Ireland Part III: Northern Ireland

Immediately after arriving in Ireland we left the country—that is, we drove to Northern Ireland. Many mistakenly think of the entire Emerald Isle as a single country when it is comprised of two similar, but distinct countries. The country of Northern Ireland is part of the United Kingdom along with Scotland, Wales, and England. They proudly fly the British flag and still use the English Pound Sterling as their currency rather than the Euro. These days those are about the only differences the casual traveler might notice. But even within my short lifetime things were different. 

This is a complicated issue, but here is a summary of “recent” events. Prior to 1922 all of Ireland fell under British rule. Beginning with the Easter Uprising in 1916, the Irish fought for and eventually won their independence from England—at least most of them did. As part of the peace negotiations, however, the signed treaty allowed Northern Ireland the opportunity to opt out of the newly created Irish Republic. Composed of a Protestant majority loyal to the crown, they exercised this option. 

The two countries coexisted peacefully until tensions began to rise in the 1960s as the Catholic minority began to feel oppressed by the Protestant majority. Known as the Troubles, the minority challenged Northern Ireland’s status as part of the United Kingdom rather than part of the independent republic that comprised the rest of the island. Many of the Catholics desired to see all of Ireland united as one common republic (the Nationalists) while many of the Protestants remained in favor of maintaining ties to the United Kingdom (the Loyalists). Groups such as the Irish Republican Army fought to sever Northern Ireland’s ties to England. Up through the late 1990s, bombings and riots, like those now regularly witnessed in the Middle East, were quite common in Northern Ireland.

An agreement was entered in 1998 that mostly ended hostilities, with Northern Ireland remaining a part of the United Kingdom. But no agreement can suddenly eliminate decades of ill will, and in some cases all out hatred, between the Loyalists and Nationalists. Even today one best not breach the subject of religion or politics with locals who may have strong feelings on the issue. Though border checkpoints are gone, murals around Belfast still tell the story. Meanwhile, groups work to nurture understanding and acceptance among Northern Irish youth in the hope the conflict will remain a chapter in the history books and not resurface in tomorrow’s newspaper headlines.

The largest city in Northern Ireland is Belfast. Traditionally an industrial and shipbuilding center, it was the port in which the Titanic was built. The city now hosts a brand new museum describing the creation of the ill-fated, first-of-its-kind luxury liner.

The ship took 26 months to construct and was the largest of its time. The local shipyard constructing the Titanic employed 15,000 men, 8 of whom perished in the process. The ship was built on what is called a slipway. Once the exterior was completed, 22 tons of soap and tallow were spread on the slipway to lubricate the surface and allow the 46-ton ship to slip into the water with 100,000 onlookers celebrating the occasion. I need not describe how this story ends.

A scenic drive up the coast takes travelers to a unique feature known as Giant’s Causeway. This small section of coastline is famous for its hexagonal shaped rock columns that rise out of the ocean. A bird’s eye view shows a repeating honeycomb pattern that was created when volcanic lava slowly cooled under water and then cracked to create over 40,000 vertical columns. Similar rocks can be found on the Scottish coast just a short distance off in the horizon. 

This was our first opportunity to enjoy the scenic Irish coastline. A strong and steady wind howled from the East and pushed away the ominous and dark clouds that greeted the day. With the regular rainfall and mild temperatures that characterizes their maritime climate, every surface that can possibly provide plant life even the most meager foothold is green with summer growth. The parting clouds allowed the sun to illuminate the hillsides and provided us the best photos of the trip.

Sheep and cattle grazed the nearby hilltops. Traditionally, it wasn’t unheard of for a cow to get blown over the edge of the coastal cliffs should they dare to stretch for that luscious grass at the edge at the same moment a big gust comes by. Now days fences guard against such a bovine tragedy.  

Northern Ireland is also home of Bushmills Distillery—the oldest whiskey distillery in Ireland, chartered in 1608 with a license from King James the first. During our tour we learned that many of the barrels in which they age their whiskey are imported from Kentucky after first being used to age Kentucky Bourbon. That immediately brought to mind the Staggemeyer Stave mill—where the white oak pieces for many of the barrels used in Kentucky are first milled from local hardwoods. Therefore, it is entirely plausible that my complimentary tasting of Bushmills 10 year old aged whiskey spent some quality time soaking in the aromas and flavor of our local tri-state oak trees. It’s a small world, indeed.

The whiskey wouldn’t be our last run-in with traditional Irish alcohol—the best was yet to come. 

Ireland Part II: The Rules of the Road

Statistics suggest that odds of death are much greater when traveling by automobile (1 in 98) than by plane (1 in 7,178). This was a comforting statistic to keep in mind as our plane wheels lifted off the ground and we turned toward the North Atlantic during our overnight flight to Ireland. Upon our safe arrival, however, the odds of dying in an accident not only increased when we switched back to ground transportation, but became exaggerated by the fact that we were in a foreign country, interpreting foreign road signs, and most importantly, driving on the left side of the road in a busy city! (I note that you best say “left side of the road” instead of “wrong side of the road” or you will find yourself corrected by a local who disagrees with your perspective of which side is the “wrong” side.) 

The instructions from Enterprise were simple: drive on the left side of the road, no right on red, and yield to cars when entering the roundabouts. We were given a quick tutorial on the pair of diesel Volkswagen Golfs we would take around the country. Mine included new technology that would kill the engine whenever the car came to a complete stop to save fuel. Upon removing my foot from the break pedal, it would quickly spark back to life in sufficient time to accelerate and continue on. Driving on the left side means the driver also sits on the opposite side of the car from what we are used to here at home. Drivers are allowed to park facing either direction on a two-way street and in bigger cities will frequently park on the sidewalks. Finally, roundabouts rather than stoplights control most intersections. These numerous differences all add up to give the driver quite a few things to adjust to as they pull away from the airport.

Determined to not make any foolish mistakes, I gave driving my full attention as we embarked. I swung toward the left side of the three-lane road, but not far enough I quickly realized when I (and my three frightened passengers) immediately noticed an oncoming double decker bus occupied my same lane. In clear hindsight, I should have erred on the side of caution by choosing the far left lane instead of the middle lane.  It would have helped to also understand their line-painting scheme (where the center lines are painted white and the outer lines painted yellow) prior to departure—at least that’s the excuse I’m leaning on to explain my folly. It is very generous of the Irish to permit an American like myself, with no prior training or experience beyond my U.S. driver’s license, to get behind the wheel.

It doesn’t take long to get used to driving on the left side of the road. More difficult is growing accustomed to the narrow roadways—often with fences, walls, power line poles, and even buildings abutting the edge of the pavement. There are no ditches along Irish roads. Instead, hedges lines each side of the roadway, obstructing all peripheral views of the landscape and making it seem like you are driving through a passageway in a maze. The hedges, in most cases, aren’t entirely plant vegetation. They are old stone fences that have over time been obstructed by plant overgrowth. The Irish also do not believe in paving a shoulder alongside their local, regional, and even some national roadways. Instead, the vegetation comes right up to the outer pavement lines and it wasn’t uncommon for the plant life to brush along the side of the car as we whizzed by.  You can tell the Irish do not have to negotiate snowy roads on a routine basis. 

Their roads are generally posted with speeds limits that far exceed the speeds the roads would be rated for if they were in America, despite their narrowness. Judging by the number of cars lined up waiting to pass us those first few days, the locals can actually drive them that fast, too.

These challenges are amplified when traveling on narrow coastal roads, especially those that are common routes for large tour buses. In one instance, the passage was so narrow (vertical rock face on one side, cliff drop-off on the other) I had to fold my side-mirror in to prevent a passing bus from knocking it off as the driver expertly passed with only a couple of inches to spare. Other times, a person is forced to reverse down the road to a wider spot where both cars can pass.

Even once you have the quirks of the car, driving laws, and roads figured out, you still have to know where you are going. Thankfully we had a GPS that was accurate 90% of the time. While the locals were always very friendly and helpful in trying to give you directions that other 10%, we quickly learned they tend to exaggerate drive times. Though Ireland is less than half the size of Minnesota, travel is much slower due to the more primitive nature of their roads. Thus, we were usually searching for the night’s bed and breakfast lodging well after sundown.

I was continually surprised when the GPS would tell us to turn down a one-lane country road, what by our standards could be considered a good bike path, in order to reach our destination. A person can easily get frustrated and wonder why they do not widen their roads to make them safer and more navigable. On the other hand, it was exactly what I would have expected of this mostly rural country. Though much of the country has modernized, you can still find that authentic Irish country charm down some of these paths that require you to slow down and soak in your surroundings before winding past to the next small town or fishing village. 

As a spoiler for all of those wondering, we did ultimately get both rental cars back without any “significant” damage. It must be that old luck of the Irish that a scrape on the plastic bumper is the only modification I made to my car in our 2500 kilometers (1550 miles) of travel.

Ireland Part I: Return to the Homeland

The last time I wrote I was sporting cowboy boots, western shirts, and working on a Wyoming dude ranch for the summer.  After six consecutive summers working at summer camps and ranches—expending long hours to facilitate summer vacations for others—I decided that this summer it was time for a vacation of my own.  Eager for a new adventure, my family and I packed our bags and boarded an Aer Lingus flight bound for Ireland, the Emerald Isle.

With Irish ancestors in every root of my family tree, a trip to Ireland served not only as a scenic get-away, but an opportunity to get a flavor for the land left behind by our family five generations ago.  McKenna, O’Neil, Sullivan, Flanagan, Maloney, Conoley, Gleason, and Manning, among others, are the names of my great-great and great-great-great grandparents that emigrated from Ireland to America in and around the 1860s, pausing first in New York before finally settling in Southeastern Minnesota and Northeastern Iowa.  One can assume their story is similar to that of many of this region’s early Irish settlors.  Though their arrival is now many decades distant and their culture largely assimilated into the American melting pot, their unique legacy is still evidenced by the names of the places (Wexford, IA, Irish Hollow, Irish Ridge, Cork Hollow, etc), the names of the people, the region’s traditional foods, and the heartiness and spirit of this region’s inhabitants. 

While I wish I could report we were welcomed into the open arms of, and immediately fed a hearty Irish breakfast by, distant relatives we found by scanning the local phone book upon our arrival, this was not our experience.  Connecting with unknown and distant relatives takes more effort than I was able to invest prior to our arrival.  Nevertheless, we were able to navigate the island in our small rental cars, experience the breathtaking scenery, soak up the Irish mist, meet friendly locals, learn about Ireland’s history, visit sites of cultural significance, and of course, stomp along to traditional Irish pub music while enjoying Irish whiskey and beer.  For those interested, I share some of our experiences and my impressions in this column.  Whether you proudly trace your roots to Irish ancestors or not, whether you have visited the Emerald Isle or hope to one day visit, or whether you are simply curious as to why people of Irish ancestry are so proud of that connection, I hope in the next few weeks this column will take you to Ireland’s green shores and shed some light on Ireland—as best as words can describe the sights and sounds of this rich land across the pond. 

Central to the Ireland’s history and the primary cause for the massive outward migration from Ireland to America is, of course, the potato famine.  The potato was the central source of nutrients for most Irish poor and some estimates suggest that working men consumed up to 60 potatoes per day.  Many of the potatoes planted came from a single variety, the Irish Lumper.  Potato crop failures were not uncommon in Ireland prior to the famine, but the famine marked the most sustained, widespread, and devastating crop failure, stretching from 1845 to 1852 and destroying between one third and one half of the acreage planted.  The blight and subsequent famine caused one million Irish peasants to perish, and an equal number fled the country during that period—reducing Ireland’s population by 25%.  The Irish continued to immigrate to America in large numbers after the famine and an estimated 3.5 million Irish arrived between 1820 and 1880.  It was during the latter part of this period this region was settled by Irish immigrants. 

Most Irish immigrants traveled to America in what are now known as “coffin ships.”  With death rates during the six-week voyage commonly reaching 20%, one can understand how these vessels inherited that ominous name.  While it may have taken our ancestors six weeks to make the voyage, today a six-hour flight from Chicago to Dublin can get you back across the Atlantic.  Even accounting for the guy in the seat next to you hacking and coughing all over your personal space, your odds of surviving the passage back to Ireland in good health are substantially greater.  When one studies the living conditions of steerage passengers, suddenly the obtrusive airport security, the cramped seating on the plane, and the insatiable microwave dinners and meager rations of pretzel snacks served by the airline become insignificant inconveniences that we dare not complain about. 

It is with this background our wheels touched down in Dublin for a ten-day adventure that would take us around most of the country.  From Dublin to Belfast, Bushmills to Galway, Limerick to Dingle, and Killarney to Cork we hit the big tourist sites as well as many lesser-traveled roads in-between (and not all of them on purpose!).

Next week the journey begins—on the left side of the road.  As they say in traditional Gaelic, slán go foil (goodbye for now). 

End of Summer Farewell 2012

Five years ago, during a day off from Camp Olson, former director Tommy Rodengen and I visited a friend’s cabin on the north shore of Cass Lake, near Camp Chippewa.  It was about 7:30 pm, and the sun was sinking in the July sky.  Ambitious as we were at the time, we decided we wanted to see this mysterious “lake within a lake” on distant Star Island, a.k.a. lake Windigo, that the locals uniquely described.  We shoved off in a small paddle boat in our swimming suits, lifejackets, and cycling our feet to turn the paddle as fast as we could.  As anyone who has been to Camp UniStar is aware, Cass Lake is bigger than the novice might expect and we got nowhere fast in that man powered craft.  At the time, neither of us expected we would call that distant island home for two and three summers respectively.  Needless to say, I not only encountered an opportunity to see Lake Windigo on a later date, but found myself welcomed into a unique island community of camp folks that also valued simplicity, spiritual and emotional rejuvenation, music, social justice, relationships, wholesomeness, and natural beauty.  

There’s that old saying that if you love what you do you’ll never work a day in your life.  I feel that way about my experience as director at UniStar.  The ultimate responsibility of the staff is to make certain that Camp functions as smoothly as possible so that each camper could find themselves able to fully appreciate and enjoy the natural setting, the unique company, and then rejuvenating food and activities.  Things don’t always go as perfectly as planned (i.e. power outage), but if you found yourself boarding the Northstar at week’s end with a smile on your face, tear in your eye, or a restless itch to return again next summer, then we did our job.

Though the hours are long, the jobs sometimes hot and dirty, and the living conditions less than ideal, I think I speak for the entire staff when I say it is worth it all for the end-of-the-week hugs, grateful goodbyes, leftover box wine, and the chance to witness the personal growth and rejuvenation of our 700+ campers each summer.  

Before I conclude, I take this final opportunity to attempt to return the gratitude.  Thanks to everyone I met the past three years for supporting myself, the rest of the staff, and camp in ways too numerous to mention.  As I’ve said before, camp relies on many hours of volunteer labor, extra financial donations, and most importantly, a revolving door of campers each week to remain successful.  Thanks for helping us meet those needs and thank you for making Camp UniStar an important priority in the life of your family.

As a farm kid from Southeastern, Minnesota, I was an unlikely candidate to ever earn the title “camp director.”  To this day, I have never attended camp as a camper, but instead have more than made up for all of the missed opportunities over my six years of camping experience as camp staff.  I’ve often wondered (and have frequently been asked) if I would one day send my kids to camp, or perhaps even attend as a family.  Where only a few years ago there was hesitation in my answer, there is now a resounding yes.  When that day finally comes, I’ll look forward to seeing you on the Northstar.

Until then, happy trails,

Greg

Memories of John Blackstone

I knew John Blackstone for only the final sliver of his magnificent life. But as Camp Director at Camp UniStar for the past three summers, I had the distinct privilege of working side-by-side with John as he served on the management committee, devoting time and efforts toward perhaps one of his greatest joys in life; camp. From this vantage point I came to know John not just as an informal “boss” of sorts, but more importantly and more significantly as a mentor, role model, and a friend. And I know I am not the only one in the camp community who would label John as such.  My discussions with other committee members, staff, and campers all describe John in similar fashion.

As I worked to uncover the appropriate words to describe John, I came to the realization that if you didn’t know any better, you might easily confuse John for a character out of Garrison Keillor’s famed Lake Woebegone. Born on the prairie and of Nordic stock, he displayed the steadfastness, tenacity, and sometime the stubbornness you might expect from such a character. He demonstrated loyal dedication to his job and service commitments, and exercised his civic duties with regularity. His love and care for his family was always evident by his interactions with them. He was a simple man and as he taught Sonja, “When you’re hungry, eat. When you’re tired, sleep.” What’s more, he was a genuine person to the inner depths of his bones. What you saw is what you got, and in his presence, our cups would overflow with abundance.

John was a man of vision. John was constantly trying to envision a future in which camp would be physically and financially strong; so as to continue to thrive for the generations to follow. He saw a future for camp that wasn’t one of “just getting by,” but one of vitality and vibrancy. He dreamed of a camp that was sustaining into perpetuity. At times he could be relentless in this pursuit, but whether you always signed on to all of his ideas or not, you couldn’t help but respect and appreciate the passion he felt for that little piece of paradise. As part of this pursuit toward vitality, John was excellent at asking questions. In-fact, he questioned nearly everything. “Because that’s the way we’ve always done it” was not an adequate answer when John Blackstone was asking the question. He used his mind—that of an engineer—to find creative solutions to problems, even finding helpful solutions to things we didn’t always know were problems! In-fact, he was so good at this that it wasn’t uncommon for me to sit down at my desk and find five or six consecutive emails from John in the past hour regarding details needing attention—not to mention the box of camp related stuff that normally migrated its way to camp from his home in St. Paul on a biweekly basis. In striving to carve out a bright future for camp, John continually challenged me to do the same, and I could rarely keep up.  

John was generous. Though many examples could be cited, I think most in attendance today can relate to the way he concluded every email and phone call—not with loosely used and emotional terms like “sincerely,” “yours truly,” or “it was nice talking to you.” His parting words were consistently “let me know if I can be of any further assistance.” And as other close friends admit, you knew he really meant it, too. He was generous with the time he devoted toward camp. When the management committee needed new members, John decided it was his turn to serve. When leadership was needed for the massive undertaking of remodeling the kitchen, John passionately led the way. When the need for a new camp treasurer arose, John stood up and undertook one of the most demanding camp jobs there is. Even then, he kept a hand ready to assist in any other project that might need his guidance. In short, there was nothing John wouldn’t do for camp.

John was loyal and perseverant. Even into his final months and weeks John remained loyal to his camp service, contributing where he could to summer wrap-up and preparation for next season. He wasn’t the type to walk away from a job half finished. John also wasn’t the type to put off until tomorrow what could be done today. When he had something on his mind, he often couldn’t rest until the issue had been concluded. Many of us reaped the rewards of his persistence when he directed his energies to help us.

John was humble. In the months since his diagnosis in May, John was overwhelmed and deeply humbled by the outpouring of support and kind words expressed toward him from friends, family, and coworkers. He questioned all of the attention, I think because he was quite unaware and surprised to learn of the impact he had on so many people in various different ways. But he knew how to appreciate and cherish the meaningful time spent with so many important people from his life.

John had a sense of humor.  John could be a pretty serious guy but every now and then something would trigger this deep, joyous belly laugh that would brighten his face a deep red and that by itself could inspire a roomful of laughter—even to those who missed the punch line. John also had a never ending supply of one-liners and turns of phrase, some of which aren’t repeatable in this forum, but that would often arise in moments of frustration or dismay and give unexpecting bystanders like myself a good chuckle. And John didn’t shy away from poking fun at his Unitarian identity. Upon first meeting John he joked that if you put 4 Unitarians in a room you get 16 different opinions. It wasn’t long after commencement of my new post, however, I realized he wasn’t joking on that one. But of course, who will ever forget John and Linda’s Friday night talent show Ole and Lena skits. Dressed in dark blue overalls packed specifically for the occasion with a red handkerchief hanging from the front pocket, a red and black checkered overcoat overtop a similarly patterned shirt, thick black rimmed glasses he clearly didn’t wear on a daily basis, a dodgy, flap eared cap tilted crooked on his head, a toothpick in his mouth, and a skanky camp bathroom plunger in his hand he would enter the room on queue and amble toward the stage hollering “LENA, LENA” where he would commence telling Ole and Lena jokes and serenading us with his favorite folk tunes. Even under a cloud of disappointing news John retained this sense of humor. Days after his diagnosis I visited their home and was presented with a gift from John. When presenting me with this handcrafted toolbox with my name on it, he noted that there was a life lesson imbedded in this gift. On the front side he explained that this is what happened when you took your time and focused on the task at hand, before flipping it around and demonstrating the consequences of getting frustrated and working in haste—the slip of the router nearly turned the R in Greg into an O. I thought that was pretty funny.

Finally, a few words bout John’s legacy. When I think of the legacy John will leave, I see the empowerment he nurtured in others. In the words of former camp staff Ben Jefferies, John was “the kind of guy who trusted in me and made me feel like I was worth something, even at a young age.” I share that feeling. From our very first meeting at an Ethiopian restaurant in St Paul through this final summer, John trusted and had confidence in me—often times more confidence than I had in myself. Most of our conversations focused on the work at hand, but one time early on John told me “I was doing a good job.” Those few words, coming from such a respected person, empowered me with the perseverance necessary to successfully meet the challenges of my new position.

At the onset I called John a personal mentor and role model. I think of the above mentioned characteristics and imagine that if only similar words could one day be spoken at my funeral I will have lived a life of purpose and meaning to others as John did. John inspires me to never settle for “good enough,” but to always aspire toward higher achievement. He inspires me to not just sit back and enjoy the ride, but to take control and chart my own destination. He inspires me to live my life for others, and not just for myself. Finally, he inspires me to always keep a genuine character as my anchor in life. Everyone in this room is bettered for having known John. As we celebrate his life, it is incumbent upon us to carry forth following his great example, each honoring his magnificent life in our own unique way.