Mark Shaver

Why do I write...

In the summer of nineteen sixty six, my father’s company

transferred him to the city of Cork in Ireland. Shortly after

we settled in, we took a family trip to an Irish landmark;

Blarney Castle. Legend has it that anyone

who kisses the famous Blarney Stone will be blessed

with ‘the gift of more eloquent speech’.

Being the good parents they were, and knowing dad’s

assignment in Ireland was only a temporary one, I was drug

to the top of Blarney Castle and required to kiss the

fabled stone. I reluctantly did so, partly out of curiosity,

but mostly to appease my parents.

Ever since then words have come quite easily for me. I’m not

saying that it had anything to do with kissing that cold,

gray stone, though I’m not saying it didn’t either. In

retrospect I believe I had the best parents in the world.

And although they’ve both left this earth, I can’t think of

a thing about my childhood that I’d change, even being

dangled by my feet some ninety feet above the Irish countryside.