It was a late February morning on Achill Island and the clouds looming above the Irish sea were tinged in silvery gray. Working in unison, they waged war with the sun whose halfhearted attempts to breakthrough fell short, resulting in only faint slivers of light which fell meekly on the ground. The wind though temperate, possessed a fierceness that cautioned. I squinted at the landscape before me and the ubiquitous sheep, scattered in every direction. Their fleece sported a splash of varying hues, from cotton candy pink to a dusty sky blue, a way for farmers to claim a restless rogue who may have wandered off, whether by chance, or choice. I had two things in mind as I stood high on the hillside that beautiful day; to gain closure after the death of my Irish born mother and to find the perfect sheep, by which to remember her.

My mother loved sheep from as far back as I can remember. A love I imagine, which began in an earlier chapter of life, while growing up on a farm, in Cloone, County Leitrim. Though she left Cloone in later years to become a nurse in New York City, her love for Ireland and the gentle creatures who reminded her of her home, never ceased.

A memory materializes. Long gone but cherished still. My family is on a two week summer holiday in Ireland.  I am six-years-old, tailgating my mother contentedly, as she makes her way in and out of the local Irish gift shops, in search of the most beautiful and authentic souvenir sheep. Who, if chosen as a result of my mother’s discerning eye, would be gifted with a one way journey back to the United States, via Aer Lingus.

She ultimately chose two sheep, one white, one black. I cannot say, which one was dearer to my heart, as each possessed a unique charm. The black sheep, its tiny horns curled, stood defiantly in our living room, which my mother placed atop the piano, a sentry of sorts, before the addition of our German Shepard, Brandy. The white one, with its soft, knotty curls of white fleece and spindly black wooden legs, was strategically positioned on the always meticulously polished cherry side table of our family room, directly overlooking the front yard. A view not of the sea, but appealing given the jade green grass and vivid pink hydrangea which blossomed in the spring. Yes, I believe our two Irish sheep were pleased with their new American home, and proud to assume the role of ambassadors of our heritage.

 The sheep often came to my rescue in times of stress or discord, each assuming a different role. I recall after a particularly hurtful fight with my best friend, holding the white sheep in my hand and stroking its fuzz. That placid, calm face and silky wool, somehow righted all wrongs of the moment. The black sheep in contrast, was a symbol of courage, boldness, perseverance. Holding him in my palm, eyes closed, his sensible nature always prevailed.  And if the black sheep could talk, I imagined might offer the wise words of an Irish proverb I had once heard or read somewhere, and loved “There is nothing so bad that it couldn’t be worse.”

When my parents departed this world, aside from the carpets, paintings and other furnishings amassed in life, my three sisters and I each took turns expressing a particular item we desired, one which held a special place in our hearts as a remembrance of our much loved mother and father.

My younger sister Caroline, had hoped for the grandfather clock, a two hundred year old beauty purchased at the Lord Edward in Dublin whose hourly grand chime, never failing to produce memories of my one-of-a-kind father.  My sister Sheila asked if she might have my mother’s Irish Shillelagh, which for a lifetime hung unused in her bedroom closet, its blackthorn wood carved with care, a forever symbol of Irish heritage and a reminder of her home across the sea.  My older sister Anne had always loved our family’s oriental gong, an item purchased at a local tag sale which appealed to my Scottish/Irish father’s sometimes eccentric nature. He never failed to delight in pinging the gong four or five times dramatically before a special family dinner, its vibrating echo I can still hear to this day.

And for me, well perhaps you can guess?  I asked to be caretaker of the sheep, both the white and the black, as there was no way the two could be separated after all those years together. To this day, they sit serenely in two rooms of my home a wee bit older, ambassadors still.

But after the death of my mother, those two little sheep for the one time in my life, were of little comfort. Instead I longed to return to Ireland, the place of her birth, in search of something I could not quite define. 

So there I stood on that late February day, high up on a hilltop, lost in thought. And when my eyes fell upon one sheep, grazing not three feet from me, I had to wonder if it had been there all along or if its presence rather, was an illusion. The sheep remained for a good long moment, its black spindly legs planted firmly before the glistening sea. It stared at me placidly then turned and made its way downhill but not before, in that brief encounter, I captured its photograph.

A large canvas print of that perfect Achill sheep presently hangs on my kitchen wall. It is in clear view of both the black and the white sheep, who will never be replaced and forever hold a special place in my heart.  I shared my photograph on several Irish websites, my image garnishing over 7,000 likes on one Facebook page entitled “Postcards from Ireland.”  I found I was not the only one who was enchanted with sheep, both among Irish and Americans alike and every other nationality sprinkled in. Some favorite comments…

“God’s Hand at Work”

“As far as we’ll get to heaven in this life”

“I want to be a sheep overlooking the ocean in my next life”

“This photo makes me so happy!”

“Magical Achill, where time stands still”

I recently had the privilege of returning to Ireland once again, this time in celebration. It was my son Owen’s 21^st birthday.  His grandmother Mary, would be proud to know he is spending his four college years in the land she loved so well. 

 As we walked through the colorful town of Doolin, famous for both its music and iconic Cliffs, a small shop beckoned. Entering, Owen tailgated me contentedly as I examined the beautiful handmade gifts, neatly laid out before us. The proprietor, an older woman with world wise eyes, watched wordlessly then offered “Can I help ye find something special to bring home?”

I paused for a moment, then my eyes fell upon a small, black sheep, half hidden on the shelf, its spindly legs standing boldly before me. Approaching, I picked up the tiny woolen figure.   

It was as if he was waiting for me all along.