Magical Dirt

Dirt. It plays such a large role in who we are. Wars are fought over dirt and ownership of that dirt. We talk about our roots, or lack thereof, in casual conversation. Dirt means a lot to us.

Sheriff Talton wasn’t the first Talton in Houston County, his family has a long legacy here, but there will be Taltons here for the foreseeable future. The Walker family out of Perry is another longtime family here. The Dunbar family on the north end of the county also has longtime roots. Those are just a few families I’m familiar with, but most of us are transplants or just one step away. I’ve always sort of envied those who have long-term roots where they live. 

My father was a child of first-generation Irish transplants. He grew up in New York City (Brooklyn, to be exact). My mom was a child of Scotch-Irish immigrants who had been in the U.S. from time immemorial, with ancestors here before the Revolutionary War, but she had was born in Texas, and throughout her childhood lived in Oklahoma, Arkansas (the Ozarks and Little Rock) for much of her life, and Tennessee, before moving to New York City, where she met and married my dad, and they wasted no time in producing their first child, my brother Rusty. The happy couple eventually moved to Knoxville, Tennessee, where their next four children were born. We lived in Knoxville except for two years in Jonesboro, TN (before the town fathers became more highbrow and changed the town name back to its original spelling: Jonesborough). Shed of my two older brothers, we moved to the Atlanta area where I attended high school and college. But I left there for Warner Robins and the rest of my family moved back to Knoxville over time. We have no dirt, however.

Yet my family tells stories of our Irish heritage. We know where in Ireland our family originated, more so on my father’s side. Three out of four of my great-grandparents on my father’s side were born in Ireland. My mom’s ancestors were Scotch-Irish, but date so far back it’s hard to tell from where they hailed. My mom, brother Rusty, brother Michael, me, Mary Ann, and daughter Maryl have visited the “homeland” in Corskeagh, County Mayo, at different times. My other kids all want to go there as well. 

Corskeagh is nothing now. It is a hill with a tree on top and brambles at the bottom, the very definition of “corskeagh.” But before the Irish famine (genocide, really), a census in 1841 put the population of Corskeagh at 151. There were a number of families living there, the foundations of their rock cottages still evident under the lush Irish countryside. My great-great-grandmother’s home, where she was undoubtedly born in 1870, still stands. Just a few yards away, the ruins of another cottage still collect rainwater. I imagine an archaeological expedition would yield lots of artifacts from that time. 

That history is still magical to our family. We still want to visit. We still enjoy meeting our kinfolk, who still farm that land. Ireland is a magical place. To visit. But nothing can top living in the United States of America. The last stand for freedom, and still the most magical piece of dirt on this earth. 

Kelly Burke, attorney, former district attorney, and magistrate judge, writes about the law, rock’n’roll, and politics or anything that strikes him. Contact Kelly at dakellyburke@gmail.com to comment on this article or suggest articles you’d like to see, and visit his website at www.kellyrburke.com.