The Last Jig

Our last week in Eire wrapped up last Tuesday morning in Galway. Before the vivid memories of this amazing trip begin to blur and fade, we need to recount a wonderful last few days. Here’s a synopsis:

The Untrespassable Wire

A week before departure, we drove to West Meath after the boys finished school and scoured the countryside near Moydrum to find the ruin of a 500 year old fortified castle. Moydrum castle was used by Paul’s musical heroes, U2, on the cover of their 1984 album The Unforgettable Fire. The mission was to have our picture taken in front of it in the same positions as the Dublin lads did so many years ago. Ridiculously cheesy, we know. We found it and took a load of photos. Unfortunately, the pasture in which the place lies is barricaded with razor wire. Apparently we were not the first U2 fans to embark on this quest. Being the rule followers that we are, we tracked down the farmer/owner to ask for permission. After an hour of looking and following dry leads, we finally met up with Mr. A. Collins and three horses in his muddy barnyard. He was not pleased to see us, and summarily dismissed our request with all the tact of a land mine. Sue was proud of her husband for holding back his venom and realizing that the guy has likely dealt with thousands of trespassers in his day.

On Tuesday, we pulled the boys out of school and drove up north to Castlebar in north Mayo. We’d promised Theo a night in a castle before we left, and fulfilled it by staying in the seventeenth century Breaffy House for a night. The place had a nice mix of late medieval fortifications and modern conveniences. On the way up, we cut through the Connemara and visited Patrick Pearse’s turn of the (twentieth) century cottage. It was a nice stop. Paul, via his wife-maddening tendency to start conversations with anyone of Irish persuasion, made a great contact in Brian the Thatcher. Pearse’s cottage is owned by the OPW, and a roof of one building was being restored. The Irish government only uses ‘period’ techniques and materials with such restorations, so Paul asked about thatching. Brian was happy to consult and within a few minutes, Paul was up on the ladder getting lessons. As they spoke about materials - one of which is the giant reed grass Phragmites australis - it became apparent to Brian the Thatcher that Paul the Apprentice Thatcher was a biologist. As it turns out, so was Brian, and he was very interested in Paul’s Phragmites work. After a half hour of chatter, they parted ways, Brian with Paul’s contact info, and Paul with a tentative invitation to come to the 2009 OPW conference in Dublin in the Autumn to discuss the appropriate use of Phragmites and other alternatives in thatch restoration projects.

The morning after our Castle stay, we headed to Turlough and the National Country Life Museum. Fantastic! Loads of Irish folks were there reminiscing about ‘the old ways’. These included one Kieran Gaffney from Offaly who was a retired teacher at the regional technical college in Athlone. He’s spending his retirement writing books about local county history and a memoir of life in the Midlands. Sound like anyone you know? He’s the Tom Melchior of Baile Átha Luain. Expect some books in the mail, pops.

After that, we drove up to the north Mayo coast to see Ceide Fields, the oldest agricultural ruin site on earth. A group of 5,000 year old farm fields and rock walls uncovered from beneath a bog. While the soils were likely marginal, the Neolithic farmers sure knew how to pick a place with ocean frontage.

Sunday last, we buzzed down to Lahinch in Clare to have lunch with Patsy and Val Goodwin. The Goodwin’s wrote to us in Galway at the behest of Paul’s great (and fabulously beautiful, charming, and witty) Aunt Evelyn. The Goodwins and the Moores have been friends for nearly thirty years, but the former had never met this part of the great Irish-American Moore Diaspora. The deciding factor, though, was our need to meet the purveyor of our dearly departed uncle Merlin’s favorite joke, that of the Three-Legged Chicken of East Clare. We had a wonderful time with them on a great afternoon. Val bought some steamed periwinkles on the beach, and Patsy showed Theo the proper way to extract and consume these disgusting gastropods.

Final Friday, Bealtaine 22

Due to our unique circumstances, we decided to bend protocol and invite Paul’s hardest working and most engaged students over for an end of the term dinner after final exams were completed. On Friday evening, Aideen, Laurence, Daniel, and Kate – who range from nineteen to thirty - showed up at our door in Renmore for a supper of Mussels in Guinness and Butter and spaghetti and meatballs. They were kind enough to bring a massive volume of beer and wine. We had a great time and chatted about every conceivable topic until the party broke up in the wee hours. We’ll miss this crew – they are a fine bunch to be sure, and will find success in their post-GMIT careers.

An Domhnacht, Bealtaine 24

Our final weekend day in Ireland was a joy, and certainly in our top ten. Hughie and Nora O’Donnell, our fabulous neighbors, had us over for a big Sunday lunch of Galway lamb shanks, Irish venison, and duck. It was like Thanksgiving in May, and left us all feeling like pythons must after they’ve devoured a wild boar. Sam wanted to find a sun warmed rock on which to lie. No rest for the wicked, however. After lunch we convoyed both families up to Maam Cross in the lower Connemara. Hughie is a hunter of fish, you see, and knew well of Theo’s interest in the angling arts. The rain held off long enough to hike into a couple small lakes so the master could introduce his young padawan to a new rival – the Connemara Brown Trout. It was a wonderful sight. The grey fox, Big Hughie O’Donnell and little Theo Melchior standing on the rocks, fly fishing in the rugged west of Ireland. Soon enough, the young apprentice had hooked the first of several Brownies, which left him beaming the rest of the day.

Paul and Sue topped off the day by meeting Seamus and Fiona Lennon for a late dinner in Galway. Seamus, who is the head of the Life Sciences Departments at GMIT, was the key person in making this great Irish opportunity happen for us. We seem to get along well with the Lennons, and can only hope to return the favor in the Twin Cities some day when they come to visit.

An Luan, Bealtaine 25

Monday was spent turning in grades, making last minute stops in Galway, and saying farewell to new friends. Theo’s class gave him a surprise party complete with hand-made cards, while the marine biology faculty and staff at GMIT sent off their American colleague with the gift of two wonderful books about some of his favorite Irish places. We spent the evening packing, and Sam and Theo hung out with the neighbor kids.


An Mhairt, Bealtaine 26

And then all too suddenly, after a year of planning and five months of doing, Tuesday May 26 was upon us. And we were gone.

Seven Days

“That American Professor” gave his final exams today! The school year for the Irish ends with a bang this week, culminating with the annual migration of twenty-thousand out of co-eds Galway. Paul shall refrain from writing a dissertation on higher education in Ireland at this point, but his impressions wouldn’t be a surprise to or much different from those of any of his Irish colleagues. The Dean and Department Heads in the School of Life Science at GMIT have been very interested in his impressions of the place, and asked that he be straight and blunt with them about it. Sue cautioned Paul to be ‘Irish blunt’, not ‘American blunt,’ forgetting that he is a consummate a professional.

In local news, we had a great time at a small dinner party that Rick and Deirbhile (don’t even attempt to pronounce her name, folks) threw for us in their Oranmore home. Rick and Paul taught together this spring. He’s an Aussie who married into Ireland, and shares Paul’s dismay at this wonderful country’s higher education system. Deirbhile is a red-headed native of Wicklow and looks every bit Maureen O’Hara. She’d have taken John Wayne to the cleaners, however, had he tried any of that Quiet Man crap on her! The duo have been wonderful friends of ours here, and their children get along well with ours.

We’ll be blogging a bit more over next few days, but we’ve only a week left in Ireland. It’s hard to believe we’ve been here for nearly five months. This is a bittersweet week for all of us, wishing we could stay for the warm months and the blossoming relationships, while longing for the baseball fields, warmth, and circle of friends and family in Minnesota.

Tomorrow morning we’re off to the wilds of the Connemara for one last time. We’ll end up in north County Mayo tomorrow night, fulfilling a promise we made to Theo a year ago. Sleep in an Irish castle.

What's in Name?

Place names in Ireland are famous for their lyrical nature. Names like Skibbereen, Oranmore, and Mullingar roll off the tongue. Truth be told, however, most names are the anglicized versions used by the invading hoards who took over the place during the previous millennium. These were phonetic misinterpretations of Irish-Gaelic place names. Tiobraid Árann (pronounced “Choh-Broad-Awe-run”), for example, is the Irish for ‘Well of Arra’, and today is Tipperary. Skull in County Cork is the anglo version of Scoil, meaning school. There are, of course, many names that were foisted on the Irish by past invaders. Many of these are typically English in their profound creativity and expressiveness. Newtown, for example. There are twenty-one Newtowns in Ireland.

Regardless of their origin, most sound beautiful to us, some run-O-the-mill, and still others have struck us as comical, a bit bawdy (e.g. St. Bridgid’s Upper Place, Galway City), and even down-right odd. Take no offense, Irish friends, for this comes from a man born and raised in a town called Shakopee. In no particular order, here is a partial list of our favorite town and village names encountered on our many, many miles on the road:

Knockananna (Wicklow)
Kill (Galway)
Kilreekill (Galway) – A few miles down the road from Kill
Ballylickey (Cork)*
Castleisland (Kerry) - No castle; no island
Sandholes (Tyrone)
Cool (Waterford)
Dripsey (Cork)
The Butts (Carlow)
Emo (Laois)
Dingle (Kerry)
Horse and Jockey (Tipperary)
Gweedore (Donegal)
Hackball’s Cross (Louth)
Clash (Tipperary)
Ballinmuck (Longford)*
Killinaboy (Clare)
Twomileborris (Tipperary)
Bastardstown (Wexford)
Clones (Cavan)
Leperstown (Waterford)
Money More (Donegal)
Knockalunkard (Clare)
Oola (Limerick)
Ballymartin (Down) – A baseball joke for me da.
Termonfeckin (Louth) – Suffixed by Ireland’s favorite expletive
Torque (West Meath)
Rascalstreet (Cork) – We’ve considered leaving Theo here.

Here's a happy tune of the day by the recently departed Ronnie Drew.

*Sue takes no responsibility for the placement of these names in the list.

Where are ye, Bruce?

The weather has been impressively horrid of late. When it broke on Sunday morning, we headed up the N17 toward Westport and beyond. It was a beautiful, sun drenched day. We spent an hour or so visiting the Megalithic cemetery outside of Sligo, which also allowed the two hairless apes in the back seat to burn off some excess energy. We spent the night in Dungloe at the edge of the Rosses of Donegal. A beautiful town in its own right, Dungloe is situated in a small cove with great cliffs surrounding it. To top it off, it’s got a top notch Szechuan restaurant in which we took our sup. After finishing off our Sino-Hibernian repast, we headed to the strand and watched the sun set over castle ruins along the Atlantic.

Saturday was spent along County Donegal’s famed coasts from the Rosses, Gweedore, the Bloody Foreland, and Inishowen. Unfortunately, the unrestricted development in this county over the past decade has these places dotted with so many McMansions that it no longer has much appeal to anyone looking for open spaces or good views of the coast. An enormous disappointment, really, especially considering the fact that so many houses are unoccupied. Built on speculation, now abandoned before being lived in, and with little hope for sale in the crushing economic situation Ireland finds itself in today. People here complain about this constantly and refer to the ‘new ruins’, but nobody did much to protect Ireland’s greatest natural resource – its views and landscapes – when they had the chance. It is sad to think that Inishowen – once so famous for its seascapes – now looks like the worst parts of the New Jersey shore. In fact, if you replaced Springsteen and John Bon Jovi with Enya and Clannad, you’d have nearly a perfect replica.

To curb our angst over not finding Nirvana, we opted to drive on through Derry and spent the night in a beachfront hotel in Port Rush. If the Donegal coast is the Jersey shore, then Port Rush is Northern Ireland’s answer to Atlantic City, complete with hundreds of B&B’s, mini-casinos, and hotels. Many of these are run down or boarded up. Had it been raining and gloomy out, we’d have been too spooked to stay! However, we did find a nice hotel in the town and ended up having a great family night.

We bought picnic supplies at the local Spar and hit the fantastic beach. Theo and Sue looked for shells, while Sam and Paul had their nightly baseball practice. The former was working on spotting his cut fastball, and the battery proved an eye-catching oddity for the local passersby who often stopped and stared. Afterwards, we all lounged around and watch another great sunset.

On Sunday we spent a glorious morning at Giant’s Causeway, which all four travelers agreed was the most fantastic single place we’ve visited in Ireland. Part of this high review no doubt reflects the spectacular, blue sky, warm air, and amazing ocean life we saw. Theo, Sam and Paul found some fascinating tidal pools perched up on the rocks. Anemones, shrimp, crabs, and small fish all going about their business among the dozen species of seaweeds – and all in spaces the size of a Jacuzzi. Meanwhile, Sue scoured the interpretive center and gift shop.

We drove for the rest of the day, making one long stop at the seat of both Protestant and Catholic ecclesiastical power in Ireland. Armagh. St. Patrick’s original stone church was replaced in the 1840’s by the current Church of Ireland St. Patrick’s Cathedral (No symbolism there, I’m sure! ‘Let’s crush that little ol’ Catholic church and replace it with ours!’).

Not to be outdone, the Papists quickly began their own St. Patrick’s Catholic Cathedral at the same time. This amazing edifice towers above the town and is by far the most impressive Cathedral in Ireland and Northern Ireland. Although only 170 years old, the interior of the building is finished in intricate mosaic work. There are images in hidden places of the nave’s ceiling that are not visible without binoculars, and yet were made with the same care as the images on the floors and walls. We had the place to ourselves (if you don’t count the bum taking a whiz on the outside wall), and the bright afternoon sun lit the stained glass brilliantly.

After spending some mind-numbing hours passing through small towns in the N.I. midlands, we made it back to the Republic, and to Galway in time for another sunset. A great little trip.

Our song du Jour is a set of three reels from the Kilfenora Ceilidh Band (Co. Clare) who are celebrating their 100th birthday.

Achill

On Saturday we woke up to sun and warmth, so we headed northwest. It takes a few hours to get to Achill, the largest “Island of this Island.” While a few tourists make it to Achill, it’s way off the beaten path and mostly a hidden gem. We crossed the narrow bridge over Achill Sound and made our way down the shore. The south west coastline boasts a blue ribbon beach and some of the heaviest surf in Ireland. The result of this combination is surfers. Lots of Irish Surfers . Yes, there is such an animal. Although the water is Lake Superior cold, it is essentially shark-free and rollers of ten to twenty feet are typical since the wind is unobstructed between Nova Scotia and the beach. We thought of Steve Saupe and whether or not he’d have the fortitude to tackle these icy azure tubes.

Further along the coast are magnificent cliffs and their inhabitants. Gulls, Gannets, Puffins, Razorbills and the like reside in crags and crevices, and soar lazily above the breakers below .

The isle is only about seven miles long and four across, but has several small villages. Sheep abound and can be seen wandering the streets with their lambs - no doubt stopping in to visit the various shops.

During our walk in the hills we met Tom Fadden and his two border collies, who were bringing in the sheep for market sorting. Tom’s eyes are sapphire blue and full of fire. The man’s face shows all the character and wear of his seven decades facing the salty Atlantic wind. Tom is a Seanachaí; a story teller in the old tradition. Everything – even his directions to the local pub – turns into an intricate yarn. His sentences were punctuated by sudden whistle commands to his associates – unintelligible to humans, but crystal clear to the dogs. Two collies and a whistling old islander moving two hundred sheep as if they’d been choreographed. Bah Ram Ewe. Amazing. As he talked about his technique for training dogs, he told us that he employed the same on his five children. “You see, with both dogs and children ye must never, ever, strike them. But they shouldn’t know that you won’t!”

One of the most moving parts of the day was the hike along the southern shoulder of Slievemore – the big mountain. Tucked away in the saddle between two peaks lie the ruins of a town. The dry-stone walls and gables of about two dozen old cottages, as well as their outbuildings, line the lone road along the hill’s contour. We spent hours there, compelled to visit each house, look at their hearths, and imagine the generations of life stories that each home held. By the late 1840’s, famine and evictions had shattered the community, and the remaining families dispersed, leaving nothing but empty shells as reminders of a once thriving village.

Area

Sue's friend Rondi showed up this week, and the two of them are up raiding the small villages of the Connemara for a couple nights. This leaves the Melchior men high and dry and left to their vices. Sam chose to go to a movie with a friend tonight, and Theo and Paul spent their time doing math. Tonight's lessons were about perimeters and area.

Once we'd finished the easy stuff, we moved on to area comparisons. The natural evolution of the discussion became "How many Irelands could you fit into one Minnesota, Dad?" The answer? Exactly 2.76.

He thought you'd like to know.

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.

Island Hopping

Tigh Melchior was busting at the seams this past week. In addition to Tom and sue Melchior boarding here, Jim and Kathleen Melchior pulled in last Thursday for a two week stay. After the latter two got some rest, we marched them to Murty Rabbitt’s for the evening ceili session of Dusty Banjos.

The four venerable ones pooled their sovereigns and rented a car with an automatic transmission – a rarity in these parts. Friday was spent teaching James (or ‘Seamus’, as he now prefers) to drive on the wrong side of the paved cow-paths. Undaunted, the elder Melchiors followed their younger counterparts up the coast of the Connemara, past a three-day old bog fire, and on to Rossaveel. From there all boarded the ferry Draiocht na Farraige (Magic of the Sea), and made for Inis Oírr, the smallest of Na Oileáin Árann. A horse named 'Captain Morgan' hauled us on a wagon tour of the island, including a side trip to the hulking remains of 1960 ship wreck on the southern shore. Even grandpa Tom, on the verge of his third set of synthetic knees, held up well despite the walking. The sunshine and daffodils certainly helped. It was a great day.

These days, Inis Oírr, Inis Meain, and Inis Mhor - the Aran Islands - are fading apparitions of their storied past. While starkly beautiful in their wind bathed desolation, thatched roofed hovels have given way to modern cottages with satellite TV and broad band internet service. Why wouldn’t they? It is 2009, after all. During the summer, tourists overrun these islands to glimpse the past, which has all but evaporated. Strange and sad, though, to see the curraghs - now made of black fiberglass instead of canvass and tar – lay unused, kept mostly for show. No doubt plenty of the old charm and much of the beauty remains on these famed islands, but JM Synge and Liam O’Flaherty would be shocked to see a flashy Supermac’s chain burger joint gracing the shore of the big island. Still, an amazing place.

On Sunday, Tom, Sue (the matriarch), Seamus and Kathleen left for Kerry, Cork, and parts unknown. We’ll meet up with them near Wicklow this weekend.

Meanwhile, Theo was thrilled to see that his school band, with him in the 29th row, made the front page of the Connacht Tribune! Lately, he has been practicing his Catholic coral pieces (in Irish) that his class will sing for the Bishop of Tuam on Thursday. Blood and ‘Ouns!

The Irish Song O' The Day is by Jenny Mulvey, who plays the tin whistle in our trad/ceili group Dusty Banjos. It turns out she can sing, too, and she recently released her first vocal CD!. This song, called Maire Mhor, is sung in Irish.

The Birthday Grail

When a guy who is in large part the product of nineteenth century Irish immigrants is born on St. Patrick’s Day, he is saddled with certain responsibilities to his kin. First, he is considered a possible ‘second coming’ of the Messiah by his pure-bred Hibernian grandmother, great aunts and uncles. After they recover from the crushing disappointment of reality, these same leprechaun-sized relations - descended from the great clans of Moore, Connolly, Burke, Shaughnessy, O’Connor, and O’Leary - place great expectations on him to carry on the traditions of west Cork, the Kerry peninsulas, and the Connaught.

Blessed by his parents with the gift of gab, the love of music, humor, and stories, and an acute – almost religious – appreciation for stouts and ales, he develops a deep sense of identity with the Irish people and their land. To celebrate this day of his birth, this day of Naomh Phadraig, in the land of his ancestors has left him feeling lucky, blessed, and loved. This personal grail quest – denied him by mere hours some twenty years prior by a North Sea storm – has finally been fulfilled.

And what a birthday it was. By mid-morning it was sixty degrees out with a cloudless, calm, blue sky. The greatest gift, however, was that of family. Imagine the joy of this same fellow as he watches his nine-year old son march and play the tin whistle with the Scoil Chaitriona band in the grandest parade in all of Eire. The fact that his wife, eldest son, and parents were also there and wearing silly green hats was just icing on the cake (which happened to be a rendition of a giant pint of Guinness).

After being blessed by St. Patrick himself at the end of the parade, the family shared a celebratory lunch at the Western’s pub, before relaxing at home. In the evening, birthday man and his beautiful bride strolled for hours along Salthill’s promenade and watched the sunset over Inis Mór and Galway Bay.

Not a bad day to turn forty-six.

We'll leave you with a bit of Na Banna as Scoil Caitriona in the Galway St. Patrick's Day Parade . . .

Guest Blogger

Greetings from Ireland,

Grandma Sue and I arrived a week ago although Continental Airlines did its best to waylay our journey. The blasted airline said our flight was late and re-routed us to Northwest/Delta. That’s 0-2 for Continental, so they are off my list. The two Sues, Paul, and I went out for an "Irish" breakfast after we recovered from flight: rashers (back bacon from an Irish pig, bangers (pork sausages-no spices), white pudding (pork, barley, oatmeal, and unknowns), black pudding (pigs’ blood), grilled tomato, brown bread, beans, etc.)

Every Thursday night Paul practices with a group that plays "traditional" Irish music in Galway. He’s quickly learning the songs. At about 9: 30 the group gathers at Murty Rabbitts to play an 'open session', and can they play! I counted two accordion players, five guitars, two tin whistles, two banjo players; several fiddle players, two low whistles (flutes), two mandolins, and a partridge in a pear tree. For much of the night, Grandma Sue was sitting with her Irish beer between Johnnie from Glasgow and Paul. I had a glass of Guinness at Paul’s urging and had a coughing jag during the night due to an allergic reaction. No more Guinness for me!

Touring has been great although I am still not used to the left lane. I have declined every opportunity to drive. We rented a second car this weekend to tour the Clonmacnoise Abbey on Sunday. Paul and Sue drove. We also visited Ross Abbey on Friday and Connemara on Saturday. Fantastic! Google the Twelve Bens.

If you like cool, windy, cloudy weather, this is the place for you. Despite the weather Sam is working on his pitching and catching fly balls. The Twins have nothing on them. The Irish lads in the neighborhood were out with Paul and Sam playing hurling. (Check Google). I took one swing at the ball and pulled my biceps muscle. I gave notice that I am done with the game.

On our trip to Connemara Sue and I stopped at the Quiet Man Bridge. Dat’s herself and me huggin’ there. We had just watched the movie, so it was a big deal. Eat your heart out Kathleen Brown(e). We’ll not be goin’ to Cong until ye and James get here.

I’ll be leavin’ ye now lads and lassies. St. Patty’s Day is comin’ tomorrow, and Paul will be celebrating his 46th. Here's one of my favorite songs to celebrate our arrival - Whiskey in The Jar by the Dublin City Ramblers.

Galwagian Slang and New Arrivals

Our first guests have arrived. Sue and Tom made it to the West of Ireland. The boys are very excited that their Grandparents are staying with us. After sleeping for twelve hours on their first day they have both adjusted nicely.

I was hoping to post this before our first guests arrived, but as in Ireland, better late than never. Here is my lesson on speaking Galweigan vernacular:

Banger – Sausages, usually for breakfast
Rasher- Canadian Bacon (US), Back Bacon (Canada)
White/ Black Puddin’ – a meat substance with barley and seasonings in a tube form.

Chips- French Fries
Bap – Sandwich, usually served in a pub.
Easy Peelers – Clementine.
Crisps – Potato Chips also referred to as Taytos for the popular brand.
Squash – A delicious concentrated juice beverage diluted by the glass with water.
Messer – A trouble maker
Sultanas – Dried green grapes
Topper – Pencil Sharpener
HB - Pencil
Jumper - Sweater
Runners – Tennis Shoes
Wellies – Tall rubber boots
Banjaxed - Broken
Desperate – Bad, needs attention
Craic – Pronounced 'Crack', fun times
Queue – A waiting line; to get into a line
Deadly - Gorgeous
Brilliant - Wonderful
Knackered - Tired and frustrated
The Jacks - Public bathrooms
The Bog - Poorly kept Jacks

In the morning at our Renmore home the boys enjoy bangers, rashers and puddin’, while their Mum puts together their lunch’s of sultanas, easy peelers, crisps and baps. After breakfast the boys put on their scoil uniform jumpers (or track suit and runners if they have PE in the yard). They quickly fill their packs with their copies, topper and HBs. After sixty minutes in desperate traffic queues we leave them with a quick slan and remind them to avoid the messers. We then have five hours for housework, some lunchtime craic in a pub, and various work duties until it's time to collect them. By evening, the boys have us knackered and ready for bed.

Forty

Little Meg Melchior turned forty years old today. We called to wish her a happy mid-life, even though she's only recently entered her baby makin' years. She was also warned that her Irish birthday gift from Galway had been delayed at the US Customs' quarantine facility, but would be cleared within a week and forwarded to St. Paul. A bale of fresh hay will arrive prior to 'the package'.

In honor of Meg's big day, the Irish tune du jour is the metaphorical I Don't Like Mondays by The Boomtown Rats (1979) - Bob Geldof's band from Dun Laoghaire in County Dublin. Happy 40th Birthday Mary Margaret. We love you.

Science Lavatory

Paul concluded his three week study of toilet paper dispenser neglect in the GMIT Life Sciences Building as a way to quantify the appalling condition of the college’s bathrooms. The study was adequately controlled and the sample population included six (of nine) randomly selected stalls from three (of five) randomly chosen men’s rooms in the building. Sampling events were randomly timed (during work hours) and occurred once per work day. Stalls were considered ‘empty’ if the dispenser was bereft of any tissue, and ‘full’ if at least one visit’s (for lack of a better term) worth of tissue was still available in the stall.

Results were as follows:

Sample events: n= 132
Total ‘empty’ events: 104 (79%)
Total ‘full’ events: 26 (19.5%)
Total ‘non-full but tissue depauperate’ events: 2 (1.5%)

The results clearly indicated that, with an effective empty rate of 80.5%, the chances of a male restroom user finding a toilet with adequate paper resources is a paltry one in five - ominous odds since each restroom only has three stalls. Combined with the intangible of periodic toilet seat thefts, and the emergency user is clearly vulnerable to the desperate unpleasantries of a TP deficient visit. In conclusion, this study strongly suggests that the typical GMIT building user appropriate an independent, and therefore more reliable, supply of bathroom tissue prior to use. Furthermore, due to the chronic olfactory assault faced when entering these facilities, it may well be advisable to go at home.

The accompanying photo from the author’s GMIT laboratory is included for a flavoring of both irony and absurdity. Please note the tag on the assembly.

County Kerry

Due to the inadequate portrayal of our weekend in County Kerry by the primary author, the rest of the Melchior clan has temporarily blog-jacked this site. This may become a more common occurrence if it continues to take until Thursday evening to report on the activities of the previous weekend. Don’t expect Joyce or Yeats, just the facts folks. Click on the photos to enlarge them!

We got an early start on Friday due to Theo’s short school week. I don’t think he has put in a full five day week since we arrived. We pulled Sam out early to hit the road; no one should drive the rural roads of Ireland at night. We arrived in Tralee at the “Grand Hotel” after our 3 hour drive - it’s like going to Naylon’s. The hotel had a three star rating and was quite honestly nicer than anything we have stayed in before. After consuming three large Irish breakfasts and one porridge we were off to explore the Dingle Peninsula.

Our first stop was pooh-poohed by our driver (something about going to the Netherlands later this Spring) - the largest windmill of its kind in Europe (21.3 meters high). The morning was beautiful so we stopped at a beach near the town of Camp. Theo found some razor clams and two full sea urchin shells, while Paul and Sam tossed the football around on the hard sand beach. We were very excited to see some stone ‘beehive’ huts, unfortunately our first stop was cut short by the gentleman in the ticket booth requiring two Euros each for us to go in his backyard and see the ancient ruins. Our patience paid off outside of Ballyferriter at the Gallurus Oratory, however. We ended our day at an unremarkable B&B in Killorglin.

The next morning we set off around the Ring of Kerry. Our destination for the day was Cahersiveen. We went directly to the Cahergal Fort. I saw a picture of it in one of the brochures we got at the Grand Hotel. The photo depicts a beautiful stone fort ruin filled with tourists. To our pleasant surprise, though, when we arrived the fort it was all ours. It will be interesting when we have to share our finds with tourists! It was an incredible site. The circular ring had small staircases up the sides of the walls with “cozy little benches” that Theo discovered at the top. You could walk up all sides and even the top of the ruin. Inside was a beehive structure that had lost its roof over the years. We read that it was inhabited by a family of wealth somewhere between 500 BC and 1000 AD.

We continued on to Waterville for a lunch break and a little “trinket” shopping. We ate at a wonderful pub “The Lobster”. We met the proprietor who hailed from New Jersey and had the laid-back Irish lifestyle down - it took us longer to get our bill paid and our take-out boxes than it did to order and eat. Our travels lead us to several wonderful spots for photos and a stretch. We are anxious to get back to the area as it is now our “favorite” part of Ireland.