Part of the magic of art is that we stitch meaning into everything we see and hear, whether artists leave us a needle and thread or not.
Robin Hilton NPR All Songs Considered
I know there’s some science involved, that a song can make us cry because of the way it was composed. John Sloboda, professor of music psychology at London’s Guildhall School of Music and Drama, once told NPR that the very notes within songs can make us weep. He attributes our tears to a kind of grace note, a musical ornament – the “appoggiatura,” from the Italian word “to lean.” As an example, Adele’s ‘Someone Like You” is full of them. Sloboda explains “Generally music is consonant rather than dissonant, so we expect a nice chord. So when that chord is not quite what we expect, it gives you a little bit of an emotional frisson, because it’s strange and unexpected. The music taps into this very primitive system that we have which identifies emotion on the basis of a violation of expectancy. It’s like a little upset which then gets resolved or made better in the chord that follows.” A more famous version is the opening word of Paul McCartney’s “Yesterday” an appoggiatura of G3 to F3 over the chord of F major.
Musical theory aside, when I first started singing with my partner here in Mexico, it was as a duo. This was a convenient arrangement during that time when COVID social distancing measures were in place -no dancing, couples sitting with a chair between them at tables 6ft apart, in face masks with a bottle of hand sanitizer at the ready. You remember that time. Introspective. Quiet. Uncertain.
Because we were unable to make the music we would have made with a full band behind us – and also because we were cloistered at home for months, we sang together. Unplugged. No band. No backing tracks. Just the two of us, carefully selecting songs that told stories and touched our hearts and included those appoggiaturas, those little upsets that might make us cry . We’d make each song our own, finding our own harmonies on deep cuts from the likes of Robert Earl Keen, Steve Earle, Guy Clarke, Dave Rawlings and Gillian Welch, and Townes van Zandt. Lyrics first. For us, it’s about the lyrics. Always.
As restaurants and venues slowly reopened, we ventured out – just the two of us – with our voices and an acoustic guitar, sometimes providing little more than musical wallpaper in restaurants trying their best to stay solvent, but sometimes connecting with people through lyrics crafted by master story-tellers. Every once in a while during a set – and this is still true – I’d notice someone singing along with their eyes closed, the lyrics transporting them to a place only they know. And, I’d realize we were singing ‘their’ song. That requires a reverence.
In those duo days, we always ended our set with my song. No, I didn’t write it, but it is mine. I remember one night someone asked me why we perform it, Steve Earle’s “Goodbye,” the sad song that more than once made the bartender cry. There’s a deeply personal reason that I kept to myself at that moment, because I didn’t want to break open my own heart. There’s also what Emmylou Harris said in an interview she gave about her love for Gram Parsons, her partner in song, and with whom she recorded “Love Hurts,” a pivotal song for her:
There is something about the uniqueness of two voices creating a sound that does not come when they are singing solo. That song, and our harmony, is a kind of a pinnacle of our duet-singing together.
Emmylou Harris
Steve Earle’s “Goodbye,” is the song that has been pivotal for me – and, appropriately enough, he played acoustic guitar when Emmylou covered it on her “Wrecking Ball” record. It was ‘my song,’ before I met my own partner in song and in life.
I’d been a Steve Earle fan since the 1980s when I had a vinyl record collection that I miss today. The last vinyl record I bought before coming to to American in 1987 was “Guitar Town.” I had lied to myself that I didn’t like country music, dismissing it as the music of my parent’s generation, but when somebody in Rolling Stone or Q magazine said Steve Earle was somebody to pay attention to – along with Dwight Yoakam – I did. For a while, his “Fearless Heart” was my touchstone, Steve Earle introducing it at performances with his characteristic take-no-prisoners wisdom:
You can either get through life or you can live it. If you’re gonna live it, there’s only two things you need … an inquisitive mind and a fearless heart.
Steve Earle
But this isn’t just about my fearless heart. It’s about a “Goodbye” that I never got to say, and one day I’ll tell that story too.
Over our first few years of singing together, it became our song, a staple in a repertoire of songs into which our listeners will stitch their own meaning too.
The first time Scott ever picked up a harmonica to play it, was shortly after we met – and it was on this song, the first song we sang together, finding harmonies as if we had never not sang together. It’s in the key of C. Naturally. If you were to ask anyone who’s ever played with us, they will tell you that C is my key. Scott knows that’s not really true, but to see me panic for just a second before he begins the signature picking, he’ll call it up in A minor.
I don’t have to remind him anymore not to sing – not even harmonies – on my verse – the quiet one about Novembers and why they always make me cry. I’m possessive about “Goodbye,” Steve Earle’s “ninth step in the key of C.”
I wrote it when I was still in treatment, before I even got to that step, the first time I got my hands on a guitar. It wasn’t a very good guitar, but I hadn’t written anything in a very long time, so it was kind of reassuring to write something and to write something that good.
Steve Earle
He also said Emmy Lou is possessive about it too, telling a Scottsdale audience before performing it with Shawn Colvin at the MIM a few years ago, that Emmylou gets mad when he performs it with someone else. He might have been joking … but I know I wished it had been Emmylou on stage with him that night.
There was a ‘meet and greet’ after the show, and I made my way towards a very warm and approachable Steve Earle. I told him that there were days when “Fearless Heart” had helped me put one foot in front of the other, that it had become a kind of mantra that I whispered before jumping into the deep end, which I realize might actually be where I belong. I know I’m not the first fangirl he’s encountered, so he indulged me and didn’t seem to mind that I was holding up the line of people waiting for him to sign their posters and ticket stubs and album covers. I also wanted to talk to him about the lovely Belfast singer, Bap Kennedy, whose record he had produced and about Belfast and about the late Seamus Heaney. Thus one of my favorite moments with a famous person: “Did you study at Queens?” he asked me. “Were you a literature major?” Yes. Yes. I was. A Music major too. “Damn! Was Seamus Heaney there when you were there? I fucking love Seamus Heaney. I’ve read everything he ever wrote. And Michael Longley. I fucking love him too. Do you know him? Damn. Goddamn.”
Years later, I must tell you that when I had an essay published in a literary magazine with none other than Michael Longley, my first thought was that there was the teeniest possibility that Steve Earle might read it.
I wanted to ask him more about Emmylou and “Goodbye,” but Shawn Colvin was clearly weary of me. To be fair, there were people waiting. So off I went without telling him how grateful I am for “Goodbye,” the sober song for anyone who has ever been to hell – and back – and for everyone who’s sorry for the harm they caused even when they don’t remember causing it. It’s a song for the work of a November in my life.
I’m grateful for the sound and the harmonies it pulls so naturally from Scott and me, even when we haven’t sung it for months, even when we’re not talking to each other over a mountain we’ve made out of a molehill, a storm in a teacup.
I can hear it in my head right now – quiet, steady, familiar – in that realm reserved for country songs and Psalms from the hymnal I recall from the church pf my childhood. I can hear that sound that only comes when I’m singing with my partner. Breath by breath … finding home in a song.
A photo of Seamus Heaney on his graduation day is making the rounds on social media this morning, marking International Education Day with a reminder that our poet devoted much of his life to teaching. I also spent most of my professional life teaching – and learning. Like Heaney, I’m a product of Queen’s. And, like Heaney, I was what we now call a first generation” college student, the first in the family to go on to university – to go away to school. Although university was less than twenty miles away in Belfast, it was still away, a phenomenon Seamus Heaney explains to Dennis O’Driscoll in Stepping Stones:
Even Belfast was far away to me. In those days, I was outside the loop, my family had no familiarity with universities, no sense of the choices that there were, no will to go beyond the known procedures, no confidence, for example, about phoning up the local education authority and seeking clarification about what was possible – no phone, for God’s sake.”
For Heaney, a university education in Belfast, was a world away from the Broagh in rural South Derry, necessitating a kind of verbal dance with his mother, when he returned from the city to the family home, full of new knowledge, new words, and new sensitivities. I can almost picture him as I can my young self – in that tight space between elevated and plain Derry speech, watching every word, weighing its impact before uttering it. My mother and I have danced that very dance, her telling me to this day, “sure you know all them things.”
There were other tricky steps to learn, moving through Northern Ireland’s various dances, but once learned, they are indelible, as Tony Parker describes in his 1994 book May the Lord in His Mercy be Kind to Belfast. Based on his interviews with the people who live there, he makes the unsettling but astute observation that many of us born and brought up in Northern Ireland have a mutual need to know, right from the start, a person’s background in order to proceed in the conversation and in the longer relationship, without saying the “the wrong word.” We know that our last names or the names of our schools, or perhaps the way we pronounce an “H” or an “A,” are also clues we use to help establish who we think we are.
“Derry” or “Londonderry?” “The Troubles,” “the conflict,” or “The Irish Question?” “Ulster” or “The Six Counties?”
In a secondary school in the outskirts of North Belfast, I cut my pedagogical teeth. A student teacher who didn’t know any better, in the parlance, “a blow-in” from Antrim, I took a black taxi to school every morning. Before black taxis shuttled tourists around, showing them the sights of “The Troubles.” On my first day in in Rathcoole, then the largest housing estate in Western Europe and a loyalist stronghold, I held my own. On the second, I faltered when a first form pupil, showing off for his mates, asked me if I was a “Taig,” a derogatory word for a Catholic. He told me he could guess “by the look of me,” but he had his doubts. My surname was Protestant, but there was and still is some ambiguity around my first name.
At the time, if I’m honest, an honest answer may not have been the right one. There I stood, chalk in hand, knowing where I was but not entirely sure who I was. And, that’s what I told him. Thus we began a kind of partnership, knowing we had some control over went on within those walls, but not so much beyond them.
At the same time, before Home Economics was standard fare on the Northern Ireland curriculum, the school day included Domestic Science. Other than Physical Education, which I had skillfully avoided as a student with a note from my mother saying I “had cramps.” it was my least favorite subject. It involved the planning and cooking of meals which usually failed – in spite of quick tips on every page of the Hamlyn All Colour CookBook – baking, and, God help me, knitting. There was time set aside for sewing, during which I learned how to finish the edges of something, presumably a blanket, with blanket stitch. I even learned a kind of embroidery, stitching all six letters of my name in green thread on a red gingham apron, all the while wishing I had been christened something shorter. “Eve” perhaps.
The Hamlyn All Colour CookBook which almost 50 years later, is still with me, leaning against a slick volume of recipes by Julia Child and Jaques Pepin. My Hamlyn, ‘Old Faithful,’ is of little practical use in my Mexican kitchen, in spite of its guide to metrication and the peppy opener by Mary Berry. Yes, that Mary Berry. A dust-collecting memento of my schoolgirl days, with ingredients and words that make more sense back home – like aubergines and Morelio cherres. Not necessarily my home mind you, but the kinds of homes where Frank Bryant’s student, “Rita” fancied herself serving the right wine to accompany hor d’oeuvres that involved aspic jelly crystals, radishes fashioned into roses, and a garnish of watercress or parsley. Neither Piquant Herring Salad nor Sole Véronique have yet to make an appearance in my life, but, to be fair, other dishes regularly did. There was Mandarin Gâteau and Iced Coffee Sponge, and Victoria sandwich, slices of which showed up regularly in Tupperware parties hosted by mothers like mine – unashamed celebrations of plastic and its place in our kitchen cupboards. The first time I wanted to impress a boy with my fair to middling cooking skills, I turned to the “Continental Favourites” section for a Spaghetti Bolognese recipe. Years later, when I was asked to make cupcakes for my daughter’s class, I turned to #282, by any other name, a “wee buns” recipe. The boy is long gone, and my daughter’s all grown up, but the recipe is indelible in mind. I can’t bring myself to part with this relic from my Domestic Science class in 1970s Northern Ireland.
The Hamlyn was the first school textbook my mother didn’t have to back with brown parcel paper, because it came with its very own dust-jacket. For my stay-at-home-mother at the time – the ‘housewife’ to whom Mary Berry is writing in her introduction – “backing books” was one of her favorite jobs. By the first day of school every September, she had rolls of paper set aside for this special task.
Our teachers were fussy about the way our books were backed. There was an art to it, and so naturally it fell under my mother’s bailiwick. She started by placing each book carefully in the middle of a sheet of brown paper, and then with a few quick snips, folds, and tucks, she had it covered, ready for us to write our names on the front. One September, when my mother was ill and in Belfast’s Royal Victoria hospital, I had taken it upon myself to back my new history textbook. Of course I couldn’t do it right. Like so many tasks, my mother had made it look easy, but unlike my mother, I had not learned by watching. I couldn’t make the brown paper curl neatly under the spine at both ends, so I gave up. I went to school, my book un-backed. For this, I was subjected to a sarcastic tirade from a teacher who knew but didn’t care that my mother was in the hospital. At 60 years old, I can still feel the flush of embarrassment on my face.
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The dust jacket of my Hamlyn is relatively intact, bearing only a few tears and the odd smear left behind by buttery adolescent fingers. I can clearly recall how my mother pored over its photographs when it was brand new, delighted to find so many cakes and sweets she already knew how to make without as much as a precise measurement, let alone a “method” like the one we had to painstakingly copy into our Domestic Science notebooks – in fountain pen. She had set aside one day a week for Baking Day. I loved it. Every Friday, by the time daddy came home from work, all the square Tupperware containers and biscuit tins left over from Christmas were lined with greaseproof paper and filled to their brims with irresistible confections – caramel fingers, melting moments, fudge cakes, shortbread, and butterfly buns. And every Sunday after dinner, we could choose from an apple or a rhubarb tart, Pavlova, Trifle, a Victoria Sponge, or a Swiss Roll. I am surprised we still have our own teeth.
Although she had copied down many of these recipes, which I stuck inside a book for future reference, ma never took much notice of them. She took only one precaution while baking and that was to warn in advance my dad, my brother, and me not to slam the backdoor. Especially if there was a fruitcake baking “Don’t you bang the door or the fruit cake will collapse in the oven!” I have resisted the urge to fact-check this. If Irish mammies say it, it must be true.
I once called her for her boiled cake recipe – a version of Irish Barmbrack which she used to make every Halloween. I remember for luck – or because her mother had done it too – she’d bake a sixpence or a thruppenny bit inside. With pen and paper at the ready, our transatlantic phone conversation went as follows: My mother: Och, Yvonne, sure you know yourself, you just put your ingredients in, boil them, and then let them cool. Me: But what are the ingredients? My mother: Long sigh. Me: I’m writing this down. My mother: OK. Just add your egg and your flour, put in your margarine, sugar, and a cup or two of black tea, all your cherries, raisins, and sultanas. Be you careful when you bring it to the boil. Let it cool and then throw in two or three eggs. Stir it all up and pour it in your loaf tin. Throw it in the oven and that’s your boiled cake. Now for a fruit cake, you just cream your butter and sugar in the mixer until they are nice and fluffy. Put in your eggs and your flour and all your fruit. Stir it all up and throw it in the oven. It will take longer to cook than the boiled cake. Use a slower oven.
I reminded my granddaughter not to bang the kitchen door, but I was none the wiser other than to tell you if this were a fruit cake/Barmbrack throw-down with Bobby Flay my mother would have won hands-down. I also know my Domestic Science teacher would have dismissed ma’s “method” as highly unsatisfactory without a list of ingredients and numbered directions that included the weighing of things copied into notebooks by girls – only girls – in the classrooms of segregated schools.
For those of you still paying attention, 93 percent of Northern Ireland’s children still attend segregated schools that overwhelmingly educate children from only a Catholic or a Protestant background. It wasn’t until I was a college student in Belfast that the fight for integrated education was just beginning.
There were no boys in Domestic Science, nor were there any girls in Woodwork, Metalwork, or the exotic-sounding Technical Studies. There were, however, some grown ups who had noted the fundamental unfairness of this situation and pledged to remedy it. They had some clout too, because along came The Sex Discrimination (Northern Ireland) Order of 1976 making unlawful the inequality of access for boys and girls to all areas of the curriculum. Landmark legislation, this enabled boys and girls, in the same classroom, to partake of Craft, Design, and Technology, although it would be another 14 years before a National Curriculum would be implemented.
Along with these efforts to make Domestic Science and Technical Studies curricula more gender-neutral, was the work that continues in 2024 to confront the fact that schools in Northern Ireland were segregating Protestant and Catholic children. Since 1974, All Children Together (ACT) had been imploring churches and government to take the initiative in educating children together. In 1981, a small group of Belfast parents dared to change the course of history, to force the issue, to confront aloud what happens to the heart of a country and the identity of its children when they are educated in segregated schools. Ordinary Catholics and Protestants, we already knew what happened. It was time for change, to demand an answer to questions such as this, asked in 1957 by Nobel Peace Prize recipient, Lester Bowles Pearson:
How can there be peace without people understanding each other, and how can this be if they don’t know each other?
As I learned in Rathcoole, there are few better places to learn about one another than in the classroom.
In 1981, Lagan College became the first integrated secondary school in Northern Ireland to offer such a space for boys and girls, Catholics and Protestants. Named for the river that runs through Belfast, Lagan College, under armed guard, opened its doors to 28 children. It is different today. According to the school’s website, as of September 2022 here are 1455 pupils on the Lisnabreeny site with more than 200 staff.
A 21st century school, its curriculum includes Home Economics. All students follow a course in the subject, the central focus of which “… is the consideration of the home and family in relation to the development of the individual and society. During the three years, they will address the areas of Diet and Health, Family Life and Choice and Management of Resources. A wide range of practical cookery is built into each unit of work, so that pupils can develop a range of important skills.”
That sounds more important and doable than the Domestic Science of my youth, which leads me back to where I started, to the Hamlyn All Colour Cook Book and to Northern Ireland – a place apart of which I will forever be a part.
Winter Solstice is the turning point I look forward to each year. The day after my daughter’s birthday, it is a lovely mid-winter reassurance that the light is coming. Solstice is derived from the Latin, sōlstitium, loosely translated as the apparent standing still of the sun. To ancient civilizations, it looked like the sun stood still at that moment when its rays shine directly over the Tropic of Capricorn, 23 degrees south of the Equator.
The importance of this astronomical event to the ancient Celts is reflected in a massive neolithic tomb in Newgrange, Ireland. In 2021, for the first time, due to COVID restrictions, anyone with internet access could enter the tomb, a place even older than Stonehenge and the Pyramids in Gaza, and observe the phenomenon. A lottery determines who will enter the chamber and experience the phenomenon as it was intended by our Stone Age ancestors, the farmers who created it about 5,200 years ago. In its roof is a little opening aligned to the ascending sun. When that single sunbeam shoots through the roof-box at around 9AM, it illuminates for seventeen minutes the burial chamber below, highlighting the geometric shapes carved in the ancient walls. It is a magic time, long before clocks and calendars and compasses measured time and the distance between us, signifying the turn towards a new year.
Newgrange appeals to sun worshippers and archeologists, ethnographers and tourists, astronomers and poets, and ordinary people like you and me. In the year before the pandemic changed everything, only 16 out of 30,000 applicants from as far away as the United States, were selected to experience the spectacle of solstice at Newgrange. Unfortunately, Irish weather provides no guarantee of sunlight, and clouds often keep the light out for those waiting for the longest night of the year to end. But this morning, for the few who won the lottery to attend, the sun broke through the clouds and the chamber lit up briefly. The rest of us can watch online the astronomical phenomenon that marks the shortest day and the longest night of the year.
It is a time when the ancients speak to us, reassuring us that no matter how dark the days, the cycle will always begin again. There’s light on the horizon.
This morning, I am far away from Newgrange, at home on the shores of Lake Chapala in Mexico. Such rituals are all around. The legacy of pre-Columbian civilizations can be viewed in a ceremony on the waterfront almost daily – La Danza de los Voladores, the origins of which are attributed to the Totonacapan region of Veracruz, which in 2009 boasted 38 of the 56 volador poles officially recorded in Mexico. First written about in 1612 by Franciscan chronicler, Fray Jaun de Torquemadam, the ritual is a powerful testimony to the tenacity of indigenous groups in adapting their customs and practices to the new order imposed by the Spanish and also in ensuring they live on from one generation to the next.
Far from Newgrange, on the sunny shores of Lake Chapala in Mexico, such rituals abound. The legacy of pre-Columbian civilizations can be viewed in a ceremony on the waterfront almost daily. La Danza de los Voladores originated in the Totonacapan region of Veracruz, which in 2009 boasted 38 of the 56 remaining volador poles officially recorded in Mexico. First written about in 1612 by Franciscan chronicler, Fray Jaun de Torquemadam, the ritual is a testimony to the tenacity of indigenous groups in adapting their customs and practices to the new order imposed by the Spanish and also in ensuring they live on from one generation to the next.
A handful of onlookers on the Ajijic malecon pause for a moment to watch, smart phones at the ready to record as the voladores, in traditional costume, begin their solemn procession to a 30m high pole between two trees. One by one, four men climb the pole to reach its summit, where they are closer to the sun god, each of them representing the cardinal points as well as the elements.
All is quiet until a haunting melody begins as the leader, the caporal, hoists himself up to perch atop a tiny wooden platform, the tecomate. Bending, balancing, hopping from one foot to the other, he plays his flute and beats on a tiny drum, turning to face north, south, east, and west, while the pole below him sways precariously in the breeze. No harness. No safety net. Only faith.
Then the moment we have all been waiting for – the flyers hurl themselves into the air. Headfirst, arms outstretched like wings, they allow the thin ropes tying them to the platform to unravel as they spin in ever-widening circles around the pole, streamers the color of the rainbow trailing behind them in the sky. The plaintive tune continues during their majestic descent, each man hoping to make 13 circuits – 52 representing the number of years on the Aztec calendar – imploring the gods to return the sun. Right before reaching the ground, a final flourish – a quick somersault. Legend has it that if they land on their feet, the Mayan gods will be pleased and bless us with longer days.
Mortals again, they land softly to quiet utterances of ‘bravo’ from a small group of spectators who know they just witnessed something sacred, something from another time, for all time. Legend has it that if they land on their feet, the Mayan gods will be pleased and bless us with longer days.
It is perhaps an act of faith that brings us together to celebrate an ancient light show in a tomb in Ireland or a sky dance above a magical town in Mexico. Together, on sacred ground, we are connected to the past and the future.
As sunlight flooded the ancient chamber in Newgrange, a livestream cohost whispered. “The long night is over. Let’s look forward now to brighter days and all good things to come.”
We too can take a spectacular leap, voladores, arms outstretched, to welcome the new year ahead.
The other day a Facebook memory popped up to remind me that my actual memory just isn’t what it used to be. There I am in the boots i’ve owned since 1982, perched on a freeway wall with my camera focused on something in the distance. But what?
Unable to let go of this – and another thing that I’ll get to some other day when I’m in a better mood – I perused my old writings for some clue and soon found it. The year I turned 50, I had an epiphany or two: a)I would never make enough money to go to a job I hate every day and b) money really isn’t everything although I have often acted as though it is. Much to the chagrin of Suze Orman whose appearances on Oprah seared in my brain forever that because I don’t organize my money neatly in my wallet, and because I honestly couldn’t tell you how much of it is in my checking account at any given time, I’m much less likely to attract any. Money. Other things, but not money. If I must choose between making a payment for something essential like the electric bill or springing for a hard-bound signed copy of Seamus Heaney’s Nobel speech, “Crediting Poetry,” well, the man from Bellaghy is winning, which leads me back to a monsoon-y August afternoon in 2013, just two weeks before Heaney died.
Time and space collapsed when I spotted the handsome little volume perched on a shelf in an air-conditioned out-of-print fine books store next to a used car dealership on Camelback Road, a universe away from Anahorish, “where springs washed into the shiny grass.” No, I didn’t buy the signed first US edition that afternoon, but I felt so guilty for having abandoned it there, that I knew it would only be a matter of time before I would return, with an explanation to the avuncular Phoenician bookseller, of the finer points of buying ‘on tick.’
Previously, the best money I ever spent was in 1982. Flush with my university grant money, I bought three things that would change my life – a Eurail pass, a 35mm camera, and the finest Hi-Fi stereo system money could buy. I moved out of the Halls of Residence at college, and into a red-brick terraced house on Ridgeway Street in Belfast, where I lived with four male engineering students who tolerated my girliness and threw great parties without ever damaging any of my vinyl.
At the lower end of our street was The Lyric Theater and at the top, The Belfast Wine Company, a convenient and well-stocked off-license.
Ridgeway Street, Belfast, N. Ireland
In the middle, these houses teemed with university students. All imaginative misfits, most of us going to our classes only when there was nothing else to do.
What sparkles in my memory of that time is one glorious evening on Ridgeway Street, when we spilled out of those houses and onto the road, pelting each other with water balloons. Meanwhile – seriously – the frontman of Thin Lizzy, a very cool Phil Lynott, leaned against the door jamb of a house full of art students from Derry. I have no idea what he was doing there, but he was enjoying himself. Maybe he got lost on the way to wherever he was supposed to be staying after the Lizzy gig at The Kings Hall. I can still see him, plain as day, smoking and laughing at us as we soaked each other, on the kind of shimmering spring night that transforms Northern Ireland into a veritable tourist destination – the kind of place it is today.
Decades later and all the vinyl records bought with my lunch money and my university grant, are stowed away in the roof-space of my parent’s house in Castledawson. About 50 of them made it to Mexico with me – nobody leaves Bob Dylan’s “Bringing it all Back Home” back home. Faded and stashed between the pages of an old diary, the Eurail pass took me to places that have stayed in my heart to this day – Paris, Florence, Rome, Capri, the Greek islands. The Olympus camera? It was stolen from my first apartment in Phoenix.
There’s no reason other than life™ for why it took thirty years and a breast cancer diagnosis before I would buy another 35mm camera. Maybe it took that long for me to get ready to finally take stock and see things through different lenses.
In the Fall of 2012, my lovely friend Rhonda and I enrolled in a college photography class that required us to pay attention to shapes and patterns and all the lines and curves we might otherwise miss going about our daily business. For a semester, the photography teacher sent us on scavenger hunts every Sunday to spots like the “Water Mark,” where five 14-foot aluminum horses guard a road in Scottsdale. Some folks believe it should be designated a wonder of the world, but my teacher just wanted me to notice it, to pay attention to those splendid horses that evoke the Wild West but also prevent flooding during our Monsoon season. At such times, water gushes from the horse’s mouths, and it is an awesome sight. And that, my friends, is what was in the lens of my camera as I stood on the other side of the freeway.
Now I know those wild horses belong in the Arizona desert where the rains are rare, but I prefer to think of them along the Annadale Embankment, watching over us at the end of a wild Belfast night.
Footnote: The Heaney Lecture is now where it belongs – on a shelf in my house between Door into the Dark and Stepping Stones . As for Phil? His band would disintegrate a few months after that night on Ridgeway Street, and just three years later, Phil Lynott would slip away from us. He would have been 74 years old this year. How we loved him! As Joseph O’Connor explains, Phil was “the first Irish person ever to bound onto a stadium stage in leather trousers and bawl to the gods: “Are you OUT there?” He was our first rock star, gone too soon, and on a rainy night in Phoenix, some three decades later, I can still hear his coyote call . . .
But there is the replenishing joy of the songs themselves, that carnival of outlaws, renegades and chancers, tumbling through the sunbursts of his rhymes. From the lonesome cowboy’s prairie to the louche streets of Soho, from the mythic Celtic battlefields over to Dino’s bar and grill, his restless creativity roamed. You could stock a damn good jukebox with only his work, so vivid the eye for detail and so capacious its reach . . . The songs will abide. That’s the only consolation. But it’s a real one. Even in the darkest night, you can always hear the king’s call.
Far from Ridgeway Street and the wild horses in Scottsdale.
