my Irish history (with a little help *)

Writing without Hands: A Memoir of Scrapping by in Ye Ould Sod

By M. McCallister O’Malley

It was day three of the Blessed Feast of the Prolonged Consumption and Father O’Hurley had just finished buggering me in the abbey.  I put on the clothes my dear, defeated mother had fashioned me from discarded turnip peels and quickly ran past the abandoned bicycle-spoke repair shop—only to learn that my old, rusted, dear bucket had been sold to help pay for the removal of my wee brother’s cirrhotic liver.

These were tough times for the  McCallister O’Malley clan. A blight had destroyed all the dihydrogen oxide and we had just burned the last of the men in the house to stay warm. Still, we had faith in our ineffectual Protector that He would be merciful and soon smithe the lot of us in our sleep.

Soon after I arrived home my father stumbled in through the broken floor slats, reeking of whiskey and of ‘olde last call’.  “Damn the cursed English!” he yelled at our pet smallpox-ridden blanket before his clubfoot gave out and he crashed face first into the cluthraen.

With my father now dead, it was up to my mother to raise me and my fourteen siblings, which she did by getting a job at the fish guttery; the fish guts were formed, sprayed pink, and packaged as SPAM. Unfortunately, a few hours later while walking back from the fish guttery she was struck from behind, both sides and above from a shipping container of SPAM.  She eventually died from the Spanish Influenza.

Twenty years later I moved to America.

*from Francesco Marciuliano‘s superawesome guide to writing yer unique Irish memoir

here be the template:

I Can’t Find Me Legs: A Tale of Growing Up Poor, Catholic and Eventually Blind in Ireland
By (Your name here)

It was day three of the Blessed Feast of the Prolonged Consumption and Father O’Hurley had just finished (gerund) me in the abbey. I put on the clothes my dear, defeated mother had fashioned me from discarded (vegetable) and quickly ran past the abandoned (town’s sole economic lifeline)—only to learn that my (dearest childhood possession) had been sold to help pay for the removal of my wee brother’s (body part of which there is only one).

These were tough times for the Mc (complete surname) clan. A blight had destroyed all the (chemical element for water), and we had just burned the last of the (choose a gender) in the house to stay warm. Still, we had faith in our (proper noun) that He would be merciful and soon (verb) the lot of us in our sleep.

Soon after I arrived home my father stumbled in through the (entrance other than door), reeking of whiskey and (woman’s name other than “Mom”). “Damn the cursed English!” he yelled at our pet (inanimate object) before his (gimp extremity) gave out and he crashed face first into the (colorful Gaelic phrase for “open cutlery drawer”).

With my father now dead, it was up to my mother to raise me and my (double-digit number) siblings, which she did by getting a job in (imagine the worst job possible for a woman, then imagine it occurring inside an underground factory). Unfortunately, a few hours later while walking back from the prostitute cannery she was struck from behind, both sides and above from (oh hell, you decide). She eventually died from (medical term for “the sniffles”).

Twenty years later I moved to America.

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11 thoughts on “my Irish history (with a little help *)

  1. The luck of the Irish shined upon my family when I was a wee lad. I was just a wee lad but I do recall our first family manor. It was a quite dandy flat. It had green carpet and a sky light. One entered our abode via a grand door. Many years passed and I wondered about the first place we lived. My dear old mom informed me that it was not carpet but grass growing on the dirt floor and the skylight was a hole in the roof. And alas the grand door was actually the barn door….

  2. Lol! Thanks for this laugh, mariser! And Stupido, too! *giggle*

    I am 1/8 Irish and I do love everything Irish!

  3. HarHARHAR! That reminds me of the year I received three copies of “Angela’s Ashes” as gifts. I wasn’t sure if it was because everyone loved the book, or if it was some comment about my life. Anyway, those dear, wee books all went to the not-so-dear wee Half-Price Books: they gave me just 50 cents for each copy, because “we have a zillion of these and can’t get rid of them fast enough.”

    ‘Tweren’t enough to buy me a Guinness’. Faugh.

  4. I snickered when I read the original template a couple days ago, but the commentary here has made me LOL. You guys are, as always, the best.

  5. All these discussions of the old country brings back even more memories. At the above mentioned manor we had three magnificent hounds. I being of course just a wee lad have only the fleeting of images of these great hounds. My sisters three called them the bandits. How I loved to watch them wash their food. I can not for the life of me or a case of Guinness recall their names. But my favorite hound I called Foamy.

  6. After one of my trips to thee auld countree, I was asked, by an acquaintance, who is an educated professional contributing member of society, “Do they have grocery stores in Ireland?”
    For real.

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