This picture was taken last time I was home, and it’s the view from the back of my grandmother’s house, looking out over the fields. If you were to turn to the left, you’d see the new cowsheds with all the modern contraptions and conveniences of milking. I often wonder if the milk tastes as good now that “Daisy,” “Eejit,” and “The Kicker” are no longer cajoled to give their best by my grandmother’s strong hands and calming song. Right beyond the modern factory-like sheds are the old cows’ cabins that were always freshly whitewashed with news of impending American visitors. Turn back and to the right and you’d see Mamie Moroney’s small cottage across the dirt road, the curtain stirring as Mamie strains to see what you are up to.
There are much more beautiful, even breathtaking photographs of the loveliness of the surrounding countryside, but this particular view stirs images of me going for the cows— if you squint, you can just about make out the white specks of cows in the distance—at six in the morning and again at six in the evening. I’d sing out to the cows as I skipped down the road, my aunt’s cast-off wellies slapping against my calves. I was happy, smug even, in my responsibilities, though it was really the dog who did all the herding. I was always going, whether it was carrying buckets of milk to and from the shed (something my grandmother still attributes my great muscles to!) or bopping about on the back of the farting tractor, as I accompanied my grandfather to Boulinavode—only a half hour away, but a far flung corner of my world.
Though I can’t be in Greygrove next week to share in the rattle and release after the peaceful remembrance of the mass, my eight-year-old self will be there—smiling over to my grandfather nesting in his armchair against the roaring fire of the range. He’ll be telling me to “get behind the brush,” as I try to rush through sweeping the black and white tiled floor, so that I can have bread and jam while the bread’s still hot from the oven. His weathered cheeks are rosy and slack—his teeth out for the night. When he drains that last sup of tea, he’ll stretch out his legs and I’ll make great theater of taking off his heavy auld boots and thick woolly socks. Then he can sit back, his arms folded over his substantial belly, and enjoy the scene of his wife, and his grown children—and their children and their children’s children—raising their prayers and glasses to “the Boss.”
