Newlyweds, M. and I had spent late September through early October 1978 in Ireland, seeing tourist sights and visiting new Pagan friends–Janet and Stewart Farrar, the Fellowship of Isis household at Clonegal Castle, and others.
Homeward bound on an Aer Lingus flight from Dublin to New York, we heard the jumbo jet’s captain speak on the intercom.
A new pope had been selected, he told the passengers, a Polish cardinal.
“The next one will be Irish,” he added, and laughter rolled through the cabin.
Am I a little teary-eyed for John Paul II or for that long-gone me? Or both?