The Good Old Days, Roisin Liew ‘23

The thundering booms of the midnight tap dance sent reverberations of drops, brushes, and steps across the Irish countryside. Joe O’Dillon snuck to the secret underground meeting office, his coal pants dirtied by the mud from the day’s rebellious rain. His deep black hair, which had unfortunately fallen upon his eyes, made his struggles to see through the smoke of war and dewy mist ever more difficult. Distant gunshots and yells of pain and terror and revenge heard from miles away became a wrenching idiosyncrasy, and soon, a regularity, of the 1920s. “Ionsaímid Dé Domhnaigh!1” proclaimed Chief General of the Catholic Irish Republican Army, Cathal Bradigan. Lieutenant Seán O’Brian arrived late but heard it all. “Farr te sake ohff goodt Jeanie Mac2, Ah’f been readeh te go te war wid dem wazzies3 of peopul! Well stited, Mister Bradigan.” General Bradigan quickly reclaimed order. “On tat note, O’Dillon, Yare at de frohnt. Wa’ve preparedt mustard gas bombs far them Narthenars, ain’t weh, b’ys? Chaers to de Cath’lics!” “Sure ye know!4 Chaers, b’ys! God bey with us, and with ye langer5 ladts!” Joe toasted. In reaction, they all hurrahed and drank to the ever-famous “Black stuff6” of Southern Ireland. Roars of guffaws channeled throughout the candlelit bricks, especially from the truly drunk of the bunch, Brendan and Fergal. They clinked to County Cork’s hero, Joseph O’Dillon, with bottles and bottles of Jameson till the wee hours of the morning, when the sun traversed the grass like the sweeping flame of a match head; but for now, the celebration had just begun. Blasts of cigarette smoke and laughter erupted from their sweaty mouths as ideas of Northern Protestant defeat circulated the room throughout the evening. In the middle of the night, a rather loud whisper came from a langer friend who had passed out next to Joe. “Joe, b’y, Ah lohve you bohdt, go kick them Narthenars bohtts till de cows cohme home.7 Will ye do tat far meh, Joe? Think off mey while yare out tare, ‘kay bohdt?” “Fergal, what ya naed, a slap in de face, bohdt? Carse Ah’d do that far ye. Now go back to sleep, Ah’m tired, ladt.” The morning flames of dawn hit them only when the chugs of a beating train rumbled the men awake. Joe and General Bradigan opened their eyes to melted candles and

1 Ionsaimid Dé Domhaigh: We attack on Sunday. 2 Jeanie Mac: Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and “All the holy Martyrs” as to not take the Lord’s name in vain. 3 Wazzies: wasps 4 Sure ye know: term of agreement 5 Langer: drunk 6 Black stuff: Guiness Beer 7 till the cows come home: for an indefinitely long time 57

disheveled chairs and tables, bottles of whiskey thrown across the sooty gravel, and ashy remnants of smoldered cigarette butts. They climbed the rusty ladder to the blinding surface and watched the clouds tarry and puff in the sky. The two of them lied down on the soft, prickly grass. Joe was thinking; thinking hard. “How ‘bout ye?” Bradigan could just feel Joe’s tensity for the coming day’s revolutionary events. “A bit warried ovar bohmbin’ Narthern ladts. Boht Ah know Ah’m readeh. The look on their faces when tey see we’re winnin’. Priceless, b’y.” “Beat tat in two trows!8 Dat’s de spirit Joe, b’y! Remembare to be doggeh wide, though.9 Don’t let tem follow ye back, boht don’t warry, bohdt. Go ou tare, and give ‘em what we got. Wa’re winnars bodht, noht loozers. Wa’re countin’ ohn ye, bring home the money, ladt. Then we’ll tahk.” The day and night went by with jitters filling his shoes, weighing him down but exciting him to the greatest. 4:30 a.m. The time had come. “Tohp off de marnin’ to yuh Joe10. Geh tup bohddy, toyme’s a-ti-ckin, ladt. You beher get a move ohn.” “Gen’ral Bradigan, sare, tain’t it a wee bit ‘arly, bodht?” Joe, tired with “sleep” crusting his eyes over, leaped up with a leaky flask of gin in his hand. So he got up and headed to the Border, a mere two-mile walk. 4:45 a.m. Iron balls of impending fury exchanged clunks of gusto and pep inside his leather bag. Their weight struck Joe’s hip bones with eagerness as he dove behind the silver hay barrels of the beaming moon. The battlefield stretched openly until it hit a wall of blockades - men and their wooden lodges. Bradigan had hung back a mile now; it was all up to O’Dillon. 5:00 a.m. “Ye bastards, wa’re the winners today, ladts! Watch dis, ye dart-y scom!” At that, Joseph pulled out his one-by-two matchbook, which he mostly used for cigars with the crew, and ripped that match head against his book. The head ignited with the fire of a new era, and he set it to one of the balls’ fuses. Not a single bone of his frame was shaken with fear. Never. His father had taught him to wind up his arm “with the might of God!” when they played catch years ago. It was just the same. Kind of. So he wound up his arm “with the might of God” and threw. Threw like a rainstorm had just snatched him away, and that was his last action on land. Nine balls rang through the air. The fiery fuses hit the deathly gunpowder and cracked the earth into two, or so it seemed. The quiet light of the previous day and the clouds of serenity were gone. The power of a thousand suns hit the

8 Beat tat in two trows! (Beat that in two throws!): an exclaimation of agreement 9 Remembare to be doggeh wide, though (Remember to be doggy wide.): stay alert 10 Top of the mornin’ to you: Good morning

blockades-men, the clouds a heated blast of destruction, the lodges a shamble burnt to oblivion. Fireworks of orange, blazing embers rained down on monochrome ashes, falling like burning white orchids singed on a Soft Old Day11 . “SHINNER12! After ‘im brothars! Get at it!” At that, the Northern Protestants charged with a rising fleet of spontaneous field runners. Joe had bolted into the sheltered side woods in an effort to escape the whirlwind speeds of the aggravated soldiers. To his dismay, they had already spotted his nimble shadow. The feeling of running for his life could not be matched with any other. Alas, he returned to General Bradigan. The Northerners had been lost. When he returned, it was decided that he must leave Ireland. News crossed the border that Joseph O’Dillon was “the one” (and that wasn’t a good thing). Within two days, a fisherman of Sinn Féin13 collected Joe on his dainty tugboat. “Joe, b’y, this is it, ain’t it? I never thought it would end lahk this, but haer we aer. So long bodht, haer’s a bot’le of meh fav’rite beer. Take care, ladt.” Fergal teared up a little, which may have as well been a result of his emotional drunkenness, but he meant what he said. A good pat on the back and Joe was off. “So long Joe, b’y. We’re winnars, wae’ll always bey. We’re the locky ones!” General Bradigan shifted away until he became a faint figure standing at the shore. For a moment, Joe thought he heard a few stifled sniffles from him. Joe sailed to the cold waves of Canada, where he met his first lover. Tom O’Dillon was the product, but he felt the conditions were too unstable to live in such a world. He fled to New York, Rochester to be precise. There he met Ruth. Ruth, Ruth, Ruth. She was gorgeous, and her eyes fluttered like the rhythm of a poem that never ceased to end. They had three children together, two girls and a boy. The boy, Thomas, grew up to be a successful businessman, and Patricia and Danni became the aunts, sweet as candy, to his daughter, Shannon Dillon. Soon enough, Shannon had a daughter and talented son of her own, in whom the match of life flickers their grandiose existences brightly, and their joys emanate in light of love. And so, dear ones, as Joe’s brilliant wings radiate love into the core of their souls, they look up to the heavens to see him standing there, guarding over them…Their eyes simply watch Joe, watch God.

Roisin Liew ‘23

11 Soft Old Day: a truly rainy day 12 Shinner: a derogatory term for a Southerner, a supporter of Sinn Féin 13 Sinn Féin: democratic socialist political party of the Irish Republican Army beginning in 1905 59