the Trickster - M P Smith (the reading list .txt) 📗

The Trickster

by M P Smith

Dad was kind of a trickster. Decisions from my father were made mysteriously and he took strange directions in these enigmatic conclusions. He just didn't share his thoughts very much and there was never much warning about his sudden decisions.

My best memory of Dad as trickster was in the summer of 1970, when I had just turned fifteen. I had just started a job working as a lifeguard at a pond in Middleton. We had just finished the July 4th holiday. I had made a couple of hundred dollars at that point and could use the rest of the summer to put away some cash for the next school year. I was at work one day, having ridden my bike the ten miles to see if the weather was good enough to stay for the day's wage. I was working the beach, taking in the sun and the bathers when the manager came to me and said I had a call. That was very unusual, and stranger, it was Dad - who rarely called me anywhere. He said he was going to Ireland in a few days and asked did I want to come. We had only been one time a couple of years before, so I leapt at the chance to visit his hometown.

I gave my notice immediately and quickly prepared for an journey for which I had little idea what would entail. When we had been to Ennis in my first visit we had just hung about the little market town for a week. I had absorbed the sleepy Irish culture of this little village in the western county of Clare, enjoyed the late night repast of fish & chips with malt vinegar, walked through the late medieval ruin of the downtown Abbey, and smelt the rich loam of the Oulde Sod. Ireland harkened to me and intrigued me - to go back again was an unexpected opportunity! I'd just have to live as a pauper this school year. We had our few needs packed in a couple of small bags and were on the way within the week.

I was very excited on the flight. I had only flown once before on our last trip to Ireland, so this was a great adventure in many ways. The flight into Ireland's Shannon Airport was just magical. I can remember the clouds breaking open and seeing the emerald green fields of Eire glowing under the dim glow of the North Atlantic sun - it was better than I remembered. When we got of the plane and went through the airport to get our baggage, the signs written in English and Gaelic, the lilt of the local's conversation gave me goose bumps. It was like being in a modern fairy tale.

We had our bags and went out to the bus to get a lift into town. When settled into the bus, my puzzlement bubbled over. "Didn't anyone want to pick us up at the airport, Dad?" My Pop just smirked and glanced over, "They don't know we're coming."
"What...?" I stammered. "We're just going to show up!" Our trip was a big deal, my father had been back to see his family just once in more than a decade. His mom had died since our last trip. In fact our last trip was kind of his farewell visit, as she passed shortly after our last visit. It hadn't struck me that we might be going back for a similar reason this time, as well. I shook my head as we continued down the country roads to his little home village. He goes back once every ten years or so and doesn't bother to tell anyone that he's coming. I couldn't help but smile - what a character.

We rode the bus right into the heart of Ennis, near the grand old Hotel near the Catholic church. This was the main street with the great fish and chip shop, the photographer, travel agent, etc. This one street was the tourist mecca, where I'd spent most days walking through the last time. We strolled over to Market Square where the homestead was, next to the Baker's shop. As we walked down the square I could smell the offal of the donkeys from the farmer's carts. The local farmers came to the market every Saturday morn with their goods and pigs. I remembered well, the squeal of the pigs, on Saturday mornings, waking me like a rooster call to the farmer's life my family must have shared some generations ago.

My Pop strode up to the window of his family's kitchen on the square, lifted it open and called in. "Is there anybody home?" Quite a hubbub arose of Irish shock and amazement, calling him to come in the house and leave his tricks on the street. We came in the door of the gate to the drive and ducked into the side door, the main entrance to his old home and were welcomed by his sister and my cousin in the stair. We were hurried in to the kitchen to see his Pop. Although the old man had slowed down even from the sleepy place he was at in my last visit, my Grandfather was wide eyed and clear when he said, "I thought I'd seen a ghost at the window. I was sure it was my last call as well!"

My father might have killed his old man with shock, now in the last few months of his 80-odd years, from this sudden unannounced visit. What a trickster !
I'm sure there was more background to the story that I don't know. As I said, I never heard much about these Irish things, or any of my father's things. Maybe that's why I was on this trip - to fill me in on these unknown Irish goings-on. We went drinking at staged medieval banquets with some of his brothers. I'll never forget my Uncle Jim in his cleric's collar banging the table and demanding for a wench to fill up our wine. We laughed and the table of tourists was charmed by all my uncle's wit.

We hung about Ennis for a bit, my cousin Mary taking me to a concert by the greatest Irish band I've ever seen, the Bothy's. That other Irish group, U2, is pretty good - but those Bothy's knew how to get an audience on their feet. I thought the old theater was going to come down. We stamped our feet to those reels and jigs and howled at the band for their brilliant twisting melodies and rhythms.
Then after this week of haunting Ennis' streets and fish shops, lurking about spooky Abbey's and threadbare pubs, my Pop said we were going to look into a couple of bikes the next morning. I asked what for, and he replied, "...to bike down to Cork." I had been riding bikes since I was seven, but the idea of bicycling more than a hundred and thirty miles to Cork was daunting. "Why don't we take a bus?" Dad waved me off, "We want to see the bloody place, don't we?" I could tell his mind was made up.

So we went to a bike shop and rented a couple of little bikes with extended seats and handlebars. They were silly little things, but rugged. The proprietor was fine with our proposition. He was confident these little bikes could make the trip. I was completely dubious of these toys, but was proven very wrong. We left that same day keeping to country lanes as much as we could for the long trek by the Kerry "mountains" after the fields of Clare.

We had a great time. We stayed at bed and breakfast home-style rentals, traveling through little villages so much smaller than the comparable city of Ennis, crossing innumerable streams and brooks, 'til we arrived at the grandeur of Cork's winding river Lee. Those little bikes were reliable and tough. We had a wonderful time over the next few days and my Dad was considerate and patient with my slow pace. It was a once in a lifetime experience.

I didn't forget what a trickster my Dad was, though. One of our stops was at great Blarney Castle, an imposing edifice, a recovered ruin. We went to the battlements of the tower. My Dad wanted to show me the Stone - where I might win the great gift of Blarney. We came to the stone which hangs precariously from the battlement over a drop of about 80 feet. He said I could grasp the hand guides, themselves looking like a perilous grip over this drop, he would hold my legs and I could lift myself out over the drop and look up to kiss the stone. I looked Dad and back at the Stone. The thought of relying upon the trickster to just let me kiss the stone and come back without incident drew me to a quick conclusion - "No thanks, Dad. I'll get by on my own Blarney."

Publication Date: 02-13-2010

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