This is a my late grandfather, Bernard Ambrose Joseph McCauley, polishing his lone extravagance, a slightly banged-up 1942 Hudson. I learned to drive in this car, bouncing across fields, nosing through creeks on the family farm in Trenton in Ontario, Canada.
From his kitchen couch – a glorified cot – my grandfather issued orders for chores that needed doing, offered unsolicited opinions on all things, and on occasion would flash a mischievous grin, ignited by a lone gold tooth. I remember the feeling of relief knowing this stern mountain of a man wasn’t so ferocious after all. My grandmother Irene could pry a smile out of him when all others failed.
All eight sons and daughters would return home to “The Farm” at regular, seasonal intervals. Grandchildren would spin like tops through the kitchen and tumble out the back door. On Christmas Eve, an Irish oyster soup steamed at the centre of the table, waiting to be devoured. We then loaded up cars for the drive to midnight Mass, scooting like hockey pucks along icy roads.
Ambrose’s paternal great-grandfather, John Joseph Macaulay, left the hills of Cushendall for a new life in Canada back in 1832. On his maternal side, Michael Ambrose’s family emigrated from Co Cork in 1840. Although Ambrose was far removed from these journeys, it was as though he had just stepped off the boat. His Irishness – cloaked in a Canadian wrapper – seemed to define him. As a young man he even altered the spelling of his surname because someone from Ireland told him McCauley was closer to the “authentic” spelling.
He loved books about the country, and his stories often had an Irish trajectory. After sipping a dram or two of Irish whiskey he was also known to go solo on Danny Boy, and kick up his heels to the Charleston with my grandmother on the hardwood dining-room floor.
Eventually Ambrose travelled to Ireland, walked its villages and kicked stones in the fields of his ancestors. On his return to Canada, he showed us slides on a clunky projector, dust particles dancing in the train engine beam of light. There he was, smiling on the tarmac at Shannon, driving in a green blur through Antrim coast dales and shaking hands with distant relatives in Cork. They had the same ruddy cheeks and dancing eyes.
My grandfather died in 1988. I had absorbed some of his stories, and appreciation of things Irish: its complex history, landscapes, music and people. I too was drawn to there. Betrayed by my Canadian accent, I was an obvious outsider, but I felt oddly at home. I have returned with each of my two sons, and more family members joined me for another journey here this past June. Grandfather Ambrose helped lead the way.
- Every Thursday we'll tweet the five ingredients from @lillyhiggins and @irishtimeslife so you can have them ready for Friday. Email givemefive@irishtimes.com with your suggestions for recipes
