Episode 1: Raised on Songs & Stories

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Episode 1: Raised on Songs & Stories

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Kiss me I’m Irish? St. Patrick’s Day? Why is St. Patrick’s Day/Week/Month celebrated with shenanigans all over the world? Where did St. Patrick really come from (Hint, it wasn’t Ireland). And where do we come from? How did we really get to such a day of meaning so deep, that the Irish and almost everyone else too, celebrate it so boisterously? Not just for a day or weekend, but now, for the whole month of March? What’s the true, authentic Story? Our very first podcast shall tackle these burning issues, and really, what are shenanigans? Why do the Irish dislike the clover but love the shamrock and why they are different, and of course, no celebration is worth its Irish Sea salt, without music. So, since everyone is Irish on St. Patrick’s Day, Sing Irish Men and Women, sing, with us! Hosted by Ohio Irish American News Publisher & Editor John O’Brien, Jr. Raised on Songs, Stories and Shenanigans is brought to you by the Ohio Irish American News and WHK The Answer. It airs every other Friday, at 5, on whkradio.com and OhioIANews.com, but is available for download, whenever you wish. Songs, Stories & Shenanigans The Invitationby Batt BurnsUsed with permission of Batt Burns Pull up your sugan chairs, my friends Close out the green half door And gather around the peat turf fire As we did in days of yore. I am glad you rambled in tonight, For the house was quiet and still. Herself was carding sheep wool, while I, my pipe did fill. There wasn’t a word between us, you’d swear a row was on. But memories were with us, of our children now all gone. To America and England, those lands across the foam Will they ever laugh and joke again, in our cozy Irish home? You’ve waked us from our reverie. Maybe it’s just as well. Before those memories saddened us, and a tear or two were shed. Your happy faces cheer us up. You’ve surely brought some news. And from my store of yarns, sure you all can pick and choose. Look to the blazing flame there, do you see what I can see, Dark heroes, fairy castles, warriors fighting to be free? There’s leprechauns and fairy folks, Oisin and Finn Mac Cool I can see them all so plainly there, from my little fireplace stool. Come back into the past with me as I speak of olden days When life was much more simple, and we all had purer ways. Oh there were no lounge bars or discos. TV we did not know. Yet we had fun and sport a plenty, in the Kerry of long ago. I was born and raised in Cleveland, Ohio. 1st Generation. So my roots go much deeper in Ireland, than they do in the U.S. I never thought much about it, until I went to Ireland. I remember the air, and the peace I felt, sitting on a stone wall, waiting for the train to Dublin and singing Kenny Roger’s songs with my sister Cathy. For me, a whole new valley of thought opened up. The missing connection, the only time in my life I have not felt deep-core restlessness, of not belonging, was when I was in Ireland. That feeling was not repeated until seventeen years later - when I went back. In an abandoned and disappearing churchyard I saw wind-rubbed tombstones that carried the same names as I know well today; George, Hubert, Desmond (who died in 1698), O’Brien’s all. Phillip O’Brien, my cousin, is the 11th generation to mind the hills and cows, milk the milk and sheer the sheep at Atteagh Mills.Atteagh Mills, near the town of Athlone, is in the Co. Roscommon, in south central Ireland. South Central LA it is not. It is farm country. His nephew is the 11th generation to mind the cows and sheep at Atteagh Mills. The “New House” is 266 years old, older than this country, and the old house? Well, it is just old, dating back to the 1600s. We have roots there. I have never “walked the land” with my father, as so many memoirs deem essential. Yet, I look out and see our ghosts, I hear their music, and that peace once again settles down, through my toes. I am rooted. Yet, only in my memory does the taste of belonging remain. The feeling of Ireland, nurtured by dances at West Side IA, bands, Sunday morning 78’s, then 8-tracks, before mass, and then Gaelic Football games and gatherings; Immersion at 3,000 miles. My father left Ireland soon after playing for the 1951 All-Ireland winning Roscommon U-21 Gaelic Football team. He was not the oldest son. The first time he returned was for his mother’s funeral, 38 years later. Through the roots of my past, I sometimes feel, that I never left. Since the Beginning of Man, The Hours between the Coming of Night and the Coming of Sleep have belonged to the Tellers of Tales and the Makers of Music I grew up in a house immersed in Irish culture. Growing up, the things I remember most are the frequent guests that we had stay overnight, when they were playing in Cleveland. Bridie Gallagher, Dermot O’Brien, Glen Curtin, Noel Henry, Makem and the Clancys, Barleycorn as well: so many names, so many memories. When I woke to the ...

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