Denis Lehane: The return of Bobby Ewing ...in West Cork
American actor, director and producer Larry Hagman as 'JR Ewing'. JR was no angel, of course. If you recall, he was always up to his armpits in skulduggery. Picture: Frank Tewkesbury/Evening Standard/Hulton Archive/Getty Images
I heard Bobby Ewing was in Cork recently looking for long-lost relatives.
His visit didn't surprise me in the least. A few years back, his big brother JR came looking for the very same thing. I should know because he called to me first.
I was outside feeding calves when this big car swept into the yard and out of the driver's window popped the head of old JR.
I knew it was JR for he was wearing a cowboy hat.
"My name is JR Ewing," says he reaching out his hand to shake my own "I believe I have relatives nearby."
"You sure do," says I, but I didn't rush in telling him the full story for the last of his relatives had only recently departed, and I didn't want to speak ill of the dead.
So, I finished feeding the calves first to give my brain a chance to consider how I would deal with the facts.
"Your Irish connection lived over there," says I, pointing way off into the distance, to no place in particular.
"So you knew him then?!" JR exclaimed.
"Knew him?" I laughed. "I knew him better than I know myself."
JR was thrilled. He then took me for a couple of jars, for all the information I was revealing was making my throat awfully dry.
"Tell me," says JR over a pint, "Was he a good man?"
Now, this was a hard question to answer for the only thing he was good at was cheating in cards. His relative had been a scoundrel all his life.
"He was good," says I, staring up at the ceiling, as if to heaven, "At whatever he put his mind to."
JR lapped it up. He had come a long way, and the last thing he wanted to hear was that his relative had been a ruffian.
JR himself was no angel, of course. If you recall, he was always up to his armpits in skulduggery. But he was a great man to buy a drink, so regardless of the facts, I sugar-coated everything and went on singing like a canary.
"Did he like the oil business?" JR asked.
"He loved it," says I. "There was nothing he liked better than filling his tank."Â
(Especially in the nighttime, when the diesel came from the yard of another man. He was a first-class thief).
But I conveniently left that bit out for old JR, who by this point was showering me with whiskey and pints galore. Only a fool would bite the hand that was feeding him.
Did he own a big ranch like South Fork?" JR asked.
"He did," says I, getting into my stride.
"It was called 'The Long Acre Ranch' and stretched for miles.
"My daddy used to say he'd have a girl under each arm because he had the gift of the blarney," JR bragged.
"He had plenty of gifts, alright," I agreed. "And yes, he was very fond of the ladies."
(Particularly, if they were married to someone else).
"He could talk his way out of any crisis," I proudly boasted.
JR was thrilled and made a toast in honour of all the honest men who live in Ireland.
"I'm only sorry," says he, with a tear in his eye after a rendition of 'When Irish Eyes are Smiling', "That he was dead before I had a chance to give him a warm Texan handshake."
"Yerra," says I. "'Tis he's the sorry fellow, for very few around here would claim to be his relative."
At this point, JR was moved to tears and left the farm a happy man.
I'm sure for years after he regaled all in Dallas with stories about his wonderful relatives here in Ireland.
Sure, 'twas no wonder then that Bobby Ewing returned.
