As we first arived in Limerick to do our student teaching, we decided it would be a good idea to take a walk around. One of the first things we noticed was that the front yards of each house were very small. Even the largest ones were no more than 20ft by 20ft. Looking at it, we could hardly tell that there was a yard at all. Most of the yards were planted with elaborate gardens, each full of color. This brought us to the not so obvious question, "What do Irish people call the front yard?"
We were feeling rather bold at that point in time and decided to ask a man that had just come out of his house. Having interupted this man's saturday morning routine, we asked him our pressing question. We soon found that the front yard is called the "front garden." Furthermore, the back yard is commonly refered to as the "yard." We satisfied at this point and were about to take ourselves elsewhere when the man invited us into his house to see the "yard." We agreed and the next thirty minutes was spent looking around Mr. Kelly's house and yard. He took the time to offer us scones and tea and talked at length about the history of the area we found ourselves in. His house was once occupied by the English and used as a barracks. When we finally decided to leave Mr. Kelly, he invited us back any Saturday for dinner. Mr. Kelly gave us a great first impression of the city we would call home for the next 3 months.
I first met Malvin when I was cooking dinner. He was cooking couscous, a favorite meal of mine. From the very beginning, he intrigued me. I was eating with my friends, but conversation was forced, so I picked up my plate and glass and after gaining permission, I plopped down beside him at his table. I soon found out that Malvin was from England and was over in Ireland for "personal" reasons. Minutes went by like this before he realized that I was no threat to him.
It turned out that Malvin was in Ireland to seek out his history. For the last couple of years, he has been on and off the streets, dealing with his personal problems in his way. As a bus driver, he made minimal amounts of money but enough to get him to Ireland for week. He was fifty years old, a storyteller by trade, after spending over 20 years in the English navy. I soon realized that Malvin was someone to listen to. His words and face told me he had experienced things that I would dare talk about. I was mezmorized by his thoughts. Malvin used to be a teacher of drama who got out of the profession when he realized that pessimisum had taken over the minds of his collegues.
In Ireland, Malvin hoped to find his past. As a young man, he learned that he was not an only child as his father had told him all his life. When his father was younger, he left a family in Ireland to go to England. Up until their deaths, Malvin's family had asked that he not look into his remaining family. With his life in tormoil, Malvin decided that the only way to help himself was to find out where he came from. Coming to Ireland, Malvin had no where to start other than the local ancestory bureau.
Luck came Malvins way. As we spoke, he recieved a phone call. It was one of his step brothers in Ireland. The bureau had contacted him when Malvin used their services. Two days later, when I last saw Malvin, he greeted me with a smile and a hand shake. During the period I had not seen him, he had learned of four other brothers and sisters and more than 20 cousins that still lived int he Limerick area. The night before, they all gotten together to discuss their father. I will never forget the joy I saw in his face. Being in a state of question myself, Malvin's story helped me to realize that things will fall into place eventually.
At some point it is neccessary to see the pubs of Ireland. One thursday night, after a long day at school, this is exactly what I did. Myself, along with students from Finland, Germany, France, Austrailia, and the Netherlands crowded into Doland's Pub on Dock Road. After a couple of pints, we made our way back to the hostel. Having only had a couple, I was perfectly fine, or so i thoughts.
At one corner, I was talking to the group, not paying attention to where I was going. I soon ran into a low garden wall. There is stood, about a foot off of the ground. I tripped and fell, scaping my arms and legs. The people around me rushed to my aid, helping me up. Not more than 5 seconds later, I ran into a pole. By this point I was embarassed and kept my eyes on the ground, refusing to talk to anyone for fear of running into something else.
The next morning came and I realized that at some point during the night I had lost my keys. Inlcuded on the key ring was a key to the school I was doing my student teaching at. Deciding to retrace my steps, I found myself at the garden I come to know the night before. After a half hour of suspicious digging around in the dirt, I found the keys. Now all i had to do was to get the dirt off of my dress clothes!
Mr Kelly in the "yard"
Notice the old style key...that's the one to my school!
