Slainte
Does this sound bad? My metaphors? Wrong?
Sap running up the trunk of my tree. The hot Vermont maple syrup on my pancakes, Pilsner and strong Ale, crisp hopped brews. (That’s better.)
The stuff of Overlords. (Wow)
German, British, (French - not me, but similar tribe) blood. Powerful folk, conquerors, people who took what they wanted by any means necessary.
Strong and yet so weak.
Power People lacking restraint. People overplay strong cards. Blackjacker, hit me on seventeen - People. Roulette wheel, all chips on red - People.
Lack of discretion, they had so much, but wanted more - People. All or nothing - People. Be all you can be - People. Cake and eat it too - People.
And they did - almost have it all.
And then - set up for failure. Karma comes calling to collect. Self defeat. Predictable results. It all crumbles. The walls come down.
Blood spilled. So much blood…
Why and for what?
*****
Contrast
Islands, peninsulas, deserts - end of the road, out there - on the edge - People.
Not my blood, but one hundred percent - my heart - People.
I run to these (Out There) People, and to Their Places.
*****
Irish Stout, a brew like no other.
I remember my first pour,
The place - majestic Coleman’s Irish Pub, my Home town Pub, from the place where I was born, Syracuse, New York.
A working man’s bar, a Syracuse Institution. An honor to walk through those doors, and pull up a bar stool - place.
A Guinness please. Bartender with the pride and precision of a Soldier pours stout from the tap.
Sturdy white head, in a sparkling clean, big on top, Marilyn Monroe hourglass shape pint glass. Neat clean new crisp coaster at base.
Like the Irish themselves, this brew in glass told a thousand stories.
It is not the same anymore, I swear that it is not the same brew now. Either that, or it’s me. I’ve changed. Maybe some of both.
But that dark brown, almost black brew, it used to turn inside the freshly poured glass.
Like the wind blowing up Marilyn’s dress.
Like storm clouds rolling in - ominous, fast.
Like a lava light, music trapped in glass.
Like dandelion seeds dancing, blowing in the wind.
*****
Ireland, Key West, El Paso - wild places. Out there places.
Inner Strength People.
Stoic on the outside - People
But on the inside -
all Burning Heart, literate Mind, Deep Cold Spring Soul - People.
Better Angels…
Not me People.
I run to These People. I need Them.
^^^^^
Photograph:
August (we’re gonna party like it’s) 1999 -
Nolan’s (the family) Pub, Union Hall, West Cork, IReland.
That is my Wife, C and Denis Joseph Glanton (some Relation, I can’t remember the whos and hows), but Blood, C’s Irish Blood.
Half (more than half) the time, I could not understand you, your thick West Cork, Irish accent, Denis. I could not understand - your words.
But your heart, Denis. I knew it. I instinctively knew - your Heart.
Denis, in my memory, He started with the Murphys (Irish Stout), sometime about Noon.
Guinness, he said, was “too traveled”. Guinness was brewed in far away - Dublin. Murphy’s was brewed in nearby Cork. (Fresh, crisp, like the air - - - Local. Local brew.)
I recall seeing Denis at one of the Pubs, the first one in the small town to open, with a pint in front of him, as we went searching for post hangover coffee.
We would join Denis, the self appointed Union Hall - Master of all Ceremony - at some nearly (but not quite) appropriate hour - at the family Pub - a tiny place - with big heart - long tradition - Nolan’s.
And the music would start. Singing. Ballads, sad, from deep places in heart - make you want to cry - Irish ballads. Poetry + Music = a Recipe to forever preserve Story.
And oh, the Irish stories…
Suffering people. Breaking, but never broken - People.
And Denis would sing. And Denis would dance. And if you didn’t want to dance, Denis would entice you. Denis waved his arm like a magic wand. Denis’ waving arm, pulled you in. There was no resisting - Denis.
“Open the Taps”, Denis said. Yea, and so it was - taps opened. Stout flowed. Young and old. Laughter and tears. Music and song.
The Pied Piper, Denis Joseph Glanton - Union Hall Master of all Ceremony
Gone, but never to be forgotten, Denis.
I remember. We remember you, good Sir.
*****
Happy Saint Patrick’s Day,
Denis at the big Pub in Heaven,
Family and Friends here on Earth.
Slainte (pronounced - Slan cha)
Now open the damn taps.
Dance, Sing
And again…
Slainte