Irish Time Warps

The N6 is the main thoroughfare that runs across Ireland from Galway to Dublin. We’ve put plenty of rubber on that strip of pavement, including a business trip this week. Between Dublin and Athlone in the sheep-laced midlands, the road is one of the few stretches of four-lane divided freeway in the country. Once west of Athlone, though, the road becomes two lanes again and passes through every little burgh along the way. The last leg of the trip is from Loughrea to Galway town.

The road sign on the east side of Loughrea (right) says “Galway 39" kilometers, and always gives the sense that the long journey’s end is near. The road slows for the three kilometers through Loughrea before it opens up again west of town. Strikingly, though, the next road sign informs the driver that although he’s continued westward, Galway is now suddenly 41 kilometers away (left).

A few months back, we reported this bizarre phenomenon to several of Paul’s academic colleagues at GMIT. We were scoffed at, and they thought us a bit mad . . . . . until this week, that is, when several of them took note of the situation themselves. Now, two physics professors at the college believe that the American family has stumbled across one of the most interesting cosmological anomalies seen in recent years, and have dubbed it the Melchiorian Space-Time Ripple of Loughrea. The group has engaged Oxford professor Stephen Hawking to collaborate on a paper regarding the discovery. The Irish Journal of Confounding Stuff plans to publish it in July. The 'Melchior STRip', as it will likely be known, may well be the next Knock, complete with grotto.

A Limerick in Limerick

Here is something most people aren’t lucky enough to experience. Sue and Paul wrote this limerick while in Limerick. Since limericks are renowned for their tendency to be a bit lewd. However, since this is a clean, family oriented blog, this little poem will not be lewd. We can’t say the same for the subject, though!

Here is our ode to the Bard of St. Anthony, Steve Green, on the impending opener of the Norsemen 2009 season.

There once was a bloke named Green,
His jokes were ribald and obscene

Though his cartilage is banjaxed
He'll still get in his hacks

And shows us his spirit, Marine.

This song of the day by the Dubliners (written by Tommy Sands) is a fixture in the pub sessions of Galway, and Paul is threatening to teach it to his team mates on the Mayor's deck in the heat of July. The Melchiors will be home a month from today.

Theo’s Top Ten Things About Ireland

10. Hurling matches (Gaillimh, Abu!)
9. St. Patrick’s Day Parade
8. Chocolate covered digestive biscuits
8. (Tie) Club orange drink
7. Connor’s Pass in Kerry
6. The Dublin Spire
5. Cap’n Morgan the farting horse
5. (Tie) My buddies Ronan, Marque, and the O’Donnell boys*
4. Castle and Abbey Ruins
3. Paris, France**
2. Hiking in the Burren and Connemara
1. Collecting dead stuff and shells at the shore

* Please refrain from telling these children that not only are they ranked behind dead stuff and Paris, but that they are also tied with a flatulent equine.
**Yes, we know.

The Irish Song of the Day was on hiatus while we were fraternizing with the Gauls and Vandals. However, it’s back. This time it’s one of Theo’s favorite traditional tunes, Great Big Man.

Family Tree

Sue has dubbed our last four days in continental Europe as Les vacances de la mort, referring to our morbid choices to visit catacombs, battle fields, cemeteries, and – last but not least – ancestral Melchior burial grounds.

In the early 1990’s, a genealogist traced our particular Melchior lineage back to a series of villages along the Saar and Mosel Rivers near Trier, Germany. To our knowledge, no one from our direct line has visited these towns since the family bid Auf Wiedersehen in the mid-19th century. Although finding traces of our Moore, Connolly, and O’Connor roots in Eire has been difficult, the German penchant for efficiency and record keeping offered more promise.

Bearing in mind that we only have names, dates, and locations of particular events, indulge us as we provide the historical setting for our adventure: Peter Melchior (I) and his mother left the village of Hamm (above, right) when he was a boy. Peter’s father, Joannes (John), was a fisherman on the River Saar, on whose east bank Hamm sits. However, he was born in the village of Reinig-Wasserleisch (See baptismal font below, left) a few miles north along the Mosel. Although we have no proof of his reason for abandoning Reinig, the most likely was . . . . . you guessed it, a woman. Young Johnny Melchior met the beautiful Margaret (no doubt, ‘Margie’ or ‘Maggie’) Nilles from nearby Hamm. Whether it was at a barn dance, a gasthaus, or a wedding we’ll never know, but she set her hook deeply, and after their wedding in January, 1853 the couple settled into her home village. They immediately got jiggy, and by late spring Maggie was pregnant. Alas, tragedy struck in November, just ten months after their wedding and three months before Peter was born. Expectant father and newlywed husband Joannes was dead at 26. Shortly thereafter, young Peter and his widowed mother Margaret set sail for America.

Undoubtedly, Joannes’ parents, Erasmus and Angela (nee Welsch) were devastated by the death of their youngest child, but life went on. Their own beginnings had been similar. Angela was born in 1789 in Reinig and was thirty when she married the upstart twenty-two year old Erasmus Melchior at St. Catholic Church in Wasserleisch in 1819. Being so much younger than his bride, his naivite vis a vis Fräuleins likely resulted in his moving to her home village. This way, Angela could remain close to her parents, Joannes and Margaretha (ne Goergen) Welsch, who lived nearby. Erasmus, however, had been uprooted from Kordel, some thirty kilometers to the north and home to his family for many generations.

Kordel belongs on a Christmas card. The village of about 2,200 people is isolated in a deep, forested gorge north of Trier. The River Kyll meanders through town on its way to the Mosel. At mid-day, people are walking about the village’s center, where a few shops, pubs, and other establishments operate. At noon, the bells of St. Amandus Church sound and echo through the valley. It is here that the Melchior family thrived.

When we arrived in Kordel (pronounced “Chord’l” we were spellbound by its beauty. After a few minutes looking around the streets, we found St. Amandus church and its nearby cemetery, where we were surprised to find graves no older than twenty five years. We asked an elderly fellow if he spoke English, but to no avail. He was a volunteer groundskeeper named Christian. After showing him some genealogy papers and making various hand gestures, it was clear he know what we were after. He gave us the ‘follow me’ sign, put on a helmet, and jumped on his motor scooter. We followed him back into Kordel, where he took us to his friend Anton who spoke English.

Both Anton and Christian knew of the Melchior name in Kordel, but told us we’d find no grave markers. German tradition, they said, was to remove headstones after a few decades so that the space can be ‘reused’. After a few phone calls, they sent us to meet another resident named Richard Shaffner. Richard spoke no English, so his daughter Sonia translated for us. Simply put, he is the Tom Melchior of Kordel – local historian, story miner, author. Furthermore, he is an avid amateur town genealogist, and had digitized most of the church records in the Trier area. Within minutes, he had made copies of the relevant ‘Family Book’ pages from both the Reinig-Wasserliesch and Kordel parishes. He knew our family’s history, indicated a couple minor errors in our existing genealogy, and helped trace our family back to the earliest records of the town in 1663, 400 years before Paul’s birth.” All community members, including our Melchior forebears, were buried in the churchyard, which we visited later (below, left: Theo standing on dead Melchiors)

We had a wonderful time talking, and Richard requested that Paul to provide him with details of the family since their departure from Germany in the 1850’s. Meanwhile, Richard will work to find living decedents in Hamm, Wasserleisch, and Kordel with whom we can contact. It was a magnificent morning, followed by visits to both Reinig and Hamm and a late stop in Holland to visit the birthplace of Theo and Sam’s great-great-great Grandmother Maria Sophia Janssen Melchior.

We’ll leave you with the direct Melchior ‘Y’ chromosome lineage - that which is always and only passed from father to son.

1. Theo H. Melchior and Sam H. Melchior (b. 1995 and 1999, resp., Fridley, Minnesota)
2. Paul P. Melchior (b. 1963, New Prague, Minnesota) – Married Suzanne Hogen
3. Thomas E. Melchior (b. 1936, Belle Plaine, Minnesota) – Married Suzanna Heselton
4. Edward J. Melchior (b. 1912, Belle Plaine, Minnesota) – Married Francis Moore
5. Peter H. Melchior (b. 1886, Belle Plaine, Minnesota) – Married Clara Rusch
6. Peter Melchior (b. 1854, Hamm-Saarburg) – Married Maria Sophia Janssen
7. Joannes Melchior (b. 1827, Reinig-Wasserliesch) – Married Margaret Nilles
8. Erasmus Melchior (b. 1797, Kordel) – Married Angela Welsch
9. Matthius Melchior (b. 1751, Kordel) – Married Anna Maria Pauli
10. Johann Melchior (b. 1727, Kordel) – Married Margaretha Pauli
11. Johann Melchior (b. 1682, Kordel) – Married Barbara Friederich
12. Nikolaus Melchior (b. ~1640, Kordel)
13 to n. Melchior Patriarchs Unknown . . . . .
N-1. Korg Melchior, Caveman. No write records. Korg no can write.

Top Ten List

Top Ten Things That Irritate Paul About Paris and/or Parisians

10. Chain-smoking waiters
9. The shoulder shrug
8. Body odors as a birth right
7. Eiffel Tower trinkets made in China
6. The way they pronounce 'Croissant'
5. Strikes
4. Citroen
3. Overbearingly high self-image
2. Eight euros for a glass of CocaCola

And the number one most irritating thing about Paris and/or its inhabitants . . .

1. The ‘Hit the Hole’ latrines sans privacy doors - Yup. Stand and deliver.

Verdun

After fleeing Paris, we spent some time in Verdun. This peaceful little town was the site of one of the most horrific battles – if you can call lobbing millions of pounds of shells at each other over a period of two years a battle – of WWI.

The museum and memorials were excellent. The boys thought all the military gear, artillery, and weapons were ‘sweet’, as we thought they would. Seeing remnant trenches, ruins of obliterated villages, and thousands of shell craters (now covered with delicate flowers) was interesting for them. Yet such scars on the Earth don’t cause much introspection when you’re nine or thirteen. However, the reality and magnitude of what went on at Verdun nearly 100 years ago hit the boys hard when we visited the military cemeteries.

When we stood among the sea of 14,000 white marble crosses and stars of David at an American cemetery at Romagne Sous Montfaucon (one of the smaller cemeteries), we asked the boys to imagine a different nineteen year old man standing by each marker, and then consider that each of them lost his life violently within a few months in 1918. Sam and Theo grew quiet, and we watched as they began to read names and home towns. Soon the questions began about who these men were and what could have started such a horrible event. Their reverence for these places suddenly deepened. It was a poignant history lesson for two American kids.

Franco-Hibernian Relations

Ryanair flew us to Brussels Charleroi on Easter Sunday. We rented a microscopic Citroen diesel and headed up the right side of the luxurious Belgian auto-route to Brussels. Paul swore that he knew the city well from his time there a half a lifetime ago, but all the streets seemed to have been rearranged since then. After using a some Franglish and international sign language with several local merchants, we found Rue Tenbosch by lunch time. Our old friend Jim Bell met us with open arms, a selection of fromage, and his standard rapid-fire Anglo-Belgian wit. We celebrated Easter at an outdoor brasserie on the Grand Place – James with a Merlot, Paul and Sue with Belgian lambic kriek biers, and the boys with giant parfaits. On the way back to Chateau Bell, Theo chased pigeons while Sam decided that Brussels, of all places, was his favorite city.

Monday morning we set off to Paris for a couple of days. Now France is a fine and beautiful country and it's largely populated by nice, reasonable, helpful people. Except for Paris. Paris is a fantastic city with great food, stunning beauty, and tremendous history. The flip side is that it’s also full of Parisians, and there is one thing you should never forget about Parisians. They don’t like you. They don’t even like each other. Furthermore, they are likely to express their disposition toward you through a number of insolent forms of communication. Every time Paul visits Paris, his love-hate relationship with the city grows more intense.

Alas, the Melchiors were undaunted by these shrugging French, and each member of our clan had a primary objective for Paris. Sue and Sam wanted to go up the Eiffel Tower; Theo was desperate to visit the catacombs; and Paul wanted only to test his driving mettle by entering and surviving the infamous l’Etoile a la Arch du Triumph on the Champs Elysees. Paul’s wish came true first, and he piloted the grossly underpowered Citroen through the intertwining ropes of fevered traffic at l’Etoile roundabout and its twelve exits without a dent! After parking near the Hotel des Invalides, we entered the one hour queue for the Eiffel Tower elevator. Sue and the boys were ecstatic at the vistas from the second platform. Meanwhile, Paul – who can barely tolerate the second level of a shopping mall – strayed nary a meter from the elevator doors.

After not falling to our deaths, we motored across town to the Denfert-Rochereau neighborhood. Over a small metal door on a earthen embankment in the center of the roundabout is a sign that reads ‘Catacomb’. We entered, paid, and descended about 100 feet down an ancient limestone spiral staircase. At the bottom, we entered a tunnel that meandered through the rock for a quarter mile under the Paris streets. When it finally opened up at a chambered junction, we saw that each of the dozens ‘tributary’ tunnels leading away from us was lined with human bones.

Actually, the ‘lining’ was about six feet thick and five feet high on either side of every passage way. Neatly stacked and staggered layers of femurs, humeri, tibias, fibulas, and ribs were interspersed with an occasional decorative row of skulls. We were allowed only on one specific route through this labyrinth of catacombs, which took us through nearly a kilometer of such caverns. Over six million sets of human remains exist in this Paris ossuary, each one a Parisian life lived long ago in an amazing city. Theo was enthralled, Sam and Sue fascinated, and Paul left wondering whether any of the dead had ever been helpful to a tourist, but happy that none of them were currently rude.

After a quick stop at the Paris Hard Rock Café for a tee-shirt for Guitarzan, we turned on the AC (which cut the French car’s power by another 30%) and fought the rush hour traffic out of the city to the east.

Schenkenbergs Visit Ireland

Guest Bloggers: Susan and Phil Schenkenberg. The Schenkenberg family arrived in Galway on Saturday, April 4th. The Melchiors have been wonderful hosts and tour guides. We got to Renmore beach on that beautiful Saturday evening, and then Susan and Phil went out to the Crane and listened to Paul play with the trad music group. We enjoyed the music and the company of some nice young men from Donegal.

We toured Galway on Sunday, and were able to see a hurling match between Tipperary and Galway. Hurling is an ancient Celtic sport that looks a lot like "kill the man with the ball" played with sticks. A donnybrook broke out among the players on the sideline a few rows in front of us, and one in the stands behind us. It was almost more than we bargained for! The Schenkenbergs will be returning to Minnesota with two hurleys (the sticks), two slithers (the ball), and a desire to introduce the sport to Minnesota. On Monday we drove through the Connemara and saw some wonderful geography, including Aasleigh Falls. We drove south on Tuesday, seeing the Cliffs of Moher and the Burren, and ended up in Killarney. Along that drive, we saw the oldest site so far – Poulnabrone – a 5000 year-old portal tomb!

Our best weather day was Wednesday, and we used it well. We did some hiking, saw some great views including the Staigue stone fort, and took a ferry out into Kenmare Bay. Thursday brought a visit to Ross castle, and then a drive west to Arklow.

Friday – our final day – will be spent driving through the Wicklow Mountains to Dublin, and we will see a bit of Dublin before leaving on Saturday. The kids have been (as they say here) brilliant. Sam and Patrick are enjoying being back together and goofing around, and all of the kids are getting along wonderfully. Ireland has been great craic - a fabulous experience to do this trip and to spend the week with such good friends!

By the Gallon

While the snow blows in Minnesota, and the Red River pushes Fargo into Winnipeg, the weather has been cool, but decent, in Ireland. We finally tracked down the traveling septuagenarians (last week), who were riding shotgun with Seamus and Kate Melchior through the Wicklow Mountains. Kathleen had her fill of mountain passes and their ‘safety’ fences, which are typically made of rope and more a psychological barrier than actual protection against falling off the ‘road.' With our truant boys in tow, we drove from Galway to Dublin and then south to Glendolough to meet up with the others.

Glendolough is a spectacular seventh century monastery set in a deep valley in the Wicklows. The forest of ancient yew, scots pine, and birch whisper the names of St. Kevin and his ecclesiastical progeny as you wander throughout the valley. It almost makes a guy want to go to church. Sam and Theo insisted on climbing nearly to the peak of one mountain, leaving their parents with aching knees and super-heated quads as they finally reached the waterfall.

We hunkered down for the night in Woodenbridge, a tiny crossroads village nearby. After settling in, we enjoyed dinner at the hotel’s new Italian restaurant. Well, enjoyed might be an overstatement. More like tolerated. The place was run by the Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy of Italian cooking. Suffice it to say that the immense hunger generated during the 1.5 hour wait for our food only partially enhanced the mediocrity of the fare. At least it was expensive, though. There was much gnashing of teeth and cursing - lucky for us, Kathleen found a plentiful supply of Holy Water at a nearby grotto.

After a nice trip to Cong on Sunday (to see the setting of Seamus' and Kate's favorite John Wayne/Maureen O'Hara flick) and a relaxing day of power shopping on Monday, the four weary vagabonds left for Shannon on Tuesday, complete with a steamer trunk load of souvenirs. As we waved goodbye, Paul was amazed at how much a few weeks in Ireland had changed his dad’s appearance.