POSTCARD: Sundays at the Pub

CORK, IRELAND. We called my grandfather Papa Bear. He passed away when I was only an infant, so I cannot remember if his laugh was booming or soft, if he smelled like soap or like cigarettes, or if his hands felt rough or smooth on mine. Instead, I cling to small details—his favorite flower was the daffodil, he loved to sing, and he always considered Ireland his true home.

While studying in Ireland this semester, my goal has been to better understand my family's roots. On the weekends I have visited the port from which my mother sailed when she was only five years old, touched the gate of the house where my Granny spent carefree summer nights, and even learned to make a dessert that my aunt still calls her favorite. But when Sunday nights come, and I return to campus, my Papa Bear remains a mystery.

My Irish friends are slowly ingraining in me the local attitude of “come what may, it will all be grand,” so instead of dwelling on another weekend gone by without knowing any more about my grandfather, this Sunday night I went to a local student pub. The rugby team was there, loudly rehashing the match they had played that afternoon. I settled into my seat, hoping that by the end of the night I would finally understand some of the finer points of their sport, but their boisterous reenactments were cut off by the sound of a fiddle.

In a dark corner of the pub, a young woman was holding a fiddle under her chin, a young man was pulling a mandolin from its case, and an older man was discussing with his wife what song to begin singing. The team moved in unison, pulling their stools closer to surround the musicians, and when the first traditional song started everyone joined in singing. They all drummed their fingers and tapped their feet, and the bartender even offered the group a tambourine from the back room. When a song ended, people called out requests for the next one, and some of the players even took lead vocals for a song or two.

I sat enthralled. While the players clapped and laughed and yelled, I could not stop looking at the older man leading them all. His smile was wide, and his face was red from the strength of his singing. He looked at the singing players with pride. I realized then that I do not need to know my Papa Bear's smell or laugh or touch or to visit every place he set foot. I understood him through his love of singing, in the middle of a student pub.

Shannon E.Cleary ’12 is a psychology concentrator in Leverett House. She is studying abroad in Cork, Ireland.