When Irish eyes are smiling

[Patrick O'Connell]

"Uncle Greg! It's me, Patty!"

Pat rapped on the farmhouse door with his knuckles but after hearing no response, he tried the handle. Locked. Looking around, he located the cracked flower pot underneath the window and lifted it up to find the spare key that his uncle kept. That thing hadn't changed places since Pat had been a teenager, when he first came to Dingle.

Shaking his head, he picked it up and used it to open the door. Inside, it was dark. He heard the television going and walked in to see his uncle asleep in the recliner with the football game on. Pat smiled a little wryly and switched the TV off before setting the food that he'd brought over onto the table in front of his uncle.

Poor old Uncle Greg was getting on in years. His hearing was going and he wasn't as spry as he used to be, but he insisted on living here in this old farmhouse alone. Pat offered to get him a flat in town but he wouldn't hear of it. "I've lived here me whole life, Patty," Uncle Greg would say every time Pat brought up the subject, and his eyes would get that faraway look. He'd smile, a little sadly, and put a gnarled hand on Pat's knee. "I'll not leave here for anything in the world, lad."

Stubborn old man. But Pat couldn't blame him. He'd grown up here and raised a family in this same house. And he'd seen his sons die here, too. Their graves were outside by the paddock, neat and clean, scrubbed down religiously by Uncle Greg himself every Sunday. When Pat lived with him, he helped too. He vaguely remembered his cousins. They were typical Irish lads, and they'd been taken in the hunt far too young. Younger than when Pat ran away from home, maybe sixteen or seventeen.

He remembered his mother crying when she heard the news, and he remembered coming to this very farmhouse for the funeral. A large part of the hunter community showed up; he remembered Danny and his family, and the Wilsons with their uppity son, Jem. It seemed like a lot of the younger generation had scattered, though. Jem was gone overseas with some of the boys that used to belong to his group--none of them exactly favorites of Pat's. Paddy went too, before Jem did, under his father's orders. Thankfully Danny stayed--which was why Pat stayed.

In Uncle Greg's bedroom Pat found a throw and brought it outside, draping it gently over his uncle's sleeping form. Uncle Greg snored softly and muttered something that Pat couldn't quite make out. He used to be quite a powerful man in his prime, one of the better hunters in the area, but old age had taken its toll. Now he was grizzled and white-haired and the strength in his hands had deserted him.

Pat often dropped by to check on him, maybe bring a bit of food and drink. Uncle Greg wasn't one for the drink like Pat's father, but he liked a drop now and again to chase off the chill in the evenings. He'd have Pat light the fire in the grate and they would sit and chat. Uncle Greg loved his stories--of course, Pat had to clean them up some--and Pat enjoyed the company, though he wouldn't easily admit it. In fact, not many people knew that he had an uncle; he remained tight-lipped about his family even to his friends. It wasn't that he had anything to conceal, or that he was ashamed. He just didn't think it was anyone's business.

Turning, he went into the kitchen and tidied up some. Uncle Greg had left some dishes in a pail to soak, so he scrubbed them. The farmhouse didn't have running water, which meant scrubbing them and dunking them in the pail of clean water sitting next to the soapy one. Then he had to lug the soapy pail to the back door--quietly, so as not to awaken his uncle--and toss out the dirty water. If only Uncle Greg wasn't so stubborn, he could be living the easy life. Running water, hot water and indoor plumbing were all things that Pat took for granted these days, but damn did he feel their absence every time he came out here.

He was just beginning to stoke a fire in the grate when his uncle woke up with a start and a snort, turning surprised eyes onto him. "Aye, Patty, me lad." He smiled and looked so genuinely pleased that Pat was hard-pressed not to grin back. Instead, he tipped his uncle a wink. "Hiya Uncle Greg. Had a good nap? Ye've been out like a light for so long, I thought the Lord had taken ye."

"Ye cheeky lit'le bastard," Uncle Greg laughed, and his laugh was the one thing about him that hadn't changed over the years. It was still strong and still distinct and hearty and infectious. Finally, Pat laughed too and straightened up. The fire flickered happily in the grate and warmth seeped into the small living room. He went over to give his uncle a big, warm, affectionate hug and was given a couple of heavy pats on the back.

"Look what I've brought! It's all your favorites. And..." He reached into one of the bags and took out a bottle full of pale gold liquid. "Good old Irish whiskey."

Uncle Greg's eyes twinkled.