As far as I can trace them, many of my ancestors were the fierce Ulster Scots, who later became the Scots-Irish and settled in Appalachia.
October 31st, 2013, 1pm
It was 17.8°C with broken clouds. The wind was calm.
The Celtic harvest festival Sawhain that begins at sunset tonight halved their year, and revelries around bonfires with apples and spirits played in a liminal space on this occasion of ushering out the year’s dead. My people cross-dressed, poured out for the departed, and carried salt for protection.
I carve turnips as they did into samhnag (although their turnip we know better as the rutabaga), leaving the beard-like root ends, balancing them on their wide purple tops, and slicing smile lines like mine around the tiny eyes. The raw inside of this vegetable is spicy, and kept whole, the roots can cellar through the winter.
As small bands of Scots roved on this night the year turns over, they offered songs or verses for treats. I wrote this poem with Gaelic words last night.
—-
Clabber
When I was small she read the book
about the change of seasons
Here is when leaves fall she said
and went into the reasons
She could not know and nor could I
that what she thought to winter
would never bloom beag air bheag
the hoped-for spring a splinter
I have her name, the book, the strain
a warrior spirit thriving
But no small one to stir the coire
just shivering words writhing
O fallow bowls with ancient grain
please feed our people alway
O strath between death and one’s own
cleanse myths that clot the pathway
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