| Irish Wake 
By Edyth Preete
Nearly thirty-eight years ago an exuberant friend named Eddie burst into
the office where I was working as assistant to a Hollywood producer commanding,
“Come with me right now.
I want to introduce you to someone.” Fortunately, I was alone and
it was almost five o’clock. As I closed up shop, Eddie paced agitatedly
about the room singing the praises of Bill, the stranger he had ferried
to meet me. I vaguely remember dashing down the stairs to the street,
but first sight of my intended match is engraved on
memory with the permanence of a prehistoric pictograph on a raw stone
monolith.
Lounging at the wheel of a sleek sports car thrumming at the door to my
building was the most devastatingly handsome, fiercely intense man I had
ever laid eyes on. “Eddie, you’ve outdone yourself,”
I sighed. In short order I discovered that, like me, Bill was Irish-Italian
American,
a classic example of the frequent early 20th c. immigrant American blood-mix.
A romance blazed, but marriage was not in our cards. Over the years, Bill
and I have had our share of ups and downs, drifting apart and reuniting
many times. Through all the travails and triumphs of our separate lives,
we have remained pals, admirers of each other’s own quirky personalities,
and staunch allies.
While my path crossed but occasionally with the man who had introduced
me to someone I think of as ‘soulmate,’ Bill
and Eddie, bound by their mutual love of automotive design and hell-bent
horsepower, continued to be close through the decades. Last week, Bill
called to say that Eddie had died.
Though I had intended this Sláinte to address the Irish influence
on the pioneer settlements of America’s 19th c. frontier, I am compelled
down another road instead: the blessedly infrequent passing of a friend.
Like the mountains that stand silent sentinel to America’s development,
The Greening of The West will patiently wait until next issue while I
dedicate this Sláinte to that most Irish of traditions: the funerary
wake.
For many cultures, death is a semi-taboo subject, a happenstance to be
dealt with in only the most serious somber manner. In that the ancient
Celts believed that a person’s demise was the gateway to a better
world, their rituals surrounding the event resonated with joy as well
as sorrow. In all but the rarest cases, it was a time to share warm anecdotes
and celebrate the accomplishments of the deceased, affording much needed
comfort for grieving family and friends.
Originally, a wake was held in the family home, usually in the parlor
from whence comes the term ‘funeral parlor’ used to describe
modern undertaking establishments. Unlike today’s society that is
awash with consumerism, in past ages personal possessions and household
furnishings were meager, cherished, and commonly passed down generation
to generation. One item that has survived but rarely is the ‘wake
table.’ Consisting of a central plank flanked by two drop-down leaves,
it was used for year-round dining but when a death occurred it would have
become the focal furnishing of a wake as, with its side leaves folded
down, the center plank was exactly the width of a coffin, enabling respectful
mourners to approach the deceased for a final farewell.
Wakes were usually held several days after death, allowing friends who
lived at a distance time to make the journey to pay their respects. At
the moment of death all clocks in the house were stopped and time literally
stood still until after the funeral service. As those closest to the deceased
were often so distraught as to be unable to sleep, and it was believed
to be bad luck to leave the body unattended, vigil was kept through the
night, giving rise to the term ‘wake.’
So imbedded in Irish tradition is the custom of ‘waking’
that during the 19th century, it became common to hold a wake for the
brave souls who soughtto escape Ireland’s Great Famines byemigrating
overseas. At these ‘American Wakes’ friends and family shared
one last bittersweet uproarious time with those whom they would probably
never in life see again.
Just as, and most likely because, birth is a province exclusive to women,
with the exception of the Last Rites of the Church performed by the parish
priest, so too was it women’s charge to make all preparations for
the deceased’s final public viewing. While the men sat talking in
subdued tones, smoking, drinking uisce beatha (whiskey – the ‘water
of life’), and often playing cards (with an unused hand dealt to
the deceased), the wife or mother of the deceased was exempt from duties
in deference to her grief. Meanwhile, neighbors known as mna cabhartha
or ‘handy women’ cleaned, dressed and presented the body,
opened all windows and doors so the departed soul could take wing, covered
or removed any mirrors in the house lest someone spy the specter of death
plotting to seize another victim, hung immaculate white sheets kept solely
for waking the dead on and about the bier, and prepared food for those
who would pay their last respects.
Women also played a key role during the wake itself, ‘keening’
vocal expression of the communal grief. While keening is usually equated
with inarticulate wailing, it is often a sad song, a favorite perhaps
of the deceased, or a lament composed on the spot extolling the departed’s
virtue or circumstance of death. One such is Caoineadh Airt Ui Laoghaire.
The late 18th c. epic poem tells of the life and
tragic demise of Art O’ Laoghaire who was murdered by Abraham
Morris at Carraig an Ime, County Cork on May 4, 1793. Composed extemporaneously
at Art’s wake by his pregnant wife Eibhlin Dubh Ni Chonaill, the
390-line keening is one of the greatest love poems of the Irish language,
one of its greatest laments, and one of the finest compositions to have
survived from Irish oral literature.
Consisting of five parts, the Caoineadh recounts the heroic life of the
handsome, feisty, Catholic O’Laoghaire, his persecution by Cork
County’s Protestant sheriff Morris, and the dastardly ambush and
murder of the dashing young Corkman. The entire story, including an account
of the trial, acquittal, and commendation for gallantry of his murderers,
can be read at: http://www.answers.com/topic/eibhl-n-dubh-n-chonaill.
Dramatized by playwright Tom McIntyre, Caoineadh Airt Ui Laoghaire won
Ireland’s Stewart Parker Trust Award for the best Irish debut stage
play in 1999.
The memorial that is planned for my old pal Eddie will take place in
his favorite watering hole, a haunt of the rich and famous on the Sunset
Strip. Think: trendy LA-version of an Irish ‘local’ a neighborhood
pub where friends meet regularly to converse, laugh, commiserate, and
raise a pint or two to times that are and times that were.
We who knew and loved Eddie will tell stories, laugh a lot, and maybe
cry about our experiences with this larger than life guy. I will not keen
to melody but I will likely quote the following few inspirational lines
I still remember from a poem Eddie wrote entitled “Success”
that he shared with me in the spring of 1969.
“The road to success has many a bend, and none of us know just how
it will end. Some will settle for watching the clock, and they’ll
get ahead as fast as a rock. Others will lose themselves in drink, but
the booze will make them unable to think. A few will succumb to the lure
of crime, and you know they’ll one day be serving time. I wish I
could tell you how it should read, but I can’t, so keep pushing
and you’ll surely succeed.” Sláinte!
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