I once knew an old American of Irish descent, who loved to snap and growl, but had a soft heart and thus in some ways served as a role model for O'Reilly. In loving memory for J. W. Bailey. Happy Birthday, Grandpappy.
O'Reilly was satisfied.
One could even go as far as to say that he was happy.
Which he never would have admitted, as he had a reputation as curmudgeon to maintain.
Which nobody was buying anyway.
One could even go as far as to say that he was happy.
Which he never would have admitted, as he had a reputation as curmudgeon to maintain.
Which nobody was buying anyway.
He dandled the first great-grandchild on his bony old-man knees, letting the wee one gnaw on his knuckles, and phlegmy humming a half-forgotten lullaby, as he was lost in reverie.
His small cottage on the outskirts of the village was filled to overflowing with people. The air was thick enough to cut with cigarette smoke, mouth-watering aroma clouds wafting from the tiny kitchen, the smoke of the peat fire, smelly, dirtied baby diapers, wet wool, wet dog and a mass of people.
The same with the noise level, that would have to be reduced in little slices:
Screaming, laughing children, babies screaming, scolding, laughing mothers, grandmothers, aunts, sisters, daughters and cousins.
Cussing, smiling fathers, grandfathers, uncles, cousins, brothers and sons.
Barking dogs.
With whiskey, poteen and beer well-oiled throats, which in turn sang cheerful, indecent or wistful Irish songs and ballads.
In short, an Irish birthday, as was proper.
That was the way it had always been in the village.
The young people may prefer to move to Dublin or so, but if there was something to celebrate, everyone was there.
That was the way it had always been in the village.
The young people may prefer to move to Dublin or so, but if there was something to celebrate, everyone was there.
In spite of everything, they stuck together.
O'Reilly grinned so widely that his dentures threatened to fall out.
Then he raised his glass of ale, answered an affectionate insult with a good-natured curse, put his other arm around his best friend Finnegan's shoulders and joined in as someone began to intone "The Hills of Connemara".
A cold autumn storm roared over the little cottage on the outskirts of the small Irish village. From the small, brightly polished windows, a warm light shone out into the darkness, in which a moody wind enviously listened to the happy laughter and singing.
O'Reilly grinned so widely that his dentures threatened to fall out.
Then he raised his glass of ale, answered an affectionate insult with a good-natured curse, put his other arm around his best friend Finnegan's shoulders and joined in as someone began to intone "The Hills of Connemara".
A cold autumn storm roared over the little cottage on the outskirts of the small Irish village. From the small, brightly polished windows, a warm light shone out into the darkness, in which a moody wind enviously listened to the happy laughter and singing.
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