The year 2014 ended on a sad note when I learned that John Maynard, David Williams, and Stewart Hancock died during the year. Each was a man of distinguished and humane contributions to our world. You can read more of their lives elsewhere in this magazine and online.
Early in this new 2015 I was thinking as I walked (carefully) about our 70th Reunion, wondering who may be blessed with the health and mobility to attend. I sneezed and immediately heard, “God bless you,” from a passing stranger. That old sentiment sent my memory back beyond Wesleyan to my childhood, and to Ireland. “Rushing the growler” is an adventure for a boy: there’s the law to get around. Literally; there’s the rush down the alley to the back door of the friendly pub; there’s the rush to deliver the growler (two liters of stout); then there’s the reward, rarely money, most often a blessing. I recall my first such reward from a retired policeman whose Sunday thirst I’d slaked. He looked at me straight in the eye, searched his mind’s store for a minute, then said: “That your shadow might never grow less, and that every hair of your head might become a candle to light your way to Heaven.” Reward enough.
Another blessing I recall with pleasure came from a Kerry woman to whom I gave a lift, squeezing her impressive girth into my little rented Opel. I took her a mile or so to the cottage where she maneuvered herself out of the car, put her hands on mine, and said, “That Holy Saint Christopher might always be a passenger with you, and that the Divine Infant might light your way both day and night.” As I shifted the gear back into drive gear, she smiled and added, “and that ye might have a bigger machine the next time we meet.”
The two-pronged blessing is just that, but it’s better than no blessing at all. An example: “That your enemies might be drinking bog-water while you’ll be drinking tea.” When Tomasin O’Scannlain died, I was honored to be a pall bearer at his burial. A lovely blessing came from a mourner who wished “that he might have a silver bowl in Heaven” and “that Moses and his men might be at the gate to meet him,” echoed by another. The old Irish were great at bestowing blessings, but the art has not died. Just take a stroll through any Kerry or Mayo or Clare byway and drop no more than a simple comment on the weather to any countryman or woman you meet, and I guarantee you’ll get a blessing in return if no more than “God spare you the health.” Still, that’s better than going through the world without a good word for anyone.
Looking ahead to our 70th Reunion, but not knowing at this January writing whether you’ll read this before or after, I’ll end with my own blessing to all of you ’45s out there. That a doctor might never earn a dollar from you, that the heart of you might never give out, and that the 10 toes of you might always steer you clear of all misfortune. And, too, that at Reunion’s fine meeting you might receive a blessing better than this one. Slán go fóill.
FRANCIS W. LOVETT | francis.lovett1@comcast.net
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