Irish Hill

“What’s your name, boy? Look at me! I’ll say it once more, and that’s it!”

Saturday night. Years ago. Driving home from a four-day workweek, needing to unwind. The Cold Beer Tavern, corner bar, small town USA.

TripEnd Brewery isn’t on Irish Hill but it’s close…

Truth boy, look at me! Well, God bless America!” Dark eyes flashing neon, one of them closing and re-opening periodically, like a slow wink or a slightly nervous tic.

Big skull blares its boisterous incoherent phrases, tries to hold me in its noise. A black hat crowns a black-coated hulk, crowns a brain with substance, maybe, or a field of rubble.

bags of Simpsons Malt at TripEnd…

Time for beer… He grabs my empty hand, squeezes, nearly crushes every finger, shouting “Look at me, boy! What’s your name? You live ’round here, or what?” Claims to be an Irishman, an honest giant. Amiable, confident, drunk as hell, the kind of guy you’d buy a drink for– if only to shut him up– if he hadn’t been already cut off from the bar…

a tasty local IPA, but growler is from Bozeman, MT…

He insists that I guess his age. “58,” I say. “48?” It’s hard to think straight in the Cold Beer Tavern, in the twang of country music crashing in from Nashville, Tennessee.

“Hell!” he roars. “I’m almost 82!” I settle an empty bottle and excuse myself for the men’s room, overhearing snippets of wisdom tossed from crowded tables as I pass along…

“I’m on vacation. All I could find was seven dollars, so decided to spend it here in Andover!”

“Before you know it, you find yourself married, with three kids, two mortgages, the car broken down, and your job on the line!”

corner of Shamrock & Coleman…

Time, the harvester, had posted a sign on the bathroom wall: “Don’t throw cigarette butts in the urinal!” under which some wise-ass scrawled, “It’s hard to lite ’em when they’re soggy!”

I connect soberly with a recent dream. That old hand-crusher out there in the crowd is like… “Mr. O’Shaugnessy, the Fabulous Irish Poet from New York!” But O’Shaugnessy from dreams is not the famous poet-herpetologist from London. He’s an imposter, music-maker, mover-shaker, from the suburbs outside Syracuse.

a view from Irish Hill…

Mr. O’Shaugnessy O’Dreams might lack a three-dimensional character, but he’s got a supplement out there, an uncaged mouth, waiting near my access to another beer…

Retaliate. Interrogate! I launch my own defense: “What’s your name, man? Where you from? You sound like a poet. Got a life-time of O’Shaugnessy? Ever been to Ireland? I’m from Greenwood, close to Rexville– land of the potato farmers, late 1800s… EVER HEAR OF IRISH HILL?”

Irish Hill was once renowned for its potato farmers…

Walt, in the mountain greenery, says check out the new green book (or is it blue?) on my “About” page– good for St. Pat’s or any day!

watch for the big-footed hand-crusher @ Irish Hill….

About rivertoprambles

Welcome to Rivertop Rambles. This is my blog about the headwaters country-far afield or close to home. I've been a fly-fisher, birder, and naturalist for most of my adult life. I've also written poetry and natural history books for thirty years. In Rambles I will mostly reflect on the backcountry of my Allegheny foothills in the northern tier of Pennsylvania and the southern tier of New York State. Sometimes I'll write about the wilderness in distant states, or of the wild places in the human soul. Other times I'll just reflect on the domestic life outdoors. In any case, I hope you enjoy. Let's ramble!
This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

8 Responses to Irish Hill

  1. plaidcamper says:

    Good man, yerself, there Walt, taking on a large character! As an O’PlaidCamper myself, I enjoy this time of year, even if celebrations for the next week are deemed dangerous due to the virus lurking… Still, a glass of something medicinal, and I don’t mean green beer, and life will seem good.
    I smiled all through this one, and I’ll be telling the one about soggy cigarette butts to anyone who’ll listen.

  2. Brent says:

    Have you thought about collecting some of these larger than life characters (whether real, fictional, or a combination) into a larger work of rural lore? Might be a nice complement to your natural essays in the way you’ve been doing to great effect on the blog!

  3. Anonymous says:

    Eighth Gen here, the old guy was supposedly from Ulster. Had some 190 + or – acres from old man Penn some time in the1650’s (again + or -). Then there’s the deserters from the Civil War, but that’s an entirely different story.
    I might just need to go get some ‘medicinal’ Scotch – you know just in case the COVID-19 hits here especially hard.
    The water looked good there where you fished in that pic.

    • Those Irish-American roots can hardly go deeper than that, I’d say. A lot of history to consider… and health to watch, as well. Dr. Frank Walters thinks medicinal Scotch is a good choice and probably should be applied pro-actively, too.

  4. Bob Stanton says:

    Nicely done, Walt. Someday I’ll tell you my favorite Irish joke – maybe a little too ribald for a public forum.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.