The emerald dream: Planning an Irish adventure

Ever have one of those way-out-there dreams—something you wished for a lifetime, but never thought would come true? 

For me—and for my octogenarian mother—the dream was a trip to my maternal grandmother’s ancestral home—Ireland. 

Mother and I first talked of the trip a couple decades ago, but the stars didn’t align to make the trip a reality back then. 

This time they did. Accumulated airline miles helped. A trip such as this is easier to finagle when airfare isn’t in the budget. 

I knew several things going into the trip. 

First, we were limited in our choice of dates. We needed to schedule our flight quickly once we decided we were going so that we could arrive in Ireland in decent weather, but before higher in-season tour rates and lodging prices applied.

Two, I didn’t want to drive in a country which allegedly had narrow winding roads (ironic considering I live in Missouri, where such roads are commonplace), some big cities and where people drove on the “wrong side” of the road. 

Three, we knew that we didn’t want to miss seeing County Limerick, from which we knew some of our ancestors emigrated during the potato famine of the mid-1800s. (The accompanying photo is of the Famine Memorial along the River Liffey in Dublin.)

A diligent researcher, I spent hours on the Internet, pouring over train and bus schedules, looking at hotel and bed and breakfast websites, and pondering over tour company itineraries. The more I looked, the less confident I felt that I could plan the trip and the more overwhelmed I became. 

“What if I booked a trip or a room and the website I chose was a scam?” I wondered. “How on earth would I know from here in the States what company over there was legit?” 

Finally, I cashed in a “Who Wants to be a Millionaire” chip—I phoned a friend. 

One of my high school classmates has made several trips to Ireland, with her dad, her mom, siblings and friends. If there was anyone I trusted in steering me right, it was my Irish classmate. 

Her advice: “Mom and I went on a CIE bus tour. It was great, especially for a first-time visit.”

Whew! I had that decision out of the way. 

Now I was back to the drawing board to find a trip that went where we wanted to go—along the coast of southern Ireland and to Limerick during the dates we’d be in country. The coastal trip wasn’t a problem. We could see the sites we wanted to see—the Cliffs of Moher, the Ring of Kerry, Blarney Castle and County Cork—but Limerick wasn’t on any itinerary that would fit our schedule. 

So what did I do? I planned a side trip—on my own. I just had to find a little village in Limerick that was easily accessible using public transportation and that had the charm we always imagined our “homeland” to hold. 

I found it—the village of Adare—and it didn’t disappoint. I also scheduled one extra day on our own in Dublin before we left the country. I was glad I did.

In my next post, I’ll share what went into preparing for the trip and some of the ways we found to make our travel easier—here in the States, in the air and on the Emerald Isle. 

© Ann Tracy Mueller 2013 (Words and image)

An emerald dream come true

What’s on your wish list? Are there people you want to meet, things you want to try, places you want to visit? 

For me, it’s all of the above and more. 

Some people say dreams are more likely to come true if you write them down. I tend to believe it. 

A few years ago, a friend of mine created a ‘50 at 50’ list. Over the next few years, I watched as she made one after another of her dreams reality. 

It took me a while, but eventually I created my own list. Each year, I cross off the dreams I’ve seen come true, replace the ones that aren’t important to me anymore and add enough to make the number of dreams equal to number representing my most recent birthday. I’m working on 60 at 60 for a couple more weeks; then it will be time to look at the list once again. 

Recently, I crossed off a big one – one of the biggest, perhaps. I went to Ireland – and so did my mother. We talked about going a number of years ago, but one thing after another seemed to get in the way, and we didn’t make the trip back then. 

This time, thanks to lots of free airline miles, my mother and I were able to cross the Atlantic for nothing. Once there, we had expenses, of course, but the overall cost was considerably less than it would have been had we had to pay for our air fare. 

I think both of us have held a little piece of this dream in our hearts for most of our lives. 

My mother’s mother, full-blooded Irish, was always proud of her heritage. Her ancestors had come from the Emerald Isle, most during the potato famine. One young married couple lost their first-born daughter on the overseas journey. Like many of her day, little Mary was buried at sea. 

Mother grew up hearing this and other stories from my grandma and great-grandmother. Grandma and mother shared them with me. 

Through the years, I think Mother and I imagined that Ireland must surely have been a magical place. We longed to see it and painted it in our imaginations brighter than the gold in a leprechaun’s pot. 

From the moment we stepped off the plane, and I suggested we kiss the ground for Grandma’s sake, (we didn’t, though) to the time when we stepped from the Dublin airport floor back onto the ramp to our Boeing 767, we felt as if we were living a dream. And, indeed we were.

In coming blog posts, I’ll share snippets of the places we visited, the sites we saw, the people we met. 

Was the dream worth the effort, the experience all we’d hoped, the time the gift we thought it would be? 

Absolutely! 

What’s your dream? 

First, imagine it. Then, put it down on paper. Next, work to make it come true. All you’ve got left to do after that is to savor it. 

We sure did. 

© Ann Tracy Mueller 2013 (Words and image)

Little things are bigger in a place called home

I was in my hometown the past few days—getting to see people I love, do things I enjoy, visit places I cherish. 

I spent time with my parents and my young adult grandson, I attended a writer’s workshop and concert at Carl Sandburg’s birthplace, and I visited two libraries that helped in many ways to nurture my interests and provide resources as I completed my late-in-life college degree. 

It’s funny how such things, which appear small on first glance, can be so large when viewed through a stronger lens. 

My parents, as do I, continue to grow older – no brilliant observation, but one that grows clearer over time. Our time together, because of this, becomes more precious with each visit.

My grandson, once in our lives day in and day out, has grown up and no longer lives in the same community in which we do. It’s a joy to get to know the older him as he discovers who he is and where his life will take him.

The Sandburg Days writer’s workshop, an annual affair for me for a number of years, has become with distance a rare treat. Yet each time I attend, regardless of presenting author, I grow myself as a writer – and remember with renewed clarity how much and why I love what I do – putting words on paper.

Something that I find most encouraging about Galesburg’s event in honor of its hometown poet is the way the “Festival for the Mind” celebrates a diversity of arts, from poetry to photography, from encouraging budding writers to showcasing gifted musicians. It’s a special treat when one of those musicians happens to be a high school classmate come back to the ‘Burg to play a few tunes. 

I can’t remember a time I didn’t love books or libraries – from the first ones my mother read to me as a small child, to the ones I chose from book order forms in elementary school, to the diversity of genres I’ve savored as an adult. 

One thing is certain. No matter what community I called home through the years, one place always made it so – the library. And, of all the libraries I’ve visited in the past six decades, two stand out above all others – the Galesburg Public Library and Seymour Library at Knox College. 

At tables in the corners each of these repositories, I took sanctuary so I could study in tranquility. In the stacks I found books about subjects I was assigned and those I enjoyed. I savored and used as reference volumes about regional topics, looked with longing at names of people from West Central Illinois who worked with words – Carl Sandburg, Earnest Elmo Calkins, John E. Hallwas, Martin Litvin and more. 

As I did, I often mused, “Someday, perhaps, my name will be found upon these shelves.”

Though it still doesn’t appear as author, today I delivered to the archives at each library a volume I had the privilege to see even before it was a book – “Abraham Lincoln Traveled this Way: The America Lincoln Knew“ with photographs by McLean County’s Robert Shaw and narrative by Lincoln scholar Michael Burlingame. 

Way in the back, on a line that credits those who helped to edit the copy, you’ll find this name: Ann Tracy Mueller. 

It’s a little thing – that string of 15 letters and two spaces – but gigantic to a former Galesburg resident who hoped for a half-century to add, if even a little, to the literary tradition of her hometown. 

In a way, perhaps, I have. 

© Ann Tracy Mueller 2013

(Image via)

A funfetti kind of night

One of my young family members loves funfetti birthday cake—a white cake full of hard candy sprinkles with even more sprinkles in the frosting than on the cake itself. 

There’s something about that kind of cake that just says “happy,” don’t you think?

Last year, Barry Manilow came to the community where we lived. 

We’ve never been big Manilow fans, but the guy is a music legend. So were Elvis, Liberace, Frank Sinatra. We weren’t particularly big fans of any of them either and never saw any of them in concert; yet, when they were no longer, I always regretted not seeing them in person. 

That’s why I bought the concert tickets first—and told my husband later. If I had asked before ordering tickets, I thought he’d think of every reason why we couldn’t go. I envisioned him saying things like: 

“You never listen to Barry Manilow. Why would you go to his concert?” 

“We’re too busy.” 

“The tickets are too expensive.”

“Shouldn’t you be packing (or writing a blog post, or doing the laundry, or grooming the dog)?” 

Oh, wait, we don’t have a dog. 

Get the picture? 

I ordered the tickets, though, dragged hubby along to the concert, and noticed as we looked around that we were among the youngest people in the audience. It hit me that night, as it does every time my husband and I go somewhere in the community of seniors where we now live, that our peers aren’t as young as they used to be, nor are the artists of our era.

As I watched the guests filling the arena, though, I noticed an aura in the room, an air about its occupants—and it wasn't from the glow sticks we received when we arrived. The concert-goers may have looked “old,” but they acted young. These were the same girls who screamed for the Beatles and begged Elvis to grind his pelvis, and the same guys who rolled up their sleeves and cruised in muscle cars for that cool guy-look of the 1950s and early sixties. 

Although Manilow was recovering from hip surgery when we saw him in concert, the almost-septuagenarian put on a show that would have many people half his age panting for air. The evening was a nice mix of storytelling and song, with such signature tunes and crowd favorites as “Mandy,” “I Write the Songs,” and “Can’t Smile Without You.”

Looking back on that night of nearly a year ago, my husband and I have to agree that, though Manilow wasn’t on our bucket lists, we know now each of ours would have been a bit less full without the experience. 

From the oldsters-turned-young-again to the gotta-sing-along tunes to the entertainer-extraordinaire, our night with Manilow was one we’ll long remember. 

As the concert drew to a close with one of Manilow’s most energetic classic tunes, the performer had one more trick up his sleeve. In some sort of super-stage magic, confetti-like streamers of at least a half-dozen different colors shot from the front of the arena to almost the back of the crowd—a spectacular end to a back-in-time kind of night, one that made us greater Manilow fans than we’d imagined possible.

When we go places where large crowds congregate, my husband is one to say, “Wait. Let the crowd thin out before we leave.” I’m not one to just sit, or even to stand and wait, so I used the time to gather a big batch of the streamers, making sure I had one of each color. 

When we got home, I took this picture to capture the essence of our funfetti night—and to remind me to stay always young, to live a funfetti kind of life. 

What about you? Do you maintain the youthful exuberance of Manilow and his fans? Are you living a funfetti life? 

Believe me—that kind of outlook makes life as sweet as a cake with sprinkles, no matter how many birthdays you’ve got behind you. 

© Ann Tracy Mueller 2013