The well-known Irish tradition of a wake applies not only to people who have departed this life, but long ago was used to mark the departure of a person from the Emerald Isle, since it was unlikely that they would ever return. Which is why, even today, when air travel makes it likely that people will return to these green hills dotted with white sheep, there is a party for the departing.
The bleed in Tulfarris started with a wound made back in February, when our American neighbor was laid off from his job at the golf club. He had thought he would ride it out, that he could concentrate on building the house he and his expectant wife were planning. But the banks rescinded the loan, and he was left at loose ends. By the end of spring, after more than a decade in Ireland, he prepared to head home, taking his wife and baby daughter with.
With his departure looming, the other neighbors mobilized to throw a goodbye party. The Wicklow weather was asserting itself, so a tarp was stretched to protect us from the evening moisture, and we bundled up as the evening wore on.
It was for us a chance to really get to know these pleasant people called our neighbors. The electrician two doors down was participating in the national strike, which meant he had been rattling around the village for too many days and was missing socializing. He pulled out a magnesium fire starter, and got the kids gathered around to light the bonfire to take off the chill.
The kids finally tuckered themselves out and went to bed; the alcohol kept flowing; the tree surgeon managed to haul out bottles of cider even on crutches ("naw, I don't need food, it'd only spoil the taste of the cider") and kept us laughing with unlikely tales (the man who put his frozen wife's corpse through the branch chipper). His partner showed up late, after mother and baby had gone to bed, and after the concert at Punchestown had ended. She regaled us with her own tales of mosh pit mud, made believable by the condition of her wellies. The doctor up the lane passed by with his golden retriever to press his hand into the departing's and leave a bottle of red.
Our eyelids drooping, we reluctantly headed off to bed around 2:30 in the morning. It was an odd feeling, lying there drifting off, hearing the voices and laughter just outside. If they had been strangers, it would have been a sleep-stealing annoyance; but the sound of friends--the ones being left behind--was music to my heart, and lulled me into an all-to-brief sleep.
There were a few aching heads the next day, but they will fade quickly. Unlike the pained hearts, all 65,100 of them.
