Being home for the vacations was wonderful for me, because both my mother and father were readers. My father particularly was. He was a rough, tough, gruff, old Irishman who was extremely macho, even though we didn’t know that word. He wore those plus-fours, but I think you call them knickers here — you know, the pants that go halfway down your legs — and the checked socks and the brown brogues and the duncher cap. And he would stand out in the street and talk to his cronies, and they would talk about cattle and sheep and the price of grain.
But when he was at home, he read poetry. And he would’ve died if any of them knew that. But he read, especially the Irish poets. He loved Yeats. He loved all the Irish poets. And he inoculated me with poetry from as far back as I can remember.
You know, it rains a lot in Ireland, and lots of times we’d sit in the house by the big turf fire. And he would take me on his lap and read to me. He would stop now and then when it would maybe be a little difficult. And he would say, “Now, my darlin’, do ya understand that? What’s the poet trying to say?” And we would talk about it.
