We Have A Winner

Contest Queen Cami Travis Groves is here to announce our very first winner of the Kansas City Irish Fest Writing contest.

Congratulations!

The first place winner in this year's Writing Contest is Carrie Kabak from Kansas City, MO, for her entry "A Funeral in Buldoon." She won by a landslide! Carrie receives a $75 gift certificate to the online bookstore Bloomsday Books, four tickets to this year's Irish Fest, and she gets her story published in Midwest Irish Focus Newspaper.

Second and third place winners were very close! Second place winner is Áine McCormack from Saint Paul, MN. Third place winner is Jessica Cummins from Kansas City, MO. Both Áine and Jessica also receive four tickets to this year's Irish Fest!

Thank you to all the ladies who entered (yes, they were all women!) and to Bloomsday Books for the generous donation.

Here is Carrie's winning entry:

My Irish History
A FUNERAL IN BULDOON
A story my grandmother told me

“Jesus,” hisses Bridie, walking two steps behind me. “Do we have to look at the body?”

"It’s expected. Mammy said so.” We peer into the coffin. Bridie’s fingers search for my hand. “Why are there pennies on his eyes?” “To keep them closed.” “Sure, he won’t be waking up, Ebby. He’s dead.” “Shut up, Bridie.” “Eibhlín, Bridie?” Great Aunt Maura’s voice is a frog’s croak. “Start knocking on doors, there’s good girls, and beg for the loan of a few brass candlesticks.” Then she sinks onto a stool, and buries her head in her hands, and Bridie looks at me, but I don’t know what to say, but we hold Great Aunt Maura until the shivering stops.

By nighttime, people are swarming the kitchen, clogging every corner.
“Ohhh, Dermot,” sighs Old Mary Godfrey. “Why did ye have to drown?” He was a fine man, she says, a good man, a holy man. “And all too fond of the potheen,” adds Ethna Fitton. “He sailed the naomhóg too far out,” whispers Kathleen Doody. “They found five empty bottles in the wreck.” “Dear Mother of God, no!” “The ould rascal!” Miss Dibbs, face as round as a cowpat, says it might be the best way to go, drunk as the divil himself. I look for Bridie, to find her with Mammy, who is urging Great Aunt Maura to take a bite of something, come on now, do, or maybe a little drop of tea, to give her strength. And Father Hegarty is saying, “Now, ‘tis well that Dermot went first, Maura. He’ll intercede for you in the next world, so he will.”

Then the Mullan boys troop in, expressing their sympathies, shaking their heads. Such a tragic, tragic occurrence, Maura, where will they play? Over here, perhaps, away from the door? Instruments are carried over shoulders, under arms, in pockets. The bodhrán, the uilleann pipes, the fiddle, a mandocello and border, and a tin whistle. The boys set little barrels on the floor to sit on, their legs spread wide. And the border is coaxed to cry its tune, and the fiddle ripples faster than a mountain stream, and soon the bodhrán is thumping, like a beating heart.

“AND one-two-three, one-two-three,” cries Gyles Pelly, flapping his elbows, hammering his feet. Then a miracle happens. Color seeps into Great Aunt Maura’s cheeks, and I catch the smallest tap of a foot…