Growing up, this time of year always bought great expectation in my family home. During this window when winter was ending and summer was on the horizon, my father would begin with the annual telling of his most famous story.
When he was young, he was struck down with appendicitis. I am not sure if he was being tough, or quiet, but it got so bad his appendix burst. He was rushed to the local hospital in Manorhamilton in Co Leitrim for an emergency procedure.
A long stay in hospital ensued and it wasn’t until around this time of year that my father was released. Whether it was the relief of being out, or the happiness at being alive, my father was consumed by the beauty of spring that surrounded him in his home village of Killargue that day. Flowers were in bloom, the sun was making it first appearance of the year, nature was coming alive. By his own admission, he had never seen the world look as beautiful.
Spring would eventually lead to summer, a season that wouldn’t begin until it was christened by the sound of the cuckoo, whose distinctive call would inspire my father for ever more. Now every year, at the end of April, he waits with great anticipation for the cuckoo’s call. When it happens, he runs home to tell his family, celebrating the dawn of a renewed sense of hope. Everything is right in the world when the cuckoo sings.
Unfortunately for my father, the group that gathers to listen to his story has dwindled over recent years. While he and my proud mother still hold fort at our Killargue homestead, they have had to watch, sometimes through tearful eyes, as their four children packed their bags and left the country for pastures new.
My oldest brother Andrew lives in Perth, Australia. My sister Helen has just moved to New Zealand, while Laura has just secured a job in Dublin after a postgraduate career spent travelling around the world, which finished with a two-year nursing qualification in Edinburgh.
My own story is a little complicated, but the simple version is that I am now teaching in an International School in Chicago, having arrived in August. As I look out my window, the snow is falling. It has been a long winter. Locals tell me I have had it lucky, as this year has been "pretty warm" compared to the last few. But I'm not convinced; in my first winter here I have been greeted by snow, temperatures of -20c, face tearing winds and mind numbing conversations of how cold it is.
In recent weeks we have been teased by good days, where spring has threatened to burst into life, only for it to be cruelly taken away. It is at those times I think of home. I think of my Gaelic team, Drumkeerin, starting their season; of the plans I would be making for summer; of the friends I would love to see if only for five minutes. Most importantly, think of my father and my mother. I think of the hope they have that one day, their four children will return to Ireland. I think of the cuckoo's call.
My life is no misery here, of course. I am earning a good wage and making new memories in this wonderful city and country, which for all the bad press it gets, still has an immense amount going for it.
I am fortunate that wherever I have travelled or found myself working in the world, I have had family close by. For my time in Australia I had my brother and his wonderful wife Cathy, in England I was lucky to have the support of my aunts and uncles which got me through some challenging personal times.
Now in America, I have an aunt and cousins, from all corners of the country, who all came together to welcome me to my new home.
When I reflect on the kindness my family has shown me while I’m away from my parents it humbles me. They owe me nothing but from Australia to England and now the States, I have been treated with generosity, love and kindness that I thought could only be bestowed to a child of one’s own.
