Rememberance

1908-1998

Snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.
James Joyce, Dubliners, 1916, The Dead

We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
is rounded with sleep.
William Shakespeare,
The Tempest, Act IV, Scene 1

A man of genius makes no mistakes. His errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery.
James Joyce, Ulysses, 1922

My Grandfather was born in Belfast, Ireland in 1908. After tales long in the telling, he came to America at a bit over 21 years of age. He had had to drop out of school after 7th grade to become an apprentice at at the shipyards of Belfast so, in his words: In September 1931 I applied and was admitted as a full time student in East Junior High School. I was 23 1/2 years old but no one seemed to mind my presence in the eighth grade. In the next year I entered high school and graduated in January 1935. With a scholarship to Columbia University, I was on my way. W. Gamble, A Family Affair, 1995. He went from the 8th grade to high school graduation in 3 1/2 years and graduated from Columbia University with a Masters in another 3 1/2 years. He went on to a lifetime of teaching, which was no surprise to any who knew him. Among his many students were Corretta Scott King and Jeannie Childs, wife of Andrew Young. Upon his retirement many years ago, he split his time between expanding the depth of his own knowledge and sharing the same with others.

Welcome, O life! I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race. Old father, old artificer, stand me now and ever in good stead.
James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, 1916, Concluding words of Stephen Dedalus

Much of what I am is from my grandfather. Ever challenged and challenging; stubborn, perhaps to a fault; boundless humor and a ribald wit; and a sense of place in the universe that only the Irish seem to share. Most of all, he gave me my passionate love of the written word and the thoughts, dreams and realities that can be created with them. Having said that, I find that I lack the words to fully express the depth and breadth of my love of my Grandfather and the emptiness created by his passing. I have decided that I will write again, partly for pleasure, partly in hopes of success...and partly because I can think of no more fitting tribute to Granddaddy. I rest comforted by the knowledge that he knew how much I loved him as I have always known his love of me... Rest, be merry and dance for the ages.

I am passing out. O bitter ending! I'll slip away before they're up. They'll never see. Nor know. Nor miss me. And it's old and old it's sad and old it's sad and weary I go back to you, my cold father, my cold mad father, my cold mad feary father, till the near sight of the mere size of him, the moyles and moyles of it, moananoaning, makes me seasilt saltsick and I rush, my only, into your arms, I see them rising! Save me from those therrble prongs! Two more. Onetwo moremens more. So. Avelaval. My leaves have drifted from me. All. But one clings still. I'll bear it to me. To remind me of. Lff! So soft this morning, ours. Yes. Carry me along, taddy, like you done through the toy fair! If I seen him bearing down on me now under whitespread wings like he'd come from Arkangels, I sink I'd die down over his feet, humbly dumbly, only to washup. Yes, tid. There's where. First. We pass through grass behush the bush to. Whish! A gull. Gulls. Far calls. Coming, far! End here. Us then. Finn, again! Take. Bussoftlhee, mememormee! Till thousendsthee. Lps. The keys to. Given! A way a lone at last a loved a long the
James Joyce, Finnegans Wake, 1939, IV