He’d known from an early age the backbreaking work of plowing a field behind a horse named Moon. He’d lost an uncle and his oldest brother in the first Great War, had grieved for a sister who’d died before her eighteenth birthday delivering her second child.
He’d known hunger in the lean times, had never forgotten the taste of his mother’s bread and butter pudding-or the whip-swat of her hand when he’d earned it. When Liam Sullivan died, at the age of ninety-two, in his sleep, in his own bed with his wife of sixty-five years beside him, the world mourned.īorn in a little cottage tucked in the green hills and fields near the village of Glendree in County Clare, he’d been the seventh and last child of Seamus and Ailish Sullivan.
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