Dear International Living Reader,
"She was a lovely lady…and what more could you want to say about anyone?"
The white-haired priest smiled out from his lectern at what must have been the entire village of Inistioge, gathered together this February Friday to mark the passing of one of its own. The lovely lady being honored was the grandmother of one of our Irish staff. We’d made the 40-minute drive over from Waterford to join the respectful, and we were happy to have been in the country at the time, able to attend this service, but we were clearly the outsiders.
Driving into town, rushing, as we always are, we nearly collided with the good folk of Inistioge, out in full this cold evening, coming, on foot, from every direction, down every road, every path, every hillside…across the bridge in small groups, navigating, like us, toward the church tower. We halted at the outskirts of the village, then continued, much more slowly, now looking for a place to park. Anyplace, we realized, would do, as others had pulled into every and any open space, around the bends and on the sidewalks, in the dirt and on the grass. Vehicles lined every byway of this little town. The streets themselves were given over to the pedestrians.
We followed them to the churchyard, and watched as the brown wood coffin was carried inside…then we went in, too. Lief and I remained silent, out of respect…but also out of our element.
No one cried…and everyone chatted.
"How are the twins? Are they recovered from their croup?"
"Aye, she’s expecting, you know, my oldest girl…"
"Tis a cold evening, tis, for sure. We’ll all do well with a cup of tea together after…"
Later, Lief and I tried to guess how many had attended this "removal" for Martina’s grandmother. At least 800, we agreed. And every one knew every one else.
Inside was no less cold than outside. This church was built long before the advent of central heating, and no one to date, I guess, has seen the need to add it. The stone floor was like ice. We weren’t bred for this climate, and our coats and scarves and gloves did little to stop the shivering.
There was a warmth, though, in this old church in this ancient town in southeast Ireland, where life…and death…continue much as they have for many centuries.
"You children have your work cut out for you," the smiling priest continued, looking out at Martina, her sisters, and her cousins, more than a dozen kin in all, these grandchildren, arms around each other in the front few pews. They huddled close, and they, too, smiled.
"Your granny told you what to do…how to live. You’ve now got only to remember her words. She gave you a course. Stick to it."
Serious words…but not somber.
After the brief service, all those in attendance made their way down the main aisle, up to Martina’s family and their relatives, each to offer a private word. Everyone in the church filed past first…then those who hadn’t been able to find a seat inside…or even room to stand in the back. They proceeded in through the door, two by two…in a procession that seemed it might not end. No one was in a hurry, though…not even Lief and me, any longer. We sat quietly to the side and waited, marveling at this show of affection.
"Will you join us for a cup of tea over in the hall?" Martina’s father invited when we finally made our way up to the family.
No, we had to go, we explained…had to get back to Waterford and to the children. I didn’t want to leave, though. Would have liked to have been able to stay on, this winter’s eve, in the company of the good people of Inistioge. How fortunate Martina, I thought, especially on this night, to count herself one of them.
Kathleen Peddicord
Publisher, International Living
