A SIGHTING OF MICHAEL

Even at the worst of times Christmas was a big deal in Wexford. This had much to do with the mass return of emigrants. Everyone in town had someone in London or Birmingham; the Ffrench family had a famous cousin, George Harrison, in Liverpool.

With the ferry leaving daily from Rosslare to Wales, the saying was “you could go out for a drink on Saturday afternoon, end up at Paddington Station Sunday morning, and get the start in construction Monday.”

Everyone came home for Christmas, except those with families, or lads who had done a runner over an unexpected pregnancy, and those tragic few who had gone off the rails.

My Granny Kirwan’ brother, Michael Moran, was one of the latter.  Along with their brother, Matt, they were the Morans of Fisher’s Row. Like many up there by The Faythe, they were of seafaring stock. Their father, Capt. James Moran had gone down with his vessel in a great storm off the coast of Wales in 1898.

Their mother was their rock, she took in lodgers, ran a pub, and eventually the two boys went off to sea. Captain Matt Moran was a great success and became one of the founders of Irish Shipping. He was killed in a shipboard accident in 1942.

Michael was quieter and very close to his mother. He took her death badly, went back to London and was never heard from again. 

My granny had made a good marriage to my grandfather, Lar Kirwan, a successful cattle dealer with two big farms, one of which was less than a mile outside town. She lived there in a fine house up a tree-lined avenue.

She was a woman of much imagination, while my grandfather was quiet and steely; she used to murmur that her family was hesitant about the match, feeling she’d be isolated outside town and should marry among her own outgoing seafaring folk.

One day around Christmas I went with my father to visit. Though he was the eldest son he was often at odds with my grandfather and was making his living at sea. Lar wasn’t home, but some cattle had gotten loose so my father was out fixing a fence.

A knock came to the back door and a willowy man in his Sunday best waved in the window at us.

Granny seemed to recognize him. She fixed her hair, and hurried to the door. They exchanged some quiet words in the scullery, then she brought the man into the kitchen and set about making tea.

“How did he look?” She asked.

“Well enough.” The man replied.

“Did he say why he hasn’t written or come home?”

“You know Michael, quiet as ever. Just said, if I was in Wexford for Christmas to drop by and tell you he was okay.”

“Was he drinking?”

“He’d had a few, I ran into him at The Shakespeare on Holloway.”

“He had no news?”

“Divil a bit, just insisted I come all the way out here to see you.” He blew into his chapped hands and looked eager to be gone.

The conversation tapered off. Granny excused herself. She had been crying when she returned. She wrote some lines on a sheet of stationary, licked an envelope and, in her best copperplate, addressed it to  “Michael Moran.”

“Give this to Michael if you see him... ask him to write.”

The willowy man gravely took the envelope and, after she gave him some pound notes, he left without finishing his tea.

She sat down heavily at the table and held her head between her hands. I didn’t know what to say.  

“What’s the matter?” My father asked when he returned from the fields.

“John Byrne from The Faythe saw Michael in London. He’s alive.” 

“Haven’t I warned you about this!” my father muttered. “How much did you give him?”

“With Matt gone, I’ve no one left.”

“If Michael was alive in London, I’d have heard. You’re too much of a soft touch.”

Their routine continued - my father convinced that Michael had taken to the drink and disappeared in some foreign port. My granny hoping against hope that someday her brother would walk up her tree-lined avenue.

I wish there had been a happy ending, but emigration is messy and some people fall between the cracks.

A very happy Christmas to you all. Hold your families close.

THE LIQUID PILGRIMAGE TO PUFFY'S!

 New York City is jammed in these boom times. The sidewalks are abustle with shoppers, the streets clogged with vehicles, their passengers staring out mournfully as we walkers glide by pitying their immobility.

Then again, it was always thus. Take Broadway in the 1860’s. Back then, New York’s main street was divided: the “Dollar” side on the west catered to the gentle folk from Washington Square, while the “Shilling” side on the east was exclusive to the hordes of immigrants from the nearby Five Points.

While writing the musical Hard Times, I used to track the down-at-heel composer Stephen Foster as he made his way down the crowded “shilling” side to Nelly Blythe’s Saloon where he could parlay his once brilliant reputation into cheap drinks.

I was reflecting on economic drinking and the disappearance of the buyback recently when I remembered an odyssey I used to take on Sunday afternoons when I lived in the far East Village. This was back in the 1970’s when one could live on hopes, dreams, and a couple of gigs on the weekends up in the Kingsbridge area of The Bronx.

One Sunday afternoon, while in recovery from my Bronx labors, a friend arrived at my apartment where I was entertaining some others over a couple of six-packs.

He had heard it on good account that a bevy of “high-end models” congregated at Puffy’s Tavern on Hudson Street in Tribeca and were interested in meeting “interesting people of diverse means.”

Why any of our scruffy bunch felt that such ladies would be taken with the likes of us is a mystery to me now, but back then hope sprang eternal; so began our pilgrimage to Puffy’s.

It was decided that we would break for a beer at Fanelli’s on Prince Street in Soho, as an aspiring writer among us had been treated to a sufficiency of buy-backs on his last visit there.

Thus began my almost 50 year association with the second oldest continuous drink and food joint in NYC. Prices have risen since my first fateful visit, but I’m happy to report that writers, aspiring and otherwise, are still welcome and buybacks, though rarer, are common enough. A salmon sandwich is still a bargain and the pint of Dogfish 60 IPA is to die for.

We then stumbled on to Kenn’s Broome Street Bar on the corner of West Broadway. Kenn Reissdorf, owner and artist, dressed like an urban cowboy, resplendent in turquoise, while his wife Berry, a former model, was the thinnest and sharpest bar owner I’ve ever met.

Alas, both have passed on to the great saloon in the sky, but their place has been taken by Jonathan Kaufman, a delightful, outgoing proprietor who likes nothing better than visits from thirsty pilgrims. The BLT on Rye is mouth-watering and the Sierra Nevada Pale Ale will please greatly, while the once sacrosanct tradition of the buy-back is not unknown.

Over the years, as the pilgrimage gained notoriety and new devotees, we added many blessed stops that included: The Holiday Lounge, a Ukrainian beer & shot joint on E. 8^th where owner, Stefan Lutek, would bid us godspeed with $1 brimful glasses of Jameson’s; and who could forget the esteemed Ear Inn on W. Spring that dates back to 1817, and whose Lamb Burger washed down by a pint of Guinness approaches Godliness, and so on and so forth and so fifth, as John Lennon used to say.

I can almost hear members of Shilelagh Law, up in the far reaches of County Yonkers, speculating on how a bunch of rowdy tossers was greeted by Puffy’s “high end models.”

Well, they proved quite friendly, digits were even exchanged, but only Mad Dog Brodsky, a writer of some renown who went on to edit Hot Tub Magazine, ever claimed to have dated one.

I doubt the relationship ever came to much as she didn’t attend his Shiva. Yes, time and, no doubt, a surfeit of shots took a toll on our number, and eventually our weekly pilgrimage fell by the wayside. 

However, in this coming age of anxiety, I sense there will be need of alcoholic fortification. So, on the first Sunday after President Trump’s inauguration, the pilgrimage will resume - destination Puffy’s! 

Who knows, perhaps the granddaughters of the original “high end models” will be there to greet us.

REFLECTION ON THE ELECTION

 At around 11:30pm on November 5^th I realized the jig was up. Some figures came in from North Carolina, and though hardly earth-shattering, I knew that if Kamala Harris was under-performing in the Raleigh/Durham area it would be a short night.

Congratulations to President-Elect Trump. He is truly a remarkable politician with an unerring ear for the moods, needs and resentments of modern America.

Now that he has swept both the popular and electoral college vote, is there any chance he might endorse a straightforward democracy that picks its president by popular vote?

 

For all practical purposes, the recent election concerned only the seven “battlefield” states, while the four most populous, California, Texas, Florida and New York barely got a look in.

I had returned from Ireland to cast my vote, I might as well have stayed there skulling pints, for I was one of a very few people voting at my polling station in South-West Manhattan.

 

Meanwhile “battlefield” voters were often forced to wait in line for hours. Thanks, Founding Fathers, the electoral college is right up there with your blind eye towards enslavement and women’s suffrage.

Despite his gloomy and often dystopian outlook, President-Elect Trump is inheriting a first class economy (as he did in 2016); unemployment and inflation are low, while growth and productivity are high. 

He has promised to reduce prices, though without offering any plans, except to “drill, baby, drill.” He obviously hasn’t heard that under the Biden administration the US  became the world’s largest exporter of energy. 

 

Perhaps someone should tell him that gas prices at the pumps are currently quite low. Or is Elon squiring him around in his Tesla?

I’ve always thought of this year’s presidential contest as the pandemic election. How soon we forget that less than two years ago we were going mano a mano with Covid 19?

It will take years before we can put these crazy days into perspective. But in the meantime, there is no doubt that Donald Trump has caused a realignment in the Republican Party, and indeed throughout the entire electorate.

 

And what of the Democrats? Bruised, bleating and hemorrhaging demographics. When will the party understand that it can’t alienate working class and rural communities, and expect to eke out any more nail biters?

As lame as it sounds, they need a commission of street-savvy pols, the like of Joe Crowley, Tim Kennedy, Martin O’Malley, John Tesler or James Carville to point out just where they’ve gone astray.

Despite all he did to economically revivify the country, President Biden is the big loser. What was he - and his family – thinking? Or did ego blind him to his condition and the country’s perception of him?

 

Had he stuck with his promise to be a bridge to the next Democratic generation, there would have been primaries to test the mettle of Josh Shapiro, Gavin Newsom, Gretchen Whitmer, Kamala Harris and others. 

As it was, he appeared to ignore his Vice-President, so that Ms. Harris often seemed out to lunch on the economy, the most vital matter in any presidential election.

Although this daughter of immigrants ran a valiant race in the little time she was allotted, I doubt anyone is longing for another Harris candidacy.

Candidates aplenty are already positioning themselves to run in 2028. But the next major battle will be the 2026 mid-terms, when a revivified grass-roots Democratic Party could take advantage of the mess Mr. Trump will inevitably cause.

His choice of Pete Hegseth, Tulsi Gabbard, and Robert Kennedy Jr. for cabinet posts is outrageous, unless he’s testing his authoritarian control of the Republican Party. At the best these three promise chaos and confusion.

Hopefully Mr. Trump’s positions on tariffs and mass deportation are part of his trademark bluff and bluster, for how many want the rising inflation and mass misery that will accompany the extreme measures he promises.

Meanwhile global warming is going nowhere, regardless of how many times the president-elect calls it a hoax. The national debt of $36 trillion shudders at the thought of his second coming, and who knows what rough beast lies waiting in the wings? Who had any notion of Covid 19 at the Trump inauguration in 2017?

Make sure your hatches are oiled and ready for battening down. With the worst full of passionate intensity, the center will be well tested, hang in there until 2026. And whatever you do, “Don’t mourn – organize!”

MEDIEVAL WEXFORD AND THE OPERA FESTIVAL

 Ever thought of attending an elite opera festival in an historic medieval town less than 2 hours from Dublin? 

I’m referring to Wexford in the sunny South-East where history seems to ooze from the very stones. Originally a Viking settlement (Weissfjord), the Normans conquered it in 1169 and added their trademark battlements, still visible today.

King Henry II soon arrived at the newly constructed Selskar Abbey, eager to do penance for the “murder in the cathedral” of Archbishop Thomas Becket of Canterbury. 

Oliver Cromwell sacked the town and slaughtered the inhabitant but, undaunted, Wexfordians rose up against the might of the British Empire in 1798. 

Charles Stewart Parnell was sentenced to a stint in Kilmainham Jail for a seditious speech he delivered from the window of Wexford’s Imperial Hotel.

You get the idea – one bloody thing after another!

I grew up in the shadow of Selskar Abbey, still a towering, if skeletal, castle-cum-monastery. Hence, I was delighted to attend the recent Wexford Opera Festival after a long absence.

Wexford has changed – for the better. The old Theatre Royal has been transformed into the  stunning National Opera House, while the Town Hall, where I used to play dances for battling gangs of Teddy Boys, has morphed into the gleaming Wexford Arts Centre.

Culture was everywhere during my stay. Three fully produced operas were in repertory over the 15 day festival. The singers, musicians and creative teams were of the highest international quality, and the audiences came from all over Europe.

Events began early and continued through the day with many pop-up shows and recitals held in churches, halls and pubs. The discerning locals took it all in their stride. They’ve had plenty of experience for this was the 73^rd Wexford Opera Festival. 

Coincidentally, the festival founder, Dr. Tom Walsh, lived two doors down the street from where I grew up. He was a lovely man who turned an impossible dream into reality.

There are other changes afoot about the town. In my day, the narrow back streets throbbed with life, people raised large families in small houses. But Wexford’s citizens now prefer to live outside town in modern residences on individual plots of land.

Wexford Borough District is encouraging prospective homeowners to consider the many vacant houses on the quaint back streets. It is possible to buy one of these properties for under €200K. There is even talk of grants being offered. 

What a location to retire to! With Ireland’s modern network of roads, it’s possible to drive to any part of the country within a day, bus services are excellent, and nearby Rosslare Harbour has regular ferries departing for the UK, France and Spain.

If Wexford has changed, so has Ireland, now a staunch liberal European democracy.

Swept away is the unhealthy power of the Catholic Church, along with its dominance in all facets of life.

The young are well educated and full of confidence. Though they are fond of America and its culture, their world now is more in tune with the EU, UK, Canada and Australia.

Our nativists have won the day. There is little talk of emigration to the US anymore, instead young Irish visit for sun-drenched vacations. It’s not worth the hassle to scale the walls  of our shining city on the hill, now that the ladders have been pulled up. Better go somewhere they’re welcome.

Besides, politicians are held to account in Ireland. Fact-checking is not optional and lying is frowned upon. There are problems, of course, the national health system, though universal, has many flaws, including long delays for certain operations and medical procedures.

Social media – as elsewhere – is becoming a problem. Conspiracy theories are bubbling up, but so far they’re not a match for Ireland’s strong press, not to mention  most Irish people are still comfortable sharing the same set of facts.

Perhaps these differences between Ireland and the US could be the subject of a modern farcical opera. Speaking of which, anyone fancy attending  the 2025 Wexford Opera Festival? Wexfordopera.com

And if your candidate lost last week’s presidential election, perhaps you’d be interested in a bargain house near the walls of a medieval town less than two hours from Dublin?

DOMINIC BEHAN - WORKING CLASS HERO

“There’s only room for one genius in this family!” Brendan Behan is reputed to have remarked to Dominic, his younger brother.

While Dominic Behan may not be as well-known as Brendan, it would be hard to argue that he is not his equal in sheer creativity.

However, Brendan was correct when he stated, “No matter what you do, you’ll always be known as Brendan Behan’s brother.”

Dommo was so much more than that. He wrote The Patriot Game, perhaps the greatest protest song. Simple and to the point, it was sparked by the death of Fergal O’Hanlon, during an attack on Brookeborough RUC barracks on January 1, 1957.

There was nothing simple about Dominic Behan. He was raised Republican and at an early age joined Na Fianna Éireann, a radical boy-scouts group.

While all the Behans were of a socialist bent, Dominic veered even further left and was much involved in trade union politics.

Both he and Brendan left school in their early teens and followed their father Stephen into the sign-painting trade. We get an early character portrayal of the brothers when a foreman complained to Stephen, “They are the greatest bastards I’ve ever come across. One wants the men to strike for an incentive bonus so that the other one can bring them down the pub to drink it.”

After a prison stay for his radical activities, Dominic quit Ireland for the green fields of the UK. In Glasgow he fell in with the poet, Hugh MacDiarmid, and in short order fell in love with and married Josephine Quinn, his equal in radicalism.

In London he came under the influence of Ewan McColl, and like Luke Kelly was greatly influenced by the writer of Dirty Old Town and First Time Ever I Saw Your Face. McColl introduced him to the BBC where Dominic turned out scripts for short radio plays. 

Posterity Be Damned, his first play for theatre, was a hit - to his famous brother’s chagrin - but though Dominic too was a drinker, neither booze nor illness affected his productivity. He wrote over 400 songs, many of which are standards: Come Out Ye Black and Tans, Dicey Reilly, McAlpine’s Fusiliers, The Merry Ploughboy, The Sea Around Us, Take It Down From The Mast...

The list goes on. Even just considering those six songs, you can see his range was wide: politics, partying, emigration, dislocation, and the inner life of working class heroes. If Post World War Two Working Class Ireland is your passion, you don’t need to spend time and money at university, Dommo’s songs explore the subject in a granular and entertaining fashion.

He believed that a song is not a museum piece, it should be added to and amended so that it retains relevance. One of my favorite verses of Carrickfergus is the one that begins:

“They say of life, and it has been written,
One chance you’re granted, that chance I lost.
The sands of time have long run out on me,
Ah, but it's too late now to count the cost...”

Yeah, you guessed it, Dommo wrote that verse, and helped to popularize the old song that he first heard actor Peter O’Toole sing.

But to me, it all comes back to Patriot Game, written while still in his twenties. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime indictment that captures all the years of striving for a united Ireland and measures the cost of that still elusive dream.

Behan was unusually protective of Patriot Game. He disapproved of Liam Clancy’s magisterial interpretation, because of the Carrick-on-Suir man’s decision to leave out his criticism of the Gardaí Síochána and the scathing reference to the then divine Taoiseach:

“They say de Valera is partly to blame

For shirking his part in the patriot game.”

But his main beef was with Bob Dylan who appropriated melody and content for his own masterpiece, With God On Our Side. When Dylan suggested that their lawyers could sort out the matter, Dommo replied that “I’ve got two lawyers hanging at the ends of my wrists who’ll do my talking for me.”

A friend of Jimi Hendrix and Eric Burdon, a huge influence on The Dubliners and Christy Moore, Dominic Behan could be quarrelsome and burned many bridges, especially when drinking.

Genius or not, he has left his fiery mark on Irish life and songwriting.

PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION - THE CHOICE IS STARK BUT IT MUST BE MADE

Odd as it may seem, this presidential election is being fought between the normal and the weird, the logical and the fantastical, and the old and new America.

How did we get here? Well, battle lines were drawn with the Covid-19 pandemic that continues to roil our collective consciousness.

Despite this potential cataclysm, the country mostly pulled together, made sacrifices, and amazingly here we are back on our feet with the world’s strongest and most resilient economy.

So why aren’t we taking a well-earned bow?

Because of inflation, stupid!

But every developed country suffered from inflation, many much worse than us.

You don’t get it, man, we Americans are exceptional, such things shouldn’t happen to us!

Unfortunately, supply chains failed to reopen quickly enough, Putin invaded Ukraine, the Houthis threatened shipping lines, and we pumped bucketfuls of money into a collapsing economy to get it functioning again.

Since we live in a free market society, prices shot up and we paid them, though common sense often screamed out, “You gotta be kidding me.”

The rate of inflation has dropped to a healthy 2.4%, but prices will remain high as long as we’re willing to pay them. It’s called capitalism, and no one wants to deprive big business of its continuing profits.

The good news - we’re blessed with a booming economy.  Unemployment is currently 4.1%, wages are beating inflation, household incomes are up, financial markets and 401Ks are at an all-time high, and with interest rates dropping the housing market should soon begin to thaw.

The pertinent question in this election is – do you want to risk it all?

 

Because make no mistake, Donald Trump’s plan for across the board tariffs of 20% with a 60% special on China could send our economy reeling.

His claim that the penalized countries will pay for our tariffs beggars belief. Remind you of Mexico forking out for his wall?  

In reality, China et al. will just increase their prices, and John and Mary American will end up paying the piper, causing another rush of inflation; not to mention, the aggrieved countries will raise tariffs on our exports which could lead to a trade war. Welcome to “weird” and say goodbye to a booming economy!

Whatever the rights and wrongs of Mr. Trump’s mass deportation of illegal immigrants, the economic consequences will be severe, especially on the agriculture and construction sectors, and will certainly lead to higher wage costs and increased inflation.

The Harris economic plans seem normal by comparison, and tend more towards Biden Light (not a bad thing). She offers some decent social  improvements including Medicare payments for home health care, but the eye-catcher is her proposed $25K downpayment to first-time house buyers.

A little on the generous side, Madam Vice-President, considering that the national debt now exceeds $35 trillion? 

Oh, for the days when the Republican Party was fiscally sensitive. But with the “King of Debt” offering scattershot tax cuts that have been estimated to cost up to $15 trillion over the next 10 years, fiscal sense is a rarity in both parties.

And how about logical versus fantastical? I give you the “J6 Hostages.” Bad enough that President Trump refused to accept the will of the people, both in electoral college and popular vote, but he still lauds his “patriots” who ran riot through the Capitol Building, injuring 174 police officers and leading to the deaths of 4 others. He even promises to release jailed rioters!

As for the battle between the new and old Americas. It boils down to the choice of swallowing a daily diet of lies, paranoia and conspiracy theories or voting for democracy, the rule of law, and common sense. 

 

At some point most presidencies face an existential crisis. Covid-19 rear-ended President Trump and found him wanting. Anyone for a healing shot of bleach? 

His ambivalence about vaccines has led to dissent and distrust nationwide, so much so that the next lethal virus will have a head start and take many lives before it too is stalled.

As Hurricane Helene has shown in Asheville, no part of the US is immune from the effects of global warming. So who do you want in the White House - someone reasonable or a myopic conspiracist who claims that climate change is a hoax?

The choice is stark. Do you favor normal or weird, logical or fantastical, and what kind of America do you wish for your children, one driven by lies, exaggeration and misinformation or fact, science and reason? 

MAGICAL CATSKILLS & MUSICAL MEMORIES

I grew up on the banks of the Slaney River, right where it flows into Wexford Harbor on its way to the Irish Sea. There was water everywhere, lapping under old wooden piers or crashing along the broad strands of County Wexford.

I’ve always found it hard to live far from the coast. Even here in the thick of Manhattan I’m within strolling distance of the surging Hudson or the murky East River.

Recently, however, I chanced upon a picture in the New York Times of a demure rocky creek and wondered why my heart jumped for joy. Turned out, it flowed through Leeds, New York.

I had spent a magical summer in this one-horse Catskills village, and hardly a day passed when I didn’t sit on those rocks admiring the stream that gurgled its way down a series of micro-falls before settling in a clear pool.

I had read Kerouac’s On The Road there, written songs, smoked joints, made out, and whatever else you did in a laid back paradise in the 1970’s.

Pierce Turner and I had been hired to play the summer season at nearby O’Shea’s Irish Center.

 “Old” Gerry from Cahersiveen ran the bar, Mrs. O’Shea looked after the rooms and meals, while “Young” Jerry kept an eye out for his parents when his Hunter Mountain ski resort was on hiatus for the summer.

We alternated sets with Trinity II, Mike O’Brien (from The Clancy Brother clan) and Chris King (a St. Louis intellectual), both singer/guitarists and raconteurs who brought the house down nightly with their staccato adlibs, harmonious vocals, and genuine sincerity. Turner & Kirwan played everything from The Kinks to our own “Irish Acid Rock”, so the large back room of O’Shea’s was always bouncing.

We performed from 8pm to 3am to larger crowds as the weeks went by, but especially when the young Italian-Americans from nearby Pleasant Acres Resort discovered “you can actually dance to these Micks!”

Both bands drank liberally and some of us played poker right through the dawn, before devouring  Mrs. O’Shea’s Irish breakfast and retiring for the “night.”

In the late afternoon, we re-grouped and swam in the natural pool or reclined on the aforementioned rocks where we dozed or dreamed.

It was a perfect summer. Turner & Kirwan had been scuffling from gig to gig around New York City. For the first time we could relax, the money was good, and there was nothing to spend it on, except the occasional round in nearby Gilfeather’s Sligo House where The Joe Nellany Band, featuring Tommy Mulvihill and Jerry Finlay, reigned.

For well over a century the Irish have been holidaying in the Catskills, as they prepare for the year ahead in New York, Albany, Tipperary Hill, or distant Buffalo.

The prices are right, people friendly, the music is hot, the beer cold, everyone dances, romance is in the air. What more could you ask for?

By the end of that perfect summer I knew I’d never live in Ireland again. Life was too exciting in New York, and if I wanted a blast of home I could just head up the Turnpike to the Catskills, or failing that, ride the subway to Bainbridge Avenue.

Bainbridge is long gone now. The last time I was there filming a documentary about Black 47, I couldn’t even identify the buildings that used to house Sarsfields or The Phoenix – at least the Village Pub was hard to miss with John Flynn’s benign presence hovering over it.

I worry about the Catskills. I hear rumors of resorts closings. I know there’ll always be an Irish presence around East Durham, but with a few exceptions it’s getting harder for the old resorts now that Irish immigration has been choked off.

What’s going on, Democrats and Republicans? Right now, you’re scouring the country for our votes. Instead of the usual patronizing and platitudes, why don’t you get together and create a new immigration law that would guarantee 20,000 Irish green cards every year?

It’s not asking much, after our contributions to the life of this country. New blood is needed in the Irish community. New ideas too!

The Catskills will always be magical. But they could use a shot of 21^st Century Ireland. The mountains will return the favor double-fold, just like they did to me back in a perfect summer in the 1970’s.