Read by Matilda Longbottom

“You want a piece of pit?” Cousin Margaret chuckled, her thick Donegal accent stretching the word “peat” into something entirely new. She was laughing at my request for a brick of turf from the stack next to her roaring fireplace.

It was our last day in Ireland—our honeymoon, no less—and we had spent the afternoon watching the “lads” cut peat in a nearby bog. It was a mesmerizing process: dark, grassy bricks of wet earth tossed aside to dry, soon to be burned for warmth in the thatched cottages that dotted the countryside.

And when I say warmth, I mean hellfire. That little parlor was blazing, and yet the rich, earthy aroma of the burning peat felt so natural, so homey—so connected to my grandparents’ land. It was a scent I wanted to take back with me, a little souvenir of Ireland that I was sure would last a lifetime.

So, into my suitcase went a solid brick of Irish peat.

The Long Arm of the Law (or at least U.S. Customs)

As our flight left Donegal, the flight attendants handed out forms—courtesy of the EPA—asking whether we had visited any agricultural areas. I hesitated. Did a peat bog count? Maybe… but probably not. So, with all the innocence of a Philly girl who just wanted a cool souvenir, I checked “no.”

Well, wasn’t it just my Irish luck that our suitcase was the first one pulled for inspection?

There I stood, frozen in place, as the customs officer reached into my bag and pulled out the brick of turf like it was an illicit substance. “Ma’am, do you know this is soil?”

“Um… it’s peat?” I offered weakly.

That didn’t seem to win any points.

I was promptly led away for inspection and interrogation, while my husband, Mike, looked like he was about to file for divorce right then and there.

“But it’s just dirt!” I argued. “It’s not like I’m smuggling potatoes!”

The officer, clearly unimpressed, informed me of the dangers of foreign contaminants, the risk of invasive species, and how my little brick of nostalgia could single-handedly destroy American agriculture.

I may have rolled my eyes.

And so, my precious Irish peat was unceremoniously confiscated, chucked into some kind of environmental biohazard bin, never to warm a U.S. hearth again.

Lessons in Peat and Persistence

After recovering from my near-incarceration, I did some research and discovered that the U.S. actually has plenty of peat bogs of its own. Minnesota alone has over six-million acres of peatlands! Alaska, North Carolina, and New York all have their fair share as well. Peatlands store carbon, helping prevent greenhouse gases from escaping into the atmosphere. They also provide the perfect growing conditions for crops like cabbage, azaleas, and rhododendrons.

All of this was fascinating. But here’s the thing: American peat wasn’t the same as Irish peat. It didn’t have centuries of history, the hard work of generations, or that special scent that instantly transported me back to the warmth of my family’s Donegal home.

If There’s a Will, There’s a Way

So, I found a solution.

I ordered a box of Irish peat logs online.

Now, whenever I burn them in my fireplace, the smell of Ireland fills my home. The warmth, the history, the connection—I finally have it, minus the risk of international crime.

Sure, Margaret’s “pit” was confiscated at the airport like stolen contraband, but I’ll always cherish the memory of watching those Irish lads work the bog, transforming nature’s decay into something that warms both the hearth and the heart.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned—whether it’s peat, nostalgia, or a ridiculous honeymoon story—if there’s a will, there’s a way. ❖

About the Author: Hannah Dougherty Campbell, a spirited wordsmith with a heart as lush as her garden, hails from the suburbs of Philadelphia. Inspired by the beauty of nature and the resilience of the human spirit, Hannah found solace and creativity in crafting heartfelt poetry. With a background in teaching and a passion for nurturing creativity, she imparts her wisdom through her creative-writing classes, where she encourages others to explore the depths of their souls through the written word. Her cherished tradition of assigning flowers to personalities has blossomed into a family heirloom, enriching the lives of her loved ones and students alike. Through her work, she reminds us all of the delicate dance between nature and humanity, where every petal tells a story and every soul blooms in its own unique way.