Dear Friends and Followers of my Blog,
I recently had my Blog moved from one host to another, a process known as migration. This should make things easier in the long run, but a few mishaps may occur during the interim. So, I should first apologise if you have received repeats. For the record, the address of the blog is now https://jpmcevoy.com/. There is nothing for you to do with regard to the change and you should receive all blog posts – like this one – as normal.
However, since I have your attention and it is St. Patrick’s Day, I must tell you something about my Irish ancestors. Several years ago, my son Joe Jr. and I had some remarkable success tracing the McEvoy family roots starting with the most meagre of clues. Apparently, our branch of the family tree comes from County Louth, just below the border with Northern Ireland near the city of Dundalk about 100 miles north of Dublin. I won’t go into the story now, but to warn you that a tale reminiscent of James Bond (in my son’s words), is coming which describes how we uncovered the genealogical history of the paternal side of the McEvoy family. The story culminates with visiting the grave in Castletown Cemetery near Dundalk of one Patt McEvoy, my great-great-great grandfather born in 1779.
Meanwhile, may I a wish you the ‘top of the morning’ this day and leave you with a poem by Billy Collins which is NOT Irish but a favourite of my wife and myself. It is not political or even romantic. Yet in its own way, it justifies the writing of this blog, i.e. so I won’t forget all the amazing things that have happened to me and my family during this short time we have on this green planet. It is called . . .
Forgetfulness
The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,
as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.
Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,
something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.
Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.
It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.
No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.