Another Way to Play

by Michael Lally

he said because he was

  sure I wouldn’t see 22

  the way I lived back then—

  well, I guess I showed them

  even if I am a little tired today—

  it’s not because I’m turning 50 okay?—

  or because I celebrated yesterday,

  or stayed up too late and got up too early

  for the past few days, or because I

  got a tattoo that’s older than you

  and that kind of stuff seems to matter

  to the few who don’t know yet that the

  differences are there for enticement

  and celebration, not to justify some

  fear of the unknown—it’s all knowable—

  and I know I’ve said it before and it

  seems kind of corny, even when I blame

  it on Selby, but like he says, it’s

  all love and either we let fear get

  in the way of that or not—not is

  what I vote for—what I’m tired of

  is the way that fear goes around from

  one sad clown to another, beating each

  other down for what somebody else did

  to them—the sin we saw on that

  video—which one depends on where

  you’re viewing it from, they say—but

  I don’t say that—I say somebody beats

  up on that defenseless guy because

  somebody else beat up on them once—

  sounds too simple doesn’t it?—I

  know, it’s more complex than that,

  but I really don’t care today—I’ve

  watched a lot of people live and die

  in my time, and most have been beaten

  by someone or something at sometime or

  another and some let it kill them and

  some used it as an excuse to kill

  somebody else and some never got over

  it and some of us got over it again

  and again but when your number’s called

  it don’t matter where you been it

  matters where you are, and I want to

  be right smack in the middle of love,

  the kind that comes from above and

  makes everything possible . . .

  WHERE DO WE BELONG

  for Neal Peters, Terence Winch and John McCarthy

  Passing through these hills, these lakes,

  these fates I thought I had outwitted—

  who am I here? in the land of my

  fathers—this harsh wind & chill, the

  sheets of rain lashing out like my

  anger at meager perspectives on life

  despite all the vistas the world has

  forgotten—I am myself—the himself

  of this life I’m given—& when the

  rain clears—or goes soft—the land-

  scapes pull my heart to peaks of

  awe & wonder—how could this be?

  so much beauty must be graced with

  the living lace of showers, the veils

  of a reality too God-like to endure—

  ah—I’m happy—& confused—like a

  lover returning after rejection & recon-

  ciliation—what do I expect to find?

  the answer to my dreams.

  An uncle long dead—the “gentle”

  one his wife compared me to—

  his nose, his chin, his manly smile—

  in this cousin “once removed” it

  took me days to find—he once

  lived in the same thatched

  cottage my grandfather rose every

  morning in, from the day he was

  born until he left for distant

  shores—& us—the family he would

  have—the kids, in fear & arrogance,

  rejecting what he was in all their

  American striving—after what?

  what we have now & find so

  lacking in fulfillment we have to

  slam & shoot & burn the mother-

  fucker down before it’s ours?—

  it took me 50 years to find that

  thatched roof cottage, uninhabited

  for only four, still standing, not for

  many more—& maybe me too.

  Or him—this cousin Paddy—

  69—a bachelor—the last of

  “our Lallys” in County Galway where

  I first went to see the famous bay

  & was disappointed & excited all at

  once—it was an August day but the

  dampness & chill in the air made it

  necessary for me to wear a coat, which

  wasn’t even enough when the wind

  began to blow—dark clouds filled the sky—

  rain fell sporadically—the water could

  not have looked less inviting—darker

  than any I’ve ever seen outside of dreams—

  & choppy, like a major winter storm

  was brewing, when everywhere else I

  had just been—L.A., New York—my friends

  & family were stewing in the end-of-summer

  heat waves of our new world order

  weather—but here, in Galway, sweaters

  were the order of the day—& no way

  would anybody be able to see through the

  thick sky cover any moon going

  down on any bay—

  & I had all I

  could do to keep on my side of the

  “highway,” which meant any road big

  enough for two cars to pass without

  a heart attack, as I tried to get

  away from the toy like streets of

  Galway City, so narrow they were best

  suited for donkey carts and the

  proverbial wheelbarrow, not compact

  cars like the one I’m having trouble

  negotiating through this faux rush

  hour when I accidentally bump a car

  in front of me and out jumps a young

  lady yelling things like “stupid” at

  me & all I can do is roll down my

  window & explain I’m not used to

  driving on this side of the road

  or car because I’m from America—

  “Well, I’m not!” she shouts as she

  shakes her head at I guess what

  must be a rare occurrence, although

  I can’t see why since they all drive,

  as McCarthy says, like Indians who

  just got ahold of their first ponies.

  & where are they all off to anyway

  on an island not big enough to take

  that long to reach the edges of—

  nowhere, I discover, as they pass

  me going 85 & I’m just trying not

  to slide off into the hedges or

  the stone walls that line these

  country roads, because when I

  come around the next bend, there

  they are, backed up and waiting

  patiently while someone drives

  their cows on home, or stops to

  chat up a neighbor—no honking

  horns, no impatient scorn, no

  guns drawn, just acceptance of

  the situation—until it’s time

  to move again, & then they’re

  off, around blind curves with

  little enough room for two cars

  going opposite directions, let

  alone a third trying to make

  a move straight down the middle

  at 85 or 90, & me still trying

  to remember which side is mine.

  & then there they are—the

  “fields of Athenry” celebrated

  in song and family legend—I

  know my grandfather came from

  nearby & wonder if these stone

  walls and almost treeless views

  were ones he knew, the rich

/>   green meadows & pastures, the

  sheep & cows & occasional bandy-

  legged dog looking out on it all

  as if it could care less about

  the rest of the world, including

  me passing by on my way to three

  days of leads to “Lallys” who

  are no relations—much gossip

  of who married whom & church records,

  only the wrong church, sending

  me to suspicious farmers who

  ignore the hand I extend until

  they come to understand I don’t

  want anything more than the

  lore of my family.

  I get led on by one who comes off

  like Richard Harris in The Field

  the movie the folks I’m staying

  with say is the one about their

  country they found most real—

  & so did I—that angry patriarch

  so narrow-minded & mean & yet

  somehow heroic, reminding me

  of my grandfather & what I

  remembered of a man who always

  seemed to scowl & need a shave

  & dress like a bum & have been

  drinking, that stinking smell

  of alcohol & old worn-for-years-

  through-everything-that-mattered

  clothes, still sturdy though,

  like him the neighbors saw as the

  local character, but to us he was

  “Himself,” the father of our clan.

  And now here I am where he began,

  following one false lead after another,

  meeting available widows ten years

  my senior, whose brothers point out

  ruins of peasant huts they swear

  is where my grandfather grew up,

  the stones so tightly fitted, like

  the walls all around this country,

  “knitted” as they say, so that

  even without mortar or cement they

  can withstand water or contain

  bulls, except the human ones—

  the interlocking shapes & sizes

  keeping out the wind & rain while

  the thatched roofs equally as

  intricate keep the water out too

  & the warmth in—these places

  fascinate me, each one could be

  a place my grandfather knew.

  I don’t mind the dead ends

  because they all lead to the

  kitchens of farmhouses where

  everyone seems ready to share

  a bottle or some tea and an

  anecdote about the ones now

  gone across the sea, some never

  known or long forgotten, their

  children or grandchildren turning

  up “back home” so many years later,

  like me, here now, trying to uncover

  what? the answer to my never being

  able to identify with who I was

  brought up with & wondering why—

  But now I’m sharing some bread or

  sandwiches or cakes when they

  take me to the oldest living

  memory in the neighborhood to ask

  “Do you remember any Lallys

  in these parts, ones who

  went away?” & I say “In the

  last century, late 1800s, he

  died in 1956” and they reply

  “That’s not so long ago, someone

  should know if he came back for

  visits, as you say, now that’d

  be something to remember then,

  a Yank coming home in the ’30s

  or ’40s would be an event, sure

  it would”—& I could almost feel

  myself relaxing, something old

  & familiar in these scenes, not

  just the fear I had of my Irish

  grandparents but the closeness—

  they were always there, right

  down the street, waiting for me

  to come & greet them as my mother

  always made me do at least once a

  week—I only wish I knew then

  what I do now so I could have slowed

  down those brief encounters &

  maybe remember—what?—what

  I think I’m feeling now—the

  comfort & ease of being at peace

  with who you are—I am.

  When, through some unacknowledged

  or too subtle for my eyes and ears

  decision is reached and it’s

  time to go, no one remembering

  my grandfather “Mike,” someone

  suggesting another little place with its

  own name despite the fact that it isn’t

  on the map & all it means is a handful

  of houses more or less close

  by each other, and another

  peat fire in the kitchen heating

  stove, and the best chair, closest

  to the heat, to be my place,

  and there’s no haste at all

  to get on with their farmers day,

  & I get the impression these

  people would rather talk than

  work anyway, & they’d rather

  hear a poem recited than talk

  & why recite a poem if someone

  can sing a song all the way through—

  they just know what they like best,

  & it seems to be the articulation

  of the human mind at rest & glad of it.

  Finally I get in touch with “my

  brother the priest” as we say,

  who has lived in Japan these 30

  years or more & who had once

  come looking around here maybe

  that long ago—he tells me

  the place to look is called Bookeen,

  another handful of houses where some

  relatives lived but with a different

  last name, having descended from one

  of grandpa’s sisters who stayed

  behind, but there is no use

  he says looking grandpa up in

  the local church because our

  Lallys had gone somewhere else,

  the “Redemptorist monastery”

  a few miles the other way—

  & when I tell this to the man of the

  house where I am staying, he says

  “I know your man, I’m sure he’s

  related for his name is Lally &

  he lives at Tallyho Cross—” (which

  I later learn means crossroads)

  “—not far from Bookeen but closer to

  Esker”—the Redemptorist place—

  & he takes me to see this Paddy

  Lally in an old “two story” as

  they call them when they are,

  “too dilapidated” to invite me

  in, he tells my host, so he comes

  out to the car instead and gets

  in the back and we shake hands

  and I see something familiar in

  the strength of his nose and

  unshaven chin and the look in

  his eye and even the way his old

  clothes are worn & thick with

  accumulated what can I call it

  but life? It’s hard to describe

  without sounding the way “the

  Americans” did when they talked of

  my grandfather, only worse,

  like a homeless person might

  look now, not even that good

  in a way, what can I say? he

  wears a suit coat that has seen

  better days a long long time ago—

  obviously he works in it,

  lives in it, maybe every day—

  but he has a full head of hair

  and as much on his upper cheeks

  as if he had forgotten to shave

  there—later I will discover
>
  in a book that it was traditional

  for the Irish men of the West to

  let their face hair grow and only

  shave it for special occasions

  but never the hair in their nose

  or low on their throat or upper

  cheeks, a sign of their connection

  to the past, their fathers and

  theirs, but now he only looks

  like he had missed the hairs

  a long time ago—

  Anyway, I

  say my grandfather’s name was

  Michael, like mine, & my father’s

  name was James—he says his

  father’s name was Frank & I say

  I had an uncle Frank, & he says

  his grandfather’s name was Pat

  & I say my great grandfather’s name

  was that, and the other man points

  out that my grandfather came back

  for visits & wouldn’t he remember

  that and Paddy says “Ah, it was a

  long time ago” and looks me in

  the eye and with a sort of sigh

  says, “There was a priest here

  once from America, he lived in

  Japan, but I never met him”—

  “That’d be my brother” I say—

  “You know you can go over to

  Galway City and find a book on names

  that’ll tell you all you’d want to

  know about the Lallys, not us though,

  but about the name—ah, but

  what’s in a name” he goes on “a

  rose by any other name would

  smell as sweet, wasn’t it Mister

  Shakespeare said that—” he doesn’t

  really ask, a kind of glow in

  his eye as though he’s trying to

  put one by me as I smile & reply

  “That’s so, Shakespeare said that,

  and maybe you’re right, I’m content

  to just be here, near where I know

  my grandfather came from—it’s enough.”

  & then he looks at me again, as if

  seeing something else & says real low,

  as though throwing it away, “I remember

  Mike” & the hairs on the back of

  my neck stand up—“he used to take

  Patsy Lally into Athenry to the pubs,

  Patsy liked his drink, Mike was

  alright . . .” and I am home again in

  my heart, this is the start of

  something bigger than I remembered

  or expected, because it is so simple

  & so every day, as we sit there in

  my host’s little car, Paddy in the back,

  the two of them sharing a smoke, Paddy

  quiet again, and looking at his big,

  gnarly hands and not at us, as my host

  begins to figure out the dates & how

  it is we are or might be related,

  Paddy & me, “. . . aye, then Paddy’s

  father is your grandfather’s youngest

  brother which would make Paddy here

  you father’s first cousin & your