From the Penthouse to the Outhouse, by Cathy
The drive from Waterford to Doolin was like most drives in Ireland – varying colors of green out the window and, luckily, blue sky with the kind of cotton-ball clouds that add, rather than detract from the landscape. Jeff’s driving on the “right” side of the car and the left side of the road was (and continues to be) great, even when we got off the main roads and onto the notoriously narrow hedge-row and/or rock-wall lined roads.
We stopped off in Limerick to see if we could catch the Angela’s Ashes walking tour that was recommended Dan Flaxman (who we’re meeting up with in Florence on 10/2) a good friend of the McCourt brothers. Jeff worked at Perry’s with Michael McCourt, one of Frank’s younger brother’s, from the late ‘70s to the late ‘80s and got to know Michael, Frank, and Malachi McCourt quite well. Malachi is still alive and living in New York, but with both Michael and Frank now gone, our visit to Limerick was more about paying homage to a friend than being a tourist. We asked a woman at the tourist information office about the walking tour and she directed us to the Frank McCourt Museum, just a few blocks down the road (a common Irish phrase).
The Frank McCourt MuseumThe Frank McCourt Museum is housed in the old Leamy School, where Frank and Michael attended grammar school after returning from New York to Limerick in the hopes that their father could get (and keep) a job.
Jeff and I both read Angela’s Ashes, but decided to watch the movie with Mick (same night we ate KFC in the St. Austell TraveLodge!), to refresh our memory and give him an idea of life in southern Ireland in the 1930s through the eyes of a young Frank McCourt. It was nice to have that fresh in our minds as we went through the museum. A couple of rooms are done up with items donated by the McCourt Family to represent the kitchen area and bedroom in one of the slums where they lived. If you know or remember the story, the family could only use the second floor of this particular house as the first floor was always flooded. The kids shared beds, they shared bath water, and they shared lice.
They had little if anything to eat, and were cold unless they stole or were given coal. (Makes KFC at the TraveLodge look A-W-E-S-O-M-E). Their father, being from “the north,” was unable to get work and drank his paycheck when he did. Their mother, having buried three children, her husband unable to provide and unwilling to accept charity (yet still willing to grow the family, if you know what I mean) – was justifiably depressed.
And yet, the McCourt boys all went on to lead happy and successful lives, as many who endure hardship and deprivation at a young age somehow manage.
It’s said that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, but maybe it should be “What doesn’t kill you makes you humble, grateful, stronger and happier.”
