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The Old Irish Neighborhood
It is the fall of 1961. I am with my father. He has returned to his homeland for the first time after thirty-five years in America. The two of us stand silently under a sullen Irish sky in the high, dry grass among the fallen stones of the old country farm house in County Sligo where he was born and raised. He is quiet for a long time, shakes his head, and then leads me down a deserted dirt road and says, “You see that crossroads there, Mick? Oh, the life that used to be had there of a Sunday morning after Mass, the boys and girls, the fun, the flipping of coins, the laughter and the gambling, and my own father among them. The good times…all gone.
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