On March 17th I typically write a post contemplating my obscure Irish roots while celebrating the novelty of my grandfather’s middle name: St. Patrick. Yes. For real. No one knows why, my down-east North Carolina Methodist Granddaddy hated it, and by my lifetime he’d legally changed it to the initial S.

I love the uniqueness of it. I cannot let the day pass without saying that Columbus St. Patrick Brantley’s name remains a treasure to me, a jewel in my family’s living memory, a perpetual mystery in our supposed non-Catholic history.

Here is where I diverge from my norm to chase, not a name, but a word: jewels. In keeping with the day, of course. The first jewel I’m after is brilliant language, and the Irish are rich in that. It glimmers in every bit of their wit, storytelling, poetry, and song.

In 1996, Frank McCourt’s memoir Angela’s Ashes burst upon the world and won the Pulitzer Prize. As soon as I learned of the book, I had to have it. Reviewers raved about McCourt’s narrative voice: Stunning. Lyrical. Dazzling.

So I got my own copy. From page one…spellbinding. My concepts of writing and memoir were forever changed; McCourt’s Irish voice has never left my head.

Of his many glorious phrases, one that returns to me most often comes from the scene where young Frank is in the hospital recovering from typhoid fever. In the room next door is a girl recovering from diphtheria. They can’t see each other, but she calls out to him. She says she has a book about the history of England with her, if he’d like to read it. He does. Books are treasures to him; his impoverished family doesn’t own any. The girl sends the book to him via the nurse, Seamus, who delivers it most reluctantly, complaining because it’s about England “after all they did to us” and that there “isn’t a history of Ireland to be had in this hospital.”

McCourt writes:

The book has the first bit of Shakespeare I ever read:

I do believe, induced by potent circumstances
That thou art mine enemy.

...I don’t know what it means and I don’t care because it’s Shakespeare and it’s like jewels in my mouth when I say the words.

Jewels in my mouth…

I knew exactly what he means. I loved Shakespeare from my own first encounter. The last line of Sonnet 73 is the heartbeat of most everything I do in life, certainly of the things I write: To love that well, which thou must leave ere long. Jewels in my mouth, in my heart…the bequest of beautiful language.

McCourt eventually left Ireland for America where he became a high school English teacher. He’d regale his classes with stories of his childhood, and they’d say Hey Mr. McCourt, you should write a book.

So he did.

Angela’s Ashes.

And so the world is changed.

That is the power of story.

That is the second jewel from McCourt: Story. Specifically, writing of your own life.

In his final memoir, Teacher Man, he’s become a creative writing teacher. He’s trying to inspire students to write about their lives when they think there’s nothing interesting to say. He tells them: Every moment of your life, you are writing. Even in your dreams, you’re writing…Dreaming, wishing, planning: it’s all writing, but the difference between you and the man on the street is that you are looking for it…realizing the significance of the insignificant, getting it on paper. You might be in the throes of love or grief but you are ruthless in observation. You are your material. You are writers and one thing is certain: no matter what happens, you’ll never be bored again. Never…nothing human is alien to you.

Jewels. Your words, your story, your every moment. All priceless.

I met Frank McCourt in the winter of 2000 when he visited North Carolina State University. I went despite a falling snow. I took my oldest son with me and we listened to McCourt speak of his books and devastating childhood in Ireland. We listened, and marveled. We listened, and wondered about the story of our own origins on The Emerald Isle.

Which brings me to my final set of jewels for today: Christmas before last, my husband gave me a necklace and ring. His sister, without knowing or discussing it with him, gave me earrings. The jewelry, all bearing my birthstone, emerald, are a startling match. My sister-in-law chose the jewelry for me because she loves the color. My husband said, These are to remind you that one day, I’ll take you Ireland.

Where, I imagine, the voices of my distant ancestors still whisper in the wind…perhaps when I go, if I am very still, I might hear them…learn from them…

Until then, and always, I shall be about the excavation of my own story-jewels, with McCourt’s words echoing in my brain and my curious link to St. Patrick forever pulling at my heart.

As for today… here’s to proudly wearin’ o’ the green.

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Composed for Day 17 of the Slice of Life Story Challenge with Two Writing Teachers

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Works cited:

McCourt, Frank. Angela’s Ashes: A Memoir. New York, Scribner, 1996. (Pages 195-196)

McCourt, Frank. Teacher Man: A Memoir. New, York, Scribner, 2005. (Pages 244-246)