Can you even believe how G.A.Y. this picture is? I'm sitting there with my pal (boyfriend) John Gallagher. I'm the cute white, red-headed boy with his hands on his own knees (for a change). John and I (both five years old and adorable, n'est pas?) are nestled together with my older brother Shane behind us. In the back row is my sister, Brenda, and our Dentist and friend, Brian Gallagher, (who seems to like Brenda) and on the right are my mother (another red head) and my father (filling his pipe with tobacco at the beach). Isn't that what you go to the beach for? "Sadie, let's go to the beach so I can fill up my pipe with a plug of tobacco. We can take the whole family, and the dentist, and his child, John, who's Fergal's siamese twin." Sadie, "Och, sure, why not, Barney. We've nothing better to do."
I'm eating an apple on Auntie Mary's Coalhouse roof on 13 Westland Avenue in Derry. I think the white socks are a very strong fashion statement on a coalhouse roof. Auntie Mary's hand is held strongly on my little thigh to protect me from a deadly fall. I Admire her willingness to have her hand photographed in such a compromising position.(Click on photo to enlarge).
Only minutes after my roof-balancing trick, I'm safely in the arms of Auntie Mary and Uncle Joseph. I spent a lot of time at their house since they were childless and they doted over me in ways that were impossible in my parents' crowded house. She's Mary; he's Joseph - they're childless. So, natually, for a short while early in my theological education, I assumed that I was Jesus. (Click on photo to enlarge). 
Auntie Mary holds me and my older brother, Cahir, dark complexioned like my father, stands by, his manly features begining to show in his mid-teens. He now lives in Yeepoon, Australia, just up the coast from Brisbane and south of Cairns. (Click on photo to enlarge) 
My older sister, Moira, sits in our backyard step below our dining room window, the lintle strewn with used paint and turpentine tins. I cuddle against my father, his handsome face downturned in a moment of self-consciousness. He was quite the project for me to warm up to something resembling affection or attention, but once in a while I got what I needed. My father is dark-complexioned with olive skin and hazel eyes, not at all Irish looking like my mother's people, from whom I inherited red hair and freckles. (Click on photo to enlarge)
I am standing to attention because I have just been inducted into the army of Christ. At school we were ordered in military fashion to stand to" attention like men" and since I had just received my first communtion, I was truly delighted with myself for I had been inducted into the weekly pageant of processing up the broad central aisle of the cathedral before the hundreds of my fellow worshippers to receive the holy wafer each Sunday. My performative life had begun at last, with a weekly audience, stained glass windows, theatrical lighting, aromatic smoke pouring from swinging censer, processing back and forth to the altar in a slow but carefully choreographed step, kneeling, sticking out my tongue, the polished brass patin under my chin held by the altar boy with tremendous concentration in his eyes, the scrubbed and manicured hands of Father Daly placing the magical wafer on my tongue. Crossing myself, head bowed. Arising and turning to face the congregation, my face, a holy tea towel of innocence, upturned, seeing through the wisps of smoke the choir singing "Oh, Lord! My lodging is on the cold ground!" What joy! Our vestibule was the grandest quarter of our dwelling, a great door painted green. A great black knocker grew out of its center like a weapon of torture from the Inquisition. Two posts, the right one sporting a bell for callers. By day, the great door was left open and the ornate frosted glass vestibule door provided a more welcoming facade. I am very proud of my knees. For a boy of my age, I had fine knees. Not those of a football player, but certainly those of a long distance runner or a turf-cutter, or perhaps an Irish step dancer. Again, white lacy socks were a must for such solemn occasions. An American boy would have burned the socks in the fireplace. I cherished them and folded them carefully after each religious ceremony and placed them in my little chest of drawers with my small collection of socks and underwear. (Click on photo to enlarge)
I am eight, standing at the base of "Sentry Bastion" near Church Wall. The dark dripping walls are the site of centuries of battles between Protestant and Papist English royalty. My coy smile and flirtatious pose belie the bloodshod history of the surroundings. I colorized this black and white photo under the instruction of San Diego art teacher, Dick Greene. I didn't know what to do, but without thinking, I decided to lend colour to everything but my own little body.
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