
The West's Awake
by Cormac MacConnellRSS 
Recent Posts
- An open letter to President Obama - some handy local tips for his visit to Ireland
- Some wonderful discoveries - relishing Irish trad session, The Gathering visitors and more
- The swallows return, beard competition, historic crimes and other musings
- A new taste of spring in Ireland- Tayto crisp’s cheese and onion chocolate bar
- Margaret Thatcher, Queen Elizabeth and the two Marys - Now it the time for a woman Prime Minister in Ireland
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Ironically, a fortnight before the shock troops from the dreaded International Monetary Fund and the European Central Bank arrived finally in Dublin town, effectively to take over the nation, I was presented with a magnificent photograph of the signing of the Irish Proclamation in 1916, by the famed Ennis photographer Liam Hogan.
It happened on my own doorstep. Liam is a walking man. And the timing was totally coincidental.
For more than a month the bold Liam had promised me a copy of the historic photograph of the signing ceremony which took place about a week before the Rising began.
The framed color reproduction of the original shot, featuring all the seven executed signatories and six other rebel leaders, changed hands during the days when our current leaders were flatly denying there was any application by Ireland for a bailout.
Lads and lassies, I have been in dire straits in my life on many occasions, but never worse than now. I am undone, unmanned, fearful, shocked, powerless to do anything that might improve my options.
I am akin to an old grey rabbit caught and paralyzed in the center of a busy road by oncoming headlights. The end is nigh. Our editor Debbie will have me sacked before the end of February because none of you will ever read me anymore.
And no other readership will tolerate me either on either side of the Atlantic. Woe is me.
Let me tell ye about Caroline from Clare and Seth from San Francisco, and about Caroline's young fiddle and Seth's slightly older guitar and their music on a frosted night last week in Clare, and also about the craic of a rural community at a party in the cottage and the way that sometimes, for a few hours at least, the recession that is in it nowadays slips away like a dejected ghost. Mostly banished by music.
Caroline is the daughter of our friends and neighbors Tommy and Teresa next door. She is an only child, about 12 years old now I'd say, dark-haired and outgoing and pretty and not spoiled at all in the way many lone children are spoiled.
We know her since she was very young when Tommy and Teresa built a fine new house next door. There was a previous connection in that Teresa was Maisie's niece, and it was from her we bought Maisie's Cottage.
I was getting a fair bit of stick on our website IrishCentral.com, I noticed, for advocating an optimistic kind of template for dealing with the global economic recession in last week’s column.
I respect all the opinions reflected by the comments on the piece. Some of them remind me yet again of the common autograph verse which was popular in Ireland in the sixties.
It read: "The optimist fell 10 stories/And at each window bar/ He shouted to his comrades/ “Alright so far!"


