What a Death in Ireland Taught Me About What We’ve Lost In America
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St. Patrick’s Day, 2017, and the beauty of community
Ballyfad Woods is a lovely mix of dense trees, hollows, small dugouts and lanes on which to run a fine horse. I was doing just that in March of 2017, with a young Irish professional polo player. My cottage was located on a hobby farm nestled in the spring-dappled rolling hills southwest of Dublin.
Gorey was the closest thing to a real city. Just under ten thousand. Plenty of pubs, book stores and red-cheeked kids.
An Irish March morning is dewy, moody and foggy. Cold, with low clouds. My favorite weather, especially close to the ocean. Weather in which my long-distant Irish ancestors (I’m 17% Irish) herded their sheep, snugged to the necks in their thick Irish wool jumpers.
I was in Ireland for St. Patrick’s Day week. No better place to be even if you don’t drink. The real thing.
Two days before the celebration, I was out feeding the farm’s goats. I realized that the young family, which had gathered outside the kitchen, was abnormally quiet.
I walked the wet grass to the big house where the father, once Ireland’s top motocross racer, stood staring at the driveway. Tears dripped onto the cobblestones.
As kindly as I could, I asked what was wrong.
That morning, while out bringing in the cattle on his ATV, the youngest of four sons of a nearby family took a hill too fast. The heavy machine flipped, crushing him instantly.
In the process, crushing the entire community. Word swiftly got around. Everyone knew the family, knew the boy. People were devastated.
The next two days, I kept up with the farm chores to alleviate the pressures on my hosts. I’d planned to head to Gorey to see the parade, best to make myself scarce.
The big day came. I drove the narrow country roads which wound and twisted through truly emerald hills. I listened to a Gaelic news station on the radio. But the gaiety wasn’t my Gaelic experience.
There was only one small community that was between my farm and Gorey. A tiny village, Coolgreany, anchored by the church and the pub, and a few shops for necessities. The place was quiet, only a few cars parked along the narrow main road. The bereaved family’s community.
There are few places in Ireland, no matter how small, which don’t celebrate their patron saint. This small village had a parade planned. You couldn’t tell. No bunting, no small group of people around a float, no dressed-up kids or clowns or people on horseback. Horses are big around here.
Nothing.
Coolgreany was wreathed in grief.
After I watched the Gorey parade and had my fill of the local pastries and green hats, I headed back to my cottage as everyone else filled the pubs. It was four in the afternoon, still full light.
As I rounded the hill with Coolgreany in sight, I noticed cars parked everywhere. The entire community from miles around had come to stand with the family of the dead boy. Honor him.
They’d shut down the town, and gathered in solidarity.
As I drove slowly through the tiny town, I felt a terrible hole in my heart.
This is what communities do.
No armed protesters standing at the edge of town with signs demanding WE WANT OUR PARADE. I WANT MY GREEN BEER. OPEN THE SHOPS. I WANT MY PASTRY. WHERE’S MY PARTY? IT’S NOT RIGHT.
Nobody outside screaming about how unfair it was that the parade had been shut down.
Just the deep quiet of Irish community, gathered to hold together the shattered hearts of neighbors whose loss and grief transcended any patron saint’s celebration.
I wept for that boy. For that family. I retired to my cottage and wept for my country. That we lose so many each day. That their passages aren’t equally mourned.
We so often will not stop to grieve, to truly stand with our communities, to help stitch their hearts together with pieces of our collective emotional cloaks.
I hail from a small town farming community. I know how such families come together in both joy and grief.
Today as I watch the fractured factions of our American landscape battle and demand and argue and posture and behave like puerile toddlers at the expense of others as opposed to help protect the community, I weep.
I weep for what we could have been, and for what we are, and for what we have lost.
We have plenty of communities that still bear the beating hearts of those who deeply care, but we have lost our nation.
I can only hope that we come to care enough about each other along the way to stitch ourselves back together, like the tiny community of Coolgreany, but writ large.
Thank you for taking this journey with me to remember what’s important. Community is everything, and the community we build are all we have. I hope this article made you think about the value of relationships and that you treasure, and are treasured by, many. If this piece moved you, please consider
If you know someone who could use a story about community, kindly also consider
Either way, I hope you travel. And when you travel, I hope it transforms you as it does me. Thank you for reading.
Grief is a dialogue not a monologue; a social emotion as much as a private one. As someone who is half Irish and has lived in rural Ireland for the last 6 years, the way that grief is honoured here is something that touches me deeply too. My mother in law (93) died a couple of weeks ago and even though many here didn't know her well (her mobility meant she didn't socialize much anymore), our neighbours have rallied around us. Community is what humans long for, what we were built for. When you witness what goodness we can create together, it helps to remind us of that.
Such a deep and meaningful post, Julia. The loss of one person in a community mourned by all. I live in a small town but we no longer mark the passing of a hearse by stopping to show our respect, we just carry on with our busy lives. The loss of a sense of community in these divisive times adversely affects all us. Thank you for this.