Thurles, IR
By Daniel J. Curran
A former girlfriend’s husband’s 17-year-old son, Adam, was killed in a car accident. The driver and the car’s occupants were all under the influence when the car ran off the road, hitting a tree-killing Adam. He was the lone death. At the time of the accident, Adam was talking on the phone with his girlfriend.
I was headed to Ireland in the coming days after the accident. Adam’s father made a request, “My ancestors are from the town of Thurles in Ireland. If you are nearby, Thurles, would you be so kind as to get me some soil? I want to mix Adam’s ashes with it.”
“I would be honored. If I am nearby, I will get what I can”, I replied.”
The father’s request escaped me until I found myself in Galway one afternoon with nothing planned. I looked for Thurles on my Ireland map. My journey would have me take a bus to Athlone, then a train to Thurles. I started my day trip to fill my request and to see yet another town in Ireland.
The trip to Thurles via Athlone was enjoyable being just a passenger amongst my Irish brethren. I enjoyed being one of them.
I arrived in Thurles and stored my travel bag with the station manager; I was headed up to Dublin after Thurles then home. I began my walk-through town in search of some soil. I decided I wanted some soil from a cemetery. In Ireland, find a church you see a graveyard. I perused through town, not knowing the city and not asking directions either. I came across a cemetery and stood at the gate for a few minutes looking in. It didn’t feel right. I moved on.
I came across a small, ancient church but missed the entrance until I crossed the street and looked back and saw that I had passed wide-open access. It puzzled me since I couldn’t believe I walked right past the entrance to the small cemetery attached to the church.
Into the graveyard I went. Ireland takes great pride in its graveyards regardless of age, and this was no different. I stood at the entrance looking at the landscape of the cemetery. It was a thing of beauty with finely manicured grass around gravesites and freshly bloomed red poppies spread throughout. I felt welcomed.
I strode from grave to grave, looking at the names on the headstones. Some headstones I could read, some I couldn’t. In many cases, the graves were so old newer unmarked stones noted a grave. I moved slowly.
I came across a family plot. It was the ancestral family plot of the father who asked me to garner some soil for him. I could not believe my good fortune. I photographed the family plot. Not wanting to upset the graves in any fashion, I knelt and garnered soil from the plot in a gentle manner.
I continued my way through the graveyard, and in one hidden corner, I found a family grave of my former girlfriends’ ancestors, Carrigan, as well. Again, I knelt, took some soil, and photographed the headstone.
I headed out of the graveyard stopping at the exit and turned, and said, “You’re all good soldiers.” It was my thank you.
I left feeling blessed.
