During the winter and spring of 1994, when I was in kindergarten, my father taught at University College Cork in Ireland.  We packed up, rented out our house in Pennsylvania, and moved to the Emerald Isle.  We lived in a simple wood and brick cottage called “Trabeg” in the tiny coastal village of Fountainstown.  My older brother, Stephen, and I attended schools in neighboring Crosshaven.  My younger brother, Leo, went to “Tent School”, which can be translated from toddler language to “Pretend School” as he stayed home with my mother during the day.

February, 1994

            I run to the kitchen door and out onto the driveway.  I pause to look down at the inlet of the Atlantic Ocean which lies below the grassy cliff our ramshackle one-story house sits upon.  The ocean has receded; it is low tide and the horses trod up and down the sopping sand bank that hours before was (and in a couple hours will be) a vast body of water.  The sea breeze intensifies and rushes at me, rippling my shoulder-length brown hair and pasting my red and gold dress to my white-stockinged legs.  After I have watched the horses for a while, I retreat to the backyard.

            Six-foot green fir trees line the perimeter of our backyard.  A small, almost unnoticeable gap divides the trees in the far right corner of the yard.  The gap is just my size.  I cross the yard and crawl into my little space.  I am now situated in my Hiding Place, my haven of reassurance, solitude and peace.  I squat on the dirt and look up at the trees looming in front of me like thick green velvet curtains sheltering actors from the watchful eyes of a judging audience.  When I turn around I am facing a dirt hill, just about the height of my five year old body.  As I crawl up the hill, my patent leather shoes slip a little, but I regain my traction and continue up.  My eyes become level with the top of the hill and the sight of our neighbor’s horse farm comes into view.  I finally triumph at the top of the little hill, and I sit and watch the horses.  After a little while I see our neighbor, the owner of the farm, walk towards me.  I tense up shyly and stand up, ready to return to our yard.

            He holds out his hand which is grasping a bag of carrots.  “Would you like to feed one of the horses?”

            I can’t help but smile and nod emphatically.

            “What is your name?”  He hands me a piece of carrot.

            “Molly,” is all I can muster.

            He leads me to a brown and black horse, at least 1000 feet tall, and helps me hold out the carrot, emphasizing the fact that I must keep my hand flat.  I am not ready for the sensation I experience.  The animal’s bristly rubbery lips envelope my hand as the large teeth chomp the orange vegetable right out of my palm.

*******

            The following morning I am awakened by a gentle rap on my bedroom door.  My mother pads quietly into my room moving to the large picture window which looks out into our backyard.  I am wrapped in a cocoon of sheets, comforters and heated afghans.  The wind howls incessantly outside the thin walls.  Mom pulls the curtains back and a flood of light rushes into the room, harsh against my still sleepy eyes.

             “Time to wake up, Molly.  If you get ready quick enough, we can read a chapter of Black Beauty before you go to school.”

            I slowly peel off layer upon layer of bedcovers and eventually stand up, shivering.  I dress quickly and walk down the tiny hallway to the kitchen.  The house is beginning to feel warmer as heat from the fireplace in the living room permeates each room of the house.  Dad pours me a bowl of Frosted Flakes, and I munch on my cereal while looking out the bay window at the rolling green hills just across the Atlantic inlet.  Stephen and Leo trickle into the room with hints of morning grog still painted on their countenances.  As we finally feel our bodies waking up, Stephen and I admire the American Gladiators on the back of the cereal box and become involved in an animated discussion of their incredible feats.

            Dad bustles into the room.  “Uh, excuse me, American Gladiators, but you’re going to be late for your bus!  Let’s go!”

            I grab my puffy coat and run outside behind Dad and Stephen.  As I close the door, I catch a departing scent of the kitchen.  The distinct, yet familiarly pleasant smell contains hints of cereal, milk and timber.  It is the smell that, years later, would trigger my subconscious to send me back to Fountainstown, Ireland, back to the bay window and the brown-tiled kitchen overlooking the ocean.

            We walk down the winding driveway and try to keep our balance on the steep slope.  At the bottom, I give one last look back at the house, up past the steep green hill that is our front yard, and to the bay window.  Through the reflection of the green of the grass and the gray of the sky, I see the image of my mother holding Leo.  They are waving good-bye to us and I beam and wave back.

            Our party of three begins to expand as stray dogs with matted and dirty fur latch onto our group and escort us through the narrow rocky roads.  When the occasional car passes, my Dad takes our hands and secures us on the side of the road until the rushing breeze and car exhaust subsides and we are able to continue our trek.  We walk past small houses, much like Trabeg, that line the road like toy houses placed haphazardly on the floor in an attempted formation of streets.  We come to a cluster of trees on our right and as we pass them, the scene suddenly explodes into an expansive vista of rocky beach.  Cliffs and hills extend on either side and furious gray waves crash onto the shore.  A couple of dogs depart from our group to run up and down the water’s edge.  We finally reach our destination, situated next to the far edge of the beach.  It is Angela’s Shop, a tiny red shack popular among school children craving a sweet or two after a long day of learning.  I hear a pair of feet running toward me.

            “Molly!” a voice calls from behind.

            I turn around to the sight of Allison, my best kindergarten pal, the first girl in my class to fully embrace me as her temporary American classmate and friend.

            “Hi, Allison, how are you?” I smile at her flushed yet cheerful appearance.

            “Fine, thanks - my Mum says - you can come over - after school - to play with Ursula and me - if you would like,” she manages in between panting.

            “Dad, may I go to Allison’s?  Please?” I clasp my hands together in plea and put on my best sweet innocent face.

            He ruffles my hair and sports a look of resignation on his bearded face.  “I think that will be okay but I’ll have to check with Mom first.  Here comes your bus!”

            We turn and see the red double-decker bus approaching our small group.  My Dad gives me a kiss goodbye and turns to walk home and prepare for his work day in Cork City.

*******

            It is the end of the school day and Sister Joan, the teacher of our Senior Infants class, leads us out of the walls of St. Brigid’s Convent School and down to the pick-up spot.  Allison and I wait for the bus to collect us, and in the meantime play “chasing” (the Irish version of American “Tag”) with Deirdre, Grace, Ceira and other classmates.  We are glad to escape from the doldrums of learning about Huggy Bear, Patsy Panda, and Danny Dinosaur, characters in our reading packets.

            The side of the road where we wait and play overlooks yet another inlet of the Atlantic Ocean.  We are in Crosshaven and the fleet of boats stationed directly below us gives away its status as a port.  Across the inlet is the larger, more historically famous port of Cobh, known for its bustling traffic of emigrants from the time of the Potato Famine of the 1840’s and throughout the rest of the 19th century.  It was one of the main ports where people flocked in hopes of leaving their struggling country for new lives in new homelands.

            The red bus pulls up to the curb, and a hoard of students boards.  I wave goodbye to Sister Joan, while Allison and I make our way up the massive steps.  We sit next to each other in a seat close to the front.  As the vehicle begins to pull away to make its thirty minute trip to Fountainstown, Allison turns to me. 

            “Do you want to go upstairs?” Her left eyebrow is raised a little higher than her right and I can see a twinkle of mischief in her eyes.

            “You know we’re not allowed to go up there…What if we get caught again?  The driver warned us.”  I always seem to play the part of the goody-two shoes in our relationship.

            Allison’s dimples deepen and her smile spreads across her face like the wings of a bird about to take flight.  She shrugs, “I suppose we’ll find out.”

            I shake my head and hesitantly follow her up the winding staircase to the top level of the double-decker bus.  It is empty as school children are forbidden from venturing up here.  For the next fifteen minutes Allison and I bask in our rebelliousness.  We joyfully run up and down the aisle playing “Pinky and the Brain” which is a segment in our favorite TV show, “Animaniacs”.  Our game consists of us taking turns playing the roles of Brain and Pinky, the duo of mice whose plot it is to take over the world.  To sum up their relationship (and paraphrase the show’s theme song) “One is a genius; the other’s insane.”  Our game is becoming particularly interesting as Brain is about to whack Pinky over the head with an invisible baseball bat.  My arms freeze in midair as we hear sudden footsteps.

            Thump, Thump, Thump…the footsteps become louder and louder.  All Allison and I can do is stare blankly at the doorway waiting to discover the identity of the intruder.  His face finally comes into view out of the shadows, and it is only now that we discover the bus is parked on the side of the road.  The ominous face belongs to our gruff, by-the-looks-of-it-not-too-happy bus driver.

            “You two!  Again?!”  The outrage is easily detectable in his voice and Allison and I stare bashfully at our feet.  “If I catch you girls up here one more time, you’re off the bus for good!  You hear me?  I’LL TELL YOUR PARENTS!  Now downstairs with ye and behave!  Jaysus Lord, have mercy…” he adds under his breath.

            We breathe a sigh of relief at our close escape and comply with the driver’s wishes.

*******

            That night, Dad picks me up from Allison’s house.  He asks me how my day was and I choose to leave out the part about being scolded by the bus driver.  I proudly tell him about the sentence I have perfected in Irish class: “Onvil catecum dogon deon leitheras,” which means “I have to go to the bathroom.”  I tell him about the new Irish dancing step we learned in gym class.  And I show him the invitation I received from Deirdre for her birthday party.  “Bring your wellies!” says the handwritten note at the bottom.

            We arrive home to wonderful news.  Mom went to the store and bought sweets for us to enjoy after dinner while we watch Winter Olympics figure skating.  While there is no ice to speak of around here, my big brother and I have been known to practice “death spirals” just like the famous pairs skaters do.  We make do slipping and sliding around the kitchen floor in our stocking feet.  My brothers are already in fits over the desserts she bought; they can hardly wait until after dinner.  The attitude is contagious and soon the three of us (Stephen, Leo and I) are marching around the house proclaiming through song our love for Hippo Tarts and Mickey Mouse Chocolate Mousse.

*******

            Later that night, as we huddle around the fireplace wrapped in quilts and comforters,   we sip tea and hot chocolate.  School has been called off throughout the county for the following day due to predictions of snow flurries.  My Mother and I take turns reading paragraphs in Black Beauty.  Stephen and my Dad listen attentively to Leo’s earnest rendition of Billy Joel’s “In the Middle of the Night”.  (“Billy Joel’s Greatest Hits” is the only music cassette we brought with us and has become the background accompaniment to our frequent road trips.)  He comes close to the correct lyrics this time, but we still laugh when he sings, “In the middle of the night, I’ve been walking in my sleeping baaaag.”

            Outside, the winds howl and whistle through the cliffs.  A single sliver of smoke curls up from the brown brick chimney of Trabeg, which perches delicately on the hill.  A solitary window is illuminated in the house and from the outside the image of a mother, father, two boys and a girl fills the big bay window like a painting in a frame.  Fountainstown is at peace, and lights begin to click off across the countryside as the people settle down for a frigid night.  As Ireland goes to sleep, the crash of the Atlantic waves eases to a gentle pulsing lullaby of rise and fall, rise and fall, coaxing the people into the tranquility and stillness of the night.

*     *     *

Biographical Note:

Molly Porth considers herself a citizen of the world.  She feels fortunate to have traveled for extensive stays to countries as diverse as England, Ireland, Chile and Kenya.  She will graduate from St. Joseph’s University in May 2010.  She has applied for various post-graduate international placements which would include opportunities for work, study, and service. As part of the post-graduate application process, where she has been asked to use three adjectives to define herself, she has done so with various combinations of the following :  intellectual, dedicated, caring, bohemian, collegial, committed, insatiable, affable, idealistic, and energetic.  Feel free to pick and choose.