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320 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2005
Forced from her downtown Manhattan apartment by the terrorist attack of September 11, journalist Wendy Bounds was delivered to Guinan's doorstep -- a legendary Irish drinking hole and country store nestled along the banks of the Hudson River in the small town of Garrison, New York -- by a friend.This memoir of a pub/bar/store included interesting tidbits of history particularly of the Hudson river.
Captivated by the bar's charismatic but ailing owner and his charming, motley clientele, Bounds uprooted herself permanently and moved to tiny Garrison, the picturesque river town they all call home. There she became one of the rare female regulars at the old pub and was quickly swept up into its rhythm, heartbeat, and grand history -- as related by Jim Guinan himself, the stubborn high priest of this little chapel. Surrounded by a crew of endearing, delightfully colorful characters who were now her neighbors and friends, she slowly finds her own way home.
Beautifully written, deeply personal, and brilliantly insightful, Little Chapel on the River is a love story about a place -- and the people who bring it to life.
The Indians named the river Muhheakunnuk, which means " great waters in constant motion,” or more loosely, “river that flows two ways.” In centuries to follow, she would come to be called by a new name—the mighty HudsonAnd I just loved the musical tone in the name of the "Sugar Loaf Mountain".
Meantime, the summer renters close up shop, anxious for city life where capable doormen and superintendents keep harsh elements at bay. Those who stay can watch as the landscape strips down, unloading her buxom summer weight until she is naked, angular, severely beautiful.The characters she met, in Little Chapel by the River, like Margaret, Jimmy's daughter, changed her entire outlook on life. Margaret wore a AT&T t-shirt. Wendy tried to find some common ground and remarked on the t-shirt:
" So you work for AT&T?" I ask, leaning against the counter in what I hope is a casual pose. Lot of turmoil there right now, huh?Some folks did not call Guinans a bar. They called it the riverside chapel, where the Irish defined life according to old Irish songs and folklore. Even a few superstitions were still thrown in here and there, but it's not to be talked about around town too much. Actually, it was not called anything else but a village at the time. The one where Hello Dolly the movie was filmed.
All those layoffs? And then, to let her know I really understand what I’m talking about, I add: I write for the Wall Street Journal.
Finally she meets my eyes. She doesn’t smile. “I’m in law enforcement,” she says, lips tight. “I wear this sweatshirt so when the guys at work give me a hard time, I can tell them it stands for Ass, Tits and Temper.”
...he takes my hand, pulls me down toward him and kisses me on the cheek. “Cead Mile Failte,” he says.I checked out the pub online afterwards and found this interesting article:Last Call at Guinan’s, an Irish Tavern Tucked Away in Upstate NY By PATRICK SAUER March 17, 2016.
I look at him, confused.
“It’s a Gaelic greeting, luv. It means ‘One hundred thousand welcomes.’ ”
Here’s the thing. Up until this point, I had never really belonged to anything, except maybe my job. No church, no volunteer groups and, forgetting one hapless year of getting my head bashed in boxing, not even a steady sport. Part of it was timing. I’d graduated from the paperback novels of my youth to come of age in the eighties with the glass ceiling already cracked and the notion that a full-time career path was the only one I’d be taking. It was a moment when power suits dominated shopping racks, housewife was a dirty word and duty meant exercising all the professional options my mother never had.