Last Ones To Judge.

The last time I went deer hunting with my father was November 1997. As usual, not much success in the "bringing home some game" department, but very successful in the "getting fresh air and quiet time outdoors with each other" department.

He was murdered on Christmas Eve 1997.

When the deer hunting season came around in 1998, none of my hunting relatives (my mom's brothers, brother-in-law, or their children) invited me to go hunting with them.

In the spring of 1999, my godfather (my mom's cousin) called me from his home North of the metro area. While I had never hunted or fished with him or his son, he was appalled by his cousins' not extending an invite to me. He asked me to consider joining him that fall, with only one condition: if my uncles asked me to hunt with them, then I needed to go with them, not my godfather. Fair enough. I did tell my godfather that, while I appreciated his generous offer, I probably wouldn't impose myself on their hunting plans.

That fall, one uncle called and asked me if I wanted to go grouse hunting with him on a weekend that he knew I wouldn't be able to get off. Disingenuous, but at least he called.

In 2005, I was asked to go deer hunting by a good friend on his property near Ely. I eagerly took him up on it. No success, but a fine time.

In 2006, I was asked to go deer hunting. Same circumstances as 2005. A lovely time.

Last year, I just couldn't make time to hunt and had to decline when the same fellow asked me to go again.

This year, my fiancee and I had to pick a date to get married. November 15 is at the end, middle, or beginning of the various deer seasons in Minnesota. It was the date the chapel was available. We chose it and we were happy with the decision.

This weekend, I heard from my mother that my godfather was disappointed that we had chosen that date. He had apparently also heard from one of my uncles (see above) who had complained to him about the same thing, especially since his kids come up to join him.

My blood boiled. It honestly felt like my blood was boiling and I was dizzy with rage! (To look at it objectively, I never actually wanted to hunt with them; I had just wanted to be acknowledged. Every major "first" since my father was murdered had been yet another hurdle in the grieving process: the first Christmas without Dad, the first birthday without Dad, Dad's first birthday without Dad, various holidays, and events without Dad, the first hunting season without Dad.)

"How dare they?!" I shouted in my car. "They have NO right. They have no right to suggest that I'm somehow cramping their enjoyment of their family time!" After a few minutes I calmed down, but my anger grew cold. Talking with my fiancee later steeled me with this opinion: it's one day, one weekend in a very long life. Should they choose not to come, then that's fine. Should they choose to come, then that's fine, too.

I had been plotting a nasty speech to throw out at them, but November 15 is OUR day and it WILL be a good day. I will not ruin it by plotting something stupid to say. If any of these relatives dares to mention it to me, then and ONLY then will I comment to them that hunting pretty much stopped being part of my life after Dad died and that their inaction more or less solidified that.

But for now, I get to have a little time to complain. Ten years of them enjoying themselves and not inviting me. Now, we're throwing a party, the biggest event in our life, asking them to share it with us. One day. One day, and they gripe about it. I'm still in the frame of mind that if the wedding was today and they griped about it to me, I'd find their unwrapped gift, hand it back to them and ask them to leave.

Come November 15 I'll be fine and civil. That much I can manage.

Irish Fair Madness

Irish Fair is this weekend and aside from March Madness (St. Patrick's Day, not NCAA basketball), this is the busiest time of the year for the Irish in Minnesota. Since I'll be running my tail-feathers off playing for Mooncoin (ceili dancers), Knocknagow (more dancers), the Twin Cities Ceili Band (for . . . dancers!), the occasional Legacy gig, and a workshop, oh yeah, I'll be tired and thirsty. Feel free to give me a beer when you bump into me.

Yes, Flogging Molly will be there for you Irish head-bangers. So will a host of other musical and cultural groups, including the Tannahill Weavers. My personal favorite, and a latecomer to the table this year, is The Fuchsia Band. Great tunes, great songs, great talent, and they not only play music, they know their dances (which is something that I have encouraged other musicians to do)!

I was perusing through my Ireland photographs and decided to post this picture. Fuchsia is EVERYWHERE in Ireland, but mostly along the roads in the hedges (which is pretty much all I saw of Ireland while the car was moving). I was just playing around with the camera to see what kind of shot I could come up with and this was as lucky as I got.

More photos to come.

Random thoughts:

In Ireland, I saw a poster with the poem "Desiderata" entirely in Irish.

Keegan's session was so good that I had to return after rehearsing with Mooncoin this evening. Didn't leave until after 11. Had a quorum of Toms (or thereabouts), too. Great tunes. I think I'm finally over my jet lag since I've been in bed by 8-9 the last three nights and now I'm up typing this right now.

Home

Got home Wednesday evening. Sorry about the lack of updates, but the I had no time to get near a computer when we were there. It'll be different next time.

I've got pictures and I'll post them somewhere.

Stopped in Cobh and saw the "Queenstown Experience". Blew through Cork like there was no tomorrow. Stayed in Macroom and am now in Dingle. Tomorrow we blow north.

Long longplane rides. Long driveto Dublin. Two nights in Howth. Currently in Tramore. Haven't played a single tune. How sad.

Late night.

I wasn't packed when I got home from rehearsal at 9:30pm. I'm packed now. I didn't bother going to bed, since my sleep pattern is going to be messed up anyway, I figured that I'd get myself so exhausted that my body will believe me when I tell it that jet-lag is just an illusion.

Got my box at the front door; that's good. My Epi-pen, probably a smart bet, too. European GSM cell phone, audio recorder, notebook, Lonely Planet guide (it doesn't say DON'T PANIC, though, and I actually find that quite disheartening, but I do know where my towel is, so I've got THAT going for me, which is nice), passport, cash. What else? I had to go to Cub at 1:00am but it's only 1/2-mile from home and this is the suburbs, and I pretty much know any teen who would be out after curfew anyway, so I'm safe. Anyway, I wanted to make sure that my stuff would fit in my government-allotted 1qt bag so I needed 1qt bags. I also made sure that I had toothpaste (the .85 oz version, of course, because a toothpaste tube of over 3oz threatens safety EVERYWHERE!), and grabbed a pack of Mint Mojito gum for the flights.

Yes, I'm boring you. But YOU'RE the one who read this far. You have only yourself to blame. Now, off to the shower to clean up and shave so I don't look like a terrorist.

First post!

Alright. Short. Sweet. Simple. To the point.

I'll try to post here while I'm in Ireland. Yes, you all want a personal email, postcard, telephone call, telegram. Actually, the telegram died a couple of years ago. A shame, really. But I digress.

And I finish with this. I'm leaving on a jet plane, don't know . . . when I'll be back, er, again? In truth, 10 days away. If you don't get an email, check here. If it's not here, then nobody else knows either.

One more Legacy gig, one more Twin Cities Ceili Band ceili, and one more rehearsal with Mooncoin, and then I'm gone!