I was born in the United States, and grew up surrounded by American culture. I would stand up and salute the American flag at school, but when I came home each night it was like stepping into another world. My parents and Grandmother were born in Ireland, and had moved to America before I was born. Looking at my grandmother was like seeing a scene from another world. Unlike my parents, she had never learned to speak English, and spoke only Gaelic. My parents went out every day to sacrifice themselves working in the local factory. My Grandmother’s schedule was simple, cooking whatever vegetables she’d found on sale, and sewing clothing. She was kind, and would never scold me, but I didn’t know her very well.
When I was 16, I got chicken-pox. Since chicken-pox is contagious, for the sake of my classmates, I was given a sanction to stay home from school. My scheme was to pass my time by reading satire. When I was bored, I would scan the scene outside my window. One afternoon, I was just about to take a nap. I was drifting off to sleep, when my Grandmother began to talk. I heard her voice like light through fog, the Gaelic language started to saturate my sleepy brain.
She began to tell me stories. They were old stories, sacred to Irish people. The scale of her stories was enormous, but they were pure and without even a single scandal. I felt my boredom scatter. She told me about the Leprechaun, a sarcastic and clever spirit who carried a sack of gold. She told me about fairies who lived in trees, and could make crazy people sane again. I was drawn into my Grandmother’s stories. The next day I begged my Grandmother to satisfy my curiosity and continue her stories. Sometimes she would scare me by talking about ruthless and savage creatures. Slowly I began to get better, and soon it was time to go back to school. I have to admit, that although I was happy to see my friends, I missed the time spent with my Grandmother.
I slowly grew up, moved away, and got married. At night, when I tucked my own children into their beds, I would tell them about my Grandmother, a brave woman who had travelled across the world carrying with her hundreds of beautiful legends. Then I would tell my children her stories.
When I was 16, I got chicken-pox. Since chicken-pox is contagious, for the sake of my classmates, I was given a sanction to stay home from school. My scheme was to pass my time by reading satire. When I was bored, I would scan the scene outside my window. One afternoon, I was just about to take a nap. I was drifting off to sleep, when my Grandmother began to talk. I heard her voice like light through fog, the Gaelic language started to saturate my sleepy brain.
She began to tell me stories. They were old stories, sacred to Irish people. The scale of her stories was enormous, but they were pure and without even a single scandal. I felt my boredom scatter. She told me about the Leprechaun, a sarcastic and clever spirit who carried a sack of gold. She told me about fairies who lived in trees, and could make crazy people sane again. I was drawn into my Grandmother’s stories. The next day I begged my Grandmother to satisfy my curiosity and continue her stories. Sometimes she would scare me by talking about ruthless and savage creatures. Slowly I began to get better, and soon it was time to go back to school. I have to admit, that although I was happy to see my friends, I missed the time spent with my Grandmother.
I slowly grew up, moved away, and got married. At night, when I tucked my own children into their beds, I would tell them about my Grandmother, a brave woman who had travelled across the world carrying with her hundreds of beautiful legends. Then I would tell my children her stories.