I lived in Ireland. Yes I did. I moved there to take a break from the fast pace life of NYC, the fashion world, the advertising world and the pressure of keeping life on track. My family and I moved in 2007 for a year and stayed for three. That is another story.
While living in the wilds of Co. Cork, I began to miss the opportunities afforded to a photographer living in a fast pace life. Yep, I said that..smiling.. In an attempt to scratch the muscle, the creative one, I reached out to a few creatives in the Irish fashion industry so as to create some connection and possibly a project or two.
Very quickly I connected with a few and one in particular was most interesting to me-a fashion designer named Helen James. Loved the work I saw of hers so I sent a feeler out to her thru Facebook and heard back from her rather quickly. After a few texts and then a phone call we had decided to explore some ideas for a fashion editorial shoot and made plans to create it.
Helen had a vision for some of her recent pieces she had created, head pieces, beautiful creations with ribbon and feathers and sumptuous fabrics. She wanted to recreate imagery that reflected the look of renaissance portraits of women, ie: ………..Raphael, DaVinci, Boticelli.
I had been assigned a photoshoot for a fashion/lifestyle magazine while living in Ireland. The Magazine “Prudence” wanted to do a story based on the popular television series “Sex in the City” and the model was to portray Sarah Jessica Parkers character, Carrie Bradshaw.
All of the bases were covered ie: situations that would refer to various events in the show and the cover was to be shot with a small dog, I suppose to reflect the story where the canine chewed up the high heels.
Recently, revisiting the images from the photoshoot, I noticed for the first time that the photo that was used for the cover had been “flipped” from the Original perspective. As is sometimes done in publishing, a photo would be flipped to support visual flow, layout, etc. Additionally, vast retouching to allow the copy lines to be easier read to the eye.
Christmas in Ireland has its own special charm. I’ve been around the world in many places during the season and few stick with me in the same way. London? Pgh Pa. New York City, Chicago, Hawaii, Viet Nam ……
Living in the the west Of ireland for a few years with my family, we experineced 3 seasons of wonder and fantasy of Christmas in a place that time has stood still.
West Cork.
A christmas season during that stay stands out as a special one as, we, as a familuy were invited into the home of a local, a farmer, our closes neighbor to celebrate Christmas eve and followring, Midnight mass in the local Catholic church. That, before we all congetated in the pub, across the lane to close out the worshiop of the Season with Guiness and Jameison.
Back to the home….
Tradition has it, it seems, that Santa, well, Santee comes to the home on christmans eve and brings gifts and joy to all.
This night, as we all sat in the living room of the small cottage, perched on a cliff above a bay opening out to the North Atlantic, fire roaring, all of us toasted… a knock at the door.
The Father of the family invitor, opens the door and in pops Santa. Shreeks of excitement as the Mother and well, as I, levitated with the energy of Christmas delivered… First class.
“Santee, Santee, Santee!!” The warmth of the fire was replaced with shrieks of Joy. I’ve not experienced an adult lead a class in what is to be tradition carried on.
Santa, had the curios resemblance of someone I’ve seen in the pub repeatedly, handed out lovely gifts to all of the children at the home, and as quick as he arrived , he left.
All this time later, when I think of that time in such a magical place as it is, my memory is jarred by the smell of turf, the warmth of love and the vision of a mother so happy to see the Spirit of Christmas stepping into her home on Christmas eve and touching us all.
Morton’s book – dating from December 1930 – deserves a further look as a view of Ireland from an English perspective back in the early part of the last century (here’s the first part of this review). What was going on, historically, in the young Free State at that time? Firstly, I was surprised to learn that there was a Governor-General (Seanascal Shaorstát Éireann) whose role was to be ‘the British monarch’s representative in Ireland’. While this was largely a ceremonial role (and was paralleled in Canada and Australia at the time), this continuing official link with a King was understandably unpopular. The first holder of the post was former Irish Parliamentary Party MP Timothy Healy, a Bantry man. Healy held the role between 1922 and 1928, and it was taken over by James McNeill, who retained it until 1932 – there’s a British Pathé newsreel…
I’d wanted to play golf for a few reasons, but the one that initially drove the passion was that I’d wanted to get to know my new father-in-law better.
It was 1993. I bought a set of second-hand MacGregor irons, Nicklaus in a bag for $100. These heirlooms were butter-knife thin with stiff shafts, and I started beating the turf with them.
I took two or three lessons in a second-story loft on 5th Avenue in NYC from a guy whose name I can’t remember. It wasn’t pretty. I’m not sure I ever really got the clubface on the ball.
Undeterred, I kept at it and practiced and practiced. I became obsessed with golf.
Eventually I found a range in Maplewood, New Jersey, near the new home we had purchased in the summer of 1997. The range was called “the Crescent,” suggesting the curved arrangement of the hitting bays.
In truth, it reminded me of the range in the movie Tin Cup, which had recently come out. Only instead of Roy McAvoy as an instructor, there was Pat Masterson; and instead of a Texas accent, there was what I assumed to be an Irish accent that hypnotized me every time I‘d hear it.
I decided to take lessons at this range and requested Pat teach me.
I booked him periodically for a lesson, once twice a month and started down the road to truly learn about the golf swing and the game, and about Pat.
Pat was a tall man, and always walked with a gangly, relaxed stride. When he spoke, you knew you were being addressed in the most honest way, as he looked deep into your eyes. Never did I hear him raise his voice or lose his temper. Now, he may have, but I never saw it. Always dressed to the T. and his hair was always perfect, silver grey and combed back with what could have been Brylcreem. He was a handsome lad of 65 at the time.
My tendency was to hang back a bit on my full swing. I’m sure It frustrated him a bit as he continually said “look where your weight is”, as my ball headed for right field.
I’d heard rumor that Pat had been a priest in the Catholic Church in Florida and that he left the cloth along with a nun and were married and moved to New Jersey. I’d also heard that that they eventually got divorced, as the former habit-wearer was having an affair with a common friend—an emcee for a major late-night talk show in the city that never sleeps.
“It’s true”, he said when I asked him about it during a visit to his house. A photo of him in an oval frame, wearing the collar, confirmed it.
Golf had become more about enjoying myself with Pat than impressing my father-in-law. After making a respectable golfer out of me, Pat and I met up for an occasional game. Playing with him was like getting gratis lessons. He always had a way of being instructional and encouraging at the same time.
“Your next shot is your best shot,” he’d say. Thank you, Pat.
Whether dispensing the occasional tip or quip, he made every round a memorable one.
Perhaps our most unforgettable round came on a sunny Tuesday morning in 2001. We were playing golf in New Jersey with two other friends at East Orange Country Club—a misnomer since it was and still is a muni that’s a bit rough around the edges but a pretty good course.
Around the 13th hole, we noticed fighter jets flying over the course in the direction of New York City. One of our foursome called a friend to learn that a commercial flight had crashed into one of the World Trade Center towers. It seemed surreal. We finished our round and went to the grill, where we spent most of the afternoon glued to the television as events unfolded on one of the most tragic days in US history.
Every September 11th, at some point during the day, I think of that moment, and I will always remember I was there with Pat, the look on his face when we walked into the grill after the round and the TV was broadcasting the coverage.
What I also remember about Pat is that he rarely cleaned his clubface. Maybe, hardly ever. And he never regripped his clubs as long as I’d known him. His irons may have been as old as him. I’d never heard of the brand of club he played—not that it stopped him from making birdies and the occasional eagle with his Wilson ball.
Wilson is a big brand in Ireland, possibly because Padraig Harrington has played the equipment since 1998. Pat would always remark, “If I needed distance, I’d change out my ball for a Top Flite”
When we’d play, Pat would drive and pick me up at a predetermined location. In his boat-like burgundy Lincoln Town Car. The vehicle puzzled me, since he loved to talk about how much he’d loved fast cars—specifically Ford Mustangs—when he came to America. I love the image of a parish priest driving a Mustang with his ex-nun wife riding shotgun.
And even now, when I play, I still hear his voice—the voice I’d first heard at the driving range, with its lilting timbre, like that of an Irish tenor.
The last time I saw Pat was in Florida a few years ago. I was there visiting friends, and Pat had moved there for the weather. We played a round of golf, caught up on life, shared new stories and laughed. I had just returned from living in Ireland for three years and it was heartwarming to share my brief life experience with a real Irishman.
We lost touch after that, and I learned that Pat had moved to England to care for his aging mother who had left County Longford and now lived in Birmingham.
I recently traveled back to New Jersey, and decided to play a round of golf at East Orange. After a busy few days, I reached out to Jon, one of the guys who was with us on Sept 11th and invited him to play.
After an early breakfast and lots of catching up, we headed to the first tee. So many memories came rushing back, especially the ones about the drives I had either sliced onto the adjoining road or pulled dead left into the heavy forest lining the fairways.
After avoiding trouble on holes 1 and 2, I encountered an old nemesis—the par-3 third. At 185 yards from the back tees, the hole looks simple, but for some reason I’d always yanked my tee shot left of the green, sometimes into the heavy rough or even the edge of the forest.
I teed up my Titleist and made, what I thought was a smooth rhythmic swing with a hybrid club. From the whack, I knew I’d made solid contact, but then I watched my well-struck ball scream left, deep into the green abyss of leaves and branches.
As my playing partner and I had a wager going, I wasn’t about to re-tee. I had to find my ball.
Judging from the well-worn path, I wasn’t the first to launch one into this particular spot in the woods. My Titleist must be there, has to be there, where is it? After a few minutes of searching and finding some scuffed and dirty Precepts and Top-Flites, I stepped on what felt like a round rock beneath some leaves.
I brushed away the leaves. It turned out to be an embedded golf ball—a Wilson, #2. I’d never seen anyone but Pat play that brand, and my mind immediately darted to our days together on the course—the laughs, the philosophic conversations, the putts and more laughs.
Unable to find my Titleist, I decided to play with “Pat’s Wilson” for the remainder of the round. Jon and I reminisced so vividly about Pat that it almost felt as though he’d joined us. I holed out on the 18th green for a par and broke 85.
Pulling the ball from the hole, I had an idea. Should I send it to Pat? Display it on my mantle? Keep it for the next time Jon and I played?
No, no and no. I cleaned the ball with my towel and looked toward the woods behind the green.
What the hell? I thought, as I heaved the ball into the trees. I hope that whenever someone finds it, memories will come flooding back of a long lost friend.
Pat’s Wilson
Revisiting Dooneen
This morning I received an email from the WordPress blog: Roaringwater Journal.
The new post from Finola was a revisit of her from a previous post highlighting a place close to my heart. Dooneen, Kilcrohane, Co. Cork, Ireland.
Reading thru her post, my time and life there has been brought to the front again. I want to share some images from that place. Thank you Finola!
Mary Grant,Dooneen, 2007
Mary and Donal Grant built this home at the end of Donal’s life. When they moved to Ireland initially, they lived in a cottage that is still there. Their original home is now lived in by the Muschenheim family, Art and Gunie.
The view from the original cottage.
The most recent home, Now named “Dooneen Pier” after the pier at the bottom of the lane that is on Dunmanus Bay. This was our home for some part of 4 years.
Jerimiah,Jer Daly and Liz Daly. Caretakers of the Dooneen home. Jer is mentioned in the book White Goats and Black Bees many times. Jerimiah’s family farm bordered the property that Mary and Donal purchased in the 60’s.
Jerimiah
Chloe and Maggie Carr at the lane leading up to our home.
This post was first published in October 2013. Since then I have found more material, so have decided to update it.
The non-fiction book, White Goats and Black Bees by Donald Grant is set on the Sheep’s Head. Donald and Mary Grant, a couple of journalists based in New York, impulsively decided to jump off the career treadmill and become farmers in Ireland in the 1960’s. They bought a small acreage on the Sheep’s Head, where they raised goats and ducks, cultivated an enormous vegetable garden, and by degrees and sheer hard work turned themselves into ‘peasants’.
This out-of-print book was drawn to my attention by my friend, Aideen, whose father, while in New York, had encouraged the Grants to consider West Cork. Aideen visited the Grants as a young woman and still has memories of their gorse wine.
This past summer I had the opportunity to volunteer at a summer camp hosted by Camp Promise (www.camppromise.org) in Empire Colorado. The camp is for people of all ages with neuromuscular diseases and muscular dystrophy, and is provided free of charge. (http://www.jettfoundation.org) Camp Promise is staged at Rocky Mountain Village-Easter Seals Camp on the Front Range of the Rocky Mountains.The campers are given an opportunity to be with friends and other boys at the same place in life and to go all out, be big and joyful and expressive.My responsibility was to document as much as I could of the experience for 5 days from morning to the end of the day, every day. Here is a small journal in image and testimony from various participants and volunteers.
Camp Promise Rocky Mountains, 2015
“Camp Promise is great! I like getting to hang out with all my friends and meet lots of new people.”
“To spend time with friends who have similar challenges.”
“To be with people who understands what the camper’s going through. And more importantly have fun.”
“I love being with my friends who share my life challenges. Give and take is part of what life is all about. We support each other and this is a chance to do that while having fun.”
“Camp means the world to me, I enjoy doing whatever I can to make camp an experience unforgettable for all the boys.” – Chad, volunteer counselor
“For an entire week Luke does not have to worry about all the things he can’t do, but gets to look forward to all the things he will do with friends in the Duchenne community.” – Chad, Luke’s dad
“It means I get to have adventures with some of my best friends for an entire week.” – Luke, 7 year old camper
Camp Promise Rocky Mountains, 2015
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