July • 2011 www.ianohio.com Bridget Linton, Northern Ohio 2011Rose of Tralee Blowin’ In: To Every Season... Page 3 What Ever Fits in the Box... Page 10 Bridging the Troubled Waters... Page 16 Photo of Ms. Linton by John O’Brien, Jr. July 2011 • irish american news www.ianohio.com ianOHIO 3 between your fin- gers. Tired from I sit amongst reams of dis- maraderie built in giving to- our misadven- plays. The 29th Annual Cleveland gether, for over three decades. tures, we would Irish Cultural Festival is a month Our volunteer ranks are filled wait for our din- off, and time seems to be rushing with many who bear the same ner and swing on toward me. It is with great relief last name or founding relation; the playground that I sent the brand new Greater another generation of families set, watching Cleveland Irish Directory off to working ticket, pop, beer and To Every Season my aunt carry freshly harvested beans and the printer today. It will be avail- other stations. They are our “t’maters” for our noon meal. able at Cleveland Irish Cultural strength and our foundation. As a girl, I always wanted to live on a farm. While my aunt would prepare the beans, care- Festival July 22-24, at the Berea New volunteers offer more I would wonder what my life would be like if fully popping off the tough ends, I would sit on Fairgrounds. Now I can work than just a pair of hands, for my mother hadn’t moved from her hometown of the high kitchen stool visiting with her, always hard at having fun. their energy and creativity can- Billings, Missouri. But if fate had unfolded in keeping one eye on the window that overlooked I was sixteen when my dad not be manufactured; it must any other way, I wouldn’t be who I am today. the farm. I never tired of her stories or soft Mis- walked into my bedroom one John O’Brien, Jr. be earned in laughter and em- My earliest memories of the farm sprout like souri drawl. Even now, I feel beans with bacon day in 1982 and said, “Johnny, braced in created memories. vegetables on a vine. One moment I recall my are best boiled with a side of country wisdom. we’re starting a festival, you are doing the Seeing thousands of people living, laughing granddad before he died, sitting in his white When I long for the farm, I take my colander parking,” and walked out. Twenty-nine years and learning on the Midway is simply icing on wicker chair sheltered from the heat of the mid- filled with summer beans and sit on my front later, we still worry about the parking, and the the cake for this cádre of compatriots. day sun beneath a towering oak tree awaiting my porch with a glass of iced tea and revel in a mo- walk to the front gate for our guests. After line- I have been privileged to work with many family’s arrival from Chicago. During another ment’s quiet. The thud of the beans falling into up and the publicity efforts, the parking lot is festivals in exchanging ideas and sharing early memory, I can feel the stifling humidity the stainless bowl the only sound I hear. the first thing our guests see. It has always knowledge. Those sharing of best practices the evening my granddad was waked. Crickets Though I lived in the city, I tried to recap- been free, but always at a significant cost and extend far beyond the too short festival sea- chirped loudly that twilight, nature’s mourners ture my moments on the farm. Each summer, concern to us as organizers. son. The relationships forged in quiet conver- drowning out the human tears. my mother would buy me packs of seeds: canta- Entertainment is king and by far the most sations with other organizers, performers, edu- I can still see my five-year-old self, standing loupe, tomatoes, pumpkins, and corn. Our Chi- cited reason people spend their time and mon- cators and luminaries are truly the little extra outside the century-old funeral home, dressed in cago garage faced an alley and sat about three ey in going to an event. Great line-ups draw light that eases loads and warms cold winters a black polka-dotted dress with a large yellow feet away from our neighbor’s. great crowds, great experiences keep them with a bonfire’s great light and a friendship’s daisy for a pocket. Unaffected by the cacophony Huge clusters of wild mint choked the there. Only the weather (and the hyper weather great warmth. It is an honor. of crickets, I bent down and scratched the mos- ground. With my father’s help, I managed to forecasters) have more impact on an events at- Hope to see you at the 29th Annual Cleve- quito bites that dotted my bare legs and ankles. clear a space, long enough to plant corn and tendance. land Irish Cultural Festival, a week later at I remember being quite put off that I had not cantaloupe. My father humored me, convinced The behind the scenes effort that starts on Dayton Celtic Fest, or a week after that, at the received a mass card. My older cousin gently that nothing would ever grow in that city soil but the Sunday before the event with over 450 Dublin Irish Fest. Trifecta! scolded me saying that I was too young to read weeds. volunteers, actually starts nine months earlier, To close, in another honor, I was recently and didn’t need one. Boldly, I grabbed her card Strangely enough, my plants grew. The corn when bands, grounds, production and promo- named to Irish America Magazine’s “Top 100 during the prayer service and proved her wrong, grew tall, reaching toward the top of the garage. tion are all offered, argued and booked. About Irish American’s”. It is hard to know what to say reading each and every word. Even though my The corn itself was tough and inedible, probably 1% of the festival weekend workers volunteer when recognized for doing what I love, except first memories revolved around a death, what I owing to the age of the hardware store seeds, in festival preparation year ‘round. Volunteers to say thank you. So in this the 29th Fest and most remember is how alive I felt on the farm. but still it grew. My cantaloupe vines hardly give up evenings or a Saturday to discuss the the Top 100, I wish to say Thank You OhIAN Precocious and curious to a fault, I spent three prospered. The fruit was small and hard; never past, plan the future and spark new ways to readers for your support, your ideas, your atten- weeks each year of my childhood, knee deep in to fully ripen in the shade of the garage. That preserve, promote and present the rich culture dance and most of all, for sharing in this most hay and manure, trying to figure out where I fit summer I harvested more memories than pro- that has enriched so many of us. wonderful cult and culture that is being Irish. in the world. Like the young calf whose color- duce, but my desire to be part of the earth was The reward for these volunteers is the ca- Slán, John ing is dark enough to stand out from his fair, quenched. * www.ianohio.com, www.facebook.com/OhioIrishAmericanNews, caramel colored siblings, I was curly-haired Each summer rain brings a sense of freshness www.twitter.com/jobjr, www.myspace.com/ohian, and olive-skinned. I looked different from my to the earth. Cool rain ushers in humidity, moist http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ohioirishamericannews fair-skinned, blond-haired Missouri cousins, but enough to curl my hair and lift the scent off of inside we were kindred spirits, country kids at green leaves and pink flowering petals. In the tasted the salt from brisk sea winds that lashed love. We are, he and I, kindred spirits, country heart. suburbs and the city, such fragrance is fleeting. across his face. Vegetable-like he grew by his fa- kids at heart. Aunt Peggy kept a garden filled with toma- Car exhaust and construction vehicles temper ther’s side, nourished with tradition and mother’s Continued on Page 15… toes, corn, melons, and trailing beans. Dinner the headiness of the earth. was served at lunchtime. My uncle had already In the Irish countryside, the fragrance of the www.mariannemangan.com been working since 4:30 am and was ready for fields is omnipresent; the smell of mown hay fresh buttered corn, green beans boiled with ba- and sweet grass, not unlike the scents of the con, and slices of salted watermelon. Missouri farm, stay with you through years, de- Barefoot and innocent, my younger cousin cades, and generations. Such perfume transports and I were as thick as thieves. Somehow we fol- you to another time and place where worries lowed an unending trail of mischief. If told to are held in perspective; the bleating of newborn stay out of the cornfield, in we would go. lambs harnessing you back to the earth. Trapped in a field filled with late July corn is I wish to give my children the gifts my par- at once frightening and exhilarating. The depth ents gave me, the gift of the earth, the farm, of the rows of corn is disorienting, maze-like. and fresh air. My husband shares this ideal as imagine your image Each stalk of corn resembles another.