| Where the Traveling Began  I
am standing at the beginning.
Through the break in the green, Irish, country lane, the house is barely
visible. I recognize it from the faded black-and-white photo in my grandmother’s
dusty album. The windows are broken, the vines have consumed the façade
and the neighboring farmer’s cows have claimed residence on the
lawn.
But it is beautiful.
The house is worn the same way that my grandmother is worn; the wrinkles
and the broken windows tell the story of experience. This house has survived
the birth of 10 children, the death of their father, famine and poverty.
It has heard the nightly prayers of a kneeling little girl asking God
for food, money, and for her mother to sing again. The house has seen
the Costellos walk out the front door, leaving for America and the promise
of food, money, and happiness.
Fifty-five years later, I travel back to where the traveling began. Car,
plane, plane, bus, car, and foot – I arrive in Fohenagh, County
Galway. I walk down the lush lane listening to stories being told by my
grandmother’s childhood friend, Fr. Gerry Sweeney.
“And this house over here is your cousin Paul, Seamus and Maura’s
son, along with Emily, Megan and little Albahe.” Fr. Gerry points
down the lane.
“Tom and Mary Sweeney live in the house down that lane over there.
Veronica might be home from school; we should drop in for some tea.”
“Oh,” Fr. Gerry pauses as he looks at his watch. “It
is almost half past five, I’ll run you over to where your grandmother
and I went to primary school, and then I am saying Mass at seven. You’re
welcome if you like.”
I am here.
I have traveled through time and arrived at my grandmother’s youth.
I stand and stare at her house, and I think to myself – this is
real. These people are real. Their kind generosity and their simple, fundamental
way of life captivates me.
Something inside of me is awakened, and I feel truly alive. It is amazing
to connect our two worlds, so many thoughts about my grandmother run through
my head. She ran down this very lane on her way home from school. She
looked out of that top left window, now broken, into this very pasture.
She picked these yellow wildflowers for her mother.
I duck under the vine blocking the door and enter her house. She sat by
this orange-tiled fireplace when it was cold. And she ate dinner at this
hand-carved wooden table, cold potatoes. She ran down this steep staircase
for Mass every Sunday and grabbed her coat from this rusty hook nailed
by the door.
Everything is restored. I see my grandmother’s world through her
eyes; the cracks and stains wash away. I enter her world.
This immediate experience is full of clarity. I have come for this, for
this moment, for this experience, for this house. I embrace the overwhelming
reality that clarifies the significance of life and of the lives of the
Costellos who once lived here. I have traveled back to where the traveling
began and discovered myself through the eyes of my grandmother.
Meghan Townley graduated from Saint Louis University in May, 2007. She
plans to pursue a career in travel writing.
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