In 1929 my mother, child of West Virginia, married my father to be, the son of immigrant parents. An unlikelier match could scarcely have been imagined between the two families. She was a 'hillbillie' and he was a 'furriner'. They lived a life of fair contentment by keeping to themselves and making visits to their families. It worked for them. But for their children, we were culturally outside of everything and in a position to observe as well as participate. And in the end we chose according to our own nature and so I ended up as a member in good standing among the clans in West Virginia and my brother became a solid Midwesterner and a Lutheran minister.
In 1989 I attended a concert in Chicago at the Irish American Heritage Center and as I was walking toward the auditorium with my friends I passed an open door from which poured a merry music I had not heard in many years. I froze in my tracks and then immediately entered the room. A dance was in progress and instantly some people descended upon me like ducks on a bug. An effort was made to get me to join the dance which seemed to consist of several large circles of dancers that bobbed and swayed like foam on the water.
I declined with a promise to return which I did 2 weeks later and there I heard a form of English which I had not heard since my childhood. The accent was different but having grown up with many accents I soon ceased to hear it. Words like 'fornenst' (in front of) which my people said as "for'int". Or its opposite "hindert". Suspenders were "galluses". "Take the galluses from hindert the press door and put em in the poke on the board." Translation: Take the suspenders from behind the closet door and put them in the bag on the table.
A gaelic speaking gentleman asked me if I knew the word Kaibosh (sp.). Sure. It was the word that stopped something. We were playing in the garden til Pop put the Kabosh on it. He informed me that the kaibosh is the cloth laid over a dead mans face before he is buried.
My grandfather was a fiddler much prized for his ability to fiddle and call the dance. And often when fiddling the height of a tune he would break off and dance himself in a lightfooted shuffle accented with a kind of forward stomp. When at last I was treated to the sight of an Irish dance form called Sean Nos or Old Style dance, I was amazed. It wasn't just similar. It was the Same. I had only seen the competition stepdancing with it's rigid forms. This dance form was done with the feet kept low and the movement was loose and free.
I almost felt as if I had come home. The mountains I knew were still there but the old folks were all gone and my younger cousins had mostly left in pursuit of better living in other places. As far as I knew, there were none who had embraced the traditional culture I had loved and quite possibly I am the last one who knows some of the stories and beliefs of the old folk. As a family member, of course. I am sure that university people have collected and catalogued them so that they lie outside their living environment like pressed flowers or butterflies on pins.
I have told the expatriot Irish that if they want to feel at home they should go to Appalachia
But it was more than that. These people were so like my own people. Their superstitions (I hate that word) were the folk beliefs I had known as a child. The ease with which they could sing and dance and take simple narration into true storytelling. The sense of humor. And even more. Their dark side. Grudge carrying , quick tempered. There does seem to exist among them a predjudice against us. I remember going to an Irish music session at a pub. There was a bouzuki player there from Ireland. Someone made a comment about another race and he spoke up quite loudly that he'd rather have them around than Hillbillies. My hackles rose straight up. Where does he think Hillbillies came from. And who was it that saved the music of Ireland, Scotland and England when it was being repressed by the Church, the Puritans and the English. It might have been lost but for the music traditions of Appalachia.
I do not think of myself as Irish. I am not Irish. To be Irish you have to come from Ireland. ScotsIrish and co. Kerry in the beginning and now American Celt.. And yet when I was in Ireland I was repeatedly "welcomed home".
"I am not Irish" I said. "My people left here 200 years ago."
My companion, an elderly gentleman with a glass of dark stout, shook his head. "Look about you." His wave took in the Atlantic shoreline and a crumbling castle inhabited by sheep and a few chickens. "Two hundred years is nothing. A few generations.
"... This is home"