O'Brian the Mennonite

I have the rare privelege of knowing two men named Roderick. That's actually their formal name. Most of the time, people will know a Rod or a Rodney, but rarely a Roderick. And rarer still, two.

Every other Thursday, one of the Rodericks and I get together and have a guitar night. We meet at his house, close the door to his office, set out our guitars and the chips, and he pours the Scotch. That's our little arrangement. I provide the musical guidance and he provides the drink. He says that the better he gets at playing guitar, the better the scotch gets. I suggested that perhaps we should meet more often...you know...to speed things up a bit.

This Thursday I was running a little late after work and was looking forward to getting home and just putting my feet up. When I arrived home Joyce told me that Rod called and wanted me to call him back as soon as I got in. Something about going to the city to listen to some Irish music. I returned the call and he said he'd be over in 15 minutes to pick me up.

We drove to a part of the city I rarely see and were able to park nearly directly in front of the club's entrance. It was a small side entrance which immediately turned into stairs going up to the left. The room was large and homey. Two things immediately stuck out; the stage straight ahead by the fireplace, and the bar at the far right. The bar had a few of those decorative beer levers for pouring pints of Guinness and Smithwicks. I learned just a few days prior that Smithwicks is actually pronounced Smithicks. No w. I proudly answered the what'll ya have with Smithicks, please. At least I hope I remembered to say please. I was concentrating pretty hard on getting the beer correct. I didn't want to stand out too much.

We found a table near the front of the room where we'd be able to see the stage properly. Rod thought that the concert started at 7:00. We were just in time.

Looking around the room at some of the others seated, and still others arriving, gave me smile. Green hats, shirts, suspenders, and sashes. Guinness pride was everywhere, and well in hand. Everyone seemed to have their Friday faces on. I had on black jeans, black t-shirt and a Protestant orange vest over the shirt. I became quite conscious of the vest the more Rod spoke. He mentioned the lyrics to an old Irish tune he had learned as a lad where people were defined by the orange and the green. A glance around the room quickly reinforced the distinction between the two faiths. A map on the wall, lovingly made from metal by a member who teaches metal shops, clearly defined the poeple area groups. The people in the room were wearing their faith on their green sleeves. It felt a little like Christmas. I was beginning to feel a little out of place, despite my proper pronunciations. Rod said that if I got into a fight, he would be in my corner, which was way over there somewhere. Rather than leaving to avoid persecution, I removed the vest. I was all black...like Johnny Cash.

The evening was billed Traditional Night. The club memebers all knew what that meant. Irish fiddle tunes, chants, stories, yarns, and poems. They seemed to keep the star performers for the later evening. The Irish dancers, fully adorned in dress and curls, took the stage and shook the second level floor. I was thinking Riverdance while everyone else was thinking Traditional Night.

Remembering it was only Thursday, and the pints being empty anyways, we decided it was time to leave to ensure a proper bedtime. If we timed it correctly, we'd be home by 11:00. The highways out of the city were quiet and as we drove I wondered about the evening and thought about Rod and where he's from. Rod's an islander. A Newly Found Land by some wild well-armed seamen with circular shields in the year 1000. They didn't didn't stay long, however, as they didn't get along with the others who had already found it thousands of years prior to their finding it.

I mentioned to Rod that it must be nice to know where he's from. I said that it was a little confusing for me because I don't seem to have a homeland. I have a definite culture, but we're a little displaced. The Mennonites have been all over the place. Holland, Germany, Austria, Russia, and now the U.S. and Canada. It's hard to know what land I'm connected to. It's hard to know the answer to the question, where are you from? I'm from wherever we weren't persecuted for wearing our faith on our sleeves. We find someone else's land for a while until the one's who found it first begin to protest. Then, rather than taking off our orange for a while to avoid conflict, we leave.

I know gambling is against my colours, but I'm willing to bet that we've perhaps missed out on some fine Traditional Nights because we were too quick to leave.

Thanks for sharing, Roderick.