Here are a few more words to insert in your Irish-speak vocabulary, complete with definition and proper usage:
BANJAXED (ban'-jaxed): when one truly messes something up. "After getting his hand twisted around a drill while it was on, Tristan's hand was banjaxed for a week. It was so swollen, it looked like he was wearing a glove."
KNACKERED (nack'-erd): to be exhausted beyond recognition. "I was knackered after driving for several hours on country roads, the majority of the time spent behind a tractor."
CRAIC (krak): (Irish) good times, fun, enjoyment. "There was great craic in the pub last night - there was jokes and singing all night."
SESSION (seh'-shun): a period of entertainment or enjoyment; a period of music playing in a social setting. "There was a great ol' session on - an accordion, two guitars and a banjo played until the placed closed down."
BOG STANDARD (bahg stan'-derd): average, basic, plain. "There's nothing fancy about that restaurant, just bog standard bacon and cabbage."
Well, that concludes this edition of Irish vocabulary. I hope you enjoyed this bog standard entry and will go out an enjoy the craic this weekend. Don't get too knackered or banjaxed at the session!
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Another turn of the life cycle
I have been missing in action lately, largely because the one thing that's been on the tip of fingers to write about I've been resisting. However, I'm going to attempt it now, with as much delicacy as possible.
It's spring now, and a beautiful one at that in Ireland. We've had flowers, sun, longer days and baby animals springing up along the countryside. For all its metaphors, spring truly is a breath of new life and a continuation of the life cycle as we know it.
On the flipside of the life cycle, I experienced my first Irish funeral - funerals, actually - in March. They were very different from what I'd grown accustomed to in the states. I think these rituals are probably largely very community-oriented. Traditions probably vary from one zipcode to the next. Needless to say the subdued traditions of my religiously non-descript Protestant family in Indianapolis to that of the Catholic community of Sixmilebridge presented a wide gap.
I'm used to the calling (or removal, as it is here) being a fairly relaxed affair - a quiet reception in a funeral parlor where close friends and family can call to pay their respects to the family of the deceased. Here, we waited in line with everyone who had ever met the family of the deceased, which sometimes stretched two city blocks. Once inside, you shake the hands of everyone sitting inside, who are all sitting or standing in a row. After the removal is over, everyone returns to the bottom of the hill where the funeral home is to follow the family and hearse up the street to the church. It is here where the outpouring of community support really overwhelmed me. In one case, there were hundreds following behind the family, all in a reverent silence or hushed voices.
At the top of the hill, the congregation assembles briefly in the church for a few words from the priest. Afterward, many went next door to the pub where refreshments were served, which are usually provided by extended family or friends. The next morning is the funeral mass. In most respects, this was familiar to me. One aspect that stood out to me, however was the presentation of the gifts to the deceased. A few family or friends are selected to present gifts that are of significance to the character and life of the departed to be buried with them. I don't know if this is a Catholic tradition, or just an Irish tradition, but it put a poignant, personal mark on the service as a whole.
After the mass, the family carries the casket out to the hearse and once again, everyone follows on foot (usually) to the cemetery for the burial. I suppose all this walking is foreign to me because usually the church is a few miles and several busy streets from the funeral home and the cemetery back in Indianapolis and most other places. There's a certain reverence in it that really affected me. I suppose it's witnessing the solidarity of a community in a very tangible and visual manner. In Indy, we're accustomed to a police escorted car procession from one place to another, but walking alongside your neighbors, family and friends has a special meaning that is hard to put into words. I was reminded of images of New Orleans funerals - of families walking up the streets of the French Quarter (minus the brass instruments, of course). It was almost like a living work of art - a beautiful representation of family and togetherness at a time of difficulty and sorrow.
The burial was probably the most difficult for me. As it was, up to this point, I'd felt quite a bit more emotion than I'd ever had at the funerals I'd been to in the past - I think as every aspect presents the reality of the situation before you more vividly than the generally less emotive arrangements I'd been to before. At the cemetery, in this community, the grave is actually dug by family and/or family friends. And, after the final words are spoken at the gravesite, it is filled in again by family and friends. You watch as men of the community work away, shovel in hand. This tradition for the final farewell definitely left a lump in my throat.
I don't know which I prefer, to be honest. I was deeply moved by all of the outpouring of support for the families that I witnessed. The tears shed were shared amongst many and hugs exchanged. Part of me, and perhaps it's the part that grew up with a different tradition, wonders if maybe it's too much. Is it too painful for the mourners to go through this? Or is it more therapeutic? I felt my heart stop at the reality of seeing my husband be one of those to pick up a shovel at the gravesite, but he felt a release, as a man who works with his hands, to be able to do something for the memory of a loved one.
I think we're changed a bit every time we experience loss in our lives - whether it's someone distant or someone very close. We experience our own pain, and what is sometimes harder, the pain of wanting to take away that of the family who has lost. Maybe it brings us closer together. Maybe it puts some things into perspective. And no matter where you are and how you go about it, the process is the same and yet different for us all.
It's spring now, and a beautiful one at that in Ireland. We've had flowers, sun, longer days and baby animals springing up along the countryside. For all its metaphors, spring truly is a breath of new life and a continuation of the life cycle as we know it.
On the flipside of the life cycle, I experienced my first Irish funeral - funerals, actually - in March. They were very different from what I'd grown accustomed to in the states. I think these rituals are probably largely very community-oriented. Traditions probably vary from one zipcode to the next. Needless to say the subdued traditions of my religiously non-descript Protestant family in Indianapolis to that of the Catholic community of Sixmilebridge presented a wide gap.
I'm used to the calling (or removal, as it is here) being a fairly relaxed affair - a quiet reception in a funeral parlor where close friends and family can call to pay their respects to the family of the deceased. Here, we waited in line with everyone who had ever met the family of the deceased, which sometimes stretched two city blocks. Once inside, you shake the hands of everyone sitting inside, who are all sitting or standing in a row. After the removal is over, everyone returns to the bottom of the hill where the funeral home is to follow the family and hearse up the street to the church. It is here where the outpouring of community support really overwhelmed me. In one case, there were hundreds following behind the family, all in a reverent silence or hushed voices.
At the top of the hill, the congregation assembles briefly in the church for a few words from the priest. Afterward, many went next door to the pub where refreshments were served, which are usually provided by extended family or friends. The next morning is the funeral mass. In most respects, this was familiar to me. One aspect that stood out to me, however was the presentation of the gifts to the deceased. A few family or friends are selected to present gifts that are of significance to the character and life of the departed to be buried with them. I don't know if this is a Catholic tradition, or just an Irish tradition, but it put a poignant, personal mark on the service as a whole.
After the mass, the family carries the casket out to the hearse and once again, everyone follows on foot (usually) to the cemetery for the burial. I suppose all this walking is foreign to me because usually the church is a few miles and several busy streets from the funeral home and the cemetery back in Indianapolis and most other places. There's a certain reverence in it that really affected me. I suppose it's witnessing the solidarity of a community in a very tangible and visual manner. In Indy, we're accustomed to a police escorted car procession from one place to another, but walking alongside your neighbors, family and friends has a special meaning that is hard to put into words. I was reminded of images of New Orleans funerals - of families walking up the streets of the French Quarter (minus the brass instruments, of course). It was almost like a living work of art - a beautiful representation of family and togetherness at a time of difficulty and sorrow.
The burial was probably the most difficult for me. As it was, up to this point, I'd felt quite a bit more emotion than I'd ever had at the funerals I'd been to in the past - I think as every aspect presents the reality of the situation before you more vividly than the generally less emotive arrangements I'd been to before. At the cemetery, in this community, the grave is actually dug by family and/or family friends. And, after the final words are spoken at the gravesite, it is filled in again by family and friends. You watch as men of the community work away, shovel in hand. This tradition for the final farewell definitely left a lump in my throat.
I don't know which I prefer, to be honest. I was deeply moved by all of the outpouring of support for the families that I witnessed. The tears shed were shared amongst many and hugs exchanged. Part of me, and perhaps it's the part that grew up with a different tradition, wonders if maybe it's too much. Is it too painful for the mourners to go through this? Or is it more therapeutic? I felt my heart stop at the reality of seeing my husband be one of those to pick up a shovel at the gravesite, but he felt a release, as a man who works with his hands, to be able to do something for the memory of a loved one.
I think we're changed a bit every time we experience loss in our lives - whether it's someone distant or someone very close. We experience our own pain, and what is sometimes harder, the pain of wanting to take away that of the family who has lost. Maybe it brings us closer together. Maybe it puts some things into perspective. And no matter where you are and how you go about it, the process is the same and yet different for us all.
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