I grew up on the banks of the Slaney River, right where it flows into Wexford Harbor on its way to the Irish Sea. There was water everywhere, lapping under old wooden piers or crashing along the broad strands of County Wexford. I’ve always found it hard to live far from the coast.
Even here in the thick of Manhattan I’m within strolling distance of the surging Hudson or the murky East River. Recently, however, I chanced upon a picture in the New York Times of a demure rocky creek and wondered why my heart jumped for joy.
Turned out, it flowed through Leeds, New York. I had spent a magical summer in this one-horse Catskills village, and hardly a day passed when I didn’t sit on those rocks admiring the stream that gurgled its way down a series of micro-falls before settling in a clear pool. I had read Kerouac’s "On The Road" there, written songs, smoked joints, made out, and whatever else you did in a laid back paradise in the 1970s.
Pierce Turner and I had been hired to play the summer season at nearby O’Shea’s Irish Center. “Old” Gerry from Cahersiveen ran the bar, Mrs. O’Shea looked after the rooms and meals, while “Young” Jerry kept an eye out for his parents when his Hunter Mountain ski resort was on hiatus for the summer.
Gerry O'Shea.
We alternated sets with Trinity II, Mike O’Brien (from The Clancy Brother clan) and Chris King (a St. Louis intellectual), both singer/guitarists and raconteurs who brought the house down nightly with their staccato ad libs, harmonious vocals, and genuine sincerity.
Turner & Kirwan played everything from The Kinks to our own “Irish Acid Rock,” so the large back room of O’Shea’s was always bouncing. We performed from 8 p.m. to 3 a.m. to larger crowds as the weeks went by, but especially when the young Italian Americans from nearby Pleasant Acres Resort discovered “you can actually dance to these Micks!”
Both bands drank liberally and some of us played poker right through the dawn, before devouring Mrs. O’Shea’s Irish breakfast and retiring for the “night.” In the late afternoon, we re-grouped and swam in the natural pool or reclined on the aforementioned rocks where we dozed or dreamed. It was a perfect summer.
Turner & Kirwan had been scuffling from gig to gig around New York City. For the first time we could relax, the money was good, and there was nothing to spend it on, except the occasional round in nearby Gilfeather’s Sligo House where The Joe Nellany Band, featuring Tommy Mulvihill and Jerry Finlay, reigned.
For well over a century the Irish have been holidaying in the Catskills, as they prepare for the year ahead in New York, Albany, Tipperary Hill, or distant Buffalo.
West of Ireland? No, East Durham in the Catskills.
The prices are right, the people are friendly, the music is hot, the beer cold, everyone dances, romance is in the air. What more could you ask for?
By the end of that perfect summer I knew I’d never live in Ireland again. Life was too exciting in New York, and if I wanted a blast of home I could just head up the Turnpike to the Catskills, or failing that, ride the subway to Bainbridge Avenue. Bainbridge is long gone now.
The last time I was there filming a documentary about Black 47 I couldn’t even identify the buildings that used to house Sarsfields or The Phoenix – at least the Village Pub was hard to miss with John Flynn’s benign presence hovering over it. I worry about the Catskills. I hear rumors of resorts closings.
I know there’ll always be an Irish presence around East Durham, but with a few exceptions it’s getting harder for the old resorts now that Irish immigration has been choked off.
What’s going on, Democrats and Republicans? Right now, you’re scouring the country for our votes. Instead of the usual patronizing and platitudes, why don’t you get together and create a new immigration law that would guarantee 20,000 Irish green cards every year?
It’s not asking much, after our contributions to the life of this country. New blood is needed in the Irish community. New ideas too! The Catskills will always be magical. But they could use a shot of 21st Century Ireland.
The mountains will return the favor double-fold, just like they did to me back in a perfect summer in the 1970s.
