked, wiping the bar before planting it in front of me.
Indeed it was. The pub fit me like the pair of old worn shoes I put on at the end of the day and I was looking forward to an agreeable afternoon with a few close friends while our daughters waited for their Feis results.
But I could tell there was a problem the moment Jim walked into the pub.
“Happy Saint Practice month,” he sighed, clambering onto the stool next to me.
“Where’s Fred?” I asked, glancing behind him.
“They nicked him.”
“Nicked him? Who?”
“The Feis! Hauled him off to judge soda bread.”
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