ELCOME to all readers of the Moran Mag 2013 and to those who made the journey to Ballinrobe for another epic Moran Cup and Do. Whether you know it or not you

are now officially and proudly part of “The Gathering”. (For more go to www.thegatheringireland.com)

The Morans have been gathering for a long time. It is a testimony to the strength of family ties that, after forty-four years, we are gathering still.

Sincere thanks to Ballinrobe GC for their continued support in hosting the Moran Cup. Best of luck to all golfers this year. And best of craic to all revellers at the Do.

This year's cover image is of a painting of the Moran homestead. We are grateful to Helen Sheehan for her cover design and artwork. Thanks to everyone who contributed stories, articles and photos for this year's Moran Mag. Keep 'em coming for next year. moranmagazine@gmail.com awaits your finger clicking the 'send' button.

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Moran Do 2012

he essential components of The Moran Do, the golf, ceol and craic, were once again very

much in evidence at the gathering of the descendents of Pat and Ellen Moran’s family members and friends in Ballinrobe, Mayo in 2012.

The Moran Cup golf competition organised by Paddy and Betty’s daughter Angela, home from Southampton, UK for the occasion with her family, teed off from 1pm. The skies were overcast and amidst the talk of the weather there was acquainting to be done as visitors were welcomed, recognised and importantly, identified.

Angela saw to it that the golfers teed off as near to the appointed time as was possible, after the customary pre tee-off photos were taken (although some were off before we knew it). A hush descended as each golfer took his/her first shot. Some seemed

pleased, others disappointed but none buckled and gave in and off they went pushing their golf bags or driving a buggy according to their desires. As they disappeared into the distance 300 or so yards away, those left behind posed for a pic or two, found their way back into the bar for a warm bowl of soup or a coffee before planning an afternoon activity or two. Some settled into accommodation, some resettled houses, some visited a museum, a shoe shop, booked hair appointments, chose outfits or just relaxed and read the Moran Mag or a newspaper.

Later, as meals were finished and Morans reminisced, Peter Moran visiting from Glasnevin was seen flitting about with a pen and paper, an instrument or two and before we knew it he was at the microphone. A lively diverse entertainment programme followed as representatives of all generations present fearlessly went forward (encouraged, not coerced) to perform songs old and new, musical offerings of many genres.

Patsy Burke from Ferbane got the show rolling with two perfectly pitched songs while young William Bradley, home on holiday from Birmingham treated us to the premiere of a piano composition; Caoimhe Glynn from Dunmore wowed us with her rendition of a Damien Rice song on acoustic guitar; brothers Fergal and Patrick Moran from Ballyconneely played banjo and guitar and sang; Séamus Moran back home from Dublin played guitar and sang, and his

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Trish Fagan, Patsy Burke and 2012 Moran Cup Champ PJ Moran posing with the trophy.

niece Ellen Anderson, home to visit granny Betty and attend the Do, danced a hornpipe, while siblings Michael (Mickey) Moran and Helen (Sheehan) kept in tune on their tin whistles.

Angela’s Announcements

Winning the Moran Cup is never easy as PJ Moran from Lavallyroe will testify. PJ, who has enjoyed success in competitions in Ballyhaunis GC on many occasions in recent years, was declared the Moran Cup Winner 2012. He was thrilled to win, and his wife Sarah and baby son PJ, along with Trish and family, were happy to pose for photos with the winner from Lavallyroe on the night.

In his acceptance speech, he thanked his fellow golfers, the competition organisers and those who ensured the course was in such good condition on the day. He reserved a special compliment for his aunty Patsy, who was credited with encouraging him to play golf and to play in the Moran Cup competition.

David Donovan was then presented with the Séamus Healy Junior Cup.

Sam Sneed to a duffer (not that this applies to any Moran Cup players)...

You've just got one problem. You stand too close to the ball after you've hit it.

Harry, Dermot, Daniel with Uncle PJ and the Moran Cup.

Angela announces David Donovan as winner of the Junior Cup.

Happiness is a long walk with a putter. Greg Norman(not that this applies to many Moran Cup players either!!)

Moran Cup 2012 ...

First Off: Derek O’Neill, Andrew Donovan, Fionán Moran, Diarmuid Moran

Hanging out at the first tee: Gemma, Eleanor, Ursula, Paul, Liz, Breda, Betty, Angela.

Fergal Moran, David Donovan, Oisín Anderson, Séamus Moran. Tom Anderson, Patsy Burke, PJ Moran, Paul

Donovan.

Patrick Moran, Michael Moran, Tony Moran, Johnny Moran.

Roger Lee, Nuala Moran, Bernard Berney, Pádraic Moran.

I'll drive, you walk! Mary Berney and Brona off to play.

Moran Cup babes 2012: Linda, Liz, Breda, Ann & Katie.

Moran Do 2012 ...

Helen, Ann, Liz & Linda at the DoPatrick and Fergal Moran

rocking and rolling

Patsy Crooning

Séamus Moran Grooving

Ellen Anderson... H-aon, Doh, Tree.

Caoimhe Glynn folking it up

William Bradley tinkling the ivories

Climbing the Reek 2012

Paul Donovan

o we set off on a cloudy Monday morning after the Moran Do 2012, with great optimism to do

one of the great Irish climbs to the summit of Croagh Patrick.

For most of us, this was the first time. All assembled in the car park, with walking sticks and climbing gear at the ready. The climb to the first gift shop was tough but we had to break the bad news to the group that there was more. It was only half way up when 8 year old kids in t-shirts and runners, and grannies in anoraks passed us out that we started to realise this was going to be a tougher climb than usual, especially on our pride.

We kept going. The stop-off in Westport to get the rain jackets proved worthwhile, as the horizontal rain and horizontal mist came in on the last leg to the summit (are there extra molecules in Irish rain to make it wetter?).

And then there before us at the top of Ireland’s largest rockery was the summit! We took shelter behind the church to catch our breaths and take photos and eat the best (and wettest) ham sandwiches ever.S

About to brave the climb up Croagh Patrick. L-R: Liz Maguire, David & Andrew Donovan, Ursula Donovan, Tom Anderson, Jane and Roger Lee.

Wet and wild at the summit of Croagh Patrick. L-R: Declan Aylward, Tom, Jane, Roger, Ursula, David, Andrew, Paul Donovan.All smiles and sunshine on the trek up –

Gemma and Liz leading the way.

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A few stopped in for holy inspiration around the front and to get a dry spot for a few minutes before heading down. This time we were introduced to rock surfing with a few of our mountain companions preferring the fast method of sliding down on man-made rock slides. We survived.

And then with our calf muscles crying out, it was all over and we made it back to the first gift shop. We did full warm-down exercises and consumed high energy drinks in Campbell’s pub to revive and refresh. We’re already looking forward to climb next year!

Stunning view of Clew Bay on the descent from Croagh Patrick.

Pat&Ellen>>Jim&Katie>>Breda&Ronan>>Ursula&Paul

Curiosity and Alchemy

Sarah Fallon Moran

hat drives you? Maybe it’s the first inhalation of crisp summer air in a seaside

village? Or the holy chills you feel as you listen to the harmonious choirs of a Sunday morning mass? Perhaps it’s the simple pleasure of someone who knows your name and the precise way you take your coffee in the local café. For me, it’s the heart seizing, gut-wrenching knot that swells in my stomach the moment before I enter the stage. That’s right, I am an actor.

I’ve often been asked why? Why on Earth would any individual subject themselves to relentless competition, chronic rejection and the nauseating

cycle of maddening day-jobs?

The short of it being that in this creative journey, it is required that I face my greatest fears on a daily basis. I believe human beings (myself included) inherently fear rejection or abandonment or most inevitably, vulnerability. We then combat these fears with a façade of our choosing. I realized one day (I can remember the precise moment) when I was in the theater, that façade that I had so intricately constructed was valued at zero and had to be left at the door. The quintessential moments of any piece of art are those that are defined by vulnerability. This makes our defensive facades the very enemy of creativity.

What engages an audience is when there’s something at stake. Think about the latest football match? The most valuable moments, when we’re all standing with fists clenched and our breath held, are when the score is tied and players are neck and neck. There’s something at stake with high risk. The very same can be said about the theater. The audience is only invested when an actor is truly invested and plays for their life and all that it is worth.

Now believe it or not, this cannot be mimicked but must be truly experienced by the performer in order to captivate an audience. Arguably the most valuable acting coach of the 20th century, Sanford Meisner, once said, “acting is living truthfully under imaginary circumstances.” Translation is, this is actually what we do, feel and see. (Don’t try this at home, kids!)

Sarah Fallon Moran playing Lena Truit in The Rimers of Eldritch, at Brooklyn College, USA

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Being an actor, I’ve indulged myself in a curiosity for my human fear for vulnerability. An incredible professor I worked with in University at Brooklyn College once challenged me to “walk into the fear and see what’s on the other side.” What happens is that I survived and was all the stronger for it but more importantly, we have something interesting to watch. I find this alchemy of fear, challenge, precision and dedication not to be simply a hobby but definitively who I am.

MORANSTORIESMORANSTORIES

Moran is an Irish name derived from the Irish word "mór", meaning great or large. First found in County Mayo, it has many spellings: Murran, Murrin, O'Moghrain and O'Moran, to name a few.

Moran family history tells us that the family's motto is "They shine in the darkness." Moran genealogy gives evidence of many of the family going to North America during the Great Potato Famine. Denis Moran is the first known to arrive in America, in 1672.

Famous Morans include Cardinal Patrick Francis Moran of Sydney Australia, US Congressman Jim Moran, “Joanie Loves Chachi” actress Erin Marie Moran, University of Toronto Dean Mayo Moran, and former Miss Universe Maria Margarita “Margie” Moran-Floirendo.

Although slightly less directly related to us, Moran also happens to be the title given to an initiated Masai warrior. It is also the Aramaic name for Jesus.

What's in a Name?

Bree Klauser and Sarah Fallon Moran in The Rimers of Eldritch

Pat&Ellen>>JohnA&Babe>>Tony&Nonie>>Sean&Geri>>Sarah Fallon Moran

The Sandyman

Ciara Glynn

ears ago, when I was working in

Auntie Claire's pub in Frenchpark, Senan came down to keep me company. We were going out at the time.

He left around 3am as he was milking in the morning. Just at the edge of town he came

across a giant of a man on the side of the road, wearing what he thought was a very long black coat. Senan thought it very unusual to see anyone at this time of night. As he drove by, he felt the man's eyes on him - it felt strange. He looked back in the mirror to see him again. The man had disappeared but there was nowhere he could go. Senan mentioned it to me the next time he saw me but I couldn't think who it might be. We mentioned it to Mammy and Daddy to see if they knew anyone to fit the bill and then we heard another story.

One Sunday night while John and Daisy were "courting", Daddy left for Lavallyroe (after warming his feet in the oven) at around 3 am. Driving out of Frenchpark, the night was not dark. As Daddy passed a house, he later learned was called Morris's, this giant

of a man walked out of the garden, as natural as if it were in the middle of the day. The man was dressed in a long black cape and a hat. Dad pulled up his car to give the man a lift and the man walked to the back of the car, Dad felt he left his hand on the boot and a feeling came over him, "this isn’t right, what am I doing?" and he put his foot on the accelerator and went.

He thought about the experience on the way home and wondered who might have been trying to frighten people. Dad drove home and took off to the south to buy cattle, as he did every Monday morning without going to bed. Next time John saw Daisy they tried to work out who it was and named out a few lads who might be up to frightening people. But the story doesn't end there.

Sometime later, when Mam and Dad were married, they were telling the story to Granny and Grandad (Katie and Jim). Out of the blue Granny said “Now Jim, you didn’t believe me the night I told you that man passed us as we were sitting on the rock in Ballinastoka, when we were courting - the Sandyman!!" (Katie and Jim were courting 1929/1930). Granny said she had seen the man as they sat on the

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rock, and as he passed Granny kept looking at him. Granny said to Grandad, “did you see that?” but he didn't.

Granny's description and Daddy's description were identical. Senan's man in black didn't have a hat (maybe the wind blew it off), but he was similar otherwise.

All three married the people they were courting at the time. Maybe this was a nod of approval or maybe it was the Grim Reaper saying “this is your partner until I call again”.

Pat&Ellen>>Jim&Katie>>Johnny&Daisy>>Ciara Glynn

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Moran Reflections

by Liz Maguire

n Philadelphia, the Maguire family always has the Moran “Do” marked on our calendar. Last year was my first “Do” since 2004, though we have always celebrated the “Do” in

the States on the day. Since it had been almost ten years since my last visit to Mayo, much had changed. We have lost, and we have gained, as is always the way. However, the core of the “Do” has remained the same from 1969 to 2004 to 2013: Family.

As the only American member of the family visiting and at last summer’s 2012 Do, I have been asked to speak a bit towards my time in Mayo with the Morans.

For as lovely as the day of golf and dinner on the Saturday night was, I have to say my favorite part of the weekend was the Barbeque on the Friday evening. The first of its kind (which has hopefully now celebrated its second annual occurrence) the Irish Barbeque was a fresh take on the classic B.B.Q, which I’m used to coming from the States.

At home a B.B.Q has watermelon, a Jimmy Buffett CD and sometimes (if you’re more adventurous) fireworks. My Barbeque experience here consisted of sausages, the singing of folk songs, and of course rain. I loved it. And I suppose that’s the best part of the Moran Do - our ability to celebrate family and history, six generations together, be it at a picnic table, or at the golf club in Ballinrobe.

Long may it continue.

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Pat&Ellen>>Jim&Katie>>Breda&Ronan>>Paul&Linda>>Liz Maguire

The Homestead

Helen Sheehan

n the cover of the Moran Mag 2013 is a painting of the three-roomed cottage where Patrick

Moran took his bride Ellen (Née Murphy) following their marriage at Bekan Parish Church in 1887.

Here they raised three sons and six daughters. Grandfather continued to live there with his son Jim and his wife Katie (nee Finnegan) after their marriage in 1930, before the ‘new house’ was built by Martin Healy in 1941.

The cottage, which was built of 2ft blocks had a piranha pine ceiling and consisted of a bedroom, large kitchen and the parlour, which doubled as the ‘bridal suite’. It also contained the cot where Breda slept. The bedroom had two large double beds which grandfather shared with the five boys, Paddy, Tom, Jimmy, Albert, and Michael (Mickey).

The kitchen, undoubtedly the heart of

the home, was a large room with a huge firegrate with two hobs, and an overmantel which may have been the work of Uncle Paddy of Ballindine. He, I believe, was also responsible for the shelved pantry which stored the flour, meal etc. Martin Healy made the enormous trestle table which easily seated ten people. I’m sure he was also responsible for the Form which was part of the seating around the table throughout my life in Lavallyroe.

The parlour, also a large room contained an oval table and four deep leatherbound chairs together with a sideboard. It also doubled as a bedroom with the cot, double bed and a wardrobe which was also a familiar item of furniture in the ‘new house’. Thank God for Martin Healy - he also made that cot. Obviously all the above is hearsay - the result of a phone conversation I had with my sister Breda - thank God for Breda too.

My grandfather Pat asked Katie, when her first daughter was born, to name her after his beloved Ellen. "I will not" she said. " I named the first one after you, this one is going to be called after my mother." (Her mother Bridget had died on the very day that Mam and Dad got married). "Well" he said, will you call the next girleen Ellen?". "I will", she said. And she did, but the poor man had to wait exactly eleven years for that to happen.

I was named Helen but my father always called me Ellen. I was born on Breda’s birthday, and grandfather died exactly six months later.............to this day I miss not having been spoiled by him.

O'The Homestead' - a painting by Helen Sheehan.

Pat&Ellen>>Jim&Katie>>Helen Sheehan

MORANSTORIESMORANSTORIES

Jim and Katie Moran's family in Lavallyroe weren’t short of too much during WWII. They had six children under the age of eight, and each person, adult and child, in the State was issued with a ration book. So this enabled Jim and Katie’s substantial family to get multiple quantities of the rationed food items eg. tea,

sugar, flour and oil, as well as other goods such as soap and clothing.

Each ration book had pages of numbered squares. There was a different ration book for each product. The details of what was bought, when, and in which shop, all had to be filled in.

The Morans shopped in Greene’s of Gurteen. They bought paraffin to light the all-important oil lamps, and lumber suits for the children (three clothing coupons in each book). So the young children were by and large oblivious to the effects of the war.

Then, as now, living in the countryside had its benefits. They had their own cows, chickens, hens, ducks, geese, and even a pig. They grew sugar and also churned butter, to exchange with neighbours for vegetables or scarce items like the coveted chest of tea sent from America. So they wanted for little during this time.

Bread was rationed in 1942. As dry wheat was not being imported during the war, the flour was almost black in colour – coarsely ground in Pa O'Brien's mill from wet, grey, soggy, home-grown Lavallyroe wheat.

More exotic fruits such as bananas and oranges were not available during this time. One day, when Tom was ten or so, his mother Katie gave him an orange. Amazed, the young boy asked, ‘What do you do with this?’.

A few years later, Paddy came home excited with news that on the way to Dunmore he had seen a banana!! Alas, on investigation, it emerged the banana was in fact a plastic imitation.

Life in Lavallyroe During WWII

WWII Ration Book Kiltimagh Museum

PJ Moran, captain of the Ballyhaunis team that won the cup in 1958 (with Jo Webb and Tom Langan

Eamonn Sheehan and sons – Brendan, Dermot & Kevin.

The Young Ones - Becky Maguire, Linda Meehan, Mark Meehan.

Jim Moran and sons: (back) Jimmy, Tony, Albert, Johnny (front) Michael, Jim, Paddy, Tom.

Tom, Diarmuid, Grainne, Aengus, Mary, Conor, Isabelle & Ann Moran at Ann's birthday celebration.

Johnny, Jim and Katie Moran, Kit Healy, Delia Fahy (home on hols) and John A. Moran.

Who needs the morning papers when you got the Moran Mag?!! Mary, Ann, Colm, Bernard & Helen

perusing last year's mag over breakfast.Start 'em young: Oisín & Ellen Anderson, Katie and Aoife Moran, Grainne Aylward.

Bernard Berney philosophising and waxing lyrical on the solemn occasion of his 70th birthday party.

Babe Moran and friends with sons Jack, Tony and PJ.

Aut Mac in the cart and Jim Moran alongsideAnn and Mary at Lavallyroe

Silent Acceptance Brother Terence

ongratulations to Bro. Terence of Memphis Tennessee. Three times congratulations...

Congratulations the first on the award of an honourary Doctorate of Humanities from St. Mary's University of Minnesota.

Congratulations the second on the publication of his book 'Silent Acceptance' about his own experiences and efforts during the era of segregation in the Deep South of the United States in the 1960s.

And congratulations the third on the remarkable achievement of celebrating his 90th birthday this year.

All hail the great Brother Terence!!

The press release for the awards ceremony reads as follows...

Brother Terence McLaughlin, a 1944 Saint Mary’s alum, received an honorary Doctor of Humanities from Saint Mary's University of Minnesota, in recognition of his 72 years as a De La Salle Christian Brother, as a champion of racial equality, as an outstanding teacher, mentor and school administrator, and as an author.

While serving as its president in 1963, Brother Terence broke ranks with the city’s culture code in Memphis and integrated Christian Brothers College high school, making it the first private school to enroll an African-American student in the Memphis region. This award to Brother Terence is being made on the occasion of the sesquicentennial of the Emancipation Proclamation.

... Bro. Terence wrote after receiving the Moran Mag 2012...

"What a great little booklet, more than a publication, truly a gracious gift! I really enjoyed reading the articles,

Brother Terence McLaughlin receiving an Honourary Doctorate of Humanities from St. Mary's University of Minnesota, April 2013.

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Brother Jean Manuel, Brother Terence McLaughlin and Brother Joseph Loewenstein.

Pat&Ellen>>Mary-Ellen &JohnMcLaughlin>>Brother Terence

gazing at the pictures, and just smiling at the memories this prompted.You really gave the Stateside clan members lots of publicity. I hope the younger members will be able to return to the homeland often through the years. My Irish experience was limited to the decade of the '70s (1971-1980), ten years to be remembered. However I now realise the power of the Internet. I did not know such an article written about me was out there in space. It was much too laudatory, but who should complain about having a poet in the press box? I will reflect upon the "Mag" from time to time because it has history and news wrapped into one – a real keepsake.

I first came to Memphis in 1949 and remained for four years. I returned in 1962 to the College and was superintendent of the high school and in that position got involved in the integration saga. This year is really the 50th anniversary of the event so I have decided to write up the story. People have bits and pieces of the story through the years – this writing will put it all together. The title is SILENT ACCEPTANCE. I chose the title because Memphis and the South had a culture and tradition – and this supported by law – of racism. The whites enjoyed their privileged position; the blacks did not put up much of a fuss because they were helpless. This was a few years before the Civil Rights movement in the United States and five years before Martin Luther King was killed in Memphis.

I was transferred the next year to Chicago, where through the years I met Breda, Ronan, Patty, Betty and

Ann. Later in St. Paul Minnesota, Gemma visited. I returned to Memphis in 2000 and visited with Peter Moran when he passed through.

I take the 'silent acceptance' theme in this book to the University today - we have around 25% black enrollment. But the university's struggle now is to keep a strong academic and Catholic program going in a city that has a really poor public school system, operating in a state that is only 3.5% Catholic. Our next door neighbours, Mississippi and Arkansas have around 4% Catholic. Whether a teacher goes into a maths class or a theology class, he or she is truly a missionary! Just about whatever the teacher talks about is new to the learner.

Thanks again for your thoughtfulness in sending the Moran Mag. Please give my hellos to the clan members. Each holds a special place in my memory bank.

Love, Brother Terence.

Bro. Terence, with his cousins Breda Maguire & Bert Hart.

John Burson's Bible

... Scenes from the Nashville Mission

Peter Moran

In the Nashville Mission I met a manHe put a bible in my hand. He said,‘I’ll tell you ‘bout a man who taught the blind to see’. I said,‘Jesus is just alright with me’.

ohn Burson was always fidgeting with his hands. He had a fixation on signing his name

multiple times on anything he owned. If you were caught in a conversation with him he was always trying to bless you in a fashion that was either hopelessly indistinct or elaborately over-the-top. The constant motion of the hands was accompanied by an incomprehensible muttering, from which only a handful of words would be intelligible. He would intermittently shout one or two phrases, louder but slower, the words erupting in a torrent of jerky stops and starts.

“lordjesuspraiseGODalmightygotthepowerCHRISTwhowalkedamongushearmelordJEEE-suspraisehisholyname!”

...

We all rustled into the chapel at the end of the building which was filled with rows of old pews. I found myself sat in the middle seat of the middle pew and John sat next to me, mumbling and fidgeting away. I politely agreed to whatever he was saying, still very unsure of how to hold a conversation with this man. I had tried once before with limited success. And then, slowly I began to recognise some of these words as they came out at a mile a minute.

“...andtheLORDhetoldusinEcclesiastesmumblemumbleandtoeverythingthereisaSEASONchristalmightypraisebehisholyNAMEthatthereisatimetoREAPandatimetoSOW...”

and I thought ‘Hey, I know this bit!’

“atimeforpeaceandatimeforwarpraiselordJEEsusandthanktheLORDhehastoldusthereisatimetolaughandatimetocry..”

‘It is!’ I thought. ‘That’s the Byrds!’

I nearly jumped with surprise when I realised what he was talking about. But I held it back to show due solemnity. I quickly racked my brain to remember the next line. I kept smiling and nodding, while in my head I was singing through the song as quickly as I could. And then, during a brief pause in his ecclesiastical diatribe, it came to me, and with great reverence I uttered,

“A time to cast away stones...”

J

...pause for effect...

“...a time to gather stones together”.

“PRAISEGODALMIGHTYYOUHAVETHEWORDOFTHELOOOORDINYOUGODBLESSHISHOLYNAMECHRISTBEPRAISED!”

John leapt out of his seat as if the Holy Spirit Itself had descended upon us. His hands busily blessed everything within reach; me, him, my head, the bible, me, my head again, the air above us, him again, and me a few more times.

“LORDGODABOVEYOU’VEGOTTHEWORDOFTHELORDOHTHANKYOUJESUS!”

I thought, ‘yeah, thank you Roger McGuinn.’

...

The day’s sermon was on the evils of drugs. The scene in the mission chapel wasn’t quite what I was expecting to see. Everyone was chatting amongst themselves, or maybe just praying out loud. They didn’t seem to be paying much attention to the preacher. John was fidgeting away with his bible, signing his name all over it.

After a while the preacher started to hit his stride. His sermon built up a little rhythm, back and forth. He would call out a phrase and the congregation would shout back. Soon the room was in full swing.

“You need to throw AWAY that pot.”“Oh yes!”“You’ve got to put DOWN that crack pipe!”“Yes Lord!”

Now we’re cooking here...

“You’ve got to put DOWN that rock! You don’t NEED that rock!”“Praise Jesus!”“I was like you. Oh LORD, yes, I have sinned! But I have CHANGED, praise God I have changed!”

Now he had the crowd in the palm of his hand.

“Thank the LORD I am a new man!”

And then came that line, that magnificent line,

“Yes Lord, I used to smoke the rock!”

he cried as he raised his fist.

“I USED to smoke the rock... but now I STAAAAND on the rock!”

He slammed his fist down on the pulpit.

“JESUS is my rock!”

Oh yes. And the crowd goes wild.

...

John Burson's bible

He wouldn’t let me leave without carrying a bible with me.

“butyouhavegottohavethewordofGODwithyou”, he insisted.

“youcannottravelwithoutthewordoftheLORDpraisebetolordjesuschristamen.”

I strenuously offered my excuses. “I can only carry the essentials... only a few tins of food and a bottle of water... my bag is so full, I can’t fit any more... and it’s so heavy and I have so far to travel...”

John was having none of it.

“PraisegodyougottohavethewordoftheLORDwithyou!”

He pressed his very own copy of the King James Bible into my hands.

All 1600 pages of it.

As I was preparing to leave, John started listing all the books of the bible he thought I should read on the road. He filled a post-it note with his recommendations and stuck it to the inside-cover.

Then he was reminded of all his favourite bible characters that I should read about too. Another post-it. Next he thought of all the best films made about the life of Jesus. And then the best Christian-themed television shows, and the Christian-owned television networks. When he had finally run out of space on the inside-cover of the bible, I packed away it into my bag, although I couldn’t close it properly.

I hit the road with the Word of the Lord sticking out of my backpack next

to the Irish whiskey and the tinned peaches.

I still have the bible of course. It’s the only one I’ve ever owned. I still refer to it often, and over the years I’ve added my own annotations and I've underlined particular passages of interest to me. It was a very thoughtful gift really, and of course, I can never turn past the much-signed first page without being reminded of the man who gave it to me.

The Backstory...

In the summer of 2001, in his third year of university, Peter travelled to Chicago on a J-1 working visa. Whilst there he seized the opportunity to pursue a romantic childhood dream. With only a small backpack and a string-tied guitar over his shoulder, he hopped on board a passing freight train and headed for the deep south.

Peter Moran (centre) with friends Richard and Colm, just before leaving Chicago and

heading south.

Where the railways crossed the highways, he hitchhiked into Louisville, Kentucky, on to Nashville, Tennessee, and across the state of Mississippi.

On the way he met an amazing cast of characters, from the terrifying truck driver on a mission from Jesus, to the friendly eco-commune hippies living in renovated school buses in the forest! And of course, in Nashville he stayed in the Nashville Mission Homeless Shelter, where he met John Burson.

In Mississippi Peter followed the blues trail, from the birthplace of Muddy Waters to the crossroads where Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil.

Peter's Dad (Tom Moran) had told him about his cousin Br. Terence McLaughlin, who lived in Memphis. Peter got to Memphis and caught up with Br. Terence, where they went through the traditional family ritual of sketching out the Moran family tree!

Of course Peter visited a few great blues clubs while he was in town and jammed with some of the local bands, before making his final overnight bus journey back to Chicago.

He arrived at around 8.30am on Tuesday morning, 11th September. There was an eerie silence in the city that morning, and an alarming news report dominated the airwaves. Peter's journey had come to a most definitive end. It was the end of an era.

Words of Comfort

Let us remember the Spain, Sheehan, Pratt and Moran families, who have mourned the passing of family members this year.

We hope that the sun will shine in their lives in the darkest of their days.

Pat&Ellen>>Jim&Katie>>Tom&Kay>>Peter Moran

Swindon Town Will NeverBe the Same Again

Bernard Berney

was asked to write something about Tony Moran and our visit to Swindon to celebrate his 70th

birthday. This would seem a simple enough task. Not so, you see every time I meet Tony I am struck by the nobility of the man, immediately evident in his bearing and so clearly evident in his philosophy of life. Now here is my dilemma, Tony’s image among many of his casual acquaintances is that of a hell-raiser - fun-loving, but dangerous. It is an image he has carefully cultivated. What would he think of me exposing the real truth, that behind that public persona lurks a heart of gold that inspires his kindness towards people and his high regard for the goodness he finds in others.

On Thursday 6th September 2012, Breda, Helen, Mary, Ann and Tom, all five of them Morans, along with a woman called Kay Kavanagh and an

innocent bystander and loveable young man named Bernard Berney travelled to meet Tony Moran, a brother of all the aforementioned Morans, for a surprise celebration of his 70th birthday.

Tony was expecting Tom and Kay who were, supposedly, in England to visit son Thomas and his wife Nicola, and were stopping en route to say ‘hello’. Imagine his surprise, as he alighted from a bus, golf clubs in hand after an early morning round, to be greeted in Swindon’s town centre by Tom and Kay, yes, but also four adoring females, Breda, Helen, Mary and Ann, and yours truly, an innocent bystander. Well, not that innocent mind you for, in truth, a real innocent would not last long bystanding for this crowd. All Tony said, as he hugged each one in turn, was “My lovely sister, my lovely sister, my lovely sister, my lovely sister, “and then he said, “and one very emotional bystander.” No, he didn’t actually say that last bit, although it was true. For such an outpouring of emotion, expressed in simple actions and beautiful words, I had never before in my life witnessed. For a moment the whole area was enveloped in love. For us Swindon town centre will never be the same again.

Thus began a wonderful couple of days. We met some of Tony’s friends. I remember Frank and his daughter and Seamus. Frank’s granddaughter had bought Tony a packet of sweets for his birthday and they were duly delivered to Tony in his ‘office.’ Tony was so proud to introduce his family to his friends and, indeed, to introduce his friends to his family. Everywhere

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Happy Birthday Tony! L-R: Ann, Tom, Mary, Bernard, Tony, Breda, Helen, Kay.

we went it was clearly evident that Tony was a much-loved character and held in high esteem. Eventually, it dawned on me that I was less than bright (if I was talking about somebody else I would say exceedingly stupid) to think that I was the only one who appreciated the nobility of our beloved Tony. In Swindon Town it was abundantly clear that his goodness and kindness had touched many.

In preparing this piece I spoke to Breda, Helen, Mary and Ann to try and get some insight into their experience of the event. They loved the gathering of the family, the reminiscences, stories, songs, laughter, the warmth and closeness, the children they were, gathered together as the adults they are. They all agreed that it was a few days which will live in their memories forever. Me too.

The Morans Reading About the Morans

Frank, Tony's IT manager, shares his findings on the Moran Family History

Tony's friend Seamus, chatting with Frank's daughter. Breda tells of her Motorbike Madness days

Pat&Ellen>>Jim&Katie>>Mary&Bernard Berney

MORANSTORIES MORANSTORIES

Yes, it happened in the auspicious year of Twenty and Twelve, in the city of Glasgow in Scotland. Baby Clara Moran was born to delighted parents Michael and Leonie, on the twelfth day of the twelfth month of the twelfth year of this Twenty-First Century.

What is it about the number twelve? Numerically, twelve has some interesting properties. Perfectly divisible by 1,2,3,4,6 & itself, it is a composite number, a sublime number and a superfactorial, if you fancy all that.

But there's more, twelve months in a year, twelve inches in a foot, twelve old pence in a shilling, twelve notes in a musical scale, twelve hours in the AM, and twelve hours in the PM.

In many cultures, the number twelve is considered sacred; twelve signs of the zodiac, twelve animals of the Chinese horoscope, twelve tribes of Israel, twelve days of Christmas, even Jesus had twelve apostles.

And so, baby Clara came into the world on this perhaps remarkable date 12/12/12.

The time of birth is also noted on the Register of Births. What time was it? Well, you might not believe it. The precise time of birth was... twelve minutes past twelve.

You might not believe it... if there wasn't some documentation to prove it.

Clara Moran and the Mysterious Number Twelve

Breagh and Clara Moran

Pat&Ellen>>Jim&Katie>>Johnny&Daisy>>Michael&Leonie>>Clara Moran

Colm Massey's Guide to Cooking Chowder

thought I had better advise you on your advising me on cooking chowder. Thanks, Helen, for the

wonderful help and advice!!

Let me begin by stating that despite the considerable hurdles that arose in its production, it ended up being an excellent chowder, and thoroughly enjoyed by the Slovakian delegation.

Problems arose almost immediately because after trying three village shops, none of them had paprika or fresh parsley. Mac's greengrocer in shopping centre was closed so I decided to try Dunnes in Citywest. Also on my list I had flour and whiskey - not for the chowder, as I had already checked that I had all the other ingredients! I had to ask the staff where the parsley was, and they apologised because they had only flat leaf parsley!

Shit! Ingredients did not specify which, and I had never even heard of flat leaf parsley, for Chrissakes!! I decided to take a chance and buy it. So along with the flour and whiskey, I ventured home, to take your advice and prepare the night before. Shit! Forgot the paprika! Then what I thought was sound garlic was dried up, and the onions were not much better. I decided to drink the whiskey and let tomorrow look after itself!

Tomorrow arrived. Now under pressure I once again headed to Dunnes. Eventually found PAPRIKA. Do you know that there is hot paprika, ground

paprika and . . . well just paprika. Again, the ingredients didn't specify. Thank you Chef, author, Phelim Byrne, you asshole! Again I decided to gamble.

Arriving home I started the mammoth task, about an hour before the Slovak delegation arrived.

Weighing the 150 grams of DICED potatoes proved difficult. The last time I used my antique kitchen scales was a year and a half ago. Part of it was missing, so I had to improvise. Having loaded eight medium spuds on the implement, and was nowhere near 150 grams, I decided five medium potatoes was enough to dice. My limited experience of metric weight also had me thinking that there were 100 grams in a kilo! But it really was that stupid scale's fault.

And so I started! Onions, garlic, butter into the pot. "Sweat gently until soft..." Was that me or the onions? "Sweat"!?" Probably the onions, but how in the name of fuck do you know when onions are sweating? Yeah, I know they bring tears to your eyes when you peel them, but for Chrissakes - sweatin' onions!!!

Anyway I put in the white fish, skinned and stirred. Great! This cookin' is so simple! Next add in the GRATED potatoes.

Aw! Bollix! The ingredients said DICED! Now the fish mix was beginning to burn. No time to grate spuds now, and I WAS BEGINNING TO SWEAT!!

Fuckitt! I vaguely remember you saying something about this, along

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with a hundred other instructions, so I just fucked in a handfull of DICED potatoes. So far, so good.

Now, along with other items, add a "good crack" of black pepper! What the fuck is a "good crack"? Then it said the paprika was optional! The fuckin bastard! After all my trouble searching for the stuff, it's OPTIONAL!

Fuck this, says I, and fucked in a "good crack" of Paprika instead. Having simmered for 15 minutes, (the broth, not me), I added the rest of the fish etc. By now the Slovakian delegates were overdue, and I had to add the tomatoes, concassed, if you don't mind.

In my haste I dropped the tomatoes on the floor, not once, but twice. I reckon they were concussed rather than concassed!

FINISHED! HURRAY! ON TIME!

Oh SHIT! What now do I do with the half pint of cream, and a bag of tiger prawns left over? So I fucked them in and boiled the crap out of the lot until my guests arrived.

It was a wonderful success. They really loved it.

What do I do with a large bowl of uncooked diced potatoes that are rapidly turning black in my back hall?

Come home soon, Helen...

Colm

P.S. I still cannot understand Mary saying to remind her never to let me into her kitchen!!

Sing some Mayo songs.....

Moonlight in Mayo

It was just a year ago today I left old Erin's IsleMy heart was throbbing in the soft Light of my colleen's smileIn all my dreams I seem to hear Her sweet voice soft and lowI know she's waiting where we said Goodbye in old Mayo

CHORUS

For two Irish eyes are shiningAnd an Irish heart is piningWhen I kissed her and caressed herIn the gloaming long agoLoving Irish arms will press meAnd true Irish love caress meAnd sweet Irish lips will bless meWhen it's Moonlight in Mayo

Her Irish eyes like beacons shine All in the darkest nightI know the sweet love beams below Will always fill the world with lightThe roses of her cheeks will lend Enchantment to the seaAnd when shamrocks wear the dew I'll wed my sweet colleen

For two Irish eyes are shining...

Pat&Ellen>>Jim&Katie>>Helen S&Colm Massey

West Of the Old River Shannon

If you wander down beyond old Sligo townand travel the county from Galway aroundyou’ll never see anyone wearing a frown, west of the old River Shannon.The people of Cong are friendly and free from Castlebar to Roscommon….A place to be happy as happy can be, west of the old River Shannon.

Chorus: So, it’s all together,now sing with me the glory and fame of the west country and it’s all togetheragain may we be -West of the Old River Shannon

The trouble of Connaught is well known to fame way back in history it won a great namewhen Maedhbh and her soldiers in victory came West of the old River Shannon……

If you come from China or far off Peru from Derry town or Dungannon,a Céad Míle Fáilte is waiting for you, West of the old River Shannon.

Chorus..

Now Bloody old Cromwell he once rang a bell and he ordered the Irish to clear out to hell

but they found a haven and there they did dwell -West of the Old River Shannon.

The Green and Red of Mayo

by the Saw Doctors

Oh the Green and Red of Mayo, I can see it stillIt's soft and craggy bog lands Its tall majestic hillsWhere the ocean kisses Ireland and the waves caress its shoreOh the feeling it came over me To stay forever moreForever more

From its rolling coastal waters,I can see Croagh Patrick's peakWhere one Sunday every Summer,the pilgrims climb the reekWhere Saint Patrick in his solitudelooked down across Clew BayAnd with a ringing of his bell called the faithful there to prayThere to pray

Oh take me to Clare Island,the home of Gráinne MhaolIts waters harbour fishes,from the herring to the whaleAnd now I must depart itand reality is plainMay the time not pass so slowly'fore I set sail againSet sail again.

The Green and Red of Mayo,I can see it stillIts soft and craggy bog landsits tall majestic hills,Where the ocean kisses Irelandand the waves caress its shoreThe feeling it came over meto stay forever moreForever more.

The Last Word...

We leave the last word of the Moran Mag 2013 to this now-infamous Internet meme... the mis-spelling, pro-war demonstration guy from Missouri, USA.

Well, you can't please everyone!!