--Gerald O'Hara
Gone With the Wind
In what has now become a Joyce familiy tradition, this past weekend I made my pilgrimage to the town of Renhold, England. Mapquest doesn't exist in Europe, so during the last 10 or 15 miles I was guided almost entirely from my own memory. It was my third trip to the Joyce estate, but somehow I can still remember the details of what it looked like even from my first visit in the fourth grade. Although the farmland that makes up the property is very similar to what you might find in Atlantic, Iowa (home of my great great grandfather) or Plainview Nebraska (where the past three generations lived), the unmistakable feature of Renhold is the chapel which has stood at its center since the 13th century. It was at the top of this building that I remember being told as a child to look out as far as I could see, and when I couldn't see any further, that's where the family's property ended. After meeting up with my relatives, I went with Sarah (distant cousin) over to the church tower where they were getting ready to ring the chapel bells for a wedding. In England, it is a tradition that church bells are always rung by hand (something that has been automated in the rest of the world). From the bell tower, I was able to peer through the dirty glass of a window that overlooked the chapel. As I watched the bride and groom taking their vows, I realized that for the past several hundred years the Joyce men had been giving away their daughters in this very spot. In fact, Sarah was the most recent woman to be married in just this way. Of course the thought crossed my mind that with destination weddings becoming so popular there is a pretty good chance she won't be the last. For this reason, I have started praying that my first child will be a masculine child. After the ceremony we climbed down and walked around the grounds that surround the church. After passing by a dozen gravestones with the name "Joyce" on them, we finally came upon the place where my great great great grandparents are buried. Explaining to you how it came about that four of their five boys ended up finding their way to America is a story that will have to wait for another blog.
In the meantime, I spent Sunday morning on a punting tour of Cambridge University (very close to Bedford where my relatives live). My tour guide was an Itallian named Calo whose English was as bad as his driving, but we had a good time anyway and only managed to take out one other vessel filled with elderly tourists at ramming speed. The weather was absolutely magnificent, so I decided it would be a good opportunity to head into London in order to experience "The Globe." Antony and Cleopatra was playing, and I have to say it lived up to all my expectations (even if the live snake was a little disappointing). Standing with my arms resting on the stage, I came within one inch of getting a face full of Ceasar's wine as he fell over in a drunken stupor. The RSC has truly mastered the art of show business in this venue, and I don't think I'll ever see anything quite like it again for the rest of my life.
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