March is Celtic-Canadian Heritage month. If you, like me, are one of the 10 million Canadians who claim full or partial Irish or Scottish descent, this month gives you an opportunity to proclaim your heritage and celebrate it. I have already done so by publishing two books. One – Songs of an Irish Poet: The Mary O’Leary Story – tells the story of an ancestor of mine who was a renowned Irish-language folk poet of the 19th century. (Her name in her native tongue was Máire Bhuí Ní Laoire.) Normally, this book sells for $20 CAD plus $3.50 for shipping and handling. But as previously promised in the post below, I will give away a free personally autographed copy to the first 15 readers of this blog who get in touch with me during the coming days. If you are one of those lucky 15, you only have to pay the $3.50 cost of the envelope and postage to receive a copy.
Why am I doing this? Where’s the catch? Well you may ask. Let’s say that this is my way of giving something back, of sharing a part of my heritage with some of my fellow Celtic travellers. I only ask that in return you tell your friends about the book, mention it in your blog if you have one, send me a message saying what you think of the book, and perhaps post a review of it on amazon.com. I would also encourage you to check out my other Irish book, my recently published volume of memoirs, Leaving Dublin: Writing My Way from Ireland to Canada. Both of these books are my way of celebrating where I came from and how the fact of being Irish has shaped my life. I am very proud to be a Canadian – I have lived in this country for 45 years and been a naturalized citizen for more than 40 – but I also maintain with the old country a strong connection that can never be broken.
If you would prefer to receive the Kindle edition of Songs of an Irish Poet, you can get it from amazon for just $0.99 by clicking here. This might strike some as being a better deal because you don’t have to pay for shipping and handling. However, you should know that the Kindle edition is the “lite” version of Songs of an Irish Poet. For formatting reasons it does not contain the original Irish versions of the Mary O’Leary poems, nor the sources, references, tables, and explanatory footnotes contained in the print version.
Time is of the essence so act now. Get your free copy of Songs of an Irish Poet by clicking on the “Buy Now” button below. Enjoy! And do raise a glass to me on the 17th!
Q: You’re not particularly well known, yet you’ve published a book of memoirs called Leaving Dublin. Why would people be interested in the memoirs of someone they never heard of?
A: It’s all in the storytelling, don’t you know? Nobody had ever heard of Frank McCourt before he published Angela’s Ashes, yet his book became an instant bestseller.
Q: Do you think your book is going to become an instant bestseller?
A: One lives in hope.
Q: What would it take to become a bestseller?
A: A review in The New York Times would help. So would a review in The Globe and Mail. Or the National Post.
Q: How about a review in the Irish Times?
A: That would help too.
Q: But what if the reviews were negative? Wouldn’t that adversely affect sales?
A: Not necessarily. Yann Martel received some stinging reviews for Beatrice & Virgil, yet that didn’t stop him from ascending to the top of the national bestseller lists in Canada. Pierre Berton used to tell young writers, “Don’t read your reviews. Measure them.” The longer the review, said Berton, the better the chance that readers will want to buy the book.
Q: Have you received negative reviews for any of your previous books?
A: Yes, a couple.
Q: And?
A: The best revenge, as one of my publishers once told me, is to forgive your antagonists, live well, and wait for the sales figures to come in.
Q: You’ve changed the working title of your autobiography a few times. Initially it was called Reinventing Myself: Memoirs of a Dublin Rogue. Now it’s called Leaving Dublin: Writing my Way from Ireland to Canada. Why the changes?
A: An editor pointed out that I had not, in fact, reinvented myself after I moved to Canada at age 23. I had simply adapted to new opportunities. My publisher suggested I put the word “writing” in the title to indicate that this is what I do.
Q: But you’ve done other things. You’ve been a professional musician. You’ve been a radio announcer.
A: Yes, I was a writer who played music for a living, and a writer who worked in commercial broadcasting. I’ve been a writer since I was a child, when I made up bedtime stories for my younger brother.
Q: Your publisher, RMB ❘ Rocky Mountain Books, puts out books about outdoor adventure, mountain culture, hiking guides, and so on. Where do you fit into that mix? Are you a climber or a hiker?
A: No, not at all. My publisher, Don Gorman, has broadened the scope of his catalogue considerably in recent years. He also publishes books of travel, biography, history and social justice. A very popular recent title, for example, is John Reilly’s Bad Medicine, about crime and punishment on a First Nations reserve where the author served as a provincial court judge.
Q: What prompted you to write this autobiography, and why did you decide to do it now?
A: Because I can still remember. I hoped that in the process of remembering things and writing them down, I might be able to make sense of my life and give it context.
Q: That sounds like a self-serving rationale for writing book of memoirs.
A: Indeed. A book about oneself is – by definition – an exercise in self-absorption. But an autobiography is also about being rooted in a particular time and place. That makes it an exercise in social history, a subject dear to my heart.
Q: You write about growing up in Ireland during the 1940s and 1950s. Why would readers in Canada, the U.S. and other countries be interested in that?
A: They have read about the Celtic Tiger and how it stopped roaring in recent years. I expect they would also be interested in what things were like in suburban Ireland before the cub was born.
Q: Then you write about coming to Canada at age 23. What makes your immigration story different from any other?
A: The fact that I came here not to find employment or escape from a repressive regime, but to get away from an Irish civil service job that was driving me crazy.
Q: Why couldn’t you have looked for another job in Ireland?
A: Because Ireland was driving me crazy too.
Q: You worked as a singer of Irish folk songs after you got to Canada. Couldn’t you have done that in Ireland?
A: As a matter of fact, I did. But there wasn’t enough money in it to justify giving up my day job. Canada gave me the chance to do it full-time.
Q: Then you worked in radio. What was that all about?
A: I wanted to try something different. I knew the manager of the radio station in Prince George and he opened the door.
Q: During your 30 years in the newspaper business you worked at a number of different jobs: police reporter, theatre critic, staff writer for the Calgary Herald’s Sunday magazine, obituary columnist. Why so many changes?
A: They were all great gigs. I enjoyed the challenges and the rewards of every one.
Q: One of the longest chapters in Leaving Dublin is about an eight-month lockout and strike at the Calgary Herald in 1999-2000. Why did you devote so much space to this topic?
A: Because nobody had told the insider story before. This was an unusual dispute in Canadian labour history in the sense that it wasn’t about wages or vacation allowances. It was about a group of journalists who wanted to be treated with dignity and respect.
Q: Do you think people will take issue with your interpretations of certain events, for example your description of what was happening at the Calgary Herald before the journalists started walking a picket line?
A: Undoubtedly. Everyone has his or her version of a story. This is my version.
Q: What other stories are you writing these days?
A: I’m working on the centennial history of the Calgary Public Library, for publication in the spring of 2012.
Leaving Dublinwill be available as of Sept. 15, 2011 from Amazon.com and wherever else fine books are sold.
“Would you ever consider moving home again?” asked the cab driver as we made our way out to the Dublin airport after a short holiday in Ireland.
Home? I’ve lived in Canada for almost 45 years. I spent just 23 in Dublin. Much as I still love it, I haven’t thought of it as home in a very long time.
It is quite a different Dublin now from the city I left behind in 1966. The restaurants are more appealing, the public transit system more efficient, and the place is crawling with tourists, even in rainy June. They crowd into Bewley’s Oriental Café and convince themselves the coffee served there is better than the caffè misto brewed at Starbucks. They have their pictures taken with the statue of “Molly Malone” at the bottom of Grafton Street just like they have their photos taken on the Spanish Steps in Rome or with Eros at Piccadilly Circus. The Irish go to Bavaria for their vacations while the Germans come to Dublin. Go figure.
Molly Malone is the tragic heroine of a popular Dublin anthem called “Cockles and Mussels.” It’s not known if a real person by that name ever existed. Doesn’t really matter. She lives on in song and story like the heroes of renown. The locals, in typically irreverent style, refer to her statue variously as “The Tart with the Cart” and “The Dish with the Fish.” Dubliners love to give catchy names to public monuments. When a bronze statue of Anna Livia (representing the River Liffey) was unveiled in O’Connell Street in 1988, they dubbed it “The Floozy in the Jacuzzi.” Even the sculptor got a kick out of the name. The “Floozy” has since been relocated to make room for a singularly unprepossessing monument called “The Spire of Dublin,” which stands on the site formerly occupied by Nelson’s Pillar. Nelson was blown to kingdom come in 1966. The IRA claimed responsibility but charges were never laid. Nobody expected they ever would be. There was cheering in the pubs the night after the old admiral was finally toppled from his perch.
I climbed the Pillar once. Dubliners used to let the visitors indulge in that sort of activity, like kissing the Blarney Stone or riding in a horse and trap around the Lakes of Killarney. But I wanted to see the view from the top. Joyce used to say that if the British ever bombed Dublin, it could be reconstructed brick by brick from the descriptions in his books. I wonder if Joyce ever climbed the Pillar.
The Pillar and the Theatre Royal are gone, as are the Metropole Cinema and the venerable “Bono Vox” advertising sign on O’Connell Street from which the lead singer of U2 famously derived his stage name. But some things remain the same. The eyeless Bank of Ireland still has bricked-in windows all around, the locals still feed the ducks in Stephen’s Green with stale bread crumbs, and the traditional musicians still jam nightly at O’Donoghue’s Bar in Merrion Row hoping to follow in the footsteps of Christy Moore and Ronnie Drew.
Drew was an unlikely pop star, a basso profundo ballad singer who performed as front man for The Dubliners and knocked the Beatles off the Irish charts with his gravelly renditions of “Nelson’s Farewell” (celebrating the demise of the iconic Pillar) and “Seven Drunken Nights.” The Clancy Brothers did the same, topping the charts with such rebel songs as “The Rising of the Moon” and “The Foggy Dew.” Both the Dubliners and the Clancys wrote the soundtrack of my life during the 1960s and gave me a greater sense of my Irish identity than any of the historical propaganda drummed into me by the Christian Brothers through 12 years of schooling.
Dublin in the 1960s was a sleepy provincial backwater on the western outskirts of Europe. Dublin today is connected, cosmopolitan, and aware of what’s going on in the rest of the world. I like it better now than I did when growing up.
Would I ever consider moving “home” again? In a way I have, by writing about it. My memoirs will be published this fall by RMB. But my true home remains in Canada, in Calgary, where I have lived most of my adult life. Dublin bore me but Canada made me. It calms my nights and invigorates my days.
Here’s what I didn’t do on St. Patrick’s Day. I didn’t call it St. Paddy’s Day or the 17th of Ireland. I didn’t wear a green tie or sweater. I didn’t drink green beer (yuck!) I didn’t wear a button saying, “Kiss me, I’m Irish.” I know people who do these things. They have about as much connection with Ireland as I have with heavy lifting.
Here’s what I did do on St. Patrick’s Day. During the supper hour, I drank home-made wine and listened to John O’Conor, the great Irish pianist. He was playing nocturnes by John Field, the great Irish composer who showed Chopin the way. After supper, I watched a feast of Irish music programming on PBS, and marvelled at how the music seeped out of the kitchens and the pubs, and made its way into the arenas and concert halls of the world. I then re-read bits of Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, and remembered again that many of us leave Ireland because we beg to differ.
I begged to differ when my parents told me that a civil service posting was the best white-collar job in Ireland. I tried it for five years, and then fled. I was 23, and wanted to see what the rest of the world had to offer.
I arrived on Remembrance Day, 1966 - it’s hard to forget that date - and settled in Vancouver, where they said the weather would be the same as in Dublin. It wasn’t. Vancouver was wetter. Between November and Christmas, it rained for 40 days and 40 nights. But I didn’t mind. I was in the New Land, and having the time of my life.
In Ireland, I had never thought of defining myself in terms of my ethnic origins. I was Irish, and that was that. There might have been some Danish or Norman in my background, but those long-ago invading Danes and Normans had checked their identities at the door and become more Irish than the Irish themselves. So we had been told in history class.
The Irish settlers, from the Celts to the Vikings to the Normans to the Scots, all became the unhyphenated Irish. Not so the Canadian settlers. They saw themselves as French or German or Ukrainian, depending on where their parents or grandparents came from. Being Canadian, it seemed, was not sufficient in this country. In a community of communities, it was important to known which community you belonged to.
Because I had just recently arrived from Ireland, my new Canadian friends expected I would want to become part of Vancouver’s Irish community. They invited me to attend an Irish dance contest, to audition for an Irish theatre group, and to meet an expatriate Dubliner who was singing Dennis Day songs at a pancake house in Burnaby. I passed on the dance competition and the acting opportunity, but I did meet the Dubliner, Shay Duffin. We formed a musical partnership, named ourselves the Dublin Rogues, and hit the road.
It was a great way to see this land of ours. Between the beginning of 1967 and the middle of 1968, we travelled the length and breadth of Canada. We played the Palace Grand Theatre in Dawson City and the Black Knight Lounge in Halifax. We shared stages with Anne Murray and John Allan Cameron.
I never gave any serious consideration to going back. Ireland might have formed me, but Canada had made me. It made me a musician, a writer, a broadcaster, a husband, a father, and a Canadian. Ireland was my birthplace, Canada is my home. It will always be my home. The winds may sure blow cold away out here, but they also blow warm with the promise of another spring.
Ireland, for me now, is as much a state of mind as an actual country. That’s why I didn’t wear green on St. Patrick’s Day. I didn’t have to do that to connect with my roots. I just had to close my eyes and remember.
Part of the remembering is the writing down. I hope you will be as excited as I am to know that my memoirs are going to be published next year. Yessss! Stay tuned.
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