When the warmer summer temperatures arrived and the school year concluded, I became more aware of sports and pop culture. Mom’s part-time employers, the Doyle’s had gone away on holiday and Mom was asked to stay at the house and look after things for a few weeks. This meant that I would be staying at the Doyle’s as well. They had a medium-sized home that was tastefully decorated and clean. Their home was located in a posh part of Salthill. I’d be living the life of Reilly for a few weeks! However, what was notable was that my sojourn at the Doyle’s coincided with the 1982 World Cup.
I had no previous experience watching football on TV before the 1982 World Cup. This was all very new. The tournament took place in Spain and was christened Espana ’82. A big orange with tiny legs was the official mascot for the tournament.
I turned on the telly and the first World Cup match I ever watched was Cameroon versus Italy. I remember few details from the match, just that Cameroon wore green and that they scored to draw level at 1-1. I was rooting for Cameroon and oddly enough found myself heavily invested in the outcome of the match.
That level of vested interest paled in comparison to the next match I watched. Brazil was playing Italy, and the winner would earn a spot in the semi-finals. You could sense the atmosphere of anticipation seeing the crowd in the stadium on the television. Flags were waving, and the noise generated by the people in attendance was bewitching. There was an allure to the sheer intensity of the event that was to unfold. The most distinct sound I recall were the horns that would periodically be sounded. All of it added together made for an intoxicatingly addictive atmosphere. I quickly adopted Brazil as the team that I would support. I wasn’t keen on the Italians going back to their match with Cameroon. I did not want to see them win. I cannot give you a good reason why. The Roman noses? The demonstrative hand gestures? Who knows…..As for Brazil, I was enamoured with their kit. The yellow top with green colouring around the neck and sleeves. The shorts were a vivid, cornflower blue and the players seemed to glide around the pitch. There was a relaxed, rhythmic, nonchalant way about them that caught the eye.
During the match, I would learn to loathe the name Paolo Rossi. Brazil fell behind by a goal from Rossi early in the match. I was stunned and disappointed. Brazil hit back when this tall, thin player strolled into the Italian penalty area and calmly slotted in a shot to the near post. The player was named Socrates, no last name needed. All the Brazilian players were named in this manner. It was a longstanding tradition that added to their aura. Socrates had an immediate, unique presence. He was tall and thin with a beard and a languid way about him.
Italy took the lead again through Rossi. The match had become enthrallingly tense. I was sitting on the carpet just a few feet from the TV screen. Brazil were pressing forward. I was willing them on, leaning forward in hope. Then it happened.
A Brazilian player from just outside the penalty area had a moment on the ball. He took a few touches, and the Italians dropped off him for an instant, unsure as to what he was going to do. The midfielder took his opportunity and ripped a left-footed shot that flew past the keeper into the goal. The player, Falcao (yes, the same name as the German pop star) ran away to celebrate his feat that had tied the match. The camera panned in on him individually as he raced towards his teammates with his arms outstretched, muscles flexed by instinctual reaction. Falcao had a blondish, almost Afro with a receding hairline. When he was flush with emotion after scoring that goal he looked like a Brazilian Richard Simmons.
The camera then closed in on his face and the emotion was pouring out of him. This drew me in because I felt in some strange way an intense connection to what he was feeling. I was also bursting at the gills with happiness and competitive glee with what had just occurred. My fascination with sport had begun.
Sadly, I was quickly introduced to the other side of sporting emotion 10 minutes later. As Brazil pushed forward for the goal that would win them the match, Italy punched back through Rossi, again. Italy would hold on and win the match 3-2. Italian pragmatism beating Brazilian romanticism. I was sorely disappointed. Funny enough, that Brazil squad would go down as the most popular team never to win a World Cup. They made their mark on a lot of young people that summer of 1982. The author, Stuart Horsfield wrote a book titled, 1982 Brazil: The Glorious Failure. He was 10 years old during Spain 82’ and his book does a great job of capturing what made that Brazil team so captivating to so many.
It is strange how the mind arranges memories. Brazil-Italy resides very prominent in my mind as a seminal sporting event, Due to the contest’s importance to me, I think of it as having taken place at the beginning of summer before the other events. However, another major sporting tradition created a lasting impression on my young sport’s psyche on July 4th, the day before the Brazil-Italy match.
Ohhhh say can you see….The Wimbledon men’s singles final was played on American Independence Day of 1982. Appropriate for the occasion, the match would be contested by two Americans. John McEnroe and Jimmy Connors would compete for the ultimate prize in professional tennis. Both men in their own way were perfect representations of an American. Connors and McEnroe were confident, arrogant, emotional, profane, and most importantly winners. History, tradition, and personal comportment were of no great value to them.
McEnroe was the younger man, more naturally talented, an artist with the tennis racquet. Connors was the grafter, a hard charging man who knew only one way to play, flat out all the time. I watched the match with Mom in our apartment and quickly decided I would support Connors. Why? It was probably because we shared the same first name. Connors was the more assertive, brash personality on the court. McEnroe was more withdrawn and a study in focused concentration until he would reach inevitable points of emotional eruption.
Connors was an expert provocateur and frankly a complete boor. He knew how to push buttons and get under people’s skin with his antics. He was demonstrative and loud. He and McEnroe were so different. The only common trait they shared from a personality standpoint was competitiveness and a lack of self-control.
Mom and I watched the entire match. This was a real investment of time as the final lasted more than 4 hours. The spectacle was riveting. The one-on-one nature of the confrontation upped the stakes and piqued my interest in the outcome.
Connors and McEnroe exchanged words and there was obvious antipathy between the two men. It gave the proceedings a real edge and the crowd loved it. Jimmy Connors would win the 1982 Wimbledon Final in a five-set marathon.
There must have been something that connected me to both participants. I certainly had the lack of patience and self-control that both men displayed. I was demonstrative and strong-willed when I was involved in something that interested me. Competition made me buzz with a certain energy. There was an excitement that totally enveloped me, married to a huge amount of nervousness related to the uncertainty of the outcome. These feelings would collide to create a heightened sense of anticipation. I was so completely engaged and absorbed by this charged state of being. Nothing else mattered.
The Brazil-Italy match functioned as my introduction to the emotion that sport could arouse. The Connors-McEnroe Wimbledon final exposed me to the raw ambition of individual competition. The All-Ireland Football final between Kerry and Offaly would complete my sporting trilogy and send me over my emotional threshold. For those of you who are not Irish, the All-Ireland Football final is a massive event on the domestic sporting calendar. The brand of football that is played is Gaelic football. This is a sport that requires speed, strength, stamina, agility, and excellent hand-to-eye coordination. All the Irish counties are involved and compete for the honour of becoming All-Ireland champions. Whereas the previous sporting events mentioned had an international scope, this was closer to home. This was tribal.
County Kerry were aiming for their 5th consecutive All-Ireland title, a feat that had never been accomplished up to that point. Kerry were the rightful favourites to come away with the historic victory. Offaly were well regarded but not considered to be in Kerry’s class. For reasons that will always remain a bit of a mystery, I decided to support Offaly. It could have been as simple as I liked their kit colours better than Kerry. Once I had made that choise of who to support, I was all in.
The match kicked off and I watched it play out on the telly at our apartment. It was nerve-wracking to watch as the two teams competed on even terms. Mom would occasionally stroll into the room to check on what was happening. I would inform her of the score straightaway. I was unknowingly very tetchy, not wanting to be bothered by anything while the contest was in the balance. As the match entered the final few minutes, Kerry started to exert just a little bit of control. My nervousness was turning into panic. The men from “the kingdom” pushed out four points in front with just a few minutes left.
The pressure was building to a crescendo that was too much for me. The devastating realization that Kerry were going to win a 5th consecutive All-Ireland was a result I was not prepared to accept. I ran out of the room in tears and threw myself on the bed in complete and abject misery. How could this be?! Why?! Why was Kerry winning? I didn’t want them to win!! I wanted Offaly!!! Simple, primal emotional thoughts and utterances from a 7-year-old who had completely gone to pieces. It would have been a good laugh to a bystander looking on.
Mom comes in to find out what all the fuss was all about. “Oh dear….oh my goodness…” she said, fumbling for the right words to comfort me. She walked into the front room and moments later announced excitedly, “Jimmy! Come here! Offaly scored a goal!!!”. I jumped up and tore out of the bedroom to see what had happened. It was true! Offaly had scored a goal with a minute left to play. Goals were hard to come by in Gaelic football, to score a goal under such pressure-filled circumstances was a genuine rarity. Offaly were now ahead by a single point. After another 60 seconds of frenetic, chaotic play, the final whistle sounded and Offaly had won the 1982 All-Ireland. You would have thought that I had won the All-Ireland by the way I was jumping around and hollering. I had no connection to Offaly, but on that day it was my favourite county in Ireland.
Logically, my attachment to sport did not make a lot of sense. No one in my life up to that point had exposed me to sport. This was a completely organic and natural affinity that I had within me. It was a very pure attraction with no outside influence. There was no father taking me out to the field to kick a ball around or introducing me to sporting events to pass along their knowledge. The irrational and inexplicable attraction to competition was wholly authentic. This passion for sport would remain a constant for the rest of my life. I can say with absolute certainty that the fire inside was ignited in the summer of 1982.
Pop Music 1982
Music continued to emerge as another area of keen interest for me. This was fuelled almost entirely by the show Top of the Pops. It is difficult to convey to a younger audience or an American just how important this music program was in the UK and Ireland. Every Thursday evening at 7:00 pm pretty much everyone under the age of 25 would be tuned in to watch Top of the Pops. The show would count down the latest music hits, pausing for “live” renditions by performers invited to the show.
Top of the Pops was my first exposure to pop music. Many of the artists that hit it big in 1982 had a lasting influence on my musical proclivities. Fortunately, it was a truly seminal year for music. Duran Duran, Yazoo, Tears For Fears, Adam Ant, Eurythmics, Madness, Dexy’s Midnight Runners, and loads of other artists produced some incredible music.
Just as the summer of 1982 brought sport into clear, sharp focus for me, the autumn of 1982 is where my most vivid musical memories reside. In late September, “Eye of the Tiger” by Survivor was at the top of the charts. I liked the song, but on that week’s program, a new entry was racing up the charts. Musical Youth made their debut with “Pass the Dutchie”. By the end of the song, I was hooked. It was an infectious, cheeky, reggae ditty. “Pass the Dutchie” was melodic, rhythmic, and infused with a youthful innocence and playful insolence that captivated the public.
Musical Youth was a band based out of Birmingham comprised of 5 young, black, British boys of Jamaican heritage. One could make the easy comparison to The Jackson 5 but Musical Youth were quite different. Their image was not as polished, and they seemed to come out of nowhere. The following week on TOTP’s the song had rocketed to number one on the British and Irish music charts. I was mad for the song and mad for the group. For three glorious weeks, Musical Youth ruled the number one spot on Top of the Pops. I would be elated when, at the end of each TOTP episode, the countdown would reveal that Musical Youth had retained the top spot on the charts.
My elation would be short-lived as another musical phenomenon made its own auspicious debut on TOTP. In mid October, Culture Club was invited to play on the show. Then this person with wearing makeup, bits of paper rubbish in their hair and a jumper/dress appeared and began sauntering about after singing the opening, “Give me time……to realize my crime…..”. Questions flooded into my young mind. Who was this? What are they? Why are they dressed like this? I didn’t understand. But I knew something was amiss. I viewed Boy George with confused suspicion, not knowing quite how to react.
Of far more importance was the success of their debut single, “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me.” The song raced up the charts and soon the unthinkable had occurred. Culture Club dethroned Musical Youth from pole position. I was crestfallen. Of all the bands to usurp the number one spot, how could it be Culture Club and their slightly podgy and dodgy singer Boy George! This was an outrage. This was not right. I cried tears of frustrated indignation when Culture Club climbed to the top spot on the charts. Boy George had certainly hurt me!
Funny enough, Boy George is of Irish descent with both parent hailing from the Emerald Isle. He’s gone on to participate in some fascinating documentaries about his experience growing up in 1970’s London.
For one whole month, I had to endure the fact that Culture Club was number one on the charts. They were the undisputed kings or…. queens of pop music. What is funny is that as an adult “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me” is my favourite song by Culture Club by some distance. The tune was also a reggae-influenced piece but more of a torch song. It is a great work that has aged well. But that was not my position in October of 1982. My only concern was who would emerge to oust these less-than-manly musical misfits from the number one position.
Caribbean vibes were in the air that autumn because soon enough, another reggae influenced track was ascending the charts. Eddy Grant’s “I Don’t’ Want to Dance” finally delivered me from the torment of seeing Culture Club and Boy George reign supreme week after week. On November 13th, “I Don’t Wanna Dance” claimed the number one spot and stayed there for three weeks. The song itself wouldn’t fall firmly into the category of reggae as it has a wonky, electric guitar solo in the middle of the tune. But it was a catchy sing-along and Eddy Grant came off as a pretty cool dude sitting on his floating platform just off the island coast with his dreadlocks jamming on his guitar.
Eddy Grant is known for one song in the States, “Electric Avenue”. “I Don’t Wanna Dance” was released in the UK and Ireland before “Electric Avenue” and proved to be the bigger hit. The song wasn’t released in the US until the following July. “I Don’t Wanna Dance” only made it to number 53 on the Billboard 100.
1982 going into 1983 remains my favourite time for pop music. I count myself fortunate to have had my introduction to music during this period. There was an inventiveness, a creativity, a marriage of new technology with a new outlook and ambition. The quintessential 80’s sound was truly established from 81’-83’.
The first feelings of nostalgia that I ever felt were connected to music of this period. At the ripe old age of 14, I was at a record shop in Chicago in 1989. I didn’t normally look through the vinyl section as everything I owned was on cassette. This time however I decided to leaf through the vinyls and came upon an image I had not seen in years. It was Musical Youth’s album from 1982 titled, “The Youth of Today”. I was blown away by the unexpected discovery. Seeing the group that I had forgotten about for years struck within me a flood of wondrous warm emotion. I bought the album and took it home to my sister Ann’s house. We recorded the album onto cassette. I listened to the entire album and remember the strange, mysteriously intoxicating sensation of being ever so briefly transported back to another place and time.
Nostalgia is a double-edged sword. While it does allow you to grab onto a feeling that made a mark on you in the past, the memory fades and you can find yourself aching for that sensation that will never happen again in the same way. There is an inherent sadness connected to nostalgia that is inescapable. Maybe that is why there are those types of people that claim they never look back. Maybe it’s too painful for some to think back to times they enjoyed with the knowledge that that event is over, never to be repeated or enjoyed in the same way again.
The same feeling repeated itself in 8th grade when I happened to catch “Come Eileen” by Dexy’s Midnight Runners on the radio. I had not heard that song since it had been a hit back in ’82. There was my unexpected delight upon recognizing the famous piano and fiddle introduction through the sing-along chorus. The fact that the song pulls influences from Irish culture made it all the more poignant. Once again, it is hard to describe that initial sensation. It is not a feeling. Feeling is too mundane a word for the experience. There is a switch turned on in your brain and the chemical reaction that floods into your consciousness causes almost a dreamlike quality. Everything stops still as you drink in that fleeting moment.
Often you’ll hear people say, “I don’t live in the past.” Or something to that effect. Honestly, I do wish I could transport back to a place and time from my own past, if only for a few minutes. To a place where you are watching a younger version of yourself within the world as it was, at that certain place and time. You’re just an outside observer but you can feel, see, and touch that place that is gone forever, be it 1982, 1988 or 1991.
2nd grade 1982
Coming back to my Ireland experience in 1982, school was in session and I was in 2nd grade. There were big changes all about. A new school building had been constructed. It was concrete, modern, and a dramatic improvement from the school sheds we had used the year prior. We also had a new teacher, Mrs. Colleran.
Mrs. Colleran was older and a product of a bygone era. She was stern and scholarly with a dour, wrinkled expression, dark curly hair and glasses. She was taller than Mrs. Thornton and had to be approaching 60 years of age. On a sunny day early in the school year my gaze was drawn to a wasp that was buzzing about the window outside of the classroom. To regain my attention, Mrs. Colleran slapped the back of my head with some force. This wasn’t a little clip to the side of my head, it was a slap with a dose of spiteful nastiness. The impact was a real shock. On another occasion, I had to hold my hand out as she rapped a ruler across my fingers.
I don’t hold any fond memories of Mrs. Colleran, there wasn’t another, kinder side of her that revealed itself to me that year. No, she was just a mean old codger. Unfortunately, one of many that dwelled within the Irish educational system for far too long.
There were also a couple of authority figures at the school, Mr. Joyce and Mr. Mularkey. Mr Joyce had dark, straight hair, a beard, and glasses. He was likely under 40 and seemed to be a halfway decent sort. As for Mularkey, what a great name for a principal: Mr. Mularkey. He was a stern, humourless figure that the kids would joke about behind his back. I don’t recall any interactions with him. Maybe I was lucky in that regard. I have heard accounts from former classmates that don’t paint a favorable portrait of the man at all. I have to say that I hold nothing but loathing contempt for educational, authority figures that use their position to bully or instill terror in children. Too many Irish children were disgracefully treated by teachers and priests for much of the 20th century in Ireland. Some of Barna’s children sadly suffered from that dark , shameful chapter in Ireland’s history.
Halloween 1982
In late October, we had some time off school. Mom decided to head over to visit the Sullivans in Clarinbridge. We arrived and were welcomed by Ann and Mike as well as their boys Brian and Michael.
Ann’s sister Julia occupied the in-law connected to the house with her two daughters Maureen and Siobhan. Maureen was about 13 while Siobhan was a year or two younger than me. Maureen was blond with the more immediately assertive personality. Though I would never admit it at the time, I thought she was pretty.
Siobhan had a darker complexion and was less extroverted. I may have even joked that she looked like a tinker. She had a Dutchboy haircut and played the part of the younger sister quite well, badgering and whinging when she didn’t get her way.
Julia was a typical Connelly from a temperamental point of view. She was of similar height to my mother and had short, blond hair parted to the side. The Sullivans had a large enough house to accommodate all of us. There was a large garage or barn area where Mike had all sorts of equipment. He was of average height, lean and fit. His curly, grey hair sat atop a receding hairline. Mike was kind, accommodating, good-humoured, calm and reliable.
Ann was a small energetic woman with sharp, dark, birdlike eyes that expressed intelligence. She had reddish hair that may have been tinged with colouring. While she had the Connelly kindness, there was an industrious, no-nonsense side to her that I attribute to living in Chicago.
The Sullivans had two cocker spaniels, Prince and Lucky. There was a large field behind the house where the two dogs could romp about and patrol the property.
We were there at the height of Musical Youth’s popularity and Maureen had purchased their single, “Pass the Dutchie” on vinyl. I remember being so excited to listen to the song as she put it on the record player. Looking at the album cover, I was then possessed by the rather ridiculous idea to pay homage to my Musical Youth fandom by dressing up as one of the members of the group for Halloween.
Seeing as I wasn’t Black, this costume idea posed some logistical challenges. One of the band members wore a black beret and that is what I decided to design my costume around. I don’t know where I managed to find a black beret, but somehow, I did. Now mind you, there were no other efforts on my part regarding costume accessories. I would simply wear the black beret and of course people would know for sure who I was dressed as. No question about it.
When Halloween night arrived. The group of us headed out to trick or treat. Halloween was not as big deal in Ireland at the time, but we did go door to door in the area and were well received. At each house where we rang the doorbell and were greeted by the owners, I would proudly inform them that I was dressed as a member of Musical Youth.
This drew almost exclusively puzzled reactions or polite platitudes. “Oh, ok. That’s grand.” was pretty much the general reaction. I was confused and somewhat disappointed. This is the only Halloween I ever dressed up in costume during my childhood. Once I moved back to Chicago and began living with my sister Ann and her husband Greg, their beliefs as born again fundamentalist Christians did not mix with celebrating Halloween. Seeing as much as I loved monsters and scary creatures, it is curious that I chose to dress up as a member of a music band that quickly faded from relevance.
Werewolves, Dracula, ghouls, and any kind of reptilian creature all piqued my interest. There were horror comics I came across in the Galway bookshops. I was immediately drawn in by the creepy stories and illustrations. I owned at least one comic that chronicled the cycle of the werewolf. I was curious, fearful, fascinated and inevitably drawn into the macabre world of horror.
Seeing these images on screen was even more engrossing. In the early 1980s, Salem’s Lot was shown on Irish television. Stephen King’s vampire tale scared the bejesus out of me. The vampire was bald and hideous, drawing inspiration from Nosferatu. Boys my age were amongst his victims and that made it all the more terrifying. When one of the boys disappears at the hands of the vampire, only to reappear one foggy night floating by the window of his friend, I was frozen with fright. But at the same time, I loved it. “No, no! I can’t take it!” then moments later, “Wait, wait, just a bit more….” quickly followed by “No, no it’s too scary! Hang on…..what happens now?” There was something irresistible about being caught between those feelings.
Late 1982
After our stay at the Sullivans, we were now firmly entrenched into the school year. There was a settled rhythm to life living in the Noone’s small yet comfortable apartment. My good friend and regular playmate Patrick was next door. Mom and I continued our regular visits to the Cooney’s. In mid-December I was invited to celebrate Stephen Corbet’s 8th birthday. The boy with the Hiberno-Norman name was turning 8 on December 12th, two days before me.
Like Patrick, Stephen and I had become good friends at school. Stephen had dark hair and eyes full of life and energy. We shared similar personality traits as we were enthusiastic, boisterous lads eager for fun and adventure. His house was on the road that led to the beach, and I remember so well the birthday ballons and decorations.
In his home at the party, there was an orange balloon that had an Indian chief’s head imprinted on it that to this day reminds me of the former mascot for the University of Illinois, Chief Illiniwek.
In 2022, I reconnected with Stephen, and he recounted how he regarded me as his first friend. He spoke about getting permission from his parents to walk up the road to my house. As Stephen recalls, we took off down the road together, arms over each other’s shoulders to plot our adventure. It’s good to know that others share those same type of lasting memories of seemingly mundane moments that in fact really matter.
A few days later on December 14th, it was my own birthday. I was 8 years old. My sisters kindly sent over gifts for the occasion. Looking back, that was so thoughtful as it would not have been cheap or easy to send a package overseas. I didn’t have a birthday party, but it isn’t something I dwelled on or felt bad about. Maybe since it had never happened in my recollection to that point, I didn’t expect a big fuss for my birthday. That might sound a bit sad in retrospect, but at the time it didn’t bother me unduly. I was 8 years old and a happy boy.
1982 Christmas in Dublin
When school let out for the Christmas holiday break, we headed across the country to Dublin. That sounds rather grand, but it is only 150 miles from Galway to Dublin. We’d be celebrating Christmas with my cousins in Swords, a section of Dublin town situated north of the city proper. Most of my mom’s half-siblings lived in that area of Dublin. The reason for the Dublin connection comes from the fact that her mother had died during childbirth when she was 3. Her father, Stephen subsequently remarried a Dublin woman, Molly, with who he had a brood of 9 children. Mom had good relations with her half-siblings and got on very well with them.
Mom and I took the train and I remember it being rather classy. The interior of the train was decorated nicely. There was a food and beverage car where I could get a pack of crisps and a Lilt. Lilt was a pineapple-flavoured soft drink that never made its way to the States. The trip was pleasant as we glided along the rails to Dublin.
We arrived in town and were picked up by Michael Renehan. Michael was married to Mom’s half-sister Mairead. He was lively and good company. He was a typical, fast-talking Dubliner with a sharp mind and a keen eye for observation. The Dublin crew were miles different from the Galway cousins. It is such a cliche but everything moved faster in Dublin. The way people spoke, the pace of life, and the energy of the place.
My aunt Mairead was a tiny woman but a real sparkplug. Full of energy, talking a mile a minute, welcoming, good-hearted, and like Michael very sharp. They had three children, Christopher, Michael, and Paula.
Christopher was a year older than me and we got on great. Chris took after his parents and was an extroverted, friendly boy with a giant bush of wiry blond hair. The best way I could describe the head of hair on him was that it was bit of a blond afro. I felt a kinship with Chris and I’d say he’s the closest I’ve felt to having a brother around my age. I can’t put my finger on it. There was a real sense of family.
Michael was the middle child. However, no one called him Michael. All of us used the Irish pronunciation of his name which had two sound variations. One being ‘Mee-hawl’ while another version was ‘Meh-hall’. He was two years younger than me and very much different from Chis. Mick had dark, straight hair and freckles. He was also energetic, a bit daft and good company. The three of us would have spent loads of time together over the two-week period that would conclude the year of 1982.
Paula was the youngest and already there were signs that she would end up as the most sensible of the lot. She was quiet and didn’t make a fuss. She was a blond like Chris but that would be about all they’d have in common. She was small like her mother and didn’t have the same extroverted, own-the-room tendencies that Chris had.
We had loads of fun during our visit. The Renehan’s had a nice home that laid close to an estuary. There was a level of familiarity that resulted in a very comfortable and enjoyable time. To this day my favourite Christmas by some distance. Christmas Day arrived and I remember very well the present I was most taken with was a book. I don’t remember who gave it to me, but it was a book of mythical creatures from various cultures around the world. The book was somewhat foreboding and grim. The illustrations were well-crafted and compelling. I was transfixed by these sinister, goblin-like creatures that sat in trees in Japan waiting for people to pass by. It was the kind of imagery that both scared me and stimulated my interest in the otherworldly.
While I was having a wonderful Christmas time, unbeknownst to me, Mom was making arrangements to return to Chicago. Mom had concluded that due to the depressed state of the Irish economy, she needed to back to the States for work. However, she would be returning to the United States alone. I would be staying in Dublin with the Renahans. Steps were being taken to enroll me at the same school that Chris and Michael were attending. I had no idea this was happening. Shockingly, I was never aware of this until Chris told me in November 2021!
However, it was revealed that there was no room for additional students at the school in Swords. I would be unable to go to school in Dublin. The plot then took an even more unexpected turn. Mom headed back west to Galway. She approached the Cooneys with an audacious idea: I would live with the Cooneys. It was a remarkable proposal. What is even more astonishing is that the Cooney’s readily agreed. I would love to know how that conversation transpired. It was just a hell of a call to make. I had family in Leitir Moir and Clarinbridge, but Mom felt most comfortable leaving me in the hands of Martin and Mary Cooney.
Ireland 1979-1983 