A Scent Of The Old Sod

When I asked my dad what he wanted from Ireland, he had a two-word request:

"Black Bush."

Bushmills Black Bush whiskey went on my list.

I figured my mom would want one of those lumpy Irish sweaters that smell like damp dog when they're wet. Or a piece of Waterford crystal.

Wrong.

"I want peat," she said simply.

"Peat? You mean, like, dirt? I'm going all the way to Ireland and you want me to carry home a chunk of dried Irish dirt?"

"It's not dirt," she huffed. "It's vegetable matter. My mother said her mother talked about the sweet scent of peat in the air in Ireland. I want to smell it, too."

"It'll be fun getting that through customs," I moaned.

It was 1970-something. I was the first in my family to see the old sod in a hundred years, and I wanted everyone to have a piece of my trip.

On my first day there I found peat briquettes for sale in a Limerick supermarket. "Smoke-free" and "Odorless," boasted the bags.

I found a clerk.

"Excuse me. But where can I find smoky, smelly peat, the kind that smells like pipe tobacco?"

"You'll be wanting to get that out in the country," he said. "Find a place where they're cutting turf and take some."

How exciting. I was going to pilfer peat and risk prison on my two-week vacation.

Rounding a corner in County Kerry a few days later, I spied three men with pitchforks and shovels working a black gash in the earth.

I stomped on the brakes and sprinted up the hill.

"Is this peat?" I called out.

"Sure, what else would it be?" one replied.

"Can I buy a few pieces?" I asked.

"How much money have you, Yank?" he asked, laughing.

When I explained that my mother in America was desperate to smell a peat fire, the man grinned. He went to a pile of dried bricks and handed me a stack.

"This should do it," he said. "Enjoy."

I wrapped the blocks in plastic bags and tucked them into my luggage. I tried not to think what they'd look like to suspicious immigration inspectors. The luck of the Irish was with me. No one asked or noticed that I had a bit of the bogs in my bags.

Back home, I handed my father his Black Bush and my mother her black blocks.

"Sláinte!" Dad said, as he poured a glass of the mellow whiskey.

In the living room, my mother carefully balled up newspapers to make a nest for her pile of peat. We eagerly gathered around the fireplace, ready to be engulfed in the aroma of the old country. I put on some Irish music. Got out a volume of Yeats.

Mom lit a match and the peat burst into flame.

We sniffed. Sniffed again. And again.

Nothing.

We crept closer to the inferno. Nada. She and I went outside and saw smoke billowing from the chimney. Still, there was nothing of the Irish countryside in the air.

Back in the house, my mother was desperate.

She knelt on the hearth and stuck her head inside the fireplace, drawing deep smoky breaths. When she turned around, she had a halo of singed hair.

At that moment my father walked into the room. "I do smell it!" he exclaimed.

"So that's Ireland, huh? It really is an unforgettable scent."