“What time of the year would you like to visit Ireland,” Earl asked. It wasn’t a question out of the blue, since Ireland is on our list of places to visit together.
“Summer,” I answered. “I’ve done March and it wasn’t particular pleasant weather-wise.” For the record, Earl has done November and didn’t have major complaints.
His question brought back memories of my trip, which was in 1980. My parents, my husband of the time, my children, and I went on what was supposed to be a wonderful family vacation. In many ways, it really was.
As a family we got along relatively well, although I remember a feeling of pins and needles about the prospect. I wanted my children to behave, my husband to be charming, and my parents to be gracious. For the most part, given who we were, we managed.
But Ireland itself seemed problematic to me. We arrived when there was still chill in the air, the grass was not the legendary emerald green, and the skies were more often rainy than sunny. For some reason, this truly disappointed me, for I thought the land of shamrocks and leprechauns was eternally verdant. After all, it is the land of my ancestors.
Which is why I want it to be green, green, green when Earl and I return. I want the sun to gleam off the grass, and I want the old monasteries and castles to glint. I want warm weather where I don’t have to worry about caps and gloves. I want to completely obliterate the photos I have of my family in 1980 wearing wool hats and mittens.
In other word, I want to go home.
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