Leap Year

That's the title of the latest DVD selection that arrived in this little corner of heaven, courtesy of our friends at Netflix.

It refers to an old Irish tradition whereby a woman is "allowed" to propose marriage on February 29th.

The film follows an even OLDER chick-flick formula.

It "stars" Matthew Goode and the very-fetching Amy Adams. John Lithgow also appears briefly as Adams' hapless father. Unfortunately, none of these capable actors are capable of redeeming this film.

Frankly, the best attempts at comedy consist of a series of lame sight gags. And, the stereotypical portrayal of the Irish "supporting" characters was nothing short of offensive.

Honestly, the only way to enjoy this piffle was to ignore what the people on the screen were doing and try instead to soak in the images of rural Ireland that serve as a backdrop for much of the film.

Bottom line: If you must rent it, consider clicking the "mute" button.

My patron saint

I suppose it's appropriate that this Sunday has yours truly contemplating the life of his patron saint: Righail.

For ye socks who have difficulty pronouncing ye olde Gaelic, the modernday Scots have simplified things by spelling his name the way it sounds to modern English-speakers: Rule.

Anyway, I'd always known St. Righail was the fellow who lived in a hermitage on Dundrum Bay in Western Ireland. That's where he supposedly predicted the Great Famine of the 1840's about a millenia and a half before it actually happened. Way back in the 4th Century, he wrote of a vision he had of a great broom that swept away three-quarters of the island's population.

But, what I just learned today was the connection between St. Righail and the Apostle Andrew.

Apparently, 'twas himself that carried the remains of the apostle from their original resting place in Patras, Greece, all the way to Scotland in or about the year 327.

Don't know what took him from Scotland to Ireland, though.

Any ideas? Anyone? Bueller?

My deep matrilineage

Well, ye socks, modern genetics has finally accomplished what many years of genealogical sleuthing on my part have been unable to do: trace my mom's side of the family to the other side of the pond.

Until today, my earliest known maternal ancestress was an Irish immigrant named Elizabeth Gallagher who lived in Brooklyn, New York, in the 1840s and 50s.

Unfortunately, there is a tremendous dearth of available documents on 19th Century Irish ancestors . . . oh, who's kidding who . . . there's a dearth of documents on Irish ancestors of any century.

But, now my friends at www.smgf.org tell me that Elizabeth Gallagher and all her matrilineal descendants (yours truly included) belong to the haplogroup H, a great big clan that traces back some 20,000 years to the Dordogne River valley in southern France. (The people who painted all those bison on cave walls, etc.)

That's kinduva big leap from 19th century Brooklyn, no?

Drop the apostrophe and move the "s"

Ok, I don't want to engage in the debate over whether or not today is a holiday manufactured by Hallmark and the candy industry. Truth be told the Roman Catholic Church kinda invented it themselves to supercede the ancient pagan fertility festivals. Whatever.

But, the grammarian in me must tell all ye socks not to call it St. Valentine's Day.

It should be "Saints Valentine Day."

That's because the day traditionally celebrates not one but TWO early Christian martyrs named Valentine.

The first is St. Valentine of Terni was persecuted by the Emperor Aurelius and died in 197.

The second St. Valentine of Rome is my favorite. He died in 269, and his relics (at least some of them) ended up at the Carmelite Church on White Friars Street in Dublin, Ireland. It's the Irish connection I like.

Anyway, there are NINE other Saints Valentine. But, their feast days come later in the year, I guess.

History and grammar lessons over. Enjoy your VD, and spread it around. (Disgusting pun intended.)

Emigrant Savings Bank

I come from a family of savers. And, I don't mean that we're a bunch of pack rats . . . although, a case could be made . . .

Anyway, I digress. By "savers," I meant that we have a history of setting aside money for a rainy day.

And, now, thanks to the generosity of a fellow named Mike Stapleton, I have documented proof.

He found an old ledger from the Emigrant Savings Bank that shows my ancestor James Gleeson (a native of County Tipperary in Ireland) opened an account way back on 13 May 1869!

The great thing about the record, at least from a genealogical standpoint, is that old James gave a bunch of important information to the bank when he opened the account, including: his date of birth as 1835, his address at 968 Myrtle Avenue, his arrival in the U.S. as 1867, the name of the ship that brought him as "England," and his wife's maiden name (Catherine Cullen).

Thanks, Mike!