The Heart Remembers...

                                  


 

 Siobhan and I often visit our young friend, George, who resides in a neighboring town.  Though long gone now, George is a true kindred spirit; his Celtic roots, his passion for horses, and his circus ties surely make him so.  We take him roses, red and gold…and fragrant stems of rosemary.  (Rich Red and Old Gold, the time-honored colors of the circus; Rosemary is for remembrance.)

 

 George was a circus equestrian by trade—an orphan from Scotland, a long way from home.  He was considered an accomplished rider, and was pleasing in both manner and appearance...

In the fall of 1827, with much excitement and fanfare, the circus came to town.  Here beneath the big top, in front of a cheering crowd, young George fell to his death.  His fellow performers were devastated.  With heavy hearts, they buried George in the town cemetery; and when the circus  packed up to go, tearfully they left him…

  The circus moved on--but for many years after his death, George’s friends would visit him whenever their travels brought them near.  Time-weathered and faded, you can still read the names and messages they carved on his tombstone...

  I smile to think what a picture they must have made, these friends as they came to visit …the exotic acrobats and proud lion tamers, boldly walking through the tall iron gates…the bright parade of clowns and jugglers strolling among the stark tombstones... the ringing sounds of the equestrians’ boots and spurs, tapping on the flagstone paths…and at the rear of the small procession, the sweetest of souls-- the tender-hearted Fat Lady, gently dabbing her eyes with a lace-edged hanky... How George must have smiled down from Heaven to see his old friends again!

But the years passed, and his friends grew old.  Then one by one, they too were gone…  Now, after 185 years, no one is left to visit poor George-- except Siobhan and me.   So we have taken him into our hearts and into our clan; we visit and leave fresh flowers on his grave.

   George, we hope you find comfort in our small attentions, such as they are--please know that you truly are not forgotten….”Chuid eile i siochain, mo chara.” Rest in Peace, My Friend.  “Cuimhin an croi.”  The Heart Remembers….


                                                                       

 

I Saw The Sun Rise...

 



               

I arose early this morning, and while it was yet dark I stood barefoot and bathrobed on our back stoop.  With steaming coffee cup in hand, I let the last vestiges of the night engulf me–that eerie quiet, the stillness that settles like an unseen mist right before the dawn. Then just as the sun began to rise, and the faintest glow of light painted the horizon, I heard the cry of a lone owl in the still-dark forest–so soft, so plaintive, so unbearably beautiful that it made me want to weep.  What a glorious way to start a day…

                                                       
                         
        








                                                                                   

Treasure in the weeds.../ Building A Gypsy Wagon--Part 2, Axles And Wheels...

                                                                        

Siobhan and I often roam about the countryside, searching for rare roots and wild herbs.  On one such jaunt we came across an old farm wagon, sitting forlornly in an overgrown field.  With baskets in hand, we wandered toward the wagon…

 Lightly I touched the weathered wheels, the sun-bleached axles, the well-worn tongue.  Beneath the aged grain, silken and grey, the old wood had remained strong and true.  I thought of all the seasons that wagon must have seen —of all the trips to town it had made, hauling corn and wheat, straw and hay; of all the trips back home again, with flour and sugar, cornmeal and molasses…I thought of how the much-heralded tractor had come along, and changed life forever for the old wagon.   No longer of use, it was abandoned and forgotten.

   It saddened me to think of such a fine old wagon left to rot in a field.  Siobhan felt compassion for the old wagon as well—perhaps we could use it to build our gypsy wagon… We inquired of the farmer, and he kindly agreed to sell it to us.  What good fortune, to find such a treasure in the weeds!  And now the old wagon will be useful again; we are pleased to give it a new life…  

                                                                           

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Believe In Your Dreams.../ Building A Gypsy Wagon--Part 1

         Siobhan once gave me a much treasured gift—a flat river rock, cool and smooth, with “believe in your dreams” etched upon it. Gently I held that small rock in my hand, and my thoughts drifted to the days of my childhood--back to a time when dreaming was like breathing, and a child’s innocence was the only thing needed to believe…back to the days when my mother’s favorite threat was to send me away with the gypsies—and my favorite dream was to GO.  How my child’s heart longed for a gypsy horse and wagon…oh, to live a gypsy’s life--to watch the world’s wonders roll past my window each day, and to sleep beneath the moon and stars each night… Such are the happy dreams of childhood.

Now I am grown, with a daughter of my own, and my childhood dreams all but forgotten.  To be sure, Siobhan and I have had horses most of her life.  Sadly, the gypsy wagon has remained a dim and dusty memory--until now!   A short time ago, I came upon Romany wagon plans for sale.   I bought a copy, thinking they would be a nice keepsake for Siobhan—a nod to our heritage, a reminder of our past.  To my delight, the plans were clear and concise, and beautifully detailed.   Siobhan and I decided at once to use them as they were intended—to build a gypsy wagon.  And so we shall…