![]() Shortly before his sixteenth birthday, he left home, a few precious punts in his pocket. He dreamed of more than plowing the fields and milking the cow, much more than the pennies gathered at the little pub in Glendree. ![]() His soaring tenor could bring a tear to the eye, and his agile body and fast, clever feet lift the spirit when he danced. He’d learned how to shear a sheep and slaughter a lamb, to milk a cow and build a rock wall.Īnd he remembered, the whole of his long life, the nights his family sat around the fire-the smell of peat smoke, the angel-clear voice of his mother raised in song, his father smiling at her as he played the fiddle.Īs a boy he’d sometimes earn a few pennies singing in the pub while the locals drank their pints and talked of farming and politics. He’d known from an early age the backbreaking work of plowing a field behind a horse named Moon. ![]() He’d lost an uncle and his oldest brother in the first Great War, had grieved for a sister who’d died before her eighteenth birthday delivering her second child. He’d known hunger in the lean times, had never forgotten the taste of his mother’s bread and butter pudding-or the whip-swat of her hand when he’d earned it. ![]() ![]() When Liam Sullivan died, at the age of ninety-two, in his sleep, in his own bed with his wife of sixty-five years beside him, the world mourned.īorn in a little cottage tucked in the green hills and fields near the village of Glendree in County Clare, he’d been the seventh and last child of Seamus and Ailish Sullivan. ![]()
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