Two Walls and a Roof (46 page)

Neither of us had still seen a picture of the other, both being too shy for it, but in the end we e
-
mailed a scanned photo to each other. I got such a shock when I saw her that I thought it was her daughter’s photo she had sent to me by accident. But when she sent me another one, a distant shot by a swimming pool, I realized that she was a very beautiful woman indeed. Still I had no close up of her and the curiosity was beginning to kill me.

As months went by
we chatted away, each of us getting closer in spirit though never admitting it, nor daring to even think that we might be falling in love, as both of us seemed to be happily married at that time.

After seeing her pictures I did feel that she seemed familiar somehow, but I could not place it
.
I found her very attractive and it turned out that sh
e was part Native American.
I
had
made no
connection to my castle vision
until one day she sent me a black and white photo of herself as a young girl, and there before my very eyes was the girl from my apparition. She was identical to the girl I saw in Butte
vant all those years before,
who had vanished before my eyes. I was in a state of shock and didn’t know whether to tell her or not. That day I clearly remember staring at her photo in disbelief for a long time. Finally I asked her what age she was in the picture, and she was about seventeen years old. I then told her about my strange experience, but she did not seem a bit surprised
. S
he told me of her lifetime longing for Ireland and an Irishman that she too was searching for all her life. She said that she knew what the Irish mist felt like, how she would sit in a tree as a young girl wondering about it, and how it felt so familiar to her. Later I told her about my recurring dream of the rock pool and the Indian girl
, and almost on cue
she told me
that
she knew exactly where that pool was, as she knew it well. It was located in the woods just behind her grandmother’s house, and finally as if to complete the circle, she said that
bot
h her grandmothers had
Native American
blood in their veins and
that
they lived very near
the famous Cherokee Trail of Tears. It was no wonder that all
of
my life I was fascinated by Native Americans, and the Missouri and Mississippi Rivers.

How could all this be
? N
o one would believe it, yet it was all completely true. That single incident of my vision, and the photograph associated with it, started me on a quest which is still on
going. I began to question life;
what it is, and who I am. I think sooner or later we all ask these questions,
but for me, a person who loved s
cience above all else, th
ey were very challenging indeed
as I had no concept of metaphysics then. However I was sure of one thing
;
JoAnn was the cause of it all, and to make sure she never vanished again, I still keep that picture in my wallet, and give a sneak look at it now and again just to remind me that miracles can and do happen.

Over the next year or so
it dawned on me slowly that this person whom I chatted to almost every night was beginning to mean more to me than just a very good friend. Of course my wife Etta was aware that we were very close, and I’m sure JoAnn’s husband John also knew that we were real good friends, and that was the truth of it. We had never met, we almost never spoke on the phone due to the cost, and yet I believe we were both falling in love with each other without ever admitting it.

We would chat for hours about all kinds of events of the day, music
,
my work in radio, as well as the many inventions I would be attempting to make or build. Early on
,
during one of these chats
,
JoAnn persuaded me to begin writing a book about my life, saying she would act as my editor and critic. She felt that I had a way of writing that made her ‘see the scenes’ and she said that I had led a very interesting life, especially in my youth. She became fascinated with how
we grew up in a small town,
how we managed the poverty, and how good my mother was to us. We used to compare
our individual lives growing up
just for the fun of it, as she came from a smal
l town too, but while she was not rich she was not
poor
like us ever
,
her dad being a Deputy Sheriff.

So I did begin the book
,
and this version is my fifth and last go at it
being ten years in the making
. Unknown to me at the time, the genius Frank McCourt from Limerick, just thirty miles away, had written his masterpiece
Angela’s Ashes
, and by a strange twist of fate, I got to know of it while standing inside a building he was well familiar with
;
his school I believe.

I was at that time p
roject
m
anaging the setting up a new radio station for Limerick city
, and o
ur auctioneer
and I
were scouring the inner city for a suitable building to house the new studios. The auctioneer took me to see a building
on the Crescent, or near it, that
was up for rent or sale, and it was owned by a religious order in Limerick. We were ushered into a large
,
beautifully decorated room to await
the arrival of a senior Brother
who would ‘discuss the lease’ with us. As we stood in the
room the auctioneer said to me,
“John, I bet you don’t know that you are standing on very hallowed ground”. 
“
No
,”
I said
, “I didn’t know, how come?” “Well, a Limerick man
who emigrated to America has written a book which looks like it
’
s going to be a huge success, and he is talking about this very room that you are now standing in”
. As I was weighing up this
tidbit
of information against the room
’
s use technically as a radio studio, the senior Brother arrived. I never forgot what happened next.

His manner was obviously unfriendly, and we were never even asked to sit down to discuss the details. The meeting lasted less than ten minutes, with the three of us standing in the middle of the room. The minute we told him why we wanted the building, his answer was
,
“No, no, that would not be appropriate…. good day
,
” end of conversation, and he left us to find our own way out. I never forgot that incident,
but I did forget about the book
until months later
when
my brother Kyrle rang me from Dublin, and he was genuinely all excited. “John, you just have to buy a book called
Angela’s Ashes
. I
t’s all about growing up in Limerick, but it’s just like it’s our story too”. He said he was laughing constantly as he read it, and while
the boys in it were not invento
rs like us, the rest of the
story was very similar and
I had to buy the book.  I still did not buy the book though, and I think it became a world famous movie before I finally got my own copy. Then like Kyrle, I too laughed constantly as I read it. Later the film ca
me out, and the moment I saw it
I immediately saw the s
imilarities between their story
and ours, especially the father’s plight in it, and the long
-
suffering poor mother. By then JoAnn had also read the McCourt classic and immediately saw the similarities too
. She
again began encouraging me to continue with my book of my life in Buttevant.

Unfortunately
I’m no Frank McCourt, and over the next tw
elve years I would write and re-write this book
wi
th JoAnn criticizing it so much that in the end I gave up
out of sheer frustration, and the years went by. Still I could never fully shake the feeling inside of me to give it one more go.

So once again I decided to write it just for me
,
and for better or worse, you are now reading our story and I hope you are really enjoying it.

Though JoAnn will dispute this, I think it is possible to love two people at the same time
. T
hen over time, as one love grows stronger
,
the other weakens. I think this was happening to myself and Etta, and I still had not met my American
, though I chatted to her on
line each night.

Fate stepped in
though, and by a minor miracle
I was provided
with the money to fly Etta and me
to America
to
meet JoAnn and her husband.

We had never been to America before and I was really looking forward to seeing a country I had loved all my life, but I was also incredibly nervous at meeting these Americans, and Etta felt exactly the same
way
.

We were going to be staying with them for two week
s
as their guests
. I had never been on a two-
week vacation in my whole life, let alone be living with people from a different culture. I was quite terrified at the prospect, but equally so I wanted to meet my American in person.

Before we met we had agreed that
no matter what we thought about each other physically, w
e would remain true friends for
ever
. W
e hoped everyone would all get along very well and there would be no ‘funny business’ between us.

I still wear glasses, and the morning we drove to Shannon Airport, I was so nervous that I kept fidgeting with the leg of my glasses on the journey. In typical form, as I drove into the airport
,
the leg broke off and my glasses fell right onto my lap. This was a real disaster, as I could not see much without them and I was then going to America for two weeks.

There was nothing for it but to go back
to my old school days with Pad
and solder the leg onto the frame
,
which I did, with Etta holding a magnifying glass so that I could see what I was doing.  All this was taking place in the parking lot of Shannon Airport. I was very glad that I had brought my tool case with the gas soldering iron in the car that day.

This was the start of a long trip that got more and more nerve wracking as we got closer to St Louis in Missouri. On the way into Newark the pilot announced the time change
,
and as I
reset my watch to American time
I determine
d there and then
that if I liked America, I would never reset my watch again
,
nor have I
. T
o this day it
’
s always on American time.

The US Customs official asked me why I had put down on my customs card
‘
goods to the value of two thousand dollars
.’
I told him that it was for my laptop and camera as well as gifts and cash. H
e asked if I was writing a book
(
a sign in itself
)
and I told him maybe. Then he put out his hand
,
shook mine and said
,
“Welcome to America, enjoy your stay”. That handshake and those wonderful words confirmed for me what I had always suspected about the country, it would be a great place to live and work.

However
,
we were still going on to St Louis and the nerves were getting even worse for both of us by then. It did not help when I spill
ed coffee all over Etta’s cream-
coloured jacket, and the fact that she had not smoked for hours was driving her mad as well. The tension between us was really rising.

The muggy heat was also getting to me and my new shoes were literally cutting into my leg. In Newark Airport I spent my first US dollar buying sticky plasters for my heel
,
which was bleeding by then.  I did a job on it in the men’s restroom
,
much to the surprise and astonishment of the cleaners. I stood with one bare foot raised backwards on the washstand and laid on my plaster. I bet they never saw that done before.

We had a long stopover in Newark and my nerves were growing worse. It was a combination of butterflies that JoAnn might not like me, mixed with the sheer amazement at all that I had seen so far of America. After landing at midday, we eventually took off around ten pm on our last leg of that fateful journey. I was within three hours of seeing my apparition in the flesh.

As the jet began its decent into Lambert Airport
,
I looked like a tramp. My hair was all matted, my shirt was all open and wrinkled, my tie was loose and over to one side, and my glasses were barely hanging on by the bent leg. I looked so bad that even Etta was demanding that I fix myself up before we were met by our hosts. I told her that I planned ‘a complete overhaul’ in the restroom in the airport before we met them,
and that she should do the same
as she looked no better. The butterflies were now wildly dancing around inside of me as I knew I was just minutes away from meeting JoAnn for the very first time.