Pa

Pa (Patrick) Lough is my new 90-year-old friend.  He lives in Kincasslagh, a village of about 44 people, in County Donegal, Ireland.  It is the place he has called home for 90 years.  When we first met, Pa informed me that his people have lived in that area since 1732, which is something like 11 or 12 generations for those of you who are good at math.  I hope to see Pa at least two or three times a year.  I have a lot to learn from him.

Pa first introduced himself to us when he noticed that there was some unusual activity in the house across the strand.  I suspect that word travelled pretty quickly about the Americans who were visiting. After all, three teenage boys over six feet tall tend to stand out in a village of 44 people.

One afternoon there was a man at the door who happened to be passing by.  His name was Pa Lough.  He was curious, and came to welcome us to the area. Before we knew it, he was sitting on our couch while we shared tea and biscuits.  Our five minute visit turned into an hour-and-a-half history lesson.  I was hooked.  In our ensuing visits, we’ve learned of Pa’s family.  All of his siblings emigrated to the United States, Canada, or Australia. He stayed home to care for his parents, tend the farm and store, and, eventually, run the Pub. 

And for those of you who aren’t aware, the local pub in Ireland is the equivalent of the community well in the ancient Near East.  There people gather, converse, gossip, listen to traditional music, and greet strangers like me. Within a space of about 10 minutes during my first visit to the pub, every patron had introduced himself or herself and welcomed us for that evening.

We were first introduced to this part of Ireland through a colleague and friend who is a professor at the university we both serve.  He and his family have been embedded in northwest Ireland for nearly 30 years.  In effect, they’re locals with a Midwest draw.  I am grateful for their introduction.  I plan to write more about Pa and this part of Ireland in future posts.  There is a kindness there that is redemptive and reminiscent of Sunday afternoon visits with my Grandparents. 

Fifty years ago, when our part of the world and my life were both simpler, I recall piling into my Grandparent’s car just to go “visiting.”  In no particular order, my Grammy would say, “I wonder what Jack and Clara are up to today?”  We’d drive the six or seven blocks to Jack and Clara’s house, and we would be greeted by the smell of freshly baked pie and percolating coffee.  After about an hour, we were off to Bob and Pluma’s where there was more food and even better entertainment.

I realize that I am romanticizing in this post, but I am also seriously wondering if the forgotten places of our world like Kincasslagh or recesses of our long-ago Sunday afternoon memories aren’t, in fact, bread crumb reminders that can show us the way to a better now.  In an increasingly impersonal and even toxic culture where there is in places a palpable anger and even rage, simple practices of kindness like welcoming new neighbors or informally visiting friends or family slow us down a bit, and maybe help to make us a little more human. 

Importantly, where we are now as a culture is the not the result of any one president, political party, or epoch.  Rather, we are today the generation of accumulated lapses in civility, practiced virtues, agreed-upon values, formational education, engaged faith, and even friendship. 

Yes, much has improved over the last half-century.  Physically, people are healthier, the world has become smaller, and there have been significant advances in science and strides towards greater equity.  But our lapses have hurt us as a people, sometimes in ways that we have forgotten and may have never learned.  But we can begin to reclaim these better qualities as a people with simple but persistent acts of kindness. Meaningful moments of human-to-human contact are like healthy oxygen and, over time, they breathe new life into us while they also improve the communities in which we live. 

When my youngest son and I returned from his first trip to Ireland, we were lost and asked for directions from an O’Hare parking lot attendant.  Rather than responding to my question, the attendant just pointed his thumb backwards as if we didn’t exist.

“Wow, that’s different than Kincasslagh,” my son said.

I hope to be back to Kincasslagh by spring for more tea and biscuits.

 

Photos Credit: Noah Bullock