July 2013

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The Death of Innocence mural in Derry, Ireland

The mural of Annette McGavigan in Derry, Ireland as it looks today. Notice the broken rifle and the colorful butterfly.

You walk along Rossville Street in the Bogside of Derry and, I don’t know how else to put it, but it just feels haunted. Even if you didn’t know that it was here, on January 30, 1972, that 13 civilians were killed by British Army paratroopers in the Bloody Sunday disturbances. On a windy day when the sky is gray and your face is turning red from the cold, you can almost hear the screams and smell the gunpowder and tear gas.

There are a dozen murals up along the walls in this neighborhood, all painted by the Bogside Artists—brothers Tom and William Kelly along with Kevin Hasson. The three started working together twenty years ago. From 1994 to 2008 they painted a dozen murals on Rossville Street which runs through the center of the Bogside.

The most evocative mural, to me, is the one of a young girl wearing an emerald green pleated skirt, green tie, and a white long-sleeve blouse. This is Annette McGavigan.

Annette was 14 and a student at St. Cecelia’s College when, on September 7, 1971, she went with friends to collect the rubber bullets that littered the ground after riots. She was shot in the head while walking along the street.

Annette became the 100th civilian victim of the Troubles (and the first child killed). The Bogside Artists painted the mural of Annette McGavigan, which they titled “The Death of Innocence,” in 1999. According to the artists, “We wanted the figure to stand out boldly from the background. We also wanted her innocence to radiate against the chaos of the world she was born into. So, we effectively made a shrine for her from the debris resulting from a bomb explosion. The gun which take up the entire length of the left-hand side of the wall was painted upside down. Like a monstrous serpent it has been defanged; it points nowhere but to the ground….The butterfly is left unfinished, purposely so, as it seemed more child-like to us like that.”

The statement about the rifle and the butterfly was made before 2006 when the artists updated the mural by breaking the gun in half and painting in the butterfly—both symbols to commemorate the fact that there was now peace in Northern Ireland.

Original Death of Innocence mural in Derry, Ireland

The way the mural originally looked and the Bogside Artists who painted it.

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Strawberry Basil Paletas

It’s the long Fourth of July weekend. So let’s do something fun. Like make paletas. Paletas are like Mexican popsicles. Only better. Because they’re usually made with fresh fruit, a little sugar, and either water or milk. If you get a cherry paleta in Mexico, it’s actually made with cherries—not cherry flavoring.

I’ve written before about my favorite paleta stand in Sayulita, north of Puerto Vallarta. They make all kinds of paletas, from tamarindo to pistachio, which is my favorite. If you want to know how good a paletero is, get their pistachio paleta. If they make them.

The other cool thing about paletas is that often times they come in unique flavors. Like avocado and chili or cucumber and tequila.

This year for the Fourth I’m making two kinds of paletas: lime pie and strawberry basil. And they’re so simple to make! I use a Norpro Ice Pop Maker that I got from Amazon for less that $20 and get most of my recipes from Fany Gerson’s Paletas recipe book ($14). But you can also make up your own recipes, it’s that easy. Here’s how to make Strawberry Basil Paletas:

2 pounds fresh strawberries

3/4 cup of raw sugar

10 large fresh basil leaves

1 teaspoon of balsamic vinegar

Juice of 1/2 large lime

Hull and wash the strawberries and place in blender. Add all the remaining ingredients and puree until smooth. Pour into molds, add sticks, and freeze until solid, 4-6 hours. Makes 10-12 paletas.

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The Troubles in Derry

You are now entering Free Derry

Photo by David Lansing

It’s the Fourth of July and here we are in Derry. Which seems appropriate. It was here, they say, that “The Troubles” in Ireland really began. I’ll save that discussion for another day. It’s enough, I think, to just show some shots I took of the murals in the historic Bogside neighborhood of Derry, site of the Battle of the Bogside (1969) and Bloody Sunday (1972).

The “You Are Now Entering Free Derry” sign was painted on a gable wall by a local activist, John “Caker” Casey, in January 1969 to commemorate this part of Derry as being a self-declared autonomous nationalist area. And it was here where the first street fighting broke out during the Battle of the Bogside in 1969.

More on all this next week.

Bogside Derry mural

Photo by David Lansing.

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Slieve League

Photo by David Lansing.

One other reason to walk down the narrow road back to the public parking area at Slieve League: During WWII, when all but Northern Ireland was neutral, the Irish government placed stone markers up and down the Donegal corridor. Stones, painted bright white, spelled out “Eire.” Meant to tell the pilots of allied aircraft flying from Enniskillen in Northern Ireland out over the Atlantic that they were in a free fly zone.

A few of the old markers are still around. And I’ve heard you can just make out the Eire sign near a viewing point at the bottom of the trail. So I walk. In the bitter cold (how can it be summer here?) and intermittent rain. Reeds and grasses swaying. Even the sheep have taken shelter, hiding in the deep grass.

Halfway down the road I spot a speck of red coming towards me. The only thing of color in the otherwise heather-colored landscape. Lean against a cold rocky cliff and snap a pic. The black clouds, winding road, a sheep or two. And the red coat.

I nod as the red coat approaches. It’s a young man. “Sorry if I ruined your picture,” he says.

“No, I wanted you in it. The red coat and all.”

“Ah,” he says. We both continue walking.

A little further on is a spot where you can look out over the hills and down the coastline. I stop and, using a telephoto lens, sweep the countryside looking for signs of the white stones. And there they are. Most gone, the few left overgrown by the marsh grasses. The first E is just a ghost but with a little imagination you can still make out the R and the E. EIRE. Ireland. A marker for the lonely boys, many of whom would not return, flying out over the stormy Atlantic.

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The death of Ernest Hemingway

The obituary of Ernest Hemingway that ran on July 3, 1961, noted that “The body of the bearded, barrel-chested writer, clad in a robe and pajamas, was found by his wife in the foyer of their modern concrete house” in Ketchum, Idaho the previous morning. “A double-barreled, 12-guage shotgun lay beside him with one chamber discharged. Mrs. Hemingway, the author’s fourth wife, whome he married in 1946, issued this statement:

“Mr. Hemingway accidentally killed himself while cleaning a gun this morning at 7:30 A.M. No time has been set for the funeral services, which will be private.”

I rather think that Hemingway would have appreciated the Times clean copy, the lack of adjectives, the simple sentences: “A double-barreled, 12-guage shotgun lay beside him with one chamber discharged.”

Let the words tell the story, Hem always said.

Of course, the facts were incorrect. Did the writer of his obituary already know this? That it was not an accident? In spite of what his wife, Mary, said.

He was ill. He was paranoid. And he was very depressed. So, like his father before him, he decided to end his own life. Using his favorite shotgun.

I was just a boy when he died. About all I remember is looking at a photo of his funeral in Ketchum that ran in LIFE magazine two or three weeks later. Perhaps because my grandfather had died a short time earlier and I was becoming aware of death and the ceremonies that accompany it. Or maybe for some reason I associated Hemingway with my grandfather. In any case, it made an impact on me. The death of an author whose first book I would not read for another five or six years. But when I did, it would change everything.

Fifty-two years later, I still think about him. I miss Hemingway. I think I’ve always missed him.

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