Celtic Road Home: A Memoir

By Ann Doolan-Fox

This is the true story of a young, native Irish woman who embarked on a path of "most resistance" and danced/survived her way around seven different countries. Her very descriptive, dramatic, and often humorous Celtic Road Home takes you on a journey of constant life adventures. Despite her many up and down struggles

• Language: English
• Publisher: Celtic Road Home
• Release date: Mar 9, 2017
• ISBN: 9781732385122

Ann Doolan-Fox

Ann Doolan-Fox grew up in Dublin, Ireland and traveled/lived in seven countries and fourteen cities around the globe before finally settling in beautiful Colorado Springs in the summer of 1995 with her USAF retired husband, Jimmie. It was a Lifetime thrill to become a US Citizen in the fall of 1998, a true achievement and one that she never takes for granted. Her childhood dream of living n America came true at last. Ann is fluent in four of seven languages, having lived/taught English EFL in France, Italy and Spain. Her goal with CELTIC ROAD HOME: A MEMOIR is to INSPIRE readers from near and far to NEVER give up on their very own LIFE DREAMS and GOALS; come what may. Ann happily lives in Colorado Springs with her hubby, son Ryan and Dexter the cat.

Book preview

Introduction

Ain’t no mountain high enough, ain’t no valley low enough…..

-Marvin Gaye

Ever since I was a little girl, growing up in the Irish capital city of Dublin, I always harbored a secret Dream; to learn foreign languages and travel and explore the world. Humble and tough beginnings would one day propel me forward and that day came in July, 1981. I ran away from home/my father’s dominance in the early dawn; my mother bidding me farewell as I flew the nest.

At a mere eighteen years of age, I left the only life I had ever known and ventured across the Irish Sea to nearby London, England. Soon after, I realized that this girl had bigger and brighter life aspirations much further afield. I would have gladly departed for Timbuktu but settled for the world’s fashion capital of Milan, Italy as a launching point.

Be careful sometimes what you wish for, as Life decisions can often take you on both physical and emotional roller-coasters. There were to be many dark moments ahead, especially in those early days when I seriously considered returning home. However, I would have only lived to regret that outcome.

Throughout the following twelve years, until almost reaching the age of thirty, I endured living/surviving in seven different countries, all the while trying to achieve my main goal. What was that…you ask? To live the American Dream. As you will soon read, I would have climbed any high mountain, or crossed any low valley, river etc… to reach that single goal. Would I make it come true, you will just have to read on to find out….

It is often said that we Irish are renowned for our musical, poetic attributes, great sense of humor and story-telling; so you can be the judge of my Celtic Road Home. Before you begin, let me bestow to you the following Irish Blessing along your Life Path…

May the road rise to meet you,

May the wind be always at your back.

May the sun shine warm upon your face,

The rains fall soft upon your fields.

And until we meet again,

May God hold you in the palm of his hand.

May God be with you and bless you;

May you see your children’s children.

May you be poor in misfortune,

Rich in blessings,

May you know nothing but happiness

From this day forward.

May the road rise to meet you

May the wind be always at your back

May the warm rays of sun fall upon your home

And may the hand of a friend always be near.

May green be the grass you walk on,

May blue be the skies above you,

May pure be the joys that surround you,

May true be the hearts that love you.

Chapter 1

Dublin, Ireland: May 1969 to July 1981

Mum and Dad walking past the GPO, O’Connell St.Dublin, circa mid 1950s

Doolan clan in Tottenham, London back yard, circa mid 1960s

In the second grade at Mother of Divine Grace Primary School

Spring into summer of 1969 was beginning to be quite a pleasant one, considering how typical Irish summers go….i.e. cloudy, rainy, windy and chilly. Mum and Dad had made the decision to bring their Doolan brood back home onto Irish soil. Both had ventured to London during the late 1940s for prospects of a better life, as Ireland had little to no work at the time following the Second World War in Europe. Being a smaller island than England, it took longer for the economy to bounce back and therefore, forced a lot of its young people to uproot their lives and move to other countries like England and the United States. Sadly, as in other times of massive emigration, the majority of those young people would never return home again, except for brief visits to cherished loved ones.

Dad was born on a cold November day in 1921 as one of nine children. Gerard Mary Doolan started out Life on Finn St. near the infamous Phoenix Park. Much of his strict childhood days during The Depression would often include going without enough food to eat since there were so many siblings. Way back in those days, Irish families were usually larger ones, with birth control not even up for discussion within the confines of the strict Catholic faith. Everyone was out to survive in the best way possible and I often wonder about how your personality/character is set from the time you are just six years old. I can’t help but believe that those very meager beginnings helped to form a lot of bitterness with my father that would unfortunately carry on throughout most of his lifetime.

Mum, on the other hand was a country girl at heart. Although born in Sligo, she spent most of her youth living between Counties Clare and Galway; with both locations on the stunning west coast of Ireland. Angela McMahon was one of the last to leave home and was already into her early thirties when she made the decision to go and work in London as a secretary. Prior to that, she had entertained the idea of joining the Dominican Nuns but, fortunately for my siblings and me, it didn’t work out and she met my dad a short time afterwards. It had been really brave on her part to leave home during those days. She earned a bit of macho slack from one of her brothers with; not only was she making a huge mistake, but that London would prove too tough for her mild and meek country manner. Mum’s determination and hard-working nature however would soon prove him otherwise. Like mother like daughter!

Our parents had first met on a blind date in a well-known park in London called Ennismore Gardens (through an Irish magazine called Ireland’s Own) in the early 1950s. Dad was getting over a lost love from home at the time, while Mum had been dating an Irish man who had been employed as a London Bobby. So, I guess you could say, they were both on the rebound. Hence, the beginnings of the Doolan Clan; otherwise I wouldn’t be penning this story. So, in order of appearance: first on the scene came Tommy, my oldest brother in October, 1955, then Kay, my sister in January of 1958. Paul hit the scene in April of 1959 and last but not least, yours truly in September of 1962. Times were tight in those days, especially for my Mum who always held full-time secretarial jobs, (until I reached the age of 13-14) so she was a real Trooper in every sense of the word.

While memories of living in Tottenham, north London in the mid-1960s remain very sparse, I do recall arriving in Dublin fresh off the boat into the Dun Laoghaire port in May of 1969. I was a mere six years old and about to embark on a whole new life in my native Emerald Isle. It was to be an exciting new venture….So amazing at that age, seeing everything around you in such gigantic form. At least, that is always how we remember our childhood days, right?

Dad had located temporary lodgings for all six of us at an inexpensive boarding house on Pearse St. in the city centre, where we would remain for about six weeks until we could find a home suitable to meet our needs. While residing in a bed and breakfast, we had no choice but to vacate the premises daily by around nine am. That meant that we four rambunctious Doolan kids would need to entertain ourselves for the entire day, all without adult supervision. That task was actually very common back then, when it was preferred for the most part, that children should be seen and not heard!

As both parents worked full time (to earn enough for a deposit on a house) and school wasn’t due to start until September, we had the city to ourselves on a daily basis. Although we didn’t travel far, our adventures would take us to numerous parks and museums where we whiled the endless hours away. From tracing coins, observing statues both of human and animal forms etc…at all the free museums where we would often attract stern glances from the mega serious curators and staff. Once a week, we headed off for a swim at the Tara St Baths or wandered around the city streets trying to find stuff to entertain us with. I can remember doing a fair share of walking back then along those bustling city streets. Going to the movies, or pictures as we called it, was always one of my favorite pastimes. Although at my young age, movie choices were quite limited. For sure, we didn’t have the choices of Disney, Pixar and all those other selections that abound in today’s world. Kids wouldn’t know how to exist without their choices of gadgets, and that is the honest to God’s truth.

In the evenings after Mum and Dad finished work, we’d usually dine at one of the multiple city center cafes. Oh, how I loved munching on burger/fish and chips, followed with a 99 ice cream cone (soft serve) with a Cadburys Flake stuck on the side and a drizzle of strawberry syrup. That was always reserved for a Friday treat. My mouth waters at the thought. The cafe juke boxes back then would emit a grand variety of late sixties hits….From a very early age, I have always loved music and no matter how far you travel or how you age, there will always be wonderful tunes that will rekindle fond/not so fond Lifetime memories. In addition, music can become such an amazing therapy. From those warm summer evenings, the tunes I remember the most are: 1) Young Girl –Gary Puckett and the Union Gap, 2) San Francisco – Scott McKenzie, 3) What a wonderful World – Louis Armstrong, 4) Everlasting Love – Love Affair. Without a doubt, there were many others but those four really stand out in my mind from that time period.

Before long, an affordable house appeared on the horizon and off we all set to take a look. It was located on Ballygall Road East in Glasnevin, on the north side of the River Liffey. The south side has always been a bit more posh and way more expensive to live in; needless to say, my parents’ income didn’t quite meet those criteria. Michael, a country man (we call them Culchies by the way while Dubliners are Jackeens) who was selling the house, seemed a little brusque in manner and exuded a dodgy air. Remaining quite insistent but without much success. in trying to include an old piano along with the house sale. My dad politely declined however and within the next week or so, we promptly moved into our new abode in early July, 1969. Pity we never got to keep that piano though, as with my love for music, I might have become an accomplished pianist today…who knows.

The rear side of the house featured a long unkempt/overgrown garden that for us four kids soon turned into our outdoor daily oasis. Complete with an old rusty three-wheeler bike that was really destined for the garbage heap. I soon treasured it. That piece of junk turned into the one and only bike I would ever get to call my own. I even once skidded off it while riding along the front of our house on a summer’s day, while quickly rescued by two nice ladies who happened to be passing by. To this day, I still bear the scar on my left knee as a reminder of those simple summer days. There’s a favorite local tune that calls to mind those times called The Rare old Times (The Dubliners) about daily life in Dublin some decades back, You will often hear it sung in an Irish pub during an evening of music and song as we Celts are best known for our musical and melodic ways.

We quickly came to cherish that wildly overgrown back garden and during long summer holidays from school, we would spend endless hours of the day there. My brothers, (well Paul) would hunt for bugs, (earwigs especially) and proceed to chase me with them or burn them to a crisp in matchboxes: typical boys. Drenched in sweat while digging out an underground camp at the end of the garden, we would place blankets, flashlights and other items there for later use. Quite often, we’d sneak down there in the dark after our parents had gone off to bed. Years afterwards, when arguments with Dad would involve his kicking me/my siblings out of the house into the cold, dark nights; we could at the very least, find shelter there. Until Dad had gone to bed and was sound asleep, Mum would quietly let me/us in to provide a quiet bite to eat…Bless her Soul. On the plus side, our little hideaway was not to be discovered until multiple years later. When Dad finally stumbled upon our secret place while ordering lettuce and rhubarb stalks from our neighbor, he immediately set about filling it all in with dirt. Busted at last, but never defeated!

Mr. M. whose back garden bordered with ours was an avid gardener with an impressive greenhouse from which he often sold us tasty produce. However, I always harbored a creepy feeling about him whenever I happened to be alone ordering items for Mum. There goes that gut feeling….the earlier you can teach your children to trust their own inner voice, the less likely they will encounter danger. Hey, maybe he was a lovely guy after all….one never knows.

Another family who happened to reside at the end of our back garden beside Mr. M, was the C.Family They were six in total just like us, with two boys/girls of similar ages and we often played together whenever the weather was halfway decent….now, you’re asking a lot of Irish weather…ha ha.

The father was a quiet and low key kind of guy, but the matriarch was a whole other story. Mrs. C. was extremely religious and strict and you could often hear her shrieking at various times of the day or evening. The comical part of it all though, was that whenever we happened to be watching a film with any form of physical affection, such as kissing, this is what my Dad would do. All of a sudden, he would edge open the living room window and commence shouting: Mrs. C. you need to see this, they’re in a Clinch" (kiss). Mum would quickly get up from whatever she happened to be doing to shush him and run to close the window. This would turn out to be quite a frequent event; it’s a wonder the C. kids never asked me why the heck my Dad would call out their Mum’s name…

Although Daddy had grown up under immense hardship, he somehow still became a highly- educated and brilliant man. Having self-taught himself both French and Spanish, he would often strike up a conversation with some of the many young Spanish students who travel to Dublin each summer to improve their English. Inquisitive by nature, he interrogated the students with: When are you going to give the Catalans and Basques their independence from Spain? That was my Dad, forever within the political arena and always making waves. Those shocked teens must have felt dumbfounded as most young people couldn’t give a toss about the world of politics. To give him credit though, I definitely get my love of Languages and open and friendly ways from him. (BTW, these were some of Daddy’s positive attributes) Also, a huge animal lover, we always kept at least one or two pets on a consistent basis. All the dogs in the neighborhood knew who my Dad was and would approach him for a few friendly pats, especially two called Charlie and Cleo.

That also happens to be the case with his youngest daughter today. The local yapping dogs in our neighborhood always calm down when they hear my cheerful voice sing Hello….while out on some long walks…This always makes me think fondly of my Dad.

Unfortunately for the rest of us, including my Beloved Mum, Life would often become a test of Endurance within the confines of the Doolan household. All of us would bear the brunt of my father’s mood swings on a daily basis. The art of being Stubborn can create both positive and negative traits, but in Dad’s case, the outcome would often reign down on us like the most intense dread and felt akin to living under a Dictatorship. I suppose in some ways, it certainly propelled all of us to leave the nest a lot earlier than other young people had done. However, that did not mean that it was an easier path for either me or my siblings. Leaving home the quicker the better became the one and only option to strive for as soon as we could make it a reality.

The house at 160 Ballygall Road East would continue to remain my home for about twelve years in total: from 1969 to 1981. Even though so much time has passed; to this day I still have dreams on a regular basis about that first home in Dublin. It’s almost as if the past thirty-five plus years have never transpired and I have returned to that innocent young Irish girl again who would venture out onto the streets of Dublin with Hopes of a better Life. No doubt, I was not along in those times either.

Flashback to the autumn of 1969 and primary school was soon about to start. Mother of Divine Grace on Ballygall Parade would become my elementary/primary school for the next six years along with a traumatic beginning. Most of the other children kept insisting that I was English, with my strong London/Cockney accent. No, I am Irish! would be my instant reaction; so it continued on a daily basis for a while, until they moved on to something else. Thank goodness for small mercies….

The early school years were definitely not memorable ones; not by a long shot. There were two female teachers in particular whom I still vividly remember to this day. One was in the fourth grade called Miss C. who was one of the meanest individuals I have ever met. My sister also had had the misfortune of her company four or five years earlier. Miss C. was a spinster with short wiry, black hair, a contorted face and purple hands/fingers that permanently grasped a piece of chalk. Her dress sense was very similar to the attire of a lay clergywoman. Try as I might to turn away whenever her hands would continue to gesticulate about; I was actually terrified of getting that small piece of chalk embedded in my eye. Whenever she opened her mouth to speak, a spray of her saliva would encompass the immediate vicinity, expanding, if the sunlight caught her silhouette just right. I know: gross, right? There would usually at least one or two children standing in one of the classroom corners serving punishment for getting into trouble for some minor offence. Lo and behold, one fine day I would also get my turn to face that corner wall also. Upon discovering that she previously had experienced the pleasure of teaching my older sister Kay….she exclaimed:Oh yes, I remember Kathleen Doolan with such a tone of disdain. Kay frequently bore the brunt of her wrath as she had most likely answered her back with a cheeky London accent to boot. It goes without saying that I soon wished away that school year as fast as I could

On a lighter note, for my sixth grade class, I had a much more pleasant experience with Miss O’B. who also happened to be a spinster. (BTW, any female unmarried woman back then who would have been aged forty or older was considered as such, or to put it even more bluntly, an old maid) Although very disciplined with her teaching methods, however quite banal, I came to acquire an even further musical appreciation. Along with a rich musical taste and a brother in the RTE (Irish Television/Radio Network) Symphony Orchestra, we would be introduced to a new song every Friday. From a variety of old slave songs like:Nobody Knows the Troubles I’ve Seen to classical melodies, each week would present us with a new song. The musical part of class wouldn’t begin until mid-afternoon, so getting the chance to gulp down an extra leftover mini bottle of milk (when I was lucky!) would not infringe upon my musical fun.

I would often hum that new tune all the way home while on my long walk from school along Ferndale Ave. Once home, I’d be alone for about an hour until my brother got home from St. Kevin’s Secondary School. It was just down the hill from our house, where some of the so-called Christian Brothers weren’t quite so Christian with their physical punishments of misbehaved boys. The norm was to use a hard wooden ruler onto the palms of the boys’ hands, which was quite common in such times. Wow, sounds like we were in the Middle Ages or something as it would never be tolerated in today’s world.

As long as my brother arrived home in one piece, I was a happy sister. From time to time, I would peer out of the bedroom window to witness Paul being ganged up on by two or three other boys. Screaming bloody murder, I’d bound down the stairs to quickly open the emerald green front door. I would then yell out for them to stop which would distract the bullies just enough for Paul to run inside our gate or jump the wall towards the open door and to relief. Phew! Why do boys have to fight anyways….so silly.

Two prominent memories stand out from that timeframe:

My dad insisted that we all learn some Irish/Gaelic….which is our native language. Most evenings just after dinner, (with the help from a book called Buntus Cainte) we would all sit together around a cheap dining table with feeble attempts at picking up any new words/expressions. Both of my parents were fluent native speakers of the Irish language….although a bit rusty, as it wasn’t as widely spoken back then as it is today:

As free milk had been provided in public schools back in London, my dad phoned the Irish Department of Education one day and caused a small riot. Just kidding! Shortly following his complaint, (he wasn’t about to give up) us school kids indeed had our very own little glass bottles of milk to compliment a sack lunch from home on a daily basis. What I enjoyed the most was that there would often remain left over bottles in the milk crates each day. After lunch recess and the bell had rung to return to class, I would often raise my hand (whenever I got picked) and goof off an extra 5-10 minutes to empty said milk crate. It was like getting an extra mini recess and anything to get out of class felt like Heaven. I often wonder if those Dublin children still get their daily milk today and who they have to thank for that…

I know that says a lot about my mostly intense dislike of school along with all of its rules and oppressive regimental ways. To my young and innocent mind, it was like a double whammy as I was already enduring a similar way of life on the home front. I was just going to have to suck it up for the impending ten to twelve years remaining in grade school. Needless to say, I never did become any Teacher’s Pet and have always frowned upon kids who need constant recognition of their ongoing endeavors. I often assume that they are perhaps introverted and self-conscious about themselves. Don’t get me wrong; throughout all of my academic years, I was intensly shy in nature and would always turn a dark shade of crimson if my name was ever called out during class. It wouldn’t be until many years later while teaching English in the Mediterranean that I finally overcame my timid ways. Thank Goodness for that as it’s all in our minds anyway, but try explaining that to a preteen, who’s dealing with peer pressure.

Another fun activity that my Dad liked for us to participate in back then was the creation of our own home theatre improv productions. The latest event would be recorded via microphone onto a cheap cassette tape recorder, where Dad would suggest a topic, whereupon we all created a play together. Those family evenings were always a lot of fun and often had me laughing so hard that it would cause me to have a mini accident. That basically meant I couldn’t reach the toilet in time, which was on another floor…that’s my excuse anyways. Actually, we only had one bathroom, as did most homes at the time. On one of those occasions, (as we had bare wooden flooring) I wet myself and right on cue, my Dad blurted out on the open microphone: Oh, Mrs. Brown, it looks like the weather has turned and it’s starting to rain! I smile today when I recall those simple times of meaningful family moments spent together long before the days of social media with the constant need to feel connected. In addition, I relished listening to the radio a lot (especially plays and miniseries) imagining what the faces of those voices looked like. To this day, my images and reality still don’t quite match up once the face of the person’s voice is revealed. Ha-ha.

As far back as I can remember, my secret Dream was to one day travel the world in an escape from Ireland and all of the oppressions of living at home. The biggest Dream of all was to end up living the rest of my life in The United States. All the TV shows in the world, no matter what genre they were; as long as they came from America, you would find me completely hooked. My all time-favorites were The Waltons, Little House on the Prairie, How The West Was Won, The Brady Bunch, The Partridge Family, Rhoda etc. The detective series were the best of all: Columbo, Kojak (Who loves ya baby!), Hawaii Five-O (I had such a huge crush on Jack Lord). Barnaby Jones, Mannix, Rockford Files, McCloud, Cannon, Vegas etc. I became so immersed within each episode in the knowledge, that one day America would someday become my Home. I once even had a bet with my Dad that I could hum the theme tunes to fifty different TV shows. Dad had doubts that I could remember them all, but I surprised him in a matter of minutes and he soon had to pay up…all five pounds at the time. I spent most of it on candy afterwards, in case you were wondering?

*Today when I recapture some of those old shows in color, it is as if I’m watching them all over again for the very first time. Jack Lord is ten times more handsome in color and was also an Irishman: go figure. Mary Tyler Moore and Rhoda’s colorful wardrobe is like catching a fashion show, albeit from the 1970s…it would have been nice to have seen it in color back then, but there are no regrets.

For the time being however, I found solace from daily home life with mini-escapes such as, going into town with my sister on Saturday afternoons. Kay would often tempt me with the promise of a nice sweet treat at the end of shopping and I was sold. That treat would usually comprise of a sausage roll or jam/jelly doughnut along with a cup of coffee with a dollop of whipped cream on top (at Roches Stores Café). Aah, the little things in Life that bring us such Pleasures. Our respite would finally materialize after a few hours of bargain hunting for just the right clothing item. My sis always knew where a deal could be had and would move Heaven and earth to uncover it. Suffice to say, the much-needed rest and bite would always turn into a lovely compensation for our weary legs. Whether it was down Henry St., Mary St., North Earl St., etc. or over to The Dandelion Market (my favorite spot as it resembled a bazaar from an exotic location) filled with vibrant colors, aromas and incense filling the air; we must have covered at least ten miles or more.

Due to her financial abilities/contributions, it was with huge thanks to my older sister that we acquired our very first sofa set, china cabinet, dining table and chairs (mostly from a place down on Benburb St, Dublin 1 called Bargain Town) and many other household needs (carpeted stairs). It was apparent that my father was never going to provide in that way for his family. Dad was just way too involved with his nationalist /political agendas, etc….which I will touch on a bit later…

How I loved to hear the sounds of the delivery van dropping off our new piece of furniture. (I wasn’t as bad as that Hyacinth Bucket woman in Keeping up Appearances if you know that classic 1970s show!). It felt like our address was Special when the lorry/truck pulled up in front of our house. Upon setting up of our very first sofa: I can still picture it so vividly filling up part of our barebones living/dining room. A dark brown faux-leather with material cushions clad in a floral design; I’d lounge on it like I was Cleopatra for hours on end, admiring it’s every detailed stitching. Even if had been years after moving into our home in Dublin 11, those material comforts meant the world to me/us.

How kind/thoughtful of my sister to provide for us in those ways as she could very easily have spent that hard-earned income on herself. Mum was so very grateful but couldn’t openly show it, while Dad never uttered a single word of gratitude. Deep down, I believe he held resentment towards Kay, as he should have been the family provider when all was said and done; not his own daughter. Such was how it was and would continue on in the Doolan domain. Were it not for my sister’s kind gestures, we could have very easily spent another ten years with sparse pieces of furniture.

In addition, over the years, my eldest brother Tommy also kindly contributed monetarily each time he would venture home for a visit, even paying off my parents’ mortgage in later years..No sooner had he arrived inside the front door, he’d quickly unzip his suitcase, hand Dad a bottle of Johnny Walker, perfume for Mum and a couple hundred Irish Punt to help with the cost of his stay. Mum would always have a t-bone steak at the ready, warming in the oven for a nice dinner, by way of saying Thank You to her first-born son.

Before Tommy headed back across the Irish Sea to London at aged seventeen, I had become his local shopper for Coke, Tayto crisps, Cadburys and the like. My compensation for those errands (mainly just across the road to Fox’s shop – appropriate name) of usually five or ten pence would enable me to buy my favorite Calypso chocolate toffee bar. I still miss some of the snack foods and candy/sweets from back then, as they recall so many fond memories. Most of the best candy bars and snacks are now gone forever though. If someone were to bring them back, I’m sure they would make a fortune…so come on then?

While my big brother enjoyed his sweets and crisp deliveries, he would often play his music at full volume on a record player in the middle of the day, as my parents were both at work. Although the sounds blasting out with the likes of Alice Cooper and The Who weren’t exactly my favorites, I did enjoy others like: The Guitar Man Bread, Crocodile Rock Elton John and Ventura Highway America. Whenever he would catch me loitering outside his door, he would shoo me away..Funny memories…

So, I guess you could say that some of those little escapes, whether on a bus ride into the city or being the home personal shopper made daily life a little easier to bear. The best moments though, were reserved for bus trips to town, the city centre of Dublin. It would never get old; observing all of those foreign tourists, along with their exotic languages and auras of faraway locales. From those moments going forward, I vowed that one day, I would somehow venture to those countries. Listening to the rhythms of their babbling tongues was like music to my ears and I hoped to have the ability to babble that way someday too. All in good time, Annie!

During my teenage years, after finishing up a part time job shift, I would often meander up and down the main streets of Henry Street, Westmoreland and especially Grafton St. Throughout the city centre, there would always be some fun outdoor events taking place. The facade of the GPO (General Post Office) has kind of become a meeting place nowadays: at least from my most recent visit back home again in July 2015. In days gone by, the initial meeting point would often be in front of Clery’s Store, just under the clock (which curiously happens to sit directly opposite the GPO). On that most recent 2015 trip home, Clery’s suddenly closed its doors for the very last time which became a very sad event, as it had always played an integral part in Dublin’s history. Change is inevitable… I guess. I sure hope all those hard-working employees got paid in the end.

Dublin’s Fair City back in the mid 1970s was on the milder side….unlike today, where it’s as cosmopolitan and bustling as any other European capital. By mild, I mean that most of its inhabitants back then were primarily Irish and the few outsiders tended to be of Algerian/Moroccan descent and mostly university students on temporary visas. At the gates of St. Stephens Green, you would often encounter small groups of Hare Krishna chanting and that was about as exciting as it got, without counting out the aggressive London salesmen peddling their sharp knives and kitchen wares along Moore St and the like on a Saturday afternoon. Their loud and obnoxious shouting would compete with the Liberties ladies peddling fruit, vegetables and flower adding their own strong Dublin accents. Listening to both at the same time was quite comical, to say the least. Dublin then seemed like an undiscovered place and in some ways, I miss those simpler days. But Life progresses and places change…it just seemed like a city of innocent solitude.

In those times and continuing through today throughout the month of July, Dublin city and its suburbs can often be found teeming with international tourists and high school students. Primarily from Spain, they flock there to improve/practice their English skills. Ireland and Spain have always maintained a strong cultural bond, and even while living in Madrid on and off for nearly seven years, I can attest that both Irish and Spanish people are similar in many ways, We are equally a friendly, expressive, vibrant and somewhat Bohemian people. Spain was definitely added to my list of places to go … I just intended to get to a few other places first, like London and Paris…. All in good time, Annie.

My father would have given anything in his youth to have been able to travel to foreign lands and enjoy their cultures. So I guess, when I did manage to accomplish that in later years, my experiences became his also and he was able to live it all through my eyes. Years after I had left home, he would often refer to me as his daughter: The Linguist! I guess, that was his way of being Proud as he hadn’t ever uttered those words to any of his children in his living years. The farthest Dad had ever reached was London where he had spent twenty years of his Life and didn’t have the best of experiences. Being Irish and labeled a Paddy everywhere you went wouldn’t have been a pleasant daily occurrence. Paddy basically meant you were stupid, a drunk or both; and therefore were treated as an inferior in English society. Throughout many of the jobs that he held, I believe he had felt berated on a consistent basis and therefore, maintained his dislike of English people. That outcome had been based on his personal journey/experiences and nobody can take that away. Daddy was also a very stubborn and independent man, so it is possible that among his multiple positions, he may have rubbed some people the wrong way

Among many of his career choices included the following: postman/mailman, grocery store owner, electrician, porter, soldier, phone operator, road sweeper, barman, security officer, cleaner, phone technician, painter, gardener, journalist etc. Even a newspaper editor of his very own 4-8 page bimonthly political newspaper which he called Victory during the late 1970s to mid 80s. Every single editorial, article, crossword, joke, cartoon (caption anyway) was created without any outside help. What can I say, the man was talented, but was also misguided when it came down to family responsibilities. Unfortunately for us, that self-made paper gobbled up most of his income which meant we often went without. Somehow, my dear old Mum always made it work though, in providing for us and always had a meal ready each and every night. Such an Amazing Lady; we would surely have been lost and homeless without her.

Since arriving back in Dublin, Mum had always been the main Family breadwinner anyways. Working extensive hours as a secretary for a few legal offices in the city, she did so for many years to keep food on the table for her four children. Returning home from a long day, she would make dinner, help us with our homework, sew elbow patches onto our worn sweaters and pack our school lunches for the next day. My sister and I would often run to meet her as she descended from her number 19/19A bus at the end of a long work day. If it was Friday, she’d always carry a few extra goodies, like bananas or Milky Way candy bars. I can still picture her on a warm summer’s evening: bringing home two lovely dresses from Dunnes Stores: a pink one for my sister and a blue one for me. Impeccably dressed in her long royal blue coat with its golden buttons and her hair wrapped in a headscarf, she exuded such sheer elegance. Although she didn’t possess much in the way of fashionable clothing, she always made the most of what little she had. What an inspiration Mum was both to me and my sister Kay. To this day, I still don’t know how she managed it all. Suffice to say, having a strong country upbringing and never being afraid of hard work came as an added advantage.

Having Mum around us always made Life more bearable throughout our upbringing, and without her love, support and compassion, I’m not sure how we all would have endured. She wasn’t necessarily an openly affectionate person which had a lot to do with her tough country childhood. Lord only knows, Angela Doolan did the very best she could and that was more than enough for us kids. Most nights before getting into bed, I would call out for her, while waiting endlessly at the top of the stairs for a goodnight kiss and hug. My Dad would often appear with an offer, but no; only my Mum’s hugs would do. I would wait forever on that cold and dark landing for that single hug to help settle me off to a night of peaceful slumber. So I guess you could say she was my whole World.

My eldest brother Tommy could only tolerate so much of Dad’s regimental ways, so within five years or so of our return to Dublin, he headed back to London for