What a Death in Ireland Taught Me About What We’ve Lost In America
St. Patrick’s Day, 2017, and the beauty of community
Ballyfad Woods is a lovely place of dense trees, hollows, small dugouts and lanes on which to run a fine horse. I was doing that regularly in March of 2017, with a young woman from a nearby farm who played professional polo for Ireland. I was staying at a country cottage on a hobby farm. Gorey, a small spot near us, was the closest thing to a real city. Just under ten thousand. Plenty of pubs.
In March out in the country, the mornings are dewy and foggy. Cold. Precisely where I might have expected my long-distant Irish ancestors (I’m 17% Irish) to have herded their sheep and goats. When I had planned my first trip to Europe, I’d had no clue that I would be in Ireland for St. Patrick’s Day. No better place to be even if you don’t drink. The real thing.
Several days before the celebration, I was out feeding the goats, which my hobby farmer hosts were happy to let me do. I realized that the young family, which had gathered outside the kitchen, was abnormally quiet. The young girls were hushed and their parents somber, distracted.
I walked the wet grass to the big house where the father, who once was Ireland’s top motocross racer, stood staring at the driveway. Tears…
