The Pipes, The Pipes Are Calling

The kids had Thursday and Friday off (teacher in-service days), so I took advantage of the long weekend to take them to New York City. We stayed with my brother Rob in New Jersey, and took the train into the city each day. We were unabashed tourists, hitting all of the major sites -- Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, World Trade Center, Empire State Building, Central Park, etc. It was a great time, Rob is an excellent tour guide, and Rob and Elaine were wonderful hosts.

Rob and I got to reminiscing about the similar trip we did as kids, at almost exactly the same ages as my gang; my dad took us boys when we were 12, 11, and 9 for a long weekend in New York. Some things were exactly the same this time, but others (Times Square, Battery Park, Grand Central Station) have gone from seedy to splendid -- and Ellis Island was abandoned back then, but is now a major attraction.

Another highlight of that earlier trip was a visit to John Barleycorn's Pub in Midtown one night. They had live Irish music, and at one point a guy sang a beautiful version of "Danny Boy". Beforehand my dad told us the story -- of a young Irish man going off to war, and his father knowing he wouldn't be alive for his son's return. He's telling his son he's proud of him, and he loves him, and goodbye. So simple, and so sad.

The song's story plus the soaring live rendition got all three of us boys crying. My dad appeared somewhat satisfied, I think, that an unspoken lesson had been learned: And that, my boys, is part of what it means to be Irish.  It's Guinness and St. Patrick's Day and all, but the story's richer than that, even if it's not always mirthful.

Why is that important?  Why do we want our kids to hang onto traditions, and remember that they're Irish, or German, or Polish, or Mexican, or whatever?  It's a complex question, I suppose.  Maybe we believe the values we were raised with and hold dear are intertwined with other aspects of the culture; maintain the food and the language and the dancing and the legends, and the values will accompany.  I don't know, but I feel the obligation.  (Even if it means occasionally eating boiled cabbage.)

Here in Chicago "staying Irish" is pretty easy to do, thanks to the critical mass of people, institutions, pubs, etc.  When you've got your choice of a half-dozen Irish dance schools within a reasonable distance, you know you're not in Peoria.  (There's also a steady-enough flow of people from the Old Country to keep the connection strong.)  Folks certainly take this all with varying degrees, from "St. Patrick's Day only" to "fanatic devotion to all things Green".  Our family is somewhere in the middle, a comfortable place to be.

John Barleycorn's isn't in New York anymore, as the whole block was torn down a few years ago for a new high-rise.  But I'll always remember that night long ago and that sentiment, and intend to pass some of that heritage on.

Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling

From glen to glen, and down the mountain side

The summer's gone, and all the flowers are dying

'Tis you, 'tis you must go and I must bide.

But come ye back when summer's in the meadow

Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow

'Tis I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow

Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so.

And if you come, when all the flowers are dying

And I am dead, as dead I well may be

You'll come and find the place where I am lying

And kneel and say an "Ave" there for me.

And I shall hear, tho' soft you tread above me

And all my dreams will warm and sweeter be

If you'll not fail to tell me that you love me

I'll simply sleep in peace until you come to me.

I'll simply sleep in peace until you come to me.

Pat