Family Roots

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Retrospect – Family Roots

By Kevin J. W. Driscoll (c) 2025

Preface

Nestled in the heart of Galway, Ireland was the village of Ballyroot – a place where time meandered as lazily as the sheep that dotted its rolling hills. Tradition held a firm grip on the hearts of its inhabitants, and the peculiar customs of the past were cherished like old, comfortable sweaters. One such custom, involving trees and travel directions, was particularly unique.

In Ballyroot, giving directions often sounded like, “Head for Uncle Howard, take a right at Aunt Margaret, and you’ll be there in no time!” Outsiders might have found this odd, but to the villagers, it was simply the way things were done.

Life in Ballyroot ambled along in its predictable fashion until the dawn of the new millennium brought with it the whispers of change. The village council, in their infinite wisdom, decreed that the main road must be widened to accommodate the march of modernity. And so began the grand endeavor, led by Finn, the well-meaning but notoriously clumsy construction foreman.

What followed was a series of events that would uncover far more than anyone in Ballyroot could have anticipated. The journey ahead would blend humor and history, revealing the charming idiosyncrasies of a village rooted in its past while stepping hesitantly into the future.

Join us now as we embark on this whimsical journey through the traditions and hidden histories of Ballyroot, where every twist and turn holds a story waiting to be told.

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My Paternal grandmother, Mary, hailed from the picturesque Galway area of Ireland. Tales of her family’s humble origins often drifted through our conversations, painting vivid pictures of a life marked by both hardship and resilience. One particular story always stood out—a tale of burial customs so unique that they seemed almost fantastical.

In those days, my ancestors were too poor to afford proper burials. Even the priests charged too much for their services. So, in a clever and pragmatic twist, the family would lay their deceased loved ones in the ground and plant a sapling on top. As the tree grew, it became a living marker of where the departed rested. The family would then give travel directions based on these natural grave markers. “Head for Uncle Howard and then go east until you get to Aunt Margaret,” they’d say with a straight face, unaware of the peculiarity of their navigational aids.

Fast forward to the year 2000, and Ireland was buzzing with modernization efforts. Roads were being widened to accommodate the influx of traffic, and the village of Ballyroot was no exception. The construction crew, led by the perpetually flustered cousin Finn, began their work early one morning vaguely aware of the hidden history beneath their feet.

As they dug up the first tree, they made a startling discovery—a skeleton, buried with a piece of parchment clutched in its bony fingers. It seemed my grandmother’s stories were not so fantastical after all. Word of the discovery spread like wildfire through the village. Third cousin Seamus, the village’s self-proclaimed historian, was quick to recount the burial traditions to anyone who would listen. A relative by marriage Mrs. Flanagan, the local gossip, took great delight in reminding everyone of the old navigational directions she had often repeated with a twinkle in her eye.

The construction crew continued their work, unearthing more skeletons and more pieces of parchment. Each discovery brought with it a new layer of intrigue and a deeper connection to the past. During my visit to the ‘Old Sod’ I stood among the villagers, watching the scene unfold, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride and connection to my ancestry. The trees that had once served as navigational aids were now revealing the rich tapestry of some of my family’s history.

And so, the road to modernization became a journey of remembrance, as the village of Ballyroot came to terms with its unique heritage. The humorous tales of “taking a left at Uncle Howard” and “finding Aunt Margaret” became more than just amusing anecdotes—they became a testament to the ingenuity and resilience of my paternal ancestors.

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Slow Down To Be Inspired.

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Stories leak in these narrow passageways.

“A writer will find inspiration anywhere. You just have to look and see it, that’s all. Then write about it.”

It was 50-years ago when we first visited Barcelona. With backpacks and a few Pesetas we fell in love with the place. The city seemed to be a cheaper, seedier, more exciting scene back then, but maybe that’s just a memory I like to hold on to. I’m sure that scene still exists for the young who still seek it out as we did 50-years ago. Barcelona has certainly grown up.

I’ve always loved roaming the small pathways and narrow streets of this old city. Finding new places to explore, to sit on a bench and enjoy the morning sun reveal itself especially with a cafe con leche in hand. Trying my language skill or lack of skill with anyone who will listen or just watching the locals parade by. I find it intriguing after wandering around the maze of tiny narrow streets and exit to the surprise of the wide straight boulevards like Sant Joan, La Ramblas, or Passage de Placa Catalunya, a total contrast. I’m sure it was all designed to socialize the locals, bring them together for their “El Paseo” evening ritual.

If I ever stop observing I’ll be finished. Experience is captured and retold through the small details I observe and turn into stories.

I’ve learned to slow down, to just sit and observe life. “Tranquillo” was said to me on more than a few occasions when I first arrived. It basically means calm down/relax. Waiters seemed to take pleasure in telling me this when I asked for the check. I was given free glasses of wine and told, “You are not in American now, sit and enjoy the day.” It took a while to catch on. This was from my first days in Barcelona.

Then I discovered the evening stroll in Spain, in any part of the country and nearly all year round, the evening begins with “El Paseo”, a leisurely stroll through the streets, meeting and greeting friends and family. It is the dividing line between the working day and the evening, signalling a slowing down of tempo, a shift from activity to leisure.

 The Spanish culture has some interesting rituals. I first became aware of “El Paseo” which translates to “a leisurely usually evening stroll” when I first arrived in Spain. I couldn’t sleep so decided to go for a walk in the evening with no particular destination and instantly became aware of how crowded the streets were. So many of the streets were filled with people just leisurely walking around. There were family’s, couples, young people, old people, and just about every other combination. They all seemed to be going somewhere important, but in no particular hurry, so I decided to join the river of people to see what was going on. This lasted for about an hour until I finally realized that there was no particular destination and they were just walking around the neighborhood streets. That was my first experience of the Paseo. I loved just watching life stroll past. I found it refreshing since this type of thing just isn’t common in the US. 

Much like the “Siesta” or afternoon nap this tradition is part of the culture and many locals find it puzzling that it’s not common in the US. I’ve witnessed this “Paseo” in the other European countries I visited including Italy, Greece, France, and Portugal. The more I observed people participating in this ritual the more I enjoyed it. I’m so lucky to live in a city where I can go leisurely walking around after days end. This type of thing does not happen in LA or the Bay Area, even in the summer when the temperature is agreeable. Maybe the fear of being shot or stopped by the police has something to do with it.

During the Paseo locals will often stop at a bar for an apertivo, or to just talk, and some even shop in one of the many stores still open and lining the streets. This goes on for a few hours until everyone is ready for a late tapas bite. If you are ever in Spain you should slow down and definitely participate in the Paseo, it’s a way to work off the days food and drink in the local customs. It’s a tradition that’s dates back hundreds years.

Talk to any Spaniard today the whole concept would be met with nonchalance. After all, while El Paseo is a nice tradition, it’s just a part of daily life and no different from a morning cafe con leche and pastry. This can be due to the physical benefits associated with walking after dinner, which include aiding digestion, regulating blood sugar levels and helping you torch a few calories ahead of that late night tapas. But there’s more to it than simply helping you maintain a healthy weight. You observe life.

With the rise of digital entertainment and online socialization among the young, the internet age has caused a decline in El Paseo, which has been unofficially relegated to older adults in many Spanish cities and mid-size towns, while you’re still likely to see the whole town turn out each evening in smaller, non-urban areas. But there’s an argument to be made that the preservation of this quintessential ritual is now more important than ever.

Once I learned to slow down I’ve had so much more time for more important things like enjoying the here and now. And for that I am forever grateful.

The Ghost From The Cornfield – How I Stopped Smoking

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The Ghost From The Cornfield
How I Stopped Smoking
By Kevin J. W. Driscoll (c) 2025

The flickering TV screen illuminated the dimly lit living room. I was mesmerized, watching Shoeless Joe Jackson in Field Of Dreams glide across the makeshift baseball diamond, the cornstalks swaying gently in the summer breeze. Then, it happened.

Another figure emerged from the rustling cornfield, a gaunt, hollow-eyed man with a desperate look in his eyes. He stumbled towards Ray Kinsella the farmer, his hand outstretched.

“Got a smoke, Ray?” he rasped, his voice a hoarse whisper.

The man’s desperation, his gaunt face, his eyes pleading for relief – it struck a chord deep within me. This wasn’t just a character in a movie; this was a chilling glimpse into the potential consequences of addiction.

Here, trapped in a timeless limbo, was a man forever bound to his craving, forever haunted by the ghost of nicotine. The thought sent a shiver down my spine. Was this my fate? Was I destined to spend eternity craving that fleeting, addictive supposed pleasure?

The image of the ghostly smoker, forever reaching out for a cigarette that would never come, became a powerful motivator. It was a stark reminder of the insidious nature of addiction, a warning that the consequences could extend far beyond the physical damage.

From that moment on, quitting smoking became more than just a matter of improving my health. It became a matter of escaping a potential eternity of craving. It was time to break free from the chains of addiction that threatened to bind me forever.

The journey was not easy. The cravings hit hard, unexpected waves of desire crashing over me. The ghost of nicotine, ever-present, whispered temptations in my ear, promising fleeting moments of solace. There were times when I almost succumbed, when the allure of a single cigarette seemed to outweigh the fear of eternal servitude.

But I remembered the gaunt face of the ghostly smoker, his eyes pleading for release. I remembered the chilling realization that addiction could transcend death, that the cravings could persist in a chilling, eternal limbo.

And so, I persevered. I walked more, I ate healthier, I filled my days with activities that kept my mind occupied. I sought support from friends and family, and I learned to recognize the triggers that unleashed the ghost of nicotine.

Slowly, gradually, the cravings subsided. The phantom limb twitched less frequently, the whispers grew fainter. I began to breathe easier, to sleep more soundly.

Years later, the memory of the ghostly smoker still lingers, a poignant reminder of the dangers of addiction. But now, instead of fear, it fills me with a sense of accomplishment. I have broken free from the chains that bound me, escaped the clutches of the ghost of nicotine, and reclaimed my freedom.

The ghost of addiction may still linger, a faint echo of a past I no longer recognize, but I am no longer its prisoner. I am free.

 

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