Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Has to be Done
About a year ago, a new mansion began going up on the hillside above us where I walk our dog most afternoons. A handsome abode with a small bridge over the ravine, I often stopped to inspect the progress as one story after another was layered up like a wedding cake.
Then one day I noticed the work crew's loader had the name O'Neill stenciled on the stern, and wondered to myself how far back was the connection to my grandmother Pearl O'Neal whose grandfather's grandfather sailed from Belfast on the brig Dungannon.
A few days later, I happened by as the crew was taking their tea and gabbing away in Irish, and I knew I was on to something. The day after, I spotted a Tyrone sticker on the bumper of a carpenter's car, and figured it was time to intrude.
He was sawing a plank for a concrete form when I stopped and asked, "You're from Ulster, are you?"
"Yes," he replied. "Are you Irish?"
"O'Neal from Dungannon," I answered. "1768 out of Belfast."
"Lot of O'Neills around there," he remarked. "I'm from down the road seven miles, myself. What do you do?"
"Write stories. Hoped to teach, but it didn't pan out. Published a few books," I added.
"Has to be done," he observed.
And with that, the Irish carpenter picked up his saw, my dog and I wandered off into the woods.
Then one day I noticed the work crew's loader had the name O'Neill stenciled on the stern, and wondered to myself how far back was the connection to my grandmother Pearl O'Neal whose grandfather's grandfather sailed from Belfast on the brig Dungannon.
A few days later, I happened by as the crew was taking their tea and gabbing away in Irish, and I knew I was on to something. The day after, I spotted a Tyrone sticker on the bumper of a carpenter's car, and figured it was time to intrude.
He was sawing a plank for a concrete form when I stopped and asked, "You're from Ulster, are you?"
"Yes," he replied. "Are you Irish?"
"O'Neal from Dungannon," I answered. "1768 out of Belfast."
"Lot of O'Neills around there," he remarked. "I'm from down the road seven miles, myself. What do you do?"
"Write stories. Hoped to teach, but it didn't pan out. Published a few books," I added.
"Has to be done," he observed.
And with that, the Irish carpenter picked up his saw, my dog and I wandered off into the woods.
