Early January, 1983 Martin drove Mom to Shannon airport to board a one-way flight back to Chicago. One would imagine that I would have keen recollections of my mother leaving, but strangely I don’t. There were no tearful, emotional goodbyes. I recall nothing of it. Why is that?
What likely happened is that Martin and Mom left early in the morning before I was awake. I never had the visual of my Mom with suitcase in hand leaving to get on a plane. Children also have a keen instinct and I inherently knew that the Cooneys were good, kind, decent people. I was well familiar with their home. There was a comfort level with the surroundings. Martin and Mary were good as gold. It puzzles me to say it, but when Mom left, I wasn’t despondent and quickly embraced my new living arrangement.
The years in Ireland with Mom were very special. It would be the most consistent amount of time I would spend around her as a child. That period from 1980-1982 would represent the only time during my formative years that felt normal with her. Mom wasn’t a hugger or particularly affectionate, but we were very close. We often revisit and talk of that time together with great fondness.
Her three years in Ireland would have allowed her ample time to reflect on her own life and the desperation that led her there. There were a few instances where she drank to excess. Interestingly, it only took a few drinks before Mom would be slurring her words and completely useless. One such occasion would have been in the tiny, yellow caravan. I can still call back to the smell of the alcohol and my own unhappiness that she was in this compromised, altered state. Then again, maybe if you found yourself in your early 50’s living in such circumstances then getting hammered might have been a much-needed temporary escape.
There were more somber occasions where I remember her weeping. It was a strange and deeply disconcerting feeling to see my mother cry so hard that her sorrow would be plainly visible and audible. She was lying on her side in the bedroom of the apartment we rented from the Noones. It was if she didn’t want to be heard but couldn’t help it due to the depth of what she was experiencing. There must have been some terrible regrets and traumas that finally caught up with her in the cold, grey, wet stillness of the Irish west. I have never seen my mother cry since that time, ever.
Looking back, I wonder if she ever had the real intention of staying permanently in Ireland. She claims that she did, but the stagnant economy and her inability to drive eventually proved too much to overcome. Mom tended to take quick, drastic actions and then figure things out along the way. There didn’t appear to be a lot of long-range planning involved.
I can’t help but think that if she had truly wanted to stay in Ireland, Dublin would have been a more practical destination than Galway. There would have been a support network of family present and willing to help. All of her half-sisters were in Dublin. Then again, using logic to try and decipher my Mom’s decisions will always be an exercise in frustration. For someone who is undoubtedly resourceful, hardworking, and pragmatic, there has always been a pattern where she would make random, draw-dropping decisions that beggared belief.
Whether she would ever admit it or not, there was also the reality that she may have left it too late to truly make a go of living in Ireland. Astoundingly, years later she would admit that she was unaware that she could have stayed in Ireland and registered for unemployment and received a financial stipend or the dole as it is referred by the locals. At age 52 and the facing the grim reality of her very limited options in the dire Irish economy, she took what she felt was the only decision for our future.
When she arrived at Chicago’s O’Hare airport in January of 1983, my sisters fully expected me to be with her. They were stupefied to find out that I had been left behind in Ireland. Mom’s reasoning was that she did not want to bring me over until she was settled in a stable situation. I bear no ill will towards her for the actions she took. I firmly believe that she was trying to put me in the best situation at the time. There was a confidence she had placed in the Cooney’s that came from a deep sense of trust. As many bad decisions as my Mom has made in her life, leaving me with the Cooney’s was not one of them.
While my living situation had changed, there were some constants. On the first episode of Top of the Pops in 1983, Phil Collins performed a cover of “You Can’t Hurry Love” by The Supremes. While much maligned for some of his work later in the decade, at this point he was on a rapid ascent that would land him near the top of the heap in pop music.
He was such an unlikely pop star. The receding hairline, short stature and average looks were in sharp contrast to the flash, outrageous images of the 80’s. His version of “You Can’t Hurry Love” holds up quite well. Whenever I hear the song, I’m transported back to the Cooney’s front room watching Phil Collins grooving in his dark blue suit.
I quickly settled into life with the Cooney’s. I remember the house very well. We normally entered through the side door. Once you walked into the house, the kitchen was on the right and the front room sat to the left. Passing through the kitchen led to a hallway. When you entered the hallway and turned right it took you to one of the toliets. Next to the toliet, was Kieran’s bedroom and adjacent to his quarters was a room with books, toys, and other recreational things. Further down the hallway was the home’s main entrance. Approaching the front door from the halIway took you to an intersection where to the right a few steps away was the main bathroom and across from the bathroom was a room that I can best describe as a parlor. We rarely went in this room and it was hardly ever used. There was plastic covering on some of the furniture. Finally at the far end of the hallway was Martin and Mary’s bedroom. I don’t remember where their daughter Roisin’s room was! Maybe if she had toys I had been interested in I would have paid closer attention 😉
I shared a bedroom with Kieran, their 9-year-old son. This represented the biggest change, I had known Kieran well enough, but I never would have classified us as friends in the same way as Patrick Noone, Stephen Corbett, Martin Cavannagh or Angus Nee.
I’ve only just mentioned Martin up to this point, but he was one of my better friends at the time along with Stephen. He lived up the main road going past the school. He had dark eyes, almost an olive complexion and light brown hair that parted in the middle naturally. Martin had an easy, gentle smile and pleasant, friendly way about him. Martin Cavannaugh was my good friend!
Kieran was one year ahead of me at school. We got along ok most of the time, but he could be a right prick. Maybe he resented my presence at the house, I don’t know. He would look to pick fights with me. To this day, I can’t remember any of the reasons for why the scraps would start. I was not aggressive or confrontational by nature. I distinctly remember that in most instances I hated the idea of fighting. The roots of this reticence were likely based on the genuine violence I was exposed to when my father raised his hands in anger to my mother.
Kieran probably identified that perceived weakness quickly as only kids can do. Most of the time he’d get the better of me, simply due to my reluctance to engage. One instance in particular really cemented his status in my 8-year-old mind as a rotten piece of work. One day we were running around outside, playing and generally having a good time. It was time for a pee break and we both had to go. No problem, we hit the bathroom to take a piddle in the toilet at the same time. The two of us peeing into the toilet from opposite sides.
Ciaran finished up before me. Then, for reasons I’ll never know, he decides to kick me in the nuts just as I’m finishing up. God Almighty………the shock and the pain was unreal. It was completely unprovoked and a brazen act of cruelty. I didn’t tattle on him, probably out of sheer embarrassment.
Kieran was clever enough that he was rarely caught in the act by Martin or Mary. But they knew well enough that he could be a pill. I was not as Machiavellian as Kieran but in an incident that occurred shortly after getting kicked in the balls, I took some measure of revenge.
Once again Kieran had gone spoiling for a fight. This time I wasn’t having any of it. I wrestled him down to the ground outside on the gravel driveway behind the house. I pinned him down and sat on his stomach so he had nowhere to go. They call it full mount in mixed martial arts. Basically, if you’re on the bottom, you’re in big trouble. Kieran squirmed and struggled, but when I asserted myself I was plenty strong enough to handle him. Just as I was in prime position to exact payback, Martin pulled into the driveway riding the JCB. He could see that we weren’t just roughhousing. Martin calls out, “No Jimmy!”. I heard him loud and clear, but I didn’t care. I dropped my elbow down on Kieran’s jaw. Martin hopped down out of the digger and ran over. I got up and stepped back before he arrived. Kieran was in tears on the ground, blubbering and probably embarrassed to have had his hide handed to him in front of his Dad. Fortunately for me, Martin did not meet out any kind of punishment. I’m convinced the reason I was spared is he likely had a sense that Kieran had it coming. God knows Kieran pushed their buttons as well and on one memorable occasion, pressed his luck too far.
I can tell you this with certainty, Martin was slow to anger and a genuinely nice man. I don’t know what Kieran did, but he had drawn the serious ire of Martin. His transgression must have been of some consequence because Martin pulled off the belt and applied it with conviction to Kieran’s backside.
We ate dinner in the front room next to the window that gave a fine view of the sea. Roisin and I were seated at the dinner table waiting for Kierran. We waited in silence as yelps of pain emitted from the back bedroom. We both knew what was happening. There was a solemn silence as we waited for the punishment to conclude. Soon enough Kieran emerged, audibly whimpering as he walked slowly and gingerly to the dinner table. While keeping up the solemn veneer, I had no sympathy for his plight. Neither from my observation did Roisin. The topper was when Kieran went to sit down. As soon as he tried to seat himself and his freshly spanked bottom made contact with the chair, his raw backside protested and he instinctively jumped up in pain while the whimpering increased to a comical, “Ow wow! wow! wow!”
There were about three attempts to sit down at the dinner table. Each attempt was punctuated by a pained, “Ow-wow wow wow!”. The scene was like something out of an episode of the Three Stooges. Roisin and I exchanged glances and a slight expression that communicated our mutual contentment with his plight.
I got on fine with Roisin. She was 1-2 years my junior. She was short, had blond hair and often times a mischievous look in the eyes. There was never any friction or drama to my recollection, save for one particular instance. There was a pond to the left of the house. We would go over to the pond, sometimes to look at the frogs and tadpoles. I remember her horror when on one occasion I decided that it would be hilarious to let a long snot dangle from my nose into the water. What made my feat notable was that the snot stayed attached to my nostril as it entered the still water. It was a good 10-12 inches long. The sort of foolishness that an 8 year old boy finds incredibly amusing. As I was violating the local ecosystem with my yellow mucus, Roisin found my stunt justifiably revolting and ran off to tell Mary. I laughed and laughed while staying in my fixed position so that the magificent feat could be viewed for a least another minute. Mary poked her head out the door after Roisin tattled on me. Mary took a quick glance, gave a wearied shake of the head and turned back inside. I kept laughing away, so pleased with myself.
The complicated relationship with Kieran did not spoil my time with the Cooney’s. Truth be told, it probably served to toughen me up a bit. The fact of the matter was that while I was a year younger than Kieran, when I put my fear aside, I was more than a match for him.
This dynamic also played out on the GAA pitch. Martin enrolled us at the local GAA football club. We began training and soon matches followed. I loved the sport and the game came quickly to me. My hand-to-eye coordination was sound and GAA is fantastic for developing a wide range of athletic skills. For those of you who are unfamiliar, it is played with a ball that looks like a cross between a soccer ball and volleyball. There are 15 players on each side and the field is enormous, ranging from 130-145 meters long and 80-90 meters wide.
Kicking the ball out of hand is a fundamental part of the game and how points are scored. One point is awarded for a kick through the uprights while three points are awarded for a goal scored in the area guarded by the keeper (like soccer). I remember kicking two points through the uprights and it felt very natural. Even better was when I scored a goal while Kieran was playing keeper. It was wet and muddy, there was a scramble in front of goal. The ball was sitting available and I stuffed it in as Kieran reached for it.
Kieran tried to claim that I cheated as I kicked the ball while he was trying to gather it. I shouldn’t have been surprised. At the time, I was worried that he might be right. Looking back, it was absolute nonsense and he was talking complete rubbish. The goal was valid and it counted. The trainer Enda Colleran later remarked that I would make a good footballer.
When I compare the dynamics of the relationship with Kieran to that of my relationship with Patrick Noone, it was light years apart. While I wasn’t living with Patrick, we were in very close proximity and spent a lot of time together in 1982. We also had instances where we’d have a minor tiff but never a physical confrontation of any significance. There was never any malice in our interactions. In fact, I never had a physical fight with any of my other friends.
There would be more scraps during my time at the Cooney’s. Sometimes, they would involve the neighbor that lived to the right of us, the Connelly’s. Yes, I think about 25% of the population in Galways have the name Connolly. At least it seems that way. Kenneth Connolly often joined in our adventures exploring the fields and various other outdoor activities. Yet my primary recollection of Kenneth was that he would top the hierarchy when fights would break out. Kenneth took turns handling Kieran and myself when things turned physical. Since I referenced the Three Stooges previously, Kenneth definitely would have been Moe. The one who regularly deals out the slaps and keeps the others in line.
I can’t remember any good reason why these fights would happen. You can throw out the cliches that boys will be boys and there is some truth to that. It wasn’t far off from a Lord of The Flies scenario where the children are off by themselves and a natural hierarchy is formed. The three of us were never under the tutelage of an adult. We were on our own and things just got sorted out. Kenneth was clearly the alpha dog amongst the three of us.
However, everyone has someone out there that has their number. My cousins, the Newell’s had come by for a visit in the spring. One of the Newell boys was around our age but there was one key difference. He was part of my family and therefore had a fundamental leaning my way. The four of us, myself, Kieran, Kenneth and my cousin quickly set out to get acquainted and pal around. Inevitably, Kenneth sought to establish that he was the de facto leader of the group and tried to stamp his authority among us. Well, my cousin wasn’t reading from that script. A tussle ensued, and my cousin roughed up Kenneth with ease, reducing him to tears in rapid fashion.
We were stunned to see the hierarchy turned on its head. My cousin had no awareness that Kenneth was the king of this tiny patch of Barna. He didn’t give it a second thought. From his perspective, he was just sorting out someone who had asked for it. Truth be told it was a glorious moment. It was good to see little lord Kenneth get a good slapping in his own fiefdom.
The Newell’s visit was likely connected to my First Communion, which was happening that spring. This was a big occasion. There were various activities and preparations that occurred in the build-up to the event. One of my assigned activities was drawing an Easter card. I drew the figure of Christ on the cross with the crown of thorns on his head. This was serious business and I had to get all the details right. I referenced the various images of Jesus on the cross I saw at church and there was always some writing just above his head. It was a few letters and they always started with an I. I wasn’t sure what exactly the order of the letters were or if it was a word. Ah well, I gave it a go and put together what I thought made sense to go above his head.
I proudly showed off my completed work to Mary Cooney. She had a good laugh when she saw “IRA” above the head of Christ. I’m not sure the Irish Republican Army had ever dared to dream up this type of propaganda. Maybe even they thought that it would have been a step too far! Thankfully Mary headed off any potential First Communion controversies. I had to go back and revise the letters to read “INRI”. See, I wasn’t that far off!
Part of the process involved with First Communion was Reconciliation. This sacrament required we enter the confessional booth and tell the priest all the sins we had committed. The whole procedure was very serious and I took it all to heart. Father Tully gave me a handful of Our Fathers and Hail Mary’s as my penance. I knelt in the pew and dutifully said my prayers.
For First Communion, my sister Mary Louise had sent over a light brown, corduroy suit from Lord & Taylor, a well known clothing store in the States. This was a tremendously kind and generous gesture on her part. Mary Louise is my elder by 24 years. She’s short-tempered but well-intentioned. I remember getting a good slap from her when I was in the backseat of the brown Pontiac Grand Torino she owned back in the late 70’s. There you go, my early memories of Louise pretty much capture that duality of her personality.
As for the day itself, the weather was temperate and sunny. Fittingly, the only photo I have from my time with the Cooney’s commemorates the occasion. After the church ceremony, we returned home to celebrate. A football match in the back garden was set up and we played for what it seemed like was ages. The adults took part as well. Martin and Coleman Newell both kicking the ball around with us. This is what I loved more than anything, running around playing sports.
Interestingly, the Cooney’s did not attend church in Barna. Normally, they made the drive farther east into Salthill to attend church. Apparently, they weren’t too keen on Father Tully. After mass, we always stopped by a nearby newsstand to get sweets. It was a lovely tradition.
Spring had arrived and the days were getting longer. In Ireland it stays light out longer than what we are accustomed to in the American Midwest. It would be light outside well past 9:00 pm by April or May. One day after school I had walked over to the field where our GAA football practices took place. I played with the kids who were there and stayed a long time. It was beginning to darken when I finally arrived back at the Cooney’s. Mary was as concerned as I had ever seen her. She wasn’t angry or upset, just genuinely worried to know where I had been. Mary was more relieved than anything and told me that I needed to be a bit more mindful of the time. What sticks in my head is that she would have been well within her rights to give me a good telling off. She chose not to and gently communicated why she was worried.
My awareness of sport continued to increase. I discovered rugby when I saw Ireland play France in the annual Five Nations tournament. Ireland were winning and would go one to score a rare win over their Gallic adversaries. However, instead of celebrating Ireland’s victory, I was immediately taken by one French player in particular, Serge Blanco. The French fullback was being lauded by the Irish commentators as the best player on the pitch. He was omnipresent and in the middle of all the action. Blanco did not appear as his name translates in Spanish, he was black. To be exact, he had a white French mother and a black, Venezuelan father. He was a bit more coffee-colored than anything. But he had kinky hair that gave away his ethnic roots. Even though I knew nothing about rugby I could sense that this was unusual as no other players on either team were black. Blanco cut a dashing figure in his long-sleeved, baggy jersey, artfully finding space on the muddy pitch to run at the Irish defense. He was a mix of physicality, finesse, and athletic prowess.
Another evening we were all gathered in the front room watching an athletic’s competition on the telly. The runners were heading towards the finish and I exclaimed, “I think the Black guy is gonna win!”. Mary quickly corrected me and told me the proper word was ‘coloured’, not ‘Black’. I was confused. In Chicago, everyone used the term ‘Black’. In Ireland, I saw exactly one person of colour in the 3 years I was there so the word never came up I suppose. ‘Coloured’ was already an outdated and archaic term in the States.
While living with the Cooney’s, I had the opportunity to learn how to ride a bike. It didn’t take very long to get the hang of it, but it was a thrilling feeling nonetheless once I was off riding about on my own. Normally, this would have been an activity learned at an earlier age. I don’t know why it had not happened with Mom. Maybe she didn’t have the money for a bicycle. Little, simple accomplishments like riding a bike and playing GAA functioned as building blocks of confidence for me. Soon, I would have an experience that would far surpass the bike riding or even the GAA football.
In late spring, the school held an annual race day. This was a highly anticipated event amongst the boys in my class. All the boys in 2nd and 3rd grade would compete in a race at a large open field near the school. This was a big deal. The place of the event must have been the sporting fields behind the Barna woods which was near the school.
As race day neared, the boys were talking about who would win. Kieran made it a point to tell me that Shane Colleran was going to beat me and I had no chance. Shane was the son of the GAA coach Enda Colleran. For those unaware, Enda Colleran was a certifiable legend in the sport, having led Galway to three All-Ireland titles in the 1960’s. Shane came from prestigious athletic stock. To be fair, he never made any such grandiose claims before the race, but Kieran would goad me repeatedly about how Shane was going to win.
The day arrived and my God was I nervous, but also very focused and excited. Those are the natural feelings of competition, the uncertainty of what will happen but the willingness to test yourself and find out how you measure up. Mr Joyce instructed all the runners to take their place on the starting line for the 100 meter dash.
I was a bundle of tensed-up energy ready to explode. Bang! The race started. I bolted out quickly into a sprint. I surged into the lead and never looked back. My arms pumped and I covered the ground quickly. There is a feeling when you’re running fast. It is as if you are gliding along the ground. There is no bouncing up and down. Your feet feel light and everything flows. I crossed the finish line comfortably in first place. I distinctly remember the boy who came in second, he wasn’t one of the more well-known or popular boys. He had short dark hair and wore a beige jumper. We exchanged a glance that communicated a respect amongst competitors. I don’t remember who finished 3rd but they were a good ways back. As for my advertised rival, poor Shane had fallen down at some point during the race. It must have been the sonic boom from my blazing start that sent him tumbling to the ground ;). But seriously, to win was a thrilling experience. It was a combination of relief and validation. That might sound absurd as this was a race between 8 and 9-year-old children. However, I can still remember the pride I felt when Mr Joyce wrote down and acknowledged that Jimmy Cook had won first place shortly after the race was over.
Kieran still had the nerve to go on about how Shane would have won had he not fallen. Shane never came around asking for another race. Soon enough, Kieran’s bitter blathering fell away like the empty words they were. I had won and the whole school had been there to see it. I felt incredible and it was my highlight of 1983.
Shortly thereafter, the school held an awards ceremony after class. Many of the parents were in attendance to watch. My name was called, and I walked up the stairs to collect my first-place plaque. I turned and looked out at the crowd of people that had gathered. I saw Mary Cooney. She was looking up at me and to this day I can see the emotion on her face. I’m welling up now as I recall her expression. She conveyed a tight-lipped but gentle maternal pride, tinged with a sort of kind sadness. Maybe she was thinking of Mom not being able to see the moment, maybe it was her own emotional feelings of seeing me rewarded for my accomplishment. I’ll never know. What I do know is that Mary being there meant the world to me, even if I wasn’t fully aware of it at the time. I dearly treasure that memory.
An enduring memory of my brief Irish childhood, was how much time was spent playing outside. I know this is may be universal to the time but what made Ireland different was we were out in the country. The green fields were wide open and bordered by stone walls. Mind you, these stone walls were not held together by plaster or cement. Those basic raw materials of construction were surplus to requirements. Men had taken the large stones so plentiful in Connemara and piled them one on top of the other to create the borders to define property lines. The walls were generally about 4 feet high. These stone walls are fundamental to the landscape.
We would climb over these walls and romp about the field on our adventures. Part of the fun was at times you didn’t know what was in the next field. Sometimes we happened upon cows or a donkey. You had to be mindful if the cows were in a foul mood! It was great fun and I’m convinced to this day that the balance and dexterity that was formed from all the climbing, running, jumping, and falling down enhanced our balance and athleticism. There was an immense freedom and simple pleasure I derived from roaming the fields, coming home knackered, eating whatever was on the table, washing up and crashing into bed.
Pop Culture
I would say that with all the activity I was engaged in while at the Cooneys there was less time for TV. One show that exploded in popularity in early 1983 that we watched faithfully was Fame. Every week we would be mesmerized by these kids in New York City who were attending a prestigious school for the performing arts. Aside from the theme song by Irene Cara which was a massive hit, the only character I can remember is Lee Roy. He was black, wore his hair in corn rows and of course was a pure product of the street. The epitome of cool, especially in Ireland. In Barna, we were about as far removed from urban cool as you could get!
As for movies, Martin took us to see E.T at the cinema. It was a major event to go to see a movie at the theatre. We were buzzing with anticipation and excitement. The theatre was just about full for the occasion. E.T hit all the right notes for an 8-year-old boy and I was suitably entertained by Steven Spielberg’s blockbuster. Once again, this was a film released in the US during the summer of 1982. Here we were in Ireland watching the same film on screen at least 9 or 10 months later.
While at the Cooney’s, I received my first exposure to English First Division soccer. This is where my initial affinity for Manchester United was borne. They played Liverpool and I remember three details from the match. Firstly, Manchester United drew with Liverpool. Secondly, United had a goalkeeper with a green jersey and blond hair named Gary Bailey. Lastly, United had the only black player on the pitch. I didn’t know his name at the time, he was Remi Moses. His name sounds like a character from some sort of post-apocalyptic novel.
Top of the Pops of course was still regular viewing. The biggest hit I can recall watching was Michael Jackson’s “Billy Jean”. The video was spellbinding as each step that Michael Jackson took would light up as he walked around a deserted urban landscape at night. The video was full of slow-motion shots and featured a Private Investigator who was tracking Michael. The PI also looked like he might be a flasher with the trench coat and dodgy mustache he was wearing. This was well before MJ’s Wacko Jacko phase, and he was nearing the zenith of his popularity. At this point, Michael Jackson was super cool and on an upward trajectory that would make him far and away the biggest music star of the 1980’s.
A few of the other songs and videos that I can say with certainty that I remember from early 1983 were “Land Down Under” by Men at Work. The enduring image that stays in my mind is the group staggering across a desert landscape. “Africa” by Toto is another hit where I still see a bearded man wearing a khaki top singing the song’s refrain. It was a tremendous variety of musical styles that populated the charts. More than 40 years removed from that era, I can say with some confidence that 81-83 was an exceptional time for pop music.
Summer 1983
In Ireland, school concludes for summer break at the end of June. Shortly after classes wrapped up for 2nd grade, arrangements were made for me to go on holiday to Chicago. The plan was for me to visit for the summer and then return to Ireland in time for school. I was elated and soon enough we were driving to Shannon airport. It was July 9th and I would be flying by myself from Shannon to Boston, then I was to catch a connecting flight from Boston to Chicago.
Martin and Mary were there to send me on my way as I waited at the gate to board the plane. I don’t recall if there were any hugs but I know I was given a warm farewell. Mary in particular stays present in my mind as I call back to that day. Apparently, she told my Mom shortly afterward, “I knew he wouldn’t be coming back.”. She was right, I would never again come back to live in Ireland. What was initially planned as a summer visit quickly turned into a permanent arrangement. I’m not sure how quickly that decision was taken but I have to think that it didn’t take long. Fundamentally, there was no logical reason for me not to be with my immediate family.
I didn’t know it at the time, but my 6 months with the Cooney’s would represent the most stable and normal period of my childhood. Don’t get me wrong, I was surrounded by family who loved and cared for me in Chicago. I didn’t go on to have any kind of traumatic childhood in Chicago, far from it! I have mostly good memories from the rest of my grade school years that ended in June 1989. But it was not conventional and there were major gaps in my upbringing.
I was incredibly fortunate to have been taken in by Martin and Mary. As the years have passed by the experience stays with me more and more. How they treated me and the experiences I had under their roof were priceless. There was nothing dramatic or life-changing that they did. All in all, they were very normal. The two of them were kind, intelligent, good-humoured people with hearts of gold. None of those traits jump off the page but put them all together and it is a special package indeed. God bless them.
Ireland 1979-1983 
