Mountains O'Mourne

September 06, 1999

Taughannock Falls State Park
Outside Ithaca, New York
Labor Day Weekend
1999
Midnight

The split cord wood has burned down to glowing red embers inside the pit. Smoke from the fire and the pipe drift up through the canopy of pines and toward the soothing stars in the cloudless night sky. Jack the beagle, his eyes heavy with sleep, is curled up in the soft dirt at her feet. His breathing is slow.

One at a time, the rest of the group goes to bed. In the dark, someone curses as they stumble on an empty beer bottle. It is one of two dozen scattered about.

"Well, goodnight, you two" the last person says finally.

Alone at last.

I put another log on the fire. The wood is very dry and it lights almost immediately. The burning crackle is the only noise left in the night.

So much that I want to say.

"Want another beer?"

"No thanks" she says.

Without noticing its firm green needles, I grab a recently fallen pine branch and lay it into the pit. The fresh needles give off a loud hiss in the flames and spit out a huge column of choking smoke.

"Jesus!" I gag. "Sorry about that."

"It’s okay" she says, waving the smoke from her face.

The sudden commotion stirs Jack. He picks up his head and stares at the fire, then me, then her.

"He’s a great dog" she says. "A real cutie."

"Thanks."

We both seem momentarily relieved that we’ve found a topic about which to talk. But it passes quickly and the silence retakes its familiar place.

I wish I could find the words. If not THE words, at least some words.

"So what was that song you were singing to yourself this morning?" she asks.

"When?"

"This morning. You were up building the fire, while everyone was still in their tents."

"Oh, that song. It’s an Irish love song. Do you want me to sing it again?"

"Please."

My normal apprehension is not there. No protests of false modesty. I want to sing to her. For her.

Oh Mary this London’s a wonderful sight.

With people here working by day and by night.

They don’t sow potatoes, nor barley, nor wheat

But there’s gangs of ‘em diggin’ for gold in the street

At least when I ask them, that’s what I was told

So I just took a hand at this diggin’ for gold

But for all that I’ve found there I might as well be

In the place where the dark morn sweeps down to the sea.

The words come out slowly and wistfully. She is smiling now. My cotton shirt feels pleasantly warm.

"Keep singing" she murmurs to my delight.

A mouthful of beer takes the dryness out of my throat.

You remember young Denny McClarin of course

Well he’s over here with the rest of the force

Oh I saw him one day as he stood on the Strand

Stopped all the traffic with a wave of his hand

And as we were talking of days that are gone

The whole town of London stood there to look on

But for all his great powers he wishful like me

To be back where the dark morn sweeps down to the sea.

Her softening eyes lead me to the next verse.

I believe that when writin’ a wish you’d expressed

As to how the fine ladies in London were dressed

Well if you believe me, when asked to a ball

They don’t wear no tops to their dresses at all

Oh I’ve been there myself and you could not in truth

Tell if they were bound for a ball or a bath

Don’t go startin’ them fashions now Mary McCree

In the place where the dark morn sweeps down to the sea.

She laughs quietly.

"There’s one more verse."

"Please" she commands pleasantly as she runs her hands through her long straight hair, before resettling herself on her folding stool to hear the last verse.

There’s beautiful girls here oh never you mind

Beautiful shapes Nature never designed

Lovely complexions of roses and cream

But let me remark with regards to the same

For if on those roses you venture to sip

The color might all come away on your lip

So I’ll wait for the wild rose that’s waitin’ for me

In the place where the dark morn sweeps down to the sea.

We are both smiling.

"What’s with all the racket?"one of the guys in our group cracks as he steps out of the darkness.

"Oh, we’re just singing" I say. I feel embarrassed now.

Jack jerks his head around at the noise of crunching ice and clinking bottles coming from the cooler. The guy pulls out a beer and pulls up a stool.

"I love sing-a-longs."

I look at her and she at me. So much to say.

"You don’t mind if I join you?" he asks.

"No, of course not" I reply.

The moment is lost.

The next day, she is gone. North to her home in the country. It is south to the city for me.

So much time in the car.

So much to think.

So much I should have said.

I sing the song to myself, trying to remember her face from the night before. Mine are the only sounds left in the car.

Jack, his eyes heavy with sleep, is curled up on the soft, empty, cloth seat next to me. His breathing is slow.

Broadway Jim Jenkins

		Mountains O'Mourne
		September 06, 1999 Taughannock Falls State Park Outside Ithaca, New York Labor Day Weekend 1999 Midnight The split cord wood has burned down to glowing red embers inside the pit. Smoke from the fire and the pipe drift up through the canopy of pines and toward the soothing stars in the cloudless night sky. Jack the beagle, his eyes heavy with sleep, is curled up in the soft dirt at her feet. His breathing is slow. One at a time, the rest of the group goes to bed. In the dark, someone curses as they stumble on an empty beer bottle. It is one of two dozen scattered about. "Well, goodnight, you two" the last person says finally. Alone at last. I put another log on the fire. The wood is very dry and it lights almost immediately. The burning crackle is the only noise left in the night. So much that I want to say. "Want another beer?" "No thanks" she says. Without noticing its firm green needles, I grab a recently fallen pine branch and lay it into the pit. The fresh needles give off a loud hiss in the flames and spit out a huge column of choking smoke. "Jesus!" I gag. "Sorry about that." "It’s okay" she says, waving the smoke from her face. The sudden commotion stirs Jack. He picks up his head and stares at the fire, then me, then her. "He’s a great dog" she says. "A real cutie." "Thanks." We both seem momentarily relieved that we’ve found a topic about which to talk. But it passes quickly and the silence retakes its familiar place. I wish I could find the words. If not THE words, at least some words. "So what was that song you were singing to yourself this morning?" she asks. "When?" "This morning. You were up building the fire, while everyone was still in their tents." "Oh, that song. It’s an Irish love song. Do you want me to sing it again?" "Please." My normal apprehension is not there. No protests of false modesty. I want to sing to her. For her. Oh Mary this London’s a wonderful sight. With people here working by day and by night. They don’t sow potatoes, nor barley, nor wheat But there’s gangs of ‘em diggin’ for gold in the street At least when I ask them, that’s what I was told So I just took a hand at this diggin’ for gold But for all that I’ve found there I might as well be In the place where the dark morn sweeps down to the sea. The words come out slowly and wistfully. She is smiling now. My cotton shirt feels pleasantly warm. "Keep singing" she murmurs to my delight. A mouthful of beer takes the dryness out of my throat. You remember young Denny McClarin of course Well he’s over here with the rest of the force Oh I saw him one day as he stood on the Strand Stopped all the traffic with a wave of his hand And as we were talking of days that are gone The whole town of London stood there to look on But for all his great powers he wishful like me To be back where the dark morn sweeps down to the sea. Her softening eyes lead me to the next verse. I believe that when writin’ a wish you’d expressed As to how the fine ladies in London were dressed Well if you believe me, when asked to a ball They don’t wear no tops to their dresses at all Oh I’ve been there myself and you could not in truth Tell if they were bound for a ball or a bath Don’t go startin’ them fashions now Mary McCree In the place where the dark morn sweeps down to the sea. She laughs quietly. "There’s one more verse." "Please" she commands pleasantly as she runs her hands through her long straight hair, before resettling herself on her folding stool to hear the last verse. There’s beautiful girls here oh never you mind Beautiful shapes Nature never designed Lovely complexions of roses and cream But let me remark with regards to the same For if on those roses you venture to sip The color might all come away on your lip So I’ll wait for the wild rose that’s waitin’ for me In the place where the dark morn sweeps down to the sea. We are both smiling. "What’s with all the racket?"one of the guys in our group cracks as he steps out of the darkness. "Oh, we’re just singing" I say. I feel embarrassed now. Jack jerks his head around at the noise of crunching ice and clinking bottles coming from the cooler. The guy pulls out a beer and pulls up a stool. "I love sing-a-longs." I look at her and she at me. So much to say. "You don’t mind if I join you?" he asks. "No, of course not" I reply. The moment is lost. The next day, she is gone. North to her home in the country. It is south to the city for me. So much time in the car. So much to think. So much I should have said. I sing the song to myself, trying to remember her face from the night before. Mine are the only sounds left in the car. Jack, his eyes heavy with sleep, is curled up on the soft, empty, cloth seat next to me. His breathing is slow. Broadway Jim Jenkins