THE BOY EVERYONE WANTED

In those days most people lived on farms and drew their livelihood from the land.  It was considered more important than anything else to own much land.  But almost as important was inheritance, because the wealth of land could only be guaranteed by keeping it together in the ownership of the family.  If there were only daughters, then they must make marriages that merged or protected wealth by marrying allies.

So when the boy was born, he was considered a major event, a guarantor of the future.  Neither nation nor god was as precious as a son.  These people were fortunate, because this boy was well-endowed.  He nearly glittered when he walked and his laugh was like a bird singing.

From his father he inherited vitality, an excellent mind, and potency.  From his mother he accepted the warmest of protection and guidance.  She loved him above everything but his father -- she was completely, absolutely, committed to his father because she was constitutionally and -- truth be told -- alcoholically dependent on him.  She would accept any insult and indulge in any denial to keep her attachment to her husband.  Her attachment to her son, which came from mothering him, loosened when she had a second child even though she was only a girl.  

Both parents were the oldest children of their own parents and therefore carried high expectations, which they transferred onto their son because that's the way it is.  Also, both parents knew there was accident and murder, both lethal, in their genealogical histories.  They hid the realities but could not escape the emotions that embedded in all subsequent life.  They were chained in place.  

The women turned to religion, one grandmother going strictly but elaborately Catholic and the mother going devoutly and sentimentally Baptist.  The second grandmother never let on in which way she was religious, but put all her resources into getting her two daughters through college so they would make good marriages so they could bring money into that part of the family.  Maybe her religion was education.  She succeeded and those women left the boy alone except now and then borrowing him for fun, which gave him a taste for books.

On the father's side the mother and grandmother waged war, usually subtle but sometimes almost as violent and destructive as the original Reformation.  The mother wanted her boy to replace his father as her surety and safety on the home farm and so pushed him to run machinery and hammer up buildings the same way, safe or not, expecting this to make him competent -- which it did but at the cost of many bruises, torn muscles, and even broken bones.

The grandmother, an Irishwoman whose goal was to escape the farm, tried to make this boy the reincarnation of one of the mythic great heroes of her idealized green home country like Cú Chulainnm a mythological hero known for his terrible battle frenzy, or  Fionn mac Cumhaill, legendary hunter-warrior and leader of the Fianna.  She valued passion, aristocracy, and finery that stood for superiority, and shamed him for his dirty bib overalls.  She bought him a fine rifle when he was a little too young.

The boy's father was well-aware of this war, since he was burned-over territory in their relentless battle, so a little too soon (rather illegally but in the pattern of his mother) he bought the boy a big powerful motorcycle and set him free.  From then on, the boy was able to escape but also held as tightly as ever by the emotional expectations of those who loved him.  When afterwards a psychiatrist  was presented with the case, he explained that the boy was "over-attached" on the basis of false premises but "under-attached" in terms of his real self which was not even seen, truly seen, even by his father.  He could never free himself from the desire to save everyone as they wanted, which was equal but opposite to his desire to be free on his own terms.

As might be predicted, the boy grew into a brilliant, erratic, over-desired young man who recklessly plunged down the highways as though on a runaway horse, but black leather is no suit of shining armour.  He wrecked and his back broke.  If it hadn't been for his enormous vitality and will-power, he would never have survived.  From then on he was in a wheel chair.  The wanters were out of luck.

But don't forget the legendary Irish poets like W. B. Yeats or Seamus Heaney.  Don't forget the love of the land that doesn't require the plowing and harrowing of it.  Mother and grandmother and father grieved over the beautiful boy who could not now inherit the farm to work it nor could he leave to shine in some half-remembered land.  When the family had all died or left, he went on in the little old farmhouse.

But now he knew how he rolled.  He did become a poet.  Wonderful as it is, I won't sing it to you, even if you want me to.  There's been too much wanting already.