'On a flesh and bone foundation': An Irish History

'Tittering Lily', and childhood tales of Ringsend

2012-01-25T01:03:00.000-05:00

My mom's favourite stories from her childhood in Ringsend Dublin often include her closest friend, a girl named Lily Cowser. One of the most memorable things about Lily was her laugh, a very breathy 'schti sthee sthee'. If this blog could include sound effects, this story would be accompanied by the laughing sounds my mom makes whenever she shares tales of her adventures with her friend Lily. Aunt Alice would always know when Lily was in the house, because even if the girls tried to keep Lily quiet, inevitably she would start to laugh. Aunt Alice would call down from upstairs to say, "Is that tittering Lily Cowser, I hear? Tell her to go home."

I've heard Mom's stories many times, and I never tire of hearing them. They are always funny in some way or other, but more than that, there is a kind of sweetness and sadness to her recollections. In sharing with you this story from my mother's childhood, I want to take you back in time, so I'm going to use my mother's first name, Mary.

Three little girls and the Grand Canal

On a bright and very warm summer afternoon in Dublin, Mary, her sister Bernadette, and little Lily Cowser had some time on their hands. Near to their homes in Ringsend is the Grand Canal, a long and very old waterway which winds its way from Dublin all the way to the River Shannon. Many times the girls had been warned by Aunt Alice not to go near the canal, for fear that they might fall in. Mary and Bernadette risked a cane beating if Aunt Alice learned they had disobeyed her, but that did not stop them. As the story goes, it seems that elder sister Bernadette had quite a streak of mischief in her, and she prodded the girls to go, although my guess is Mary and Lily didn't need much prodding.

Nevertheless, off to the canal they went. As I mentioned, it was a very warm summer day for Dublin, and some of the boys in the neighbourhood had stripped down to their shorts (actual shorts, not underwear), and were jumping into the canal to cool off. Mary found the canal water a bit frightening because she thought it was very deep, a belief which was confirmed for her by the blackness of the water. In Mary's imagination the bones of other disobedient children were laid across the bottom of the canal's distant floor, forever lost, and she didn't want to join their number.

The Grand Canal Locks at Leeson St. Bridge, Ballsbridge

The three girls quickly, but carefully, scurried across the gates of the canal lock to sit on the side opposite the side from which the boys were jumping into the deep water. The girls did not want to get splashed, and then have to explain wet clothing to Aunt Alice. They plunked themselves down where the water was lower, and let their legs dangle over the side of the cool stone wall.

They sat there laughing and talking for quite some time, nudging each other, giggling over the silly boys, and relaxing in the lovely sunshine. Suddenly, one of the shoes Bernadette was wearing somehow came undone, and fell off her foot into the water. The three girls jumped up and began shrieking as though one of them had fallen into the canal. They laid down on their bellies, and although the distance was impossible for three such little girls, Mary, Lily, and Bernadette stretched their arms and their legs as far as they could in a desperate attempt to retrieve the lost shoe before it sank, but they could not reach it. A couple of the boys came over to their side of the lock to help. Each one jumped in and dove under the water searching as best he could in order to find the errant shoe, but it was all to no avail. Although the shoe was certainly gone, the girls knew they could not return home without it.

Six o'clock came, and Ringsend Church rang out the bells of the Angelus. Mary knew her father would be stopped on the bridge near their house, on his way home from work, standing next to his bicycle with his hat over his heart. He would be whispering the lines of the Angelus prayer to the peal of the bells. So too, she knew they were now late home. They would have to go home without the shoe. Mary and Bernadette would have to tell the the truth about what happened, and they would have to face the wrath of Aunt Alice.

When they arrived at Mary and Bernadette's house, the three girls stood by the front door, breaking their hearts crying. Long gone was Lily's laugh. Mary said they cried, not so much because she and Bernadette were frightened of the beating, but more because she knew their father worked so very hard to take care of their family, and shoes cost real money.

Mary and her sister Bernadette didn't receive a beating that day for disobeying Aunt Alice, or for the loss of that shoe. That was not Alice's way. Instead she would hold off on delivering the punishment until the children least expected it, believing that they would truly remember the punishment, and learn from it.

Mary vividly recalls the day she received the beating for her part in the loss of that shoe. At school, weeks after the shoe was lost, Mary had been given the prize of a small picture of Jesus Christ as a reward for perfecting her lessons. Mary still remembers how happy she felt on the way home from school, excited to show Aunt Alice the prize. It was then that Alice decided the time was right for the caning, and she was right, Mary never forgot it.

My dear mother Mary will celebrate her 81st birthday in May, and each time she tells me of the punishment she received, there is never a hint of rancour in her tone. When I am indignant about the cruel way in which she was treated, my mom will say, "that is the way things were done". She always reminds me that if it were not for Aunt Alice coming to live with the family after the death of their mother, Mom may have been taken away from the home into which she was born.

Copyright©irisheyesjg2012.

Tuesday's Tips: 'Granny was in the IRA': Turning a story into a history.

2012-01-24T01:03:00.001-05:00

The Irish Oral Tradition is one with a long and important history. As is the case with people from many backgrounds, it is the oral tradition which kept stories alive under the oppressive rule of a brutal colonizer who could destroy records, but could not control the stories alive on the tongues, and in the hearts and minds, of those they dominated. For many of us who have Irish ancestors, it is the oral tradition which has kept our family stories alive, and has inspired us to journey down the road of family history.

My dad used to say, “no one can weave a tale like an Irishman can.” I have many wonderful memories of stories told at get-togethers my parents had with ex-patriot Irish they befriended after emigrating from Ireland. Like any child who likes a good story, I was enthralled. Curled up on the floor next to the fire place, I happily listened to them sharing stories of ‘Home’. When we were in Ireland, I loved to listen to my parents, with their aunts, uncles, and siblings, sharing stories of the past. Recollections ran the gamut from memories of a childhood spent in Stoneybatter to reflections on the lives of those lost in the wars.

Now, as we seek to preserve those stories, we may discover that when the Irish Oral Tradition meets Irish History parts of those stories may not be strictly accurate. Some family historians prefer to accept all the details as fact, and don't view the stories with a skeptical eye, even when things don’t quite add up. To them I must pose the question, “Are we interested in learning the history of our ancestors’ lives, or in simply sharing myths created about them long after they turned to dust?”

Often, I receive emails from people whose ancestors shared the same Irish military history as mine, as well as from people whose stories sound a little sketchy. The sketchy stories usually feature ancestral heroics during the Easter Rising or the Irish War of Independence, with some details which sound implausible, and others which are downright impossible.

The thing is, if your ancestor served in any of the forces which worked to free Ireland from British rule, there may be records available to support the facts of their service. You just have to know where to find them. Even if you discover that your ancestor was not the hero of the hour, that doesn’t mean the history of the day didn’t impact your family in a significant way.

What a 'well read' Cumann na mBan gun-runner girl might have carried.

Finding your ancestor in early 20th century Irish military history

Do you have a direct ancestor who served in the Irish Volunteers during the Easter Rising or the Irish War of Independence, or was a member of the Free State Army during the Irish Civil War, and he/she applied for a pension?

If so, then you may request a copy of their record of service, currently free of charge, through the Veteran's Allowance Section of the Irish Department of Defence. This office also accesses information from The Medals Files, and will provide to you the details of any medals awarded to your kin for service from 1916 to 1922.

A few things about this:

1} The Irish War of Independence is also referred to as the 'Anglo-Irish War', 'The Black & Tan War', and even 'The Tan War'. One war, several names. If you’ve heard that Granny was a gun-runner in the Anglo-Irish War, then it means she served during the Irish War of Independence, 1919-1921.

2} If your ancestor was killed in action while serving, a pension record may still exist, so long as his/her next of kin applied for a survivor's pension.

3} You must be able to prove to the Veteran’s Allowance Section that you are next of kin to the person about whom you are requesting information. You must provide a copy of your birth certificate, and the birth certificates of other persons (father, grandfather, etc.) in the particular family line in order to prove your lineage. (**see note below)

4} Assuming a record exists, it may take up to a year for you to receive it. (Speaking from personal experience.)

5} In your letter of application provide as much information as possible about your ancestor, including such details as their full name, address during the time in question, and company rank.

6} You cannot submit an online request, but must write an actual letter to the office, being sure to include proof of kin documents. Provide all possible means of contact for you, including email, snail mail, and telephone number.

Their full mailing address is:

Veterans Allowance Section
Department of Defence (DOD)
Renmore, Galway
Ireland.

**Note: Pension records which are currently available only to next of kin are scheduled for release; the plan is for all of them to be available for public access by 2016. This does not mean they will be posted online, only that in requesting them you will not have to provide proof of next of kin status.

Suspect that Granny or Grandpa was in the IRA, but uncertain? Check out next Tuesday's Tips.

Copyright©irisheyesjg2012.
Click on photograph to view larger version.

Those Places Thursday: The Garden of Remembrance, Parnell Square, Dublin

2012-01-19T05:55:00.000-05:00

In Parnell's Square, north of the Liffey, is The Garden of Remembrance. It stands as a tribute to all of those Irish whose lives were sacrificed in the pursuit of freedom from foreign rule. During her May 2011 visit to Dublin, amid some controversy, Queen Elizabeth of Britain, accompanied by Irish President Mary McAleese, laid a wreath in the garden, marking the beginning of a new era in Anglo-Irish relations.

The garden was designed by Dáithí P. Hanly. In addition to the sunken cruciform water-feature, its focal point is Oisín Kelly's sculpture, 'The Children of Lir', a symbol of rebirth and resurrection. The mythological story of the Children of Lir tells of their transformation into swans by the magic of an evil step-mother who dooms them to swim the waters of Ireland for nine hundred years. In the context of the Garden of Remembrance, the statue symbolizes the rebirth of Ireland after the trauma of over seven hundred years of foreign rule.

Dublin poet Liam MacUistin's "We Saw a Vision", an aisling style poem, written in Irish, English and French is emblazoned on the stone wall at the same end of the garden as the sculpture.

We Saw A Vision

In the darkness of despair we saw a vision,

We lit the light of hope,

And it was not extinguished,

In the desert of discouragement we saw a vision,

We planted the tree of valour,

And it blossomed

In the winter of bondage we saw a vision,

We melted the snow of lethargy,

And the river of resurrection flowed from it.

We sent our vision aswim like a swan on the river,

The vision became a reality,

Winter became summer,

Bondage became freedom,

And this we left to you as your inheritance.

O generation of freedom remember us,

The generation of the vision.

What is the legacy of a People?

2012-01-17T01:03:00.000-05:00

LEGACY: legacy |ˈlegəsē|: noun ( pl. -cies)
• a thing handed down by a predecessor. Origin: late Middle English; from Old French legacie, from medieval Latin legatia ‘legateship,’ from legatus ‘person delegated’.

In the Oxford English dictionary, standing apart from the pronunciation and etymology of the word 'legacy', is a very simple and succinct definition, "a thing handed down by a predecessor". I think it's safe to assume that many people would say a legacy is a positive thing; however, what happens when a legacy is not a good thing? What happens when you inherit something which is socially unpalatable? What if the legacy of the people from whom you descend is not a legacy at all, but is a stereotype which does not touch your life, although many people assume it does? What if your assumed legacy is alcoholism?

I am Irish, and so this legacy comes to me.

Recently, I had to have a mammogram re-check. Anyone who has had mammogram associated 'issues' will relate, without me getting into any of the ugly details. The radiologist asks about my family background, and if there is a family history of breast cancer. I laugh nervously and answer quite honestly, "I don't know. I'm Irish and Irish families don't really discuss such matters". I answered in this way because, in my experience, Irish families don't.

The radiologist laughs and comes back with a response I've heard too many times before. "Oh, come on", she says, "not even when they've had one too many beers at the pub?". I recognize an unmistakeable edge in my tone when explain to her that, other than me, no one in my family drinks alcohol. Occasionally I enjoy good red wine, and yes I might even have a pint or two of Guinness when I'm in Ireland. "Really?", she says, "No one else in your family drinks?". It is clear that she does not believe me, and in truth it doesn't really matter what I say, because she has already decided who we are based on one word, IRISH.

I am Irish, and so this legacy comes to me.

A friend of mine is a psychiatrist. He calls alcoholism 'The Irish Disease'. Once, I asked him if he ever had an Irish patient who was an alcoholic. He said he didn't recall any Irish patients, but certainly did deal with people from Scotland and England who were alcoholics. He then explained that 'everyone knows' alcoholism is the Irish disease. I expressed surprise at the fact that he knows 'everyone', and then very sarcastically explained that, even assuming his contention might very well be true, the Scottish and the English are different ethnic groups from the Irish. Well from 'THAT' area of the world was his less than brilliant comeback.

The nation of Ireland has produced some of the greatest minds on the planet in the realms of literature and political philosophy, but it appears as though, at times, this is easily forgotten. The 'drunken Paddy' is always remembered.

I am Irish, and so this legacy comes to me.

A stereotype often emerges out of a given group because it fits some of the members of that group, of that there can be no doubt; however, just because a stereotype exists, does that mean we all fit into it?

Think about every colonized race of people in history and the stereotypes which were perpetuated about them. Think about the stereotypes associated with the people from whom you descend.

'Alcoholic', 'Lazy bum', 'Cheapskate', 'Shylock', 'Welfare Queen'?

Does the stereotype fit someone in your family tree? Perhaps it does, but does that mean that's all there is to the whole person, or to the whole ethic group? NO. Human beings are not two dimensional figures, neither all saint nor all sinner. No matter how simple a life we may lead, we are complex individuals. Each of us has both good qualities and bad, no matter what our country of origin.

My interest lies in uncovering all dimensions of the individuals in my family tree, within the stories of their lives. If alcoholism is part of the story, then certainly I acknowledge it; however, falling prey to the temptation to slot all individuals into stereotypes is just not that interesting to me.

Copyright©irisheyesjg2012.

52 Weeks of Abundant Genealogy: Free Online Sources for Irish Family History and Genealogy

2012-01-16T01:03:00.000-05:00

Despite budgetary constraints amid the financial meltdown that still plagues the island of my ancestors, when it comes to Irish genealogy sources available online, there is an ongoing effort to make available as many family history and genealogy resources as possible, and all FREE of charge.

A sincere THANK YOU must go out both to individuals and to organizations who are working their fingers to the bone to provide an abundance of free resources for online researchers.

The Finding Irish Family: Research Aids page of this blog has a long list of resources, both free and paid, available for Irish family history research. With a tip of my hat and a thank you to Amy Coffin for creating the blogging meme 52 Weeks of Abundant Genealogy, I would like to put the spotlight on some of those online sources which can be accessed for free. There are many others, so be sure to have a look at the research aids page.

Click on the blue links to access websites and pages.

1. 1901/1911 Irish Census - The National Archives of Ireland

Ever since parts of these census documents were first posted on their website years ago, the NAI have worked hard to update and improve this site. Not only can you view all of the information available from these census records, but you can view the original census documents, and all for free.

All thirty-two counties on the island are included. The census can not only be searched by surname but also by religion, occupation, relationship to the head of the family, literacy status, county or country of origin, Irish language proficiency, specified illnesses, and child survival information. They have accounted for almost any search term you might think of. As stated on the site, "you can now search for female married teachers in County Cork, or how many people spoke Irish in Ballyshannon, or how many Presbyterians there were in Roscommon".

Also visit the NAI Genealogy advice page on which they have their own long list of Irish genealogy websites, many of which are free. There are some gems here, including Rachel Darlington's Hidden Wexford Genealogy, which features Wexford workhouse records among others.

2. The National Library of Ireland Digital Photograph Database

Through the NLI's free online photograph database, you can view over 33,000 photographs from the collections of some of Ireland's most respected photographers of history. Browse the collections of the Keogh Brothers, A. H. Poole, and others who used the medium of photography, beginning as early as 1860, to visually record the history of the land and its people.

3. Are you just beginning your Irish family history research, and need advice about Irish records? Take a look at the NLI's Family History introduction, and download the PDF which outlines resources available, and includes need to know addresses.

4. Ireland Genealogy Projects Archives

As the name suggests this is a project, so the work is ongoing, and regularly updated. Check this site often for updates. All thirty-two counties on the entire island are included. Some counties have more information posted than others. In particular, the work done by those focussed on County Dublin is excellent. Special mention has to go to Yvonne Russell and Joyce Tunstead who have done a spectacular job posting hundreds of headstone photographs and transcriptions.

5. Irish Genealogy

If you have ancestors who were hatched, matched or dispatched in County Carlow, County Dublin, County Kerry, or the Diocese of Cork & Ross, then you will want to search the church records on the Irish government website called 'Irish Genealogy'. They are currently working on adding County Monaghan, Diocese of Clogher. Although the site is slow to update, there are over three million records here, all available to view for free, and most include images of the original parish registers.

6. Cyndi's List

Cyndi has done an outstanding job bringing together over 3800 links across 32 categories for research, both free and paid, in the area of Ireland, and the United Kingdom. Ireland has been a Free State only since 1922, and a Republic with no political ties to Britain since 1949, meaning some information applicable to your Irish ancestors may likely be found in British resources, so make sure to check them out as well.

As always, Happy Researching!

Cheers,
Jennifer

Copyright©irisheyesjg2012.

Leinster House, the seat of the Oireachtas, Irish Parliament

2012-01-11T01:07:00.000-05:00

The main gates on Kildare Street, Dublin

The main entrance through which members of government enter, and heads of State are welcomed.

Leinster House, the beautiful, almost palace-like complex which is the seat of Irish government (Oireachtas), has evolved over time, beginning with the vision of James Fitzgerald, the Earl of Kildare, whose plan it was to have built for him the most stately Georgian mansion Dublin had ever seen.

Within the complex are the two Houses of the Oireachtas (National Parliament), comprising the Dáil Éireann (the House of Representatives) and the Seanad Éireann (the Senate).

James Fitzgerald commissioned famed German architect Richard Cassels to build what would then be known as Kildare House. Construction of the house took place from 1745 until 1747, in what was then an unfashionable area of Dublin known as Molesworth’s Field; however, just as the Earl foretold, the area around Kildare house soon became the most desirable in the city. In 1776, when the Earl became Duke of Leinster, the house was renamed Leinster House.

It has been claimed that Leinster House was the model for Irish architect James Hoban when he created the White House. Born in county Kilkenny in 1762, Hoban studied architecture in Dublin, and would have had the opportunity to study the design of Leinster House.

In 1815 the third Duke of Leinster, Augustus Frederick, sold the mansion to the Royal Dublin Society for £10,000 and a yearly rent of £600. The Society made extensive additions to the house, most notably the lecture theatre, which later became the chamber of the Dáil Éireann.

After the establishment of the Irish Free State in 1922, the new government took over part of Leinster House for parliamentary use. The entire building was acquired by the State in 1924.

Evidently the architect Cassels did not foresee the brilliant future of this magnificent house, because in the inscription on the cornerstone he makes reference to the house one day being in ruins. The Latin inscription translated to English reads as follows:

The house, 

of which this stone is the foundation, 

James, twentieth Earl of Kildare, 

caused to be erected in Molesworth's field, 

in the year of our Lord 1747.

Hence learn, whenever, in some unhappy day, 
you light on the ruins of so great a mansion,

of what worth he was who built it, 

and how frail all things are, 

when such memorials of such men cannot outlive misfortune. 

Click on photographs to view larger versions.
All photographs Copyright©irisheyesjg2012. All Rights Reserved.

Tuesday's Tips: Seeking Irish History in an Auction House

2012-01-10T01:03:00.001-05:00

For the second time I journeyed down the road of seeking Irish history in an auction house. In December of 2010 I wrote about my first experience with the auction process. Although participating in an auction of historical memorabilia is not for the faint of heart, I recommend it if you are interested in owning a 'piece' of history, or even if you are just interested in the process and seeing what kinds of items are auctioned.

In this instance, once again I participated in an auction held by Whyte's Auction House in Dublin. Since I had previously bid in their auction of History, Literature & Collectibles, they mailed me this catalogue in advance of the auction.

My wish list for this auction was a little longer, and since I had the hard copy catalogue, I was able to peruse it beforehand, and mark my maximum bid price next to lots* in which I was interested. I set an overall budget before the auction, and decided that money planned for certain lots could be moved to other lots if I lost out on the bid. For example, I was interested in a 'lot' of early 20th century Irish newspaper photographs, but the bidding got way out of my league very quickly, and so I reallocated the funds I had planned to spend on the photographs to another lot in which I was interested.

There were two items in particular at the top of my wish list:

1) Lot #290 - 1916 Thom's Dublin City and County Directory.

2) Lot #384 - 1930 Letter from the Active Service Unit Dublin Brigade Veterans.

My wish list included two other lots, in addition to the lot of newspaper photographs, one of 1916 postcards, and another of period photographs. Very quickly it became clear that I would have no chance of winning these lots, and so I ceased to bid on them.

The last lot on my list was Lot #397 - 1798-1921: A collection of Irish Revolutionary period books.

With the reallocation of funds, as I mentioned, I won the bid for the 1916 Directory and the 1930 letter. I had enough left in my budget to bid on the last lot on my list and I won that bid as well.

After making arrangements to have the items shipped to me I received them in late October of 2011. The 1916 directory is extraordinary, as is the letter, which includes a complete listing of all members of the Dublin Active Service Unit, and the collection of books is outstanding.

Some heavy reading

The collection of books includes a very battered and fragile 1833 copy of Sir Jonah Barrington's The Rise and Fall of The Irish Nation. The book includes what is probably one of the first 'Black Lists' ever in print in which Sir Barrington lists the names of those who sold out Ireland in voting for the Act of Union. Clearly Barrington had a lot to get off his chest, and he wanted to make sure everyone who picked up the book knew it.

Click on the photograph of the book cover
to view the full title of the book.

I am so grateful for the opportunity to have these pieces in my collection.

Long story short, since this is a tips post, here are my original tips along with a couple of new ones:

1. Seek out reputable auction sites with good reviews, and attend live auctions if you are able, or attend online 'live', if that option is available.

2. Take a chance. Most auction houses have items priced for museum budgets, or for the wallets of the rich and famous, but many also have available some very reasonably priced pieces.

3. Create a wish list. Take a look at the entire online catalog, and create a wish list of the items you would like to bid on. Create the list in order of preference, and be fully prepared to lose out on some of the items on your wish list when they go to higher bidders. If a higher bidder wins the lot you have bid on, then just move down your list.

4. Set your budget limit and do not exceed it! A live auction is very exciting and you can easily get caught up in that excitement, so know your limit, and stay within it. You may be bidding against museums and individuals with very deep pockets, and although it is very disappointing to lose an item you may have had your heart set on, it's better than suffering buyer's remorse.

5. Invest in history. You may come across something extraordinary which connects to your family, or at the very least to their country of origin. In my own family history 1916 was a very significant year, so to have Thom's Directory for that year is a wonderful thing for which I am truly grateful.

Note: *'Lot' is the term used by auctioneers to refer to the number given to a piece that will be sold in auction. A lot may consist of one item or a group of items.

Click on photographs to view larger versions.
Copyright©irisheyesjg2012. All Rights Reserved.

Dublin Streetscapes

2012-01-05T01:03:00.000-05:00

Okay, I admit it, I'm a gawker. I love to look at places, and at people and things that pass by, especially in Dublin. I don't know what it is about the place, but it seems so full of possibility that I just have to drink in every sight. Guess I'm back to the little sponge allusion again. Also, I like the idea of travelling along the same streets my ancestors once walked. Here are a few Dublin City streetscapes that I captured in September. I hope you enjoy them.

Looking back at Christchurch Cathedral.

Where Leinster Street meets Parliament.

Through the gate on Marlborough Street.

Off North Brunswick Street in Stoneybatter.

As Dame Street turns into Cork Hill.

Looking toward the Wellington Monument in Phoenix Park.

Click on photographs to view larger version.
All photographs Copyright©irisheyesjg2012. All Rights Reserved.

Beneath Mary's Tree: The interred of unmarked grave #G 87.5

2012-01-04T06:34:00.000-05:00

A while ago I wrote about my experience of finding the unmarked graves of my maternal grandparents in the Prospect Cemetery at Glasnevin. Although I never met my grandparents, it was difficult for me to accept that my grandmother and my grandfather are interred in separate and unmarked graves.

In Glasnevin, a gravestone cannot be erected unless the plot is owned by the person who wishes to erect a stone. Also, an unowned, and thus unmarked, plot can be reopened for additional interments. If the grave is not yet occupied to capacity, persons completely unconnected to those already interred can be buried in the plot.

When I learned these facts, I began to think about those individuals who are interred with my grandmother Mary Fitzpatrick Ball. To erect a stone which only acknowledges the passing of her life would be to forget the others who had gone before her, and with whom she is now interred in the same grave.

To that end, I sought out the entire record of the interments of plot #G 87.5 in the Garden section of Prospect Cemetery, so that I could learn at least a little more about those individuals. Here is what I discovered.

In addition to my grandmother Mary Fitzpatrick Ball, there are six people buried in the grave, for a total of seven. The first interment took place in 1835. All six people, with the exception of the first person buried here, died in the Autumn of the year in which they were interred. It seems fitting that the tree which stands at the foot of the plot, the tree which I had taken to calling Mary's tree, should be replete with the reds and golds of Autumn when I first visited and photographed the grave. For the family members connected to each one of those interred here, I imagine the autumn and winter of their loved one's passing was a difficult time indeed.

The first person interred in the grave was a man named James Doyle. The record of his 1835 interment offers little information, apart from his name and his last known address of Rainsford Street, Dublin. The record notes his date of death as 27 February 1835. There is neither a statement of his age, nor of his next of kin.

In 1838, the grave was opened for the interment of Mark McGrath. The record bears a little more information in his case. Mr. McGrath of Garden Lane, Dublin, died 30 October 1838 at the age of 70 years. Just as in the case of Mr. Doyle, there is no reference to next of kin.

The grave remained undisturbed for eleven years until the interment of Monica Hendricken of Crampton Court, Dublin. At the age of three weeks, Monica died on 12 December 1849. There is no reference to the names of her parents or to her cause of death, but given that her date of death is right in the middle of the years of the Great Hunger, one can easily imagine a possible cause. Monica was the first of four children who would be interred in this grave.

A full twenty-four years after Monica Hendricken's burial, the grave was once again opened for the burial of another young baby. On 5 October 1873, Eliza Anne Murphy was interred. Like Monica before her, Eliza was also aged three weeks. The record notes Eliza was a "Labourer's child"[sic], the daughter of Fralise and Eliza Murphy. Eliza died 4 October; the cause of her death is recorded as 'Bronchitis'. The family lived at 7 Mark's Lane in Dublin. Eliza's father Fralise is noted as the informant of her death.

In 1886, another child was interred in grave #G 87.5. Daniel McKillop, a "Sailor's child", was the son of Michael and Mary McKillop. Daniel died 19 September 1886 at the age of one year and nine months, and was interred three days later. The cause of death is noted as "Diarrhoea", and the informant to the registrar was his mother Mary McKillop. I find myself wondering if her husband was away at sea when Mary had to bury their little son.

Twelve years after Daniel McKillop's interment, the last child to be interred in this grave was eight month old Christopher Byrne. Christopher, noted as a "Labourer's child" [sic], was the son of James and Isabella Byrne. Christopher lived and died in a house on 10 Bath Avenue Place, County Dublin. He died 18 September 1898 of "convulsions", and was buried two days later.

Thirty eight years later, my grandmother Mary Angela Fitzpatrick Ball was the last person interred in plot #G 87.5 in the Garden section of Prospect Cemetery at Glasnevin. Mary died 18 December 1936 and was interred on the first day of winter, 21 December 1936. Thankfully, I have been assured by Glasnevin Trust that the grave will never be opened again.

James, Mark, Monica, Eliza, Daniel, Christopher, and my grandmother Mary Angela, all together for eternity. Across a period of just over 101 years, when tragedy brought them to this place, the families of each one of these individuals stood over this grave in the autumn or winter of the year, while their loved one was interred. I find myself wondering about who planted the tree at the foot of their grave. It does not seem like a very old tree, but I like to imagine it was planted in 1835, grew a little taller each year, and cheered the members of those families with the colour of its leaves, and the soft whisper of the wind moving through its branches.

'A change is as good as a rest'

2012-01-03T10:17:00.000-05:00

Once again I am quoting my dad in the title of this post, 'a change is as good as a rest'. I've decided to refresh the look of 'On a flesh and bone foundation': an Irish History. Over the last month I have wrestled with the idea of not only changing the background, but changing the title of this blog as well. However, after talking to a friend about it, I decided that the title is what it is because of the meaning behind it. My friend asked me why my blog has the title it does, and in order to answer her I had to cast my thoughts way back to the beginning of this blog.

I am very blessed to have my wonderful family members in Australia, England, and The United States of America, but the fact is that my family history, at its foundation, is essentially an Irish family history. My mother, my father, and my brother are all Irish born, and in the many generations back from them our family members were born, lived and died in Ireland. Although I am first generation Canadian, I hold Irish Citizenship and travel on an Irish passport. In the west country of Ireland, our paternal name can be traced back to the 8th century.

We are Irish to our very core, and that was what inspired the title of this blog, 'On a flesh and bone foundation': An Irish History. Although I have been composing basic family trees and doing some family history research since I was about 15 years old, for me building on the foundation of my family began in earnest after the death of my dad. The drive to rediscover the history of our family pushed my research further than ever before. There is something about getting a sense of the mortality of family members that brings such research into sharp focus.

Along the way, with respect to the title of this blog, I have encountered what was probably inevitable, given the inclusion of the words 'flesh' and 'bone', and I have at times regretted the title; however, the fact is the title still fits. The 'bones' of this story are the documents, the official records of birth, marriage, death, and so on, which stand as proof of my connection to my ancestors. The 'flesh' is the stories of my ancestors, the glorious and the ignoble, the joyous and the heartbreaking, all of the times which fill out the skeleton of a life.

Best wishes to you and yours as you ring in the New Year

2011-12-31T07:27:00.002-05:00

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,

The flying cloud, the frosty light:

The year is dying in the night;

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,

Ring, happy bells, across the snow:

The year is going, let him go;

Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind

For those that here we see no more;

Ring out the feud of rich and poor,

Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,

And ancient forms of party strife;

Ring in the nobler modes of life,

With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,

The faithless coldness of the times;

Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes

But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,

The civic slander and the spite;

Ring in the love of truth and right,

Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease;

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;

Ring out the thousand wars of old,

Ring in the thousand years of peace.

These lines, taken from Alfred, Lord Tennyson's 'Ring Out, Wild Bells', a part of the elegy 'In Memoriam' written for Arthur Henry Hallam, seem fitting to mark the turning of this year into the next.

May the New Year bring health, wealth and happiness to each one of you and your families.

Cheers,
Jennifer

What did I learn this year? The life lessons of 2011

2011-12-28T01:03:00.000-05:00

The end of one year and the beginning of another usually brings with it the desire to review the past year, and in my case to ask myself the question, "What did I learn this year?"

2011 was an interesting year for me. Along the way I learned some things of no great import, as well as some things which have profoundly affected the way in which I view my life. Some of the lessons of this year have to do with knowledge, others with feelings, sensations, and inclinations. A couple of lessons were not new to me, but instead served as reminders of things I had not thought about in a while.

I learned that I can no longer eat chocolate truffles, because I find them much too sweet for my palate. Not groundbreaking as discoveries go, but at one time I did see a lot of truffles in my future. At least my waistline will see the benefit of the loss to my taste buds.

Once again, I learned that 'professionals' are people too, and therefore occasionally they behave very unprofessionally. Sad to say, but sometimes it seems as though the boardroom still closely resembles the playground of my grade school days, and the bullies are alive and well. On a positive note, I also discovered that kind words from unlikely sources can be very uplifting.

Discovery of a much more profound nature happened this year, as I learned to really 'stand inside of my life', and truly observe what is going on around me. The awareness I have come to in this regard has been groundbreaking for me. Sometimes there is a magnificence in this. Such was the case when I found myself standing in silence at the foot of Croagh Patrick, St. Patrick's Mountain, breathing in the crisp cool air of Clew Bay, and imagining my ancestors doing the same back in the 18th century.

Other lessons have not been so pleasant, but nonetheless there they are, moments offering insight. For example, I have become very aware of feeling as though my mother is slipping away from me. She speaks of death much more frequently now, and of her dislike of getting old. It frightens me, probably in part because it reminds me of my own mortality, but more importantly, and more urgently, it reminds me that although I sometimes believe my mother will live forever, she will not. I now understand, more than ever before, that our time together is very precious.

My mother's tendency to talk about her own mortality has reminded me of the importance of living in the moment. Tibetan Buddhist nun Pema Chodron calls it "learning to stay", keeping the mind focussed on what is going on right in front of you, rather than letting your thoughts run to future plans, what you're going to do tomorrow, next week, or next year. None of these times are promised to any of us. The only time we have is this moment, the one we are in, so I endeavour to live in it.

I learned that, in the emotional side of my brain, I sometimes imagine some individuals are immortal. As is always the case, I am quickly brought back to earth by the death of someone whom I admire. In this instance, I am thinking of Apple founder Steve Jobs. Although I knew of his battle with pancreatic cancer, when I learned of his death I was shocked. For just a moment I wondered how is it that such a man, who seemed to be able to do anything, could not cheat death? The answer: He was a human being. He reminded his audience at a commencement address that 'none of us is getting out of here alive', and said the fact of our own mortality should make us fearless, because there truly is nothing to be afraid of. If you knew you were going to die tomorrow, what would you do with today?

I learned that individuals who act as though they know everything are sometimes covering up a deep sense of self-doubt. I learned the importance of showing compassion toward them, and listening to what they have to say, instead of wishing they would just stop regaling us with their put-on brilliance. People just want to know they are heard, even seemingly obnoxious people.

I learned that a deep hurt from long ago can still resonate within the life of someone, even decades after the hurtful experience. During preparations for the holidays, I met a man who was once the boy who sat behind me in third grade. He asked me if I recalled the punishment, meted out to us by Sister Adele, for whispering to one another. 'Yes, I do', was my reply. Sister took a metal and rubber strap and whipped it across our hands, leaving painful welts that lasted for days, and a feeling of humiliation which lasted much longer. I could see in Joseph's eyes that the pain of that punishment was very much alive in him. I felt great compassion for him, and reminded him of all the happy times we experienced in that classroom, such as the triumph of mastering our 'times-tables', and the joy of decorating the classroom at Christmas.

I learned that, as my father once said, I am still like the little sea sponge who wants to soak up all the world has to offer. I live to learn, and I am very grateful for all that I have been able to see, experience, taste, and touch over this past year, and I look forward to much more in the coming year.

In the old classic film 'Auntie Mame', Rosalind Russell, as Mame, says,

'Live! Life is a banquet, and most poor suckers are starving to death'. I plan to fully partake of the banquet of life and learn until I am sated, and my time here is ended.

Copyright©J.Geraghty-Gorman 2011.

Happy Christmas to you and yours!

2011-12-25T01:03:00.027-05:00

May all the joys of the season come to you and your family on this Christmas Day,

and may the world enjoy a peaceful and happy new year.

The Christmas of the little red sewing machine

2011-12-19T01:03:00.002-05:00

The memory of this Christmas takes me far back in time, back to a Christmas when I was old enough to remember some of the details, but not old enough to truly appreciate what it meant for my parents to have a Christmas for us that year. When you are a little child you never imagine what life is like for your parents, what kinds of struggles they face; you believe your mother and father can deal with anything.

Although I did not realize it at the time, the Christmas of the little red sewing machine was one of great struggle for my parents. My mother was grieving the loss of her father earlier that year, and the loss of a baby to miscarriage that September. The company for which my father worked had closed down, so for a time my dad was left without a job. Although these things happened, my brother and I were unaware of the true state of affairs.

My parents were always good savers, so they used the money set aside to take care of our family until Dad found another job. Although my parents didn't use a lot of money for Christmas that year, they made sure we had a memorable one. My mom usually makes several traditional Irish Christmas puddings each year, but that year Mom made only one, and it was much smaller than usual. Dad brought home a smaller Christmas tree, and we decorated it with just a few of the decorations we always used, such as the little feathered birds that I loved to clip on the ends of the tree branches.

The real change took place starting on Christmas Eve. Before that night, on Christmas Eve, we had always been allowed to choose a single present to open just before we went to bed, but instead of a present, for each of us there was a new pair of soft flannel pajamas on our pillow, and new slippers on the floor next to our beds. I remember being excited about the appearance of the pajamas and slippers because we had never done this before. After we dressed in our new pajamas, we said our prayers, and Mom tucked us into bed.

In the morning there were no presents under the tree, instead there was to be a "Present Hunt". We searched around the house as Mom and Dad gave us clues to lead us to a present, telling us whether we were getting "warmer" or "colder", as we searched for the gifts. I remember the sounds of a lot of laughter and silliness during the search.

Two presents were given to me on that Christmas day. One present was a little box of lace handkerchiefs, embroidered in bright red and green, the other was my little red sewing machine. There was no pretty paper around them, no ribbons or bows to untie, just these small special gifts as they were. I still remember exactly where I found the sewing machine. It was tucked behind the tall white door which led into our living room. I was so excited when I found it that I held it in the air and danced around with it. It's funny the things you remember about such times. If I close my eyes now I can exactly recollect the bright red colour and the coolness of the metal of that little machine, as though it was right here in front of me. I remember the delicate sheerness of those handkerchiefs, as I draped one over my hand; they seemed so fragile that I was afraid to damage them.

My mom prefers not to think about that Christmas; it is difficult for her to recollect the struggles of that year, and the fear of uncertainty, and associate it with any feelings of happiness. For me, good memories of that Christmas remain, because the greatest gifts I received on that day were the feelings of joy, comfort and security that my parents imparted to us. Those feelings were better than any gift money can buy. Even though my brother and I were quite young, somehow we understood how much it meant to our parents for us to be happy on that day, and we were, we truly were.

©Copyright J.Geraghty-Gorman 2011.

Remembering a mother lost

2011-12-16T01:03:00.010-05:00

Maria 'Mary' Angela Fitzpatrick Ball

Sunday 18 December 2011 will mark the 75th anniversary of the death of Maria 'Mary' Fitzpatrick Ball, my maternal grandmother. Grandmother Mary died seven months after my own mother celebrated her 5th birthday, and even though my mom is now in her 80th year, there are memories of her mother, and little glimpses of life in their home around the time of my grandmother's death, which have never left my mom. They are recollections of sight, sound, scent, and feeling, instead of what we might consider actual memories, but still they are with her.

The image of the mark on her mother's face is emblazoned on my mother's brain. You can tell by the look in her eyes each time she talks about it, at exactly that moment, she is seeing the mark and remembering what followed from it. This loss had an impact so profound for my mom that I will never truly understand it. My mother describes the mark in exactly the same way each time she mentions it, and she gestures to show on her own face precisely where it was, followed always by the exhortation, "God Bless the mark". She says, "A slender purple line, with blue and grey behind it, going from here to just there", and I imagine the colours soft and smudged like those in a Renoir pastel.

They say that women learn how to be mothers from their own mothers, but for my mother the lessons never took place, because she was only five and a half years old when her mother died. Mary Angela Fitzpatrick Ball died of blood poisoning, the result of an infection at the site of a cut made by her young baby John's tiny fingernails.

My mother's memories are the memories of a five year old child. She does not remember the neighbourhood women coming to the house to prepare the body and lay her mother out in the bed Mary Ball had shared with her husband for sixteen years. She does not remember the mirrors covered over with black crepe, the death announcements rimmed in black paper, or the black arm band each man wore on his sleeve. Intellectually, my mother knows each one of these rituals were a part of that day, but she does not remember them because her memories are the emotional memories of a child.

My mother remembers wearing a very pretty dress, but the colour of it is lost to her. What remains is the feeling of a stiff white lace collar which felt slightly itchy against her skin. She and her sisters wore pristine white knee socks and their black hornpipe dress shoes. She remembers the stilled faces of the adults, and their hushed conversation. She remembers standing on tip-toes with her sisters Bernadette and Kathleen, looking out the window each time the funeral cortege passed their house, as it ritually circled the block once, twice, three times. She remembers the muscular black horses, the steam emitting from their noses, the tall black plumes which crowned each of their heads, the sound that their hooves made as they struck the cobbled pavement. For my mother these moments are locked in time.

My maternal grandmother Mary Fitzpatrick Ball died 18 December 1936, seven days before Christmas. Penicillin, which could have saved her, was invented in 1928, but was not widely available, so she never received it. I never mention how unfair that was, because somehow that detail seems so unimportant now. Only the memories of this five year old girl matter.

Maria (pronounced Mariah) 'Mary' Angela Fitzpatrick was born 22 June 1894 in Swords, County Dublin, Ireland. She was the second born child, and the first born daughter, of Thomas Fitzpatrick and Maria Hynes Fitzpatrick. For sixteen years she was married to Patrick Ball, for whom she bore eight children. When she died she was 42 years old; her youngest child John was less than a year old, and has no memory of her. Her eldest son Anthony was not yet fifteen.

Copyright© J.Geraghty-Gorman 2011.

Blog Caroling: Nollaig Shona Dhuit, Merry Christmas to All!

2011-12-09T01:03:00.196-05:00

The decorations are up, the house is warm by the fire, and once again it's time to join in as footnoteMaven invites us to celebrate the season by Blog Caroling. I offer two pieces for this year's celebration:

On this blog is 'Nollaig Shona Dhuit', Merry Christmas to All!, a musical journey of photographs of my wonderful Irish family through time. It is accompanied by 'The Wexford Carol', a very beautiful and traditional Irish Christmas carol. Alison Krauss sings it, accompanied by Yo-Yo Ma and Natalie McMaster. The carol is said to have originated in 12th century County Wexford, Ireland. I hope you enjoy it.

On my cemetery blog, 'Over thy dead body' , I hope you'll stop by and have a look at and a listen to 'Angels heard on High', a video which includes brand new images of Angel stones I shot at Glasnevin and Mount Jerome cemeteries in Dublin, set to a traditional carol, 'Angels We Have Heard On High', sung by the Christendom College Choir.

Happy Blog Christmas Caroling!

May you and yours enjoy all the blessings of the season!

Incarcerated in Kilmainham Gaol: A little girl with a familiar name

2011-12-07T06:07:00.003-05:00

Inside a cell in Kilmainham Gaol.
A photograph I shot in the bright light of mid-day.

Sometimes when conducting research for my own family history, I come across individuals with whom I am not connected but who bear exactly the same name as an ancestor. Often, I find myself drawn to find out more about them, despite the lack of a familial connection. Such was the case when I was looking at the Kilmainham Gaol Registers. Within the index to the register for 1872, I found a record for a little girl named Margaret Toole. This particular Margaret Toole bears the same name as my paternal great-grandmother, and was born in County Dublin in 1861, just a year after my great-grandmother Margaret Toole was born in County Mayo.

When I came across her name, I was struck by the fact that the lives of these two Margaret Tooles were probably very different, and I just had to find out more about the Margaret Toole listed in the index to the register.

The information about Margaret Toole is recorded in the "Kilmainham Registry of Female Juveniles At and Under Sixteen Years". The title alone makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck. It's difficult to imagine that children at and under the age of 16 years would have been incarcerated in Kilmainham. Unfortunately, given 19th century ideas about crime and punishment, this was not as unusual as we might hope.

There are twenty-four Kilmainham Gaol registers held at the National Archives Ireland, offering details of internments from the late 18th century (1796) when the prison opened to February 1910 when the prison was closed for the first time. Within those registers is included the history of the imprisonment of children at Kilmainham. Up until 1859, children were interned in Kilmainham to serve sentences which could range from days to months, and included such punishments as seven days imprisonment and twenty lashes for stealing a loaf of bread. In 1859, Reform Schools were opened in Ireland. In addition to their imprisonment in Kilmainham, children would also receive years long sentences in Reform School. In 1868, a ten year old child named Patrick Duff served two weeks in Kilmainham, and then five years in Reform School, for stealing two leather straps.

Although some female prisoners had their babies with them while their served out their sentences, the youngest child ever convicted and imprisoned in Kilmainham was five year old Catherine Lyons. In 1855 Catherine and her parents, Alan and Anne, were sentenced to seven days in Kilmainham for riding a train without tickets.

The presumed links between crime, poverty, parentage and moral degradation, which mark the 19th century, are very clear from the column headings of the register entries. Under the following headings, which are recorded here exactly as they appear in the register, the registrant adds details about the prisoner:

"If he has been in Workhouse"
"If parents or either of them in Workhouse"
"If parents or either of them have been in gaol"
"Without parents"
"Abandoned by parents"
"Absconded from parents"
"Without Father"
"Without Mother"
"Step Child"
"Illegitimate"

The entry in the gaol register for Margaret Toole offers a wealth of information. It tells us that Margaret, aged 11 years, is a stepchild without a father. Margaret lived with her mother and stepfather in Ballsbridge, County Dublin. On 22 July 1872, Margaret was imprisoned in Kilmainham Gaol for a period of 14 days after she was charged with, and convicted of, "Larceny of Money", specifically the theft of £3/-6. Further, the record states that she is Roman Catholic and illiterate. Also, in the index to the register it is noted that this is her first time in prison.

Having been in Kilmainham Gaol on several occasions, both as a researcher and as a tourist, I can tell you that the oldest section of the gaol is a dark and forbidding place. In 1881, one of my ancestors, Andrew J. Kettle, was incarcerated in Kilmainham; the dampness of the place never left him, and reportedly contributed to the decline of his health. I cannot even begin to imagine what it was like for an 11 year child to spend 14 days incarcerated here in 1872. Given that Margaret Toole was a stepchild, I wonder if she did in fact steal the £3/-6, or if her incarceration was a punishment meted out by her guardians over some perceived infraction.

Main Entrance of Kilmainham Gaol, Dublin

References for further reading:

O'Sullivan, Niamh. Every Dark Hour: A History of Kilmainham Jail, Liberties Press, Dublin, 2007.

Some of the Kilmainham Gaol Registers are now available for online research through Find My Past Ireland at www.findmypast.ie
Searching is free, but subscription is required to view documents.

Copyright©J.Geraghty-Gorman 2011.
Click on photographs to view larger version.

Advent Calendar of Christmas Memories: Manifesting Santa Claus

2011-12-06T01:03:00.400-05:00

Thank you Graphics Fairy!

My mom told me a story about the Christmas my brother began to doubt the existence of Santa Claus. Mom doesn't recall at what age his skepticism set in, but she does remember 'threatening' my brother with some unspecified punishment if he said anything about his doubts to me, his little sister. My brother is a good egg, and he never said a word to me about his feeling that Santa was a creature of dubious origin. I believe it is in part due to my brother that I still believe in Santa Claus.

Don't worry, I haven't lost my rational mind (not entirely). There is honestly a teeny weeny part of me who still wishes for the whole landing on the roof and coming down the chimney thing, but only once, just to see it. After that I would worry about the chimney flue, and making sure it was open, and that there was no fire in the fireplace. Eventually it would just be too stressful. I'd have to give Santa a front door key and the alarm code.

Nah! Overall a bad idea.

Instead, I believe in manifestations of Santa Claus. There is a kindness and a selflessness in old St. Nick which finds its way into people, not only at Christmas, but throughout the year. Over the years I have come across many people who have manifested Santa Claus in my life. I am very grateful for each and every one.

Here are a few of those who are:

Definitely manifesting Santa.

When I was 11 years old, while on my way to the library downtown, I was hit by a car. A homeless man and a woman who was passing by with her daughter lifted me off of the road and waited with me until the ambulance showed up. I was badly injured, bleeding heavily from my mouth, and in shock. According to the woman, when the man noticed I was shivering he took off his coat, put it over me, and turned my head to the side so that I wouldn’t choke on the blood. When they loaded me into the ambulance, I still had the coat over me, but by then it was covered with blood.

Afterward, my parents put an announcement in the newspaper because they wanted to meet the man who had so generously helped me, to thank him and to replace his coat, but they were unable to find any trace of him. Every year around Christmas time I think about this man who had very little himself, but acted out of such kindness and selflessness to help me. In my mind he was definitely manifesting Santa Claus.

Although every day acts of kindness are not so dramatic as this instance, I find the following also to be

Definitely Manifesting Santa:

Family members and friends the world over who make my day, and my week, when they tell me they like something I've written in this blog. (BTW this is not a hint.)

The people who follow this blog, and those who comment, make my day, and my week by making me feel as though my blog matters.

Fellow family history/genealogy bloggers who put themselves out there and share their research and their stories, their successes and their frustrations. They are a giant well of inspiration that will never run dry.

A certain leader of the GeneaBloggers community, Thomas, who inspires us, helps us, teaches us, and puts our posts on blog rolls so that more people can see them.

Definitely manifesting Santa.

The 'Christmas people' who collect toys, clothing, and food for the local food bank and city wide charities.

The Archivists at Cathal Brugha Military Archives who have gone above and beyond the call of duty to help me with my research.

The elderly man at Glasnevin Cemetery who stopped to help me find my grandfather's unmarked grave, just because.

The Santa at the Eaton Centre who made my day when he smiled and waved as I passed by.

The stranger who smiled and held the door for me, just to be nice.

The guy on the highway who might have been happy to just fly past me, but instead slowed down to let me merge into the lane.

They are out there everywhere, just waiting to do something kind, most of the time without even giving it a second thought.

Definitely Manifesting Santa.

I am very fortunate because my most special manifestation of Santa Claus, my husband Matthew, wakes up beside me every day, loves me, encourages me, challenges me and supports me in my work. Each and every day I thank my lucky stars to have him in my life.

Who manifests Santa Claus in your life?

Graphic courtesy of The Graphics Fairy.

Copyright©J.Geraghty-Gorman 2011.

Advent Calendar of Christmas Memories: Our First Real Christmas Tree

2011-12-01T10:40:00.035-05:00

A real tree, but unfortunately not our first.

With the Advent Calendar of Christmas Memories upon us, I felt a little 'behind the eight ball', since I wasn't yet feeling entirely in the Christmas spirit. Then, I remembered that last year I shared the story of the very first real Christmas tree my family had when I was a child. We lost my dad to lung cancer eleven years ago, and this story brings back such great memories of good times with Dad that I hope you'll forgive me for sharing it again.

Our First Real Christmas Tree

As I write this, the morning is cool and grey, with a combination of ice and rain lightly pelting against my window. It is not the sort of December day I recall from my childhood. The day I am thinking about seems so long ago. It was a morning on which my Irish father, still getting acclimated to Canadian winters, decided to take my brother (aged eight) and me (aged six) out to a Christmas tree farm to enjoy the experience of finding, cutting down, and carrying home our first real Canadian Christmas tree.

Dad had diligently created a plan in the weeks leading up to that Sunday, his only day off in the week. He had spoken to the men with whom he worked, trying to discover the best farm with the best trees. He seemed a little disheartened, but not put off, when we awoke that Sunday morning to discover that it had snowed heavily the night before. Never one to be deterred, after a hearty breakfast, he dug the car out of the driveway, grabbed the axe, and we set off for the farm.

Back then my dad drove a big blue Buick that we had named Nellie. He skillfully piloted 'her' down the snow-covered roads, spurred on by my brother and me chanting "C'mon Nellie, C'mon Nellie", from our places in the back seat. We drove for what seemed like hours in little kid time, but it was probably not very far. As we drove, once again the snow began to fall. By the time we reached the farm, it was freezing cold, snowing hard, and visibility was poor.

At this point I was a little (okay a lot) unsure about this adventure. As we trudged through the snow I kept my head down, with my eyes closed, trying to stop tears from streaming down my cheeks. I clung tight to the sleeve of my dad's coat, as he carried the axe in his hand. The snow seemed to get deeper as we walked, so somehow he hooked the axe through the belt loops on his coat, held tight to my brother's hand, and swung me up into his arm, saying, "There now, you're alright". I remember hugging his neck and pressing my cold little face into his warm cheek. It was wonderful.

As we reached an open spot in the rows of trees, my dad pointed to one just in front of him and exclaimed, "There now, how 'bout that one?" He set me down next to my brother in front of what seemed like a gigantic tree. Together all three of us brushed away the snow from the base of the tree, so that Dad could clearly see the trunk at which he would swing the axe. He lifted us out of the deep snow, set us back safely out of the way, and struck the axe against the trunk of the tree. All the while shivering, my brother and I clapped our snow-caked mittens and shouted, "C'mon Dad, C'mon Dad". It didn't seem to take very long before he had downed the tree.

We needed to get the tree back to the car, and Dad encouraged us, saying he needed our help. He took hold of a thick branch on one side at the bottom of the tree, and my brother and I took hold of one on the other side. It seemed as though together we dragged the tree back to the car, but I'm certain Dad towed most of the weight. He warmed up the car, and we happily climbed in while he strapped the tree to the roof. He got in and opened a big Thermos of hot chocolate, and a box of shortbreads, that my mom had tucked into a bag for us. We sat there for quite a while, drinking and eating, sniffling and giggling, talking about how great our tree was going to look, and how much Mom was going to love it.

Eventually the snow stopped and we made our way home. Mom greeted us at the door cheering and laughing about the size of the tree. Even though we had very high ceilings in our house, my dad had to cut at least two feet off of it, in order to get our first real Christmas tree to stand upright, but we all loved it.

These days every Christmas when my husband and I go out to the Christmas tree farm to buy our pre-cut tree, I recall that wonderful day with my father, and the scent of that newly cut first tree is still with me.

Our Christmas Tree from 2010

The Famine Memorial, Custom House Quay, Dublin, Ireland

2011-12-01T01:03:00.055-05:00

Filled with the spirit of gratitude for all that I have in my own life, I approached this installation by artist Rowan Gillespie. As the world passes by, with people going about their daily business, it can be easy to forget how so many Irish struggled just to survive, and the fact that so many of them did not. In the midst of morning traffic, a strange sort of quiet descended on this small part of the Custom House Quay where the figures stand, in memory of all those Irish who lost their lives to the Great Famine, An Gorta Mór, of 1845-1852, and I realized the loss is an unfathomable one.

The Irish Quarterly Review of 1854 offered the following commentary on the great number of starving Irish walking along the Liffey to board the famine ships at the quays:

"A procession fraught with most striking and most melancholy interest, wending its painful and mournful way along the whole line of the river to where the beautiful pile of the Custom house is indistinguishable in the far distance."

Although An Gorta Mór is probably the best known of the 'great' famines, the Irish suffered through two other periods of widespread famine, the famine of 1740-41, and the famine of 1879, known as An Gorta Beag. In addition to this, throughout Ireland during many periods there were food shortages, particularly in the west country. The medallion on the grounds of this installation reminds us of our responsibility to ensure that human beings the world over never again suffer in this way. It reads:

Wherever

Men and Women

are condemned to live in

poverty, human rights are violated.

To come together to ensure that these

rights are respected is our solemn duty.

Click on photographs to view larger version.
All photographs Copyright©J.Geraghty-Gorman 2011.

Wednesday's Child: 'We had another brother, didn't we?'

2011-11-30T01:03:00.260-05:00

This is the photograph, the only one, with my mother's older brothers, Anthony, Gerard, and Patrick, and her parents, a photograph taken years before my mom was born. On my grandmother Mary Fitzpatrick Ball's knee is seated a tiny fragile looking baby, his eyes almost shut, my grandmother's hands enveloped around him. My mom could identify all of the children in the photograph, save one, this tiny baby seated on her mother's knee. Mom knew it could not be her baby brother John, but she could not name the child.

Sometime in the years after her mother died, my mother found and kept this photograph tucked away in her own little drawer in the cupboard which held her clothes and those of her sisters. Every once in a while, after her chores were finished, and she could take a couple of private minutes, she would take out the portrait from the place which kept it safe from prying eyes. Mom would take it out and stare at it. Sometimes she would kneel at the side of her bed to say prayers with the photograph propped against a soft blanket, so it wouldn't get damaged. She would gaze into her mother's face, and she would pray. Mom said she wasn't sure why she would do this, but perhaps it was the only way she could be sure of never forgetting her mother's face.

When my parents emigrated from Ireland to Canada, the portrait travelled with my mom. Whenever there was any discussion of the photograph, my mother's sister Bernadette would explain that she was the small baby pictured, but inexplicably my mom always disagreed. In 1994, at a cousin's wedding in Adare Castle, all of the siblings were seated around one large table at the reception. It had been a very long time since all seven of them were together in the same room. Over dinner they spent a lot of time talking about their childhood with their dad, and Aunt Alice. My mom finally asked her older brothers the question she had long wished to ask, "We had another brother, didn't we?". Mom mentioned the photograph and the baby their mother was holding, and she asked her elder brothers if they knew who the child was. Anthony, Gerard, and Patrick instantly knew the photograph to which Mom was referring. They explained that the baby's name was Thomas, and said he had died when he was very young. Beyond that they remembered little of him. There were several guesses at the date of the photograph, but no one knew for certain when it had been taken.

Based on the apparent ages of the boys in the photograph, and the clothing my grandparents are wearing, I surmised that it had been taken in the late 1920s. With the image of that tiny little boy locked in my brain, I searched for a late 1920s record of Thomas's birth in the General Register Office in Dublin, but to no avail. I'm sure it's there, but I just couldn't find it; however, I did find the record of his death. Baby Thomas Christopher Ball died in St. Ultan's hospital on 18 September 1928. The registrar's notation of the fraction of 10 3/4 over 12 for Thomas's age emphasizes the fact that Thomas almost made it to eleven months of age, but did not live for even one whole year. For the last 23 days of his life Thomas was very sick; he died of Chronic Enteritis and Cardiac failure. Thomas is interred in the St. Paul's section of Glasnevin Cemetery, Dublin.

Now, when I look at the photograph, I wonder, as she held her tiny son on her knee that day, did my grandmother in any way sense that Thomas would not be with their family for very long?

Copyright©J.Geraghty-Gorman 2011.

Thankful Thursday: Happy Thanksgiving To All in the United States!

2011-11-24T01:03:00.044-05:00

Happy Thanksgiving to all of our friends and family in the United States!

Unfortunately, this year I'll be enjoying the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade while under a blanket on the sofa in my den, next to a large box of kleenex (Achoo), rather than out in the crisp and cool air of Manhattan. We have great memories of Thanksgiving Day parades of the past, and I thought I'd share a few of those today.

May you and all of your loved ones enjoy the very best of this day!

The skating rink in Bryant Park pre-parade

A Christmas tree near the rink; the Bryant Park Hotel is the beautiful building on the right.

Now that's a candy cane.

Guess who: hey my spidey sense is tingling

It's not easy being green...

...especially when you're 78 feet long, 36 feet wide, and filled with a volume of 11,000 cubic feet of helium

A BIG Apple in The Big Apple

We believe Santa, we believe!

*Click on photos to view larger version.
All Photographs ©Copyright J.Geraghty-Gorman 2011.

Wordless Wednesday: Windows of St. Mary's Parish, Westport, County Mayo

2011-11-23T01:03:00.010-05:00

The beauty of stained glass windows enthrals me, but more than that, as I gaze up at the church windows I like to imagine my ancestors doing the same. A thread of connection through time.

Click on Photographs to view larger version.
All photographs Copyright©J.Geraghty-Gorman 2011.

Tombstone Tuesday: ...to bring a little sunshine

2011-11-22T01:02:00.016-05:00

When I was a child we lived next door to an elderly widow named Annie. In the Spring and Summer, on every Sunday afternoon, Annie travelled out to the cemetery with one of her adult children in order to visit family graves. On these occasions Annie always carried with her an armful of beautiful yellow roses. I had read about the language of flowers and understood that the yellow rose was a symbol of friendship, and had at one time signified jealousy, so in my child's mind I was really curious about the meaning of Annie's yellow roses. One day I screwed up the courage to ask Annie why she always brought yellow roses to the cemetery.

Annie wasn't really interested in someone else's interpretation of the meaning of her offering, and I was worried that I had offended her when I asked. Instead she just smiled at me, gently wrapped her arm around my shoulders, and explained that to her the yellow roses were a bit of warmth and sunshine. Annie said that she put yellow roses on the graves of those she loved very much because they could no longer see the sun or feel the warmth of sunshine on their faces.

The idea of bringing warmth and sunshine to a place of so much sadness very much appealed to me back then. Now that I am an adult, when I visit the grave of someone I love, I always bring yellow roses to deliver a little sunshine, just like Annie did.

Grave of my paternal Great-Grandparents, my grandfather, and grand-aunts and a grand-uncle,
Deansgrange Cemetery, Blackrock, Ireland.

Grave of my paternal grandmother Anne, her brother Michael, and my great-grandparents, Patrick and Mary,

Glasnevin Cemetery, Dublin, Ireland.

Grave of my paternal grand-aunt Mary 'Mollie', her husband William 'Willie', and his parents, Robert and Kathleen.
Deansgrange, Blackrock, Ireland.

Click on photographs to view larger version.
All photographs Copyright©J.Geraghty-Gorman 2011.

Thankful Thursday: An apology and my thanks

2011-11-17T01:03:00.003-05:00

A while ago, before I left for Ireland, I announced on my blogs and on Google+ that I would be presenting a webinar on Irish Family History research. Since my return from Ireland, I've had to face one of those major challenges that life sometimes puts in our way in order to remind us that we are not totally in charge. I prefer to keep the details of the matter private, but I do want to make public my apology for withdrawing from my commitment to do the presentation. Given what I was facing, I knew that I would not be able to dedicate the time that I would choose to dedicate to the creation of a webinar. Perfectionism can be a time consuming curse, and I am very much a perfectionist when it comes to presentations. The webinar presentation was no different; I was not prepared to throw together something substandard.

I apologize to those who registered for the webinar, and were looking forward to it. Depending on how things go, I may be able to present something in the nature of a webinar next year. In the meantime, when I have something helpful to offer those in search of their Irish ancestors, I'll post it in Tuesday's Tips.

Thanks to those of you who know me well and have sent messages, which I very much appreciate. Also, I want to publicly thank our leader, GeneaBloggers' Thomas MacEntee, for his understanding and continued support. My continued THANKS and DEEP APPRECIATION to those who take the time to read this blog.

Cheers to you and yours,
Jennifer

Wordless Wednesday, almost: Wild about Wilde

2011-11-16T01:03:00.006-05:00

“I have nothing to declare except my genius.” — Oscar Wilde

Oscar Wilde is my favourite 19th century dramatist and wit, and since I'm wild about Wilde (sorry about that one), here are some pics of his Dublin family home, and the 'statue' erected to him which stands in Merrion Square. There are two obelisks directly across the path from 'him' which are covered with witticisms famously attributed to Wilde, some of which I've included in the body of this post. Enjoy!

1 Merrion Square, home of the Wildes from 1855 until 1878. Now the Irish American University.

“There is no sin except stupidity.”

“I always pass on good advice. It is the only thing to do with it. It is never any use to oneself.”

“The truth is rarely pure and never simple.”

“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.”

“Who, being loved, is poor?”

“There is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.”

Visit: 'Over thy dead body': to view the Wilde 'Family' Tomb in Mount Jerome Cemetery Dublin.
*Click on photographs to view larger version.
All photographs Copyright©J.Geraghty-Gorman 2011.

In the shadow of Croagh Patrick: Seeking 'Geraghty'

2011-11-14T01:03:00.011-05:00

Both shadow and light change as you climb inside and around the ruins of the Murrisk Abbey, change which you can feel within, as you seek the signs of a long ago past. It was here that I came to find some of my Geraghtys, not to mention O'Malleys and Tooles. The locals say, "everyone knows" all the Geraghtys of Lecanvey are buried in the Abbey cemetery, and as I walk through the grounds their claim bears out. The evolution of the surname is right there before me, Geraty, Garaghty, Geraghty.

All that remains, other than the cemetery, are parts of the small chapter house and the church of the Augustinian Friars, buildings which have stood on this site in Murrisk since the 15th century. Founded by Hugh O'Malley in 1457, the Abbey was dedicated to St. Patrick.

The quiet of this place is unyielding. The tread of footsteps sounds intrusively loud as you walk down the dusty old road which leads to the site on the very edge of Clew Bay. The dewy grass in the old cemetery sighs, and individual bits of gravel shift and settle as you walk among the stones of those interred inside the church. The mist comes in off Clew Bay, and the dampness seeps into your bones.

The shadows of the past are all here. Some are under stones which no longer bear even the slightest mark of the stonecutter's blade, and others lie in places well tended and long remembered. The surface of the ground undulates, rising and falling, imprinting the spaces where some lie with barely a mark at all.

My great-grandfather Patrick Geraghty and his wife Margaret Toole left behind life in Lecanvey (Le-CAN-vee), County Mayo, sometime after the birth of their eldest son Thomas, on 20 April 1886, and sometime before the Dublin City birth of their daughter Mary in 1888. They made their way to the heart of Dublin City, leaving behind family and friends, heading to a completely different life from the one they had known as the children of farmers.

Steep narrow stairs lead to the upper floor

The upper floor

The altar room of the Chapter House

The old cemetery and the 'new' divided by a stone wall.

Click on photographs to view larger version.
All Photographs Copyright©J.Geraghty-Gorman 2011. All Rights Reserved.

Remembrance Day: Today I remember for a friend who cannot

2011-11-11T01:03:00.212-05:00

I have a friend, John, a friend with Alzheimer's, and today 'Lest We Forget' has special meaning for me, because I am remembering for my friend who cannot.

John has been a friend of my family for a very long time. I first met him, through his daughter, when I was a teenager going to a new school in grade 13. On the way to school, on the very first day, I noticed his daughter and I were walking in the same direction, down the same streets. After a while we stopped and asked each other if we were headed to the same school. His daughter had a familiar lilt in her voice, and on the way to school I learned that her family were recent emigrants from County Down, Ireland. Later that day, on the walk home, John's daughter introduced me to her dad. From that day we were friends.

Many years passed and, as sometimes happens, people lose touch. Both John's daughter and I moved far away from our family homes, and from each other, but John and his wife Jean stayed close to my parents. One year John's wife passed away; a couple of years later my own father died. A friendship grew between John and my mom, a friendship my brother and I were very happy about. John and Mom came to rely upon one another; they are best friends. John and Mom happily share stories with one another about their spouses, about their lives in Ireland, about their world travels. I love to talk to John about his family, and his life in Ireland and around the world.

John served in the British Merchant Marine, supplying military bases and ships around the Mediterranean, and not quite fulfilling his wish to 'see the world' before he settled down. My mom always reminds him how lucky he was that Jean, the love of his life, was still waiting for him when he finally returned to Ireland. John has a great sense of humour, and a very relaxed way about him, that makes him so easy to talk to. Talking to John is in some ways a little like having a dad once again.

But...

My friend John has Alzheimer's disease, and so there are times when he no longer knows who I am.

Sometimes he thinks I'm a neighbour who lives in his village in County Down, and he asks me if my husband and I are going to go dancing on Saturday night. I always answer yes, because if I could travel back in time with my friend John, that is exactly what we would do.

Occasionally he'll say he needs to get ready to leave the house, to take the train into Belfast for a football match. I ask him if instead he'll stay awhile and tell me more about his brothers, and to my relief he does. I don't want him to open the door and discover that Belfast, and the football match, are a million miles away from here.

All of John's siblings are dead; all taken by Alzheimer's disease. It is a truth too cruel to contemplate. Although they are all gone, they live in that part of John's memory which is still very much alive, and he tells me about them. It is as though we could walk down through the village at any moment and meet them.

My mom tells me that each time I visit with John, after I leave, he comments that I am 'a nice lady', and then more often than not, he asks her who I am.

During World War Two, John lost friends on the battlefields of Europe, young men who left the village, never to return. Today, on this Remembrance Day, I am remembering them for my friend John.

Copyright©J.Geraghty-Gorman 2011.

'While the mad guns curse overhead': Thomas Michael 'Tom' Kettle: 1880-1916

2011-11-10T01:03:00.001-05:00

Thomas Michael 'Tom' Kettle

According to the record of his birth, Thomas Michael 'Tom' Kettle was born in the Clontarf suburb of Dublin, 9 February 1880. He was the son of my maternal great-great-grand-uncle Andrew J. Kettle and great-great-grand-aunt Margaret McCourt Kettle, and nephew of my maternal great-great grandmother, Mary Kettle Fitzpatrick.

Thomas Michael Kettle was a barrister, journalist, published poet, Irish Home Rule politician, professor, and soldier. He was the seventh of twelve children and, like his brothers before and after him, was educated at the Christian Brothers School in North Richmond Street, Dublin. His post secondary education was conducted at Clongowes College and University College Dublin (UCD). He was called to the bar in 1905, and elected Nationalist M.P. (member of Parliament at Westminster) for East Tyrone in 1906. He resigned his seat in 1910, having been appointed to the professorship of National Economics at UCD the previous year.

Along with his brother, Laurence J. Kettle, Thomas was a member of the Provisional Committee of the Irish Volunteers, a committee of sixteen men responsible for the 1913 formation of the Irish Volunteers. He was in Belgium to procure arms for the Volunteers at the outbreak of World War I in 1914. Horrified by the German attack on Belgium, he immediately enlisted for service in an Irish regiment to fight "not for England, but for small nations". He took a commission with the Royal Dublin Fusiliers.

Thomas Kettle was killed in action at Ginchy, 9 September 1916, while serving as a Lieutenant with the 9th Battalion, Royal Dublin Fusiliers. He was only 36 years old. His body was never recovered, so he has no known grave. Near the end of September 1916, his wife Mary Sheehy Kettle received a telegram from the War Office in London dated 19 September 1916. It reads:

TO: MRS. KETTLE, UNIVERSITY COLLEGE DUBLIN:
DEEPLY REGRET TO INFORM YOU,
LIEUT. T..M. KETTLE, DUBLIN FUSILIERS,
WAS KILLED IN ACTION SEPTEMBER 9TH.
THE ARMY COUNCIL EXPRESS THEIR SYMPATHY.
SECRETARY WAR OFFICE

In 1917, Thomas Kettle's The Ways of War was posthumously published. Co-authored with his wife Mary Sheehy Kettle, he intended the book as an elucidation of his reasons for choosing to fight in the war.

In the biographical notes of their father's memoirs, Dr. Lawrence Kettle writes, "when I told him Tom was listed as missing, after the battle of Ginchy, he said: If Tom is dead I don't wish to live any longer." Andrew J. Kettle followed his son Tom to the grave shortly thereafter, dying only 13 days after Tom's death, 22 September 1916.

Thomas Kettle is commemorated on the Thiepval Memorial to the Missing (Pier and Face 16C) in France.

In addition to the commemoration at Thiepval, Thomas Kettle is also remembered at Island of Ireland Peace Park (*click for site) in Messines, near Ypres in Flanders, Belgium. Dedicated to the memory of the soldiers of Ireland who were wounded or lost in the Great War of 1914-1918, the park was officially opened in November of 1998 by then President of Ireland Mary McAleese, and Queen Elizabeth II of Britain, and King Albert II of Belgium.

Nine stone tablets are located in the grounds of Ireland Park near the Round Tower. Inscribed with quotations from poems, prose and letters from Irishmen at war, one of these nine tablets bears a quotation written by Thomas Kettle. The quotation on the tablet is lines from a sonnet he penned to his daughter shortly before his death ('To My Daughter Betty') and reads:

“So here, while the mad guns curse overhead, and tired men sigh, with mud for couch and floor, know that we fools, now with the foolish dead, died not for Flag, nor King, nor Emperor, but for a dream born in a herdsman’s shed, and for the secret scripture of the poor.”

On the grounds of St. Stephen's Green in Dublin this bust stands in honour of Thomas Kettle. Although he had been a member of the Irish Volunteers, and believed in an Ireland free from English rule, there was some controversy surrounding the erection of the bust because Kettle had fought in the Somme as a member of the British forces. His wife Mary Sheehy Kettle, a highly respected educator and activist in her own right, worked hard to raise funds for the memorial, often spoke about the importance of it, and wrote at least one strongly worded letter to the editor of an Irish newspaper in defence of the commemorative bust.

Thomas Michael Kettle is also remembered on The Barristers Memorial bronze plaque in the Four Courts Dublin which commemorates twenty-six Irish barristers who were killed in the Great War.

My great-great grandmother Mary Kettle Fitzpatrick named her first born son Thomas, in honour of her lost nephew. That son Thomas, my great-grandfather, in turn named his first born son Thomas Andrew, in honour of both his lost cousin and Andrew J. Kettle, Thomas Kettle's father. My grandmother named the fourth born of her sons Thomas. Her son, my uncle Antony, named one of his sons Thomas, so the name was carried forward for several generations.

Thomas Michael Kettle is on my maternal family tree; William Dunne, about whom I have previously written, is on my paternal family tree. Both men died in France serving in different battalions of The Royal Dublin Fusiliers. It is probably the case that neither man knew the other; their particular branches of the family tree were not yet connected. Also, in 1913 Thomas Kettle spoke at a recruitment meeting of the Irish Volunteers, the meeting at which young Michael Magee joined the Volunteer movement for which he would sacrifice his life. Kettle was well known at that time, but the then 16 year old Magee (William Dunne's nephew) was in all likelihood unknown to Kettle. It is really interesting to consider the ways in which the lives of these three men intersected. They would one day belong to the same family tree, but they were not related to one another when their paths crossed in history.

All materials and photographs, unless otherwise credited, ©Copyright J. Geraghty-Gorman 2010, 2011.

References:

Burke, Tom. "In Memory of Lieutenant Tom Kettle, 'B' Company, 9th Royal Dublin Fusiliers",
Dublin Historical Record, Vol. 57, No. 2 (Autumn, 2004), pp. 164-173.
Gwynn, Denis. "Thomas M. Kettle 1880-1916"
Studies: An Irish Quarterly Review, Vol. 55, No. 220 (Winter, 1966), pp. 384-391.
Kettle, L.J., editor. The Material for Victory, Being the Memoirs of Andrew J. Kettle, C.J. Fallon Ltd., Dublin, 1958.
Kettle, T. M. and Mary S. Kettle. The Ways of War, C. Scribner's & Sons, Dublin, 1917.
The War Graves Photographic Project
Commonwealth War Graves Commission (Thiepval)
Island of Ireland Peace Park
UCD Special Collections

Wordless Wednesday, almost: As mom always said, 'Don't run on the ruins'

2011-11-09T01:03:00.055-05:00

Within this week of Remembrance, I thought I'd go for a little levity today with a couple of signs I've come across in Dublin that remind me just how ancient a place it is. I hope they bring a smile to your face.

Note the Chapter House dates 1163 to 1537 A.D.

To put it in perspective, the Choir School was founded 60 years before Columbus set sail for the Americas.

Click on photos to view larger version.
All Photographs Copyright©J.Geraghty-Gorman 2011.

A young man in a photograph: William Francis Pell: 1891-1915

2011-11-08T01:03:00.150-05:00

The Pell surname is a relatively new one on the maternal side of my family tree. The name emerged during a conversation I had with my mother back in July. Mom recalled her many childhood visits with the family, whose surname she felt sure was Pells. Visits to the home of the Pells, with her father Patrick, were something which my mom and all of her siblings excitedly anticipated. Mom did not recall the details of the connection between her family and the Pells; however, she did recall at least one Pell daughter who was tall, beautiful and very lady-like. Also alive and well in my mom's mind is a portrait in a beautiful dark wood frame with a small ribbon of black crepe encircling the rim. The portrait hung above the side board in the Pell household; it was a photograph of a handsome young man in uniform about whom no one ever spoke.

After research in Ireland, I discovered that the surname is Pell, not Pells, but the error is understandable, since a visit to the family was probably preceded by the explanation, "We're going to visit the Pells." In a child's mind, one Pell becomes all Pells.

William Francis Pell was born 7 September 1891 in Dublin Ireland. He was the second born child, and first born son, of Teresa Early and John Pell. Teresa Early Pell was sister to my maternal great-grandmother, Jane Early Ball. William was baptized 9 September 1891 in St. Paul's Church, Arran Quay. His cousin, my grandfather Patrick Ball, was six years old when William was born. The Pell family in total appears on the 1901 Irish Census; William is notably absent from the 1911 Irish Census. One might assume he was already serving in the British Forces, but I have not yet found evidence to support such an assumption.

Unfortunately, not much remains of the World War One record of young William Pell, aside from his medals card, an entry in Ireland's Memorial Records, and a photograph of his grave. I do know that upon enlisting William Pell served in the rank of Private, and his gravestone attests to the fact that he held the rank of Lance Corporal when he was killed, so one may assume that his short military career was a fine one. Just as William Dunne (paternal tree) did serve, William Pell also served in the 2nd Battalion of the Royal Dublin Fusiliers; his regimental number was #8328. I do not know if the two men ever crossed paths. William Pell was killed in action on 7 January 1915, just a few months after his 23rd birthday. He is interred in Prowse Point Military Cemetery in Belgium, just a few rows away from William Dunne's grave.

According to his medals card, William Pell was awarded the 1914 Star, the Victory Medal, and the British War Medal. The card bears the telling letters 'K.I.A', a more benign way of noting that he was killed in action. The medals card also states his qualification date as 9 October 1914. Since this date is just three months before his death, one can presume the medals may have been sent posthumously to his family. At the time of his death, the Pell family was still living at 23 Liffey Street, Kilmainham, Dublin, but there is no slip of paper bearing the signature of his mother or his father for receipt of those medals at their door. I wonder what that day was like when those medals arrived, and just when was it that the Pell family added the ribbon of black crepe to that portrait of the young man?

Prowse Point Military Cemetery, Belgium. Site of the graves of William Pell and William Dunne.
Copyright©The War Graves Photographic Project 2011. Appears with permission.

William Pell's Medal card. National Archives UK.

The Book of Ireland's Memorial Records under glass in St. Patrick's Cathedral Dublin.

Memorial to William Pell, page 89, left hand column, 3rd down, Ireland's Memorial Records.

Click on photographs to view larger version.
Unless otherwise credited, All Photographs ©Copyright J.Geraghty-Gorman 2011.

Military Monday: Remembrance Posts

2011-11-07T01:05:00.015-05:00

Prowse Point Military Cemetery, Belgium.

Friday 11 November 2011 marks the 93rd anniversary of Armistice Day. In Canada each year, the eleventh day of the eleventh month is marked as Remembrance Day, the day on which to honour the memory of those who made the ultimate sacrifice. This week, in the days leading up to 11/11/11, in honour of those members of my family who served and died in military service during World War One, I will be posting Remembrance Posts. Beginning today, the first in this series of posts (click below for link) details the history of William Dunne, the first member of our family to fall on the battlefield. Tomorrow's post will be a tribute to a recent addition to my extended family tree. I am still seeking further information about my grandfather's cousin, William Pell, but thought it was still fitting to include a tribute to a young man who gave his life at 23 in service of the Dublin Fusiliers. Thursday's post is an updated version of the story of Thomas Michael Kettle, who was the last and probably best known family member to perish on the battlefields of Europe.

Each of these men was Irish-born yet fought as a member of the British Forces, a service of duty that often stood in stark opposition to the Irish Nationalist sentiments of his family. This apparent contradiction existed within many Irish families. Over 210,000 Irishmen volunteered for service with the British forces during WW1, in addition to the 50,000 Irishmen already serving in the regular army and reserve at the outbreak of the war. Many returned from the battlegrounds of Europe disillusioned, and went on to fight against the British as part of the Irish Volunteers. Many did not return at all. According to a report issued by the office of the Taoiseach (equivalent to Prime Minister), at least 35,000 Irish citizens died fighting for Britain. The National War Memorial puts the number at 49,400. From the Dublin recruits alone, some 5,000 of the 25,000 men who enlisted lost their lives on the battlefields of Europe.

Copyright©J.Geraghty-Gorman 2011.

It all began with a bronze plaque: Remembering William Dunne 1880-1914

2011-11-07T01:04:00.024-05:00

It is wonderful to think that uncovering the history of a life can begin with an object such as this one. Once tucked away with other family mementos, carefully kept to mark the passage of such lives, this large coin-like object is a 'Next of Kin' plaque. Such objects were given by the British government to families whose loved ones, serving in the British forces, died on the battlefield during the first World War. When I first set eyes on this bronze piece in August of 2010, I knew the William Dunne commemorated on it was the brother of my paternal great-grandmother Mary Dunne Magee, but I had not yet uncovered the whole history of his life. With the existence of the 'Next of Kin' plaque as a starting point, all I had to do was find evidence to fill in the unknown details of William Dunne's history.

The 'Next of Kin Memorial Plaque in recognition of William Dunne's sacrifice in service.

William Dunne was born in Rathmines, Dublin 20 April 1880. On the 1911 Census of Ireland, he is noted as a boarder, between tours of duty, living with his sister Mary, her husband Patrick, and their four children. One of those children, Michael Magee, served as a 2nd Lieutenant in the Irish Volunteers and ultimately gave his life in the fight to free Ireland from British rule. His uncle William Dunne was a Private in the British forces and fought in the Second Boer War campaign, and in Europe during World War I. As I noted in the post Military Monday: Remembrance Posts, this apparent contradiction with family members on both sides, as it were, existed within many Irish families.

William Dunne, Private, 2nd Battalion, Royal Dublin Fusiliers

My research led me to the discovery that the original documents of almost the entire British military service record of William Dunne are still extant (apparently a rarity). According to British Army World War I Service Records, William Dunne enlisted on 16 July 1900. The recruiting officer observes him to be "about 18"; he was in fact 20 years of age. Standing only 5 feet 5 inches tall, and weighing barely 118 pounds, he was not a physically imposing young man. The enlisting officer noted his complexion as "fresh", and recorded his features of grey eyes and black hair.

William Dunne served in the regiment of The Royal Dublin Fusiliers; his regimental number was 7190. He served in the Home sector until November 1900 and was then sent to South Africa from 22 November 1900 to 11 February 1902, during the second Boer War Campaign. For this service he was awarded Boer War Campaign Medals. Following his assignment in Africa, William Dunne was sent to the West Indies until 8 November 1903, and then brought back to the Home front. On 22 August 1914 he was sent to France. On this date, as a Private in the 2nd Battalion, he landed at Boulogne as part of 10th Brigade, 4th Division. William Dunne was killed in action 20 November 1914, having completed 14 years and 126 days service to the Crown. He was only 34 years old.

The casualty form for William Dunne

With the knowledge that William Dunne had fallen on the battlefields of Belgium, I searched for evidence of his final resting place.
A stroke of good luck brought me to a photograph of his grave, and the graves of two of his comrades who fell as he did on 20 November 1914. It is the only photograph of specific graves which appears on the Prowse Point Cemetery information page of the World War I War Graves website. William and his comrades, Private James Gallagher and Private James Maguire, were among the first casualties interred in the Prowse Point Military Cemetery near Ieper, West Flanders, Belgium. The three men are interred right beside one another. With further research through the Commonwealth Graves Commission, I discovered The War Graves Photographic Project and, for a small donation, I was able to acquire this photograph of William Dunne's grave.

Prowse Point Military Cemetery, Belgium .
Copyright© The War Graves Photographic Project. Appears with permission.

William Dunne's military record with the British army was not spotless, few are. The men who were sent to fight across the world were real flesh and bone individuals, not two dimensional cinema heroes. His file reveals a few pages of army offenses. While he was stationed at Fermoy, Ireland, and Dover, England, he was cited for some minor infractions such as drinking alcohol and thus "creating a disturbance in the barracks room", and using "obscene language"; for these he was fined 10 pence and 5 pence. He was also cited for more serious offenses such as one of "missing roll call at 8:30 am"; it is stated that he arrived at 10 a.m.. For this default he was docked 14 days pay.

In addition to his Boer War medals, William Dunne was awarded the 1914 Star, the Victory Medal, and the British War Medal. On 21 October 1919 my great-grandmother Mary Magee signed a form in receipt of the 1914 Star awarded to her brother; that receipt remains a part of William's file. Less than two years after she signed for that medal, Mary Magee would lose her son Michael to war. A brother lost fighting for the British in Europe; a son lost fighting against the British in Ireland.

For complete information about the 'Next of Kin Memorial Plaque' visit the The Imperial War Museum site.
Click on Photographs to view a larger version.

Unless otherwise credited, All Photographs ©Copyright J.Geraghty-Gorman 2010, 2011.

Wordless Wednesday, almost: A little more London

2011-11-02T06:55:00.016-04:00

On this almost Wordless Wednesday, a little more London. Directly across the road from the Palace of Westminster stands Westminster Abbey. Those who are fans of Wills and Kate, sorry that's Prince William and Princess Catherine, will recognize the Abbey as the site of their wedding in April 2011. Unfortunately photography is strictly forbidden in the interior of the abbey, still the outside is certainly something to behold.

An abbey has stood on this site since the year 960. There are over 3300 people interred within the walls of the abbey, including kings and queens, the famous and the infamous. It is a most extraordinary sight. You must step lightly, because in any given space you may be walking on the grave of a poet or a patriot. I discovered the grave of my favourite 17th century poet, Aphra Behn, in the hallway floor of the Cloisters. Many people tread upon it without even noticing.

Mrs. Aphra Behn
Dyed April 16
A.D. 1689
'Here lies a Proof that Wit can never be
Defence enough against Mortality'.

In addition to being a tourist sight, with a £16 GBP ($25 USD) entrance fee, the abbey is a living church with services often going on as the tourists wander through it. Please visit their official website for more information, and to have a look inside.

The Abbey from the perspective of the Palace of Westminister

The Main Entrance together with grounds filled with tourists

St. Margaret's Church on the left, better known as the church of the House of Commons.

The Cloisters - green space within the heart of the Abbey grounds.

An important remembrance on the grounds near the west door of the Abbey.

An invocation for all, on the wall near the west door.

Click on photographs to view a larger version.
All Photographs Copyright©J.Geraghty-Gorman 2011.

Those places Thursday: London, England and The Palace of Westminster

2011-10-27T06:25:00.004-04:00

While I was overseas, one of my destinations for research was the National Archives UK. As I mentioned in an earlier post, the Archives holds material germane to my work as a historian, and so London is one of those places which I was very happy to visit.

I knew the National Archives is closed on Mondays, and so I planned to give myself a day to play tourist. London has an extensive train system — affectionately dubbed 'The Tube'— with Underground (subway) and Overground trains. The system map can be a little daunting when you first look at it, but the train station staff are generally very friendly and helped me figure out my route, so I took trains to and from the airport, and around town as well.

The Upminster Underground train, which oddly enough travels above ground a good deal of the time, took me to the 'City' of Westminster. Upon emerging from the subway station at Westminster Bridge, I first saw the Palace of Westminster, otherwise known as the Houses of Parliament. It is an extraordinary structure with a history of development and governance which spans over 900 years. When you gaze upon it you get a sense of 'Empire', and can easily imagine that Britain once ruled the world.

As usual, click on the photographs if you wish to view a larger version.

As I emerged from the subway this extraordinarily carved edifice offered a taste of what was to come.

Look up, way up: Big Ben from the subway stairs.

The Clock Tower at Westminster, better known as Big Ben

The clock is very beautiful, but so too are the tiny figures (gargoyles) which you can spot across the entire building.

Not only is the makeup of the structure itself stunning, but the sheer size of it as well, and the fact that it stands directly on the shores of the river Thames.

The grounds, and a sign of the times, a heavily armed police officer.

I've turned the corner, but this is still the same complex. Jutting into the left side of the photograph is
a bit of Westminster Abbey. In the light of the midday sun the buildings glow like liquid gold.

The Sovereign's Entrance, Palace of Westminster

Even the metal gates are replete with symbols.

On either side of the Sovereign's Entrance you will find this Leontine creature.

Above the Sovereign's Entrance, a small sampling of the statuary, symbols, and gargoyles which are carved into the stone at various points all over the great structure.

On the side grounds: William the Conqueror.

For more information visit the official government site, The Palace of Westminster.

All photographs Copyright©J.Geraghty-Gorman 2011.

Wordless Wednesday, not quite: The Spirit of Ireland

2011-10-26T01:03:00.221-04:00

When I returned from Ireland in September my plan had been to get straight back into blogging and share some of the discoveries I made on my trip. Of course, the universe has a funny way of reacting to the best laid plans. Sometimes the less desirable side of life jumps in and you find yourself dealing with something that doesn't fit into those plans.

Anyway...the train is now almost entirely back on the rails, and with today's post I am ready to begin anew.

The Spirit of Ireland

The Spirit of Ireland is the spirit of her people. No matter how beautiful the landscape, in my opinion, it is the spirit of the Irish people which enhances that beauty. Irish spirit comes in all shapes and sizes, and that spirit is imbued with the power of positive energy. I truly believe this is what draws me back to Ireland again and again. Here are some of the ways in which the spirit of Ireland manifested for me. I hope they bring a smile to your face.

For the first nine days I was away, I was very fortunate to have my husband with me. On one particular day we happily spent hours traipsing through Glasnevin Cemetery, Dublin and St. Colmcille's Churchyard in Swords, County Dublin. Near the end of the day, (it was getting dark so I could no longer photograph gravestones), we stopped for supper at the Star Pub at the end of Chapel Lane. By chance we happened to choose the very pub in which the Swords Historical Society were celebrating the launch of the latest edition of their periodical 'Swords Voices'. I was happy to be able to introduce my husband to Bernadette Martin. In 2010 Bernadette helped to confirm for me some connections in the maternal branch of my family tree. Music often forms a part of celebrations in Ireland, and the Historical Society celebration was no exception. The Historical Society has their own Mummers group. Here is a small sampling of their performance (by the way, the man on the left is playing castanets):

On the train trip back from Westport, County Mayo in the west of Ireland, at Athlone station this group of men boarded the train. They were headed into Dublin for the European Championship Football Qualifier, Ireland vs. Slovakia, at Lansdowne (Aviva) Stadium, and they kindly agreed to pose for me. I think it's safe to say they're football super fans.

On Grafton Street in Dublin you will see buskers of all kinds, such as musicians, singers, magicians, and a few fellows such as this one posing as a statue. He was so convincing even a pigeon was fooled.

In St. Stephen's Green I met a new little friend, and her dad allowed me to photograph her engaging in her favourite pastime of feeding the birds. Contrary to popular belief, the streets of Dublin are not filled with red-haired beauties, so I just had to photograph this little one.

Click on photographs to view larger version.
All materials Copyright©J.Geraghty-Gorman 2011.

Wordless Wednesday, almost: Famine Ship Memorial, Murrisk, County Mayo

2011-09-28T01:16:00.002-04:00

my blood is western irish,

Mayo.

in a valley aflame with golden gorse,

and the glow of the white hawthorn

our people laid

upon a carpet of heather,

waiting for the end.

my soul recognizes the

sparse loneliness of this place,

it courses through my veins.

in the shadow of Patrick’s mountain

the keening voices of men who are dust

float on the winds

crying out for redemption.

Click on photographs to view larger version.
Poem and all photographs Copyright© J.Geraghty-Gorman 2011.

Falling off the face of the earth, and then climbing back up on.

2011-09-26T01:16:00.085-04:00

Croagh Patrick, Murrisk, County Mayo

Hello Everyone,

I hope that all is well with each and every one of you. While I did appear to fall off the face of the earth for a while, at least in terms of the internet world, now that I have returned from Ireland, I am slowly climbing back on. Originally my plan was to stay completely connected while I was overseas; however, when I was in the west of Ireland, once again I found myself completely captivated by 'real world' Ireland, so my need to stay connected at the hip with my computer fell away, and I immersed myself in the life and the times that were right there before me.

Those of you who have been with me over the long haul know that I am completely in love with the land of my mother, my father, and my brother, not to mention our ancestors. Such a love can sometimes blind you to the realities of a place. You don the rose coloured glasses and only see the great and the good; however, on this particular journey I found myself fully engaged with what I actually had in front of me, and I am very happy to report that the facts of the matter have not in any way dimmed my love for Ireland.

Unfortunately once again, many Irish people are struggling. There is a hum of discontent readying itself to develop into a loud roar. Unemployment is the highest it has been since the 1950s and many young Irish are emigrating, just as generations of Irish have in the past. The migratory patterns have changed somewhat, with some choosing to move into northern and western Europe. As in the past, others are making their way to Australia, as well as Canada and the United States. In Dublin, I had the opportunity to speak with an Irish documentary film maker who said he is disappointed that emigration is often the first route out for many young Irish. He would prefer that they stay and try to make a go of life at home. He is dismayed that Ireland seems to have once again become 'a leave behind place', as he put it.

While some are leaving, some are returning to Ireland, and most will never leave. In Murrisk, County Mayo, I spoke to a pub owner who had recently returned to Ireland from a 'beautiful life' which he was enjoying in Saudi Arabia. He came back to take over the day to day operation of the pub from an elderly uncle who was ready to retire, and who has since passed away. The pub has been in their family for generations, and they felt it was important that it stay in the family. In Dublin, I escorted an 89 year old woman through a crowd of angry protesters on Kildare Street near the back entrance to Leinster House (the seat of the Irish Parliament). Their anger was directed at the government over cuts of educational assistants for special needs children. Despite all the problems that the Irish have faced in her lifetime, the old woman told me that she would never choose to live anywhere else. She would rather struggle at home than turn her back on the land of her birth. She seemed to sense my unease with the situation, and told me not to worry. She reminded me that the Irish have always been a strong people committed to solving their problems.

So...

I am back, with cameras loaded with photographs and a laptop which is virtually heavier with research, both for my family history research and my history research. The taste of Ireland is still on my lips, its scent lingers in my nose, and the experience of it is etched deeply in my heart and on my mind. Over the next while I will share with you what that experience has meant to me.

In closing I want to mention a lesson that I learned on this trip. I have been blessed to travel to Ireland many times, and I think that such good fortune sometimes gives way to taking things for granted. In the past, while I was busy taking photographs and marking down information, at times, I forgot to stand in the moment and actually take in what I was a witness to. On this trip the lesson of being still was learned. As I stood in the shadow of Croagh Patrick, Ireland's holy mountain, I stopped for a moment, let my camera be still, and opened myself up to all that what before me, the sights, the sounds, the smells. In that moment I travelled back in time and stood with my ancestors, our backs to Clew Bay, the rain softly brushing across our faces, our eyes cast up to the mist settling in over the mountain top, our hands and our hearts embraced. I stood still and listened for the voices of the past in the winds sweeping over the land, and truly felt connected to them.

Clew Bay at low tide, Murrisk, County Mayo

Packing my bags and heading 'home'

2011-08-12T01:03:00.069-04:00

As I prepare for my annual research trip to Ireland, things have been a bit "off" lately in terms of blogging on a regular basis. I have not been posting as much as usual, due to the amount of work I have been doing in preparation for my trip. Also I have been taking time to reflect on my work as an historian, thinking about where I am and where I want to be.

Each year a research trip for me means a combination of family history research and research for my work as an historian. Given that there are only 24 hours in a day, and I really do need to sleep for at least a few of those hours, something's got to give, and unfortunately that may mean blogging suffers.

However...

I hope you'll be patient with me. My plan is to return with a lot of great discoveries, both in terms of family history and Irish history, and hopefully a lot of photographs to go along with those discoveries. This time around, in addition to research in the usual Irish haunts, I will be going over to London and the National Archives U.K.. They have approximately 25 boxes of files with material which is applicable to my history work, and which I am hoping contain at least a few wonderful finds. Fingers crossed.

In Ireland, at times, I will be away from the capital of Dublin, and so I am uncertain of my ability to regularly access internet connectivity. In the past this has proved to be an interesting challenge in some of the less populated areas of the country. I will try my best to post when I am in Dublin. I will be returning home the third week of September, sleeping off the jet lag, and then putting my nose to the grindstone in terms of getting back to work, and getting back to blogging.

On 19 October, through Legacy Family Tree, I will be presenting a webinar entitled,

'Ah hold your whisht, and tell me the true story': Uncovering Your Irish Family History.

If you are interested in Irish family history research, I hope that you will join me for it.

As always, I wish you much good luck with your own family history research.

Until we 'meet' again,

Jennifer

In the company of women: taking tea with ancestors of the female variety

2011-08-08T01:03:00.392-04:00

You have the proper dates and the places. Everything is well sourced and well documented, but perhaps some questions remain. Family history research is very serious business, and clearly our ancestors endured a lot; however, sometimes I like to think about questions for which there is no primary source documentation, questions of a more human bent. As I go through my family history to do list, I find myself creating an ever lengthening list of questions, for which I may never have answers, but nonetheless there they are scratching away at the back of my brain.

Why did Uncle 'D' pack up and leave, never to be heard from again?
What possessed Aunt 'K' to marry that dirty rotten scoundrel who left her for a much younger woman?
Why did uncle 'G' never marry?
Were Aunties 'C' and 'M' spinsters to the bone?

I find myself green with envy when I hear of someone who is in possession of the diary of an ancestor. To get a glimpse into the mind of someone who has long since passed, how wonderful that would be.

To sit down to an afternoon tea with my long lost female family members, and ask them questions, is something I would dearly love to do. The guests would have to come from both sides of the family tree, and from different time periods as well. Here is a light-hearted imagining of how that afternoon tea might be.

First of all, it would have to take place in the Lord Mayor's Lounge of the Shelbourne Hotel, St. Stephen's Green, Dublin. The place is rife with history. In 1922, Michael Collins had a hand in drafting the first Irish Constitution in room 112 of the hotel. Besides, they serve a lovely afternoon tea. We'll keep the numbers small, so as not to elicit too much attention.

Here's the guest list, and some of the questions I would ask:

Paternal grandmother Anne Magee Geraghty: "What was Countess Markievicz really like? Did you feel nervous transporting guns and ammunition to the various dumps around Dublin? You married somewhat late for an Irish girl. Did you find it difficult to settle into married life with children, after your adventures in Cumann na mBan?"

Paternal great-grandmother, Margaret Toole Geraghty: She looks very serious, but hopefully she won't mind a question or two. "How did your husband, a man from a family of pig farmers, end up being a wealthy car proprietor living in the best part of Dublin?" No disrespect intended; I was just wondering.

Maternal great-great grandmother, Mary Kettle Fitzpatrick: "Did you ever feel overshadowed by your brother Andrew J.? Did he practice his speeches on you? What is your opinion of the Rational Dress Society, and of the Irish Suffrage Movement in general?"

Uh oh, more tea perhaps, to lighten the mood? Cakes, anyone?

Maternal great-great-great-great-grandmother, Mary Brien Cavanagh: "Beautiful dress you're wearing. Is that Regency style? Is it true that you illegally transported pikes in order to arm the men of north county Dublin for the 1798 Rebellion? Your grandson Andrew said so in his memoirs. Did you find it exhilarating? Did you worry about getting caught?"

Before we finish our tea and leave, I would like to ask each one of you, what is the one element in your life for which you would like to be remembered? Also, all kidding aside, I want to tell you how much I love and admire each one of you, and I want to thank you for taking the time to enjoy this tea with me.

Ah me, if only time travel was possible, then I really could take afternoon tea with ancestors of the female variety.

Copyright© J.Geraghty-Gorman 2011.

52 Weeks of Personal Genealogy: 'To grandmother's house I go...'

2011-08-03T01:03:00.078-04:00

When I was a young child at school, it seemed to me as though I was the only one without a grandmother, and I felt this absence keenly. Even those children who had lost their parents, somehow managed to hang on to their grandmothers. Some were being raised by them; some had their grandmothers living close by, or at most a few miles away. It was easy for them to go to grandmother's house. They could hop a bus to visit, or drive a short drive to drop by.

To skip across the schoolyard and share in the chant, 'to grandmother's house I go', was not a part of my childhood, because my grandmothers and I did not exist in the same dimension of time. My maternal grandmother died when my own mother was barely 5 years of age, and my father's mother died almost a full decade before I came along. For me, a grandmother was someone who existed only in old photographs, was rarely spoken about, and had long ago turned to dust. The facts of the matter did not dissuade me, though. They haunted my dreams, these grandmothers, and so I made a decision.

'To grandmother's house I go...'

It is not such a long journey, once I am in Dublin. It is grandmother Mary's house I decide to visit first. On the south side of the Liffey, it is in a neighbourhood that sounds like magic to me, Ringsend. I travel across a stone bridge, up and over the Grand Canal, and notice the ruins of an ancient mill to my right, a spray of deep green English Ivy across a wire fence to my left. I turn one corner, and then another; the house is about half way down the street. Among the rows of smokey red brick, I spy its silken black painted door, and golden door knocker.

I find myself slightly short of breath, as I stand across from the Gordon Street house. Inexplicably, I search the upper windows for any sign of her looking out. A deep pain echoes in my chest, and tears begin to stream down my face, mourning the loss of someone I never even had a hold of, 'Grandmother'. I take the word and roll it around inside my mouth, 'grandmother', 'mother grand'. It sounds like celebration. I think about the word in Irish: 'seanmháthair', 'old mother', one who is old and wise, and takes care of you. I think about the word en français: 'grand-mére', 'great mother', like something which towers over you, towers over your life.

Leaving Gordon Street behind, I take my bicycle up and over the Liffey, travelling north to Stoneybatter and Grandmother Anne's childhood home, another erasure. I am drawn directly to the little cream painted cottage, with its bright canary-coloured door. I run my hand along the smoothness of its plaster facade. It is cool to the touch, and somehow feels familiar. Under the shadow of the afternoon clouds, I envision her face in the window, 'Grandmother', her cheek pressed up against the cool of the glass, waiting for her brother to return, listening for the strike of his boots on the cobblestone road. The sound which never arrived.

What is it I expected to find? Did I imagine that somehow gazing upon these stone buildings, and whispering the magical word, 'Grandmother', would bring these women back to me? Doors would open wide, welcoming arms would draw me in to sit before a turf fire, to learn all of their stories, and to share mine. It is too much to bear. I climb on my bicycle and travel back down the hill toward Collins Barracks and Irish History, away from family history, and grandmother's house.

Copyright© J.Geraghty-Gorman 2011.

Military Monday: Sign me up...for sedition

2011-08-01T01:03:00.284-04:00

Previously, I have written about members of my family involved in both political and military action in Ireland since the 18th century. William Cavanaugh armed and organized combatants in North County Dublin for the 1798 Rebellion. Several family members were involved in the 1916 Easter Rising and the Irish War of Independence, including Michael Magee, and his sister Anne. Thomas M. Kettle and his brother Laurence J. Kettle were two of the sixteen members of the provisional committee responsible for forming the Irish Volunteers in 1913. Clearly, many members on both sides of my family tree were committed to an Ireland free from British rule. To view the graves of some of these individuals visit Military Monday: Soldiers of Liberation.

The funny thing about rebels is that they like to know who is on their side, and during the Irish War of Independence this meant the production of a profusion of documentation. The paper trail for the Irish War of Independence is extensive. This is a boon to modern day historians; however, some of the paper in that trail could be construed as seditious in nature. For those whose names appeared on documents which reeked of sedition, and even for those in possession of such, the risk was great.

Following the Easter Rising, and into the Irish War of Independence, British soldiers occupying Ireland had a nasty habit of stopping people in the streets, sometimes asking for identification, and sometimes just plowing on through with a full body search of the individual in question. If one was caught with documents on his/her person which could be construed as seditious in nature, then he/she could find themselves in very deep trouble.

Sedition is conduct or speech inciting people to rebel against the authority of a state or monarch. In 1848, the British extended the Sedition Act of 1661 to include Ireland. The punishment for sedition was internment; however, sedition could be escalated into the treasonable offence of "levying war against the king". The punishment for treason was death, usually by hanging. Despite the risk, many documents were produced which not only encouraged action against the colonizer, but were in essence a pledge to rise up against the British. Here is a sampling of documents significant to my family history.

Policy number four overtly states the purpose of the Volunteers,
"the abolition of the system governing Ireland..."

Laurence J. Kettle, son of my maternal gg-granduncle Andrew J. Kettle;
(Eoin MacNeill countermanded Pearse's order of 1916,
resulting in action of the Easter Rising being almost entirely limited to Dublin.)

Each Volunteer was required to fill out one of these forms upon joining the Volunteer force.

Membership cards carried by Irish Volunteers

The inside of the Volunteer Membership Card:
Name and Address were listed along with Company, Battalion Number, and
date of enrolment. The right hand page details monies paid for membership,
and in this case, use of a rifle.

All Materials Copyright© J.Geraghty-Gorman 2011. All Rights Reserved.
Click on images to view larger version.

'Renaming Éire': The Ordnance Survey of 1824-1846

2011-07-29T06:04:00.000-04:00

Imagine, if you will, a colonizing power coming into your country and renaming your cities and towns, so that the names of places you've known all your life are suddenly changed, and changed into a language which is not your own. Imagine if 'New York City' was changed to 'Cathair Nua-Eabhrac'**. Between 1824 and 1846, in essence, this is what occurred in Ireland.

Although the 'translation' of Irish into English began with the invasions of the Anglo-Saxons in the 12th and 13th centuries, the British Empire imposed the rule of English in earnest with the Ordnance Survey of 1824-46. Under the command of Thomas Colby of the Royal Engineers, an army of soldiers and surveyors set about mapping the country, ensuring a more accurate valuation for the purpose of taxation, and in the process renaming the baronies, counties, and townlands, etc. of the island of Ireland.

Irish civilians who were deemed 'competent' in the Irish language were employed by the British in an attempt to have the Anglicized version of Irish names more accurately reflect the original Irish, but this was often a dismal failure. Although the accuracy of the physical mapping has been praised as a boon to cartographers, many viewed the ordnance survey as yet another move to literally wipe Irish language and culture off the map.

With the formation of the Irish Free State in 1922, Ireland now had a native government whose policy was to promote the use of Irish in various areas of public life. In 1937 Bunreacht na hÉireann (The Constitution of Ireland) came into force giving special status to the Irish language as the official first language of Ireland, and naming English as the official second language. Article 4 of the Constitution reminds us of the special status of the Irish language, "The name of the State is Éire, or, in the English language, Ireland".

Today when you travel in Ireland you will notice that, although English does appear on road and street signs, Irish always appears above it. On Irish license plates, with the exception of the English IRL for Ireland, place names, for example Port Láirge (meaning Waterford) or Baile Átha Cliath (meaning Dublin), always appear in Irish.

Baile Átha Cliath is Dublin

On Irish documents for birth, death and marriage the Irish language once again appears above the English.

Those of us who speak English are often relieved to see our own language on signs when we travel overseas, but we should not forget what the 'translations' of Irish into English meant to many of those who suffered under the hand of British rule. The opening paragraph of the Irish Constitution acknowledges the sacrifice of those who suffered "through centuries of trial".

"We, the people of Éire...

Gratefully remembering their heroic and unremitting struggle to regain the rightful independence of our Nation...

Do hereby adopt, enact, and give to ourselves this Constitution."

*********************************

References and further reading:

** Cathair Nua-Eabhrac is the Irish translation for New York City.

Bunreacht na hÉireann, Constitution of Ireland.

Mac Giolla Easpaig, Dónall. "Placenames Policy and its Implementation" in A New View of the Irish Language, (2008) Nic Pháidín, C. & Ó Cearnaigh, S., eds. Cois Life, pp 164-177.

Brian Friel's Play "Translations" offers an interesting perspective on the meaning and impact of the Ordnance Survey and the Anglicization of 19th century Ireland.

Copyright ©Jennifer Geraghty-Gorman.
Some of this material originally posted 5 July 2010.

'Cycling Apparitions in the Castle Ruins': An Irish Story

2011-07-25T01:03:00.069-04:00

Last July I first shared this story, recounted to me many times by my father when I was a child. I hope that those of you who read it last summer will enjoy revisiting the tale, and for those to whom it is new, I hope it brings a smile to your face.

When my dad was a young man growing up in Ireland he was an avid cyclist, and he spent every spare penny he had on the maintenance of his bicycles. When he was able to take a holiday from work, he and his friends would cycle around the country. Together they navigated the entire Republic of Ireland. They were very well prepared, carrying with them sleeping bags and a primus stove for cooking, together with a neatly compact kit of cooking implements, some food, candles, and torches (a kind of flashlight) for night lighting.

Each day the travelling group would go as far as the wind and their legs would carry them. Overnight accommodations were arranged as they went. Their fellow countrymen were very helpful and very welcoming. Many nights they found themselves sleeping in the hayloft of an accommodating farm in exchange for helping out a little the next day. After such nights they were usually greeted with a delicious breakfast of fresh eggs, sausages, bacon, and coffee so strong "it would grow hair on your chest", as my dad used to say.

On a trip up into Connemara they found themselves arriving in a small village too late at night to make any sort of sleeping arrangements. They had cycled through the Twelve Bens, a mountain range which, while not exceptionally high, has roads so narrow and drops so steep that cycling through it is not for the faint of heart. The weather had closed in on them, and visibility was very poor; they had to stop for a while before completing their journey through the mountains, thus the very late arrival at the village.

The weather was still a little unstable when they arrived, and not wanting to get drenched by an overnight rain while sleeping under the stars, they decided to seek shelter inside castle ruins one of the party had spotted in a field on the edge of the village. They made their way through the field, gingerly stepping over 'cow pies', and trying to quiet the clatter of their bicycles so as not to unsettle the cows. My dad loved the darkness of the night; he said it seemed as though there were a billion stars in the sky.

They arrived to discover the ruins of the castle were in good enough shape that they would be well sheltered for the night. They pulled out their gear, lit candles, heated up the primus stove, and prepared a small meal over which they enjoyed animated conversation about their day's adventures. They used the torches and candles to poke around a bit inside the ruins before finally extinguishing them and settling in for the night.

My dad said he had never slept so soundly. They slept late into the morning and awakened fresh and ready to go into the village for a hearty meal before they once again set out on their bikes.

Along the road they met a shepherd moving a large flock of sheep down the road. He directed them to a small pub where they could get a meal, and told them to avoid the castle ruins on their tour because during the night he had noticed strange lights in the castle keep. He said he was worried that the angry ghost who used to haunt the place might be back. The cycling party said nothing and proceeded to the pub.

They arrived to find the place in an uproar with a couple of villagers excitedly talking about strange lights seen in the castle ruins the previous night, how the lights moved around so much, how they were glowing for a while and then suddenly gone. There was one "ole fella" (my dad's words) in particular who seemed to delight in regaling the group with stories about apparitions met and ghosts that had once haunted the ruins, and who wondered aloud what this reappearance might mean.

My father and his friends felt they should own up to the fact that it was them lighting up the ruins the previous night, and not an angry ghost; however, everyone seemed so excited about it that they just didn't have the heart to say anything. The 'cycling apparitions' happily shared a meal with the villagers at the pub and continued on their journey.

Copyright ©J. Geraghty-Gorman 2010.

Thankful Thursday: The privilege to ponder

2011-07-21T01:03:00.126-04:00

On this Thankful Thursday I want to say thank you to all of you who take the time to follow this blog, and to those of you who offer comments. THANK YOU!

Lately I've been thinking about those of us who are afforded the time to think about, and write about, the lives of our ancestors, to research their backgrounds, and to find documents providing evidence of their history. I am very grateful that I have been given the privilege to ponder the lives of those who have gone before me. In this post, together with my sincere thanks to you, I offer a few shots of some of my favourite places from the land of my family, Ireland. Click on the photographs to view larger versions. I hope that you enjoy them.

Happy Researching Everyone!
Cheers,
Jennifer

The Bank of Ireland Building, Dublin. Fingers crossed: the future Genealogy Centre of Ireland

O'Connell Bridge on a busy evening.

On the grounds of Dublin Castle, notorious in Irish History and in the history of my family.

The Garden of Remembrance, Parnell Square, Dublin. A place to contemplate and honour the past.

Looking up from the Stonebreaker's yard, Kilmainham Gaol, site of the Easter 1916 Executions.

The waterfall, Powerscourt Desmense, County Wicklow.

Ruins and rivers in Glendalough, County Wicklow.

Gazing back through the Wicklow Mountains

Tintern Abbey, County Wexford

Remembering men of history, The National School, Clonakilty, County Cork

The National School, Clonakilty, County Cork

Cobh (Cove) Cathedral standing high over Cobh city, County Cork.

The Cliffs of Moher, a slightly different perspective, County Clare.

In the land of the Ancients, The Passage Tomb of Newgrange, near Drogheda, County Meath.

Seas and skies of blue and green, County Dublin.

Always a rainbow after a storm.

...and an Angel to guide us along our way.

If they had stuck like glue to those Irish naming patterns...

2011-07-20T01:03:00.399-04:00

Those of us who deal with Irish records may be familiar with the idea of Irish naming patterns. There are some researchers who absolutely insist that this traditional pattern is ALWAYS used. My own family tree provides living (and dead) proof that there are certainly exceptions to be found; however, if you have hit a brick wall with your research, you might consider such patterns to assist you in getting through it.

First of all, here is the traditional pattern:

The 1st son was usually named after the father's father.
The 2nd son was usually named after the mother's father.
The 3rd son was usually named after the father.
The 4th son was usually named after the father's eldest brother.
The 5th son was usually named after the mother's eldest brother.

The 1st daughter was usually named after the mother's mother.
The 2nd daughter was usually named after the father's mother.
The 3rd daughter was usually named after the mother.
The 4th daughter was usually named after the mother's eldest sister.
The 5th daughter was usually named after the father's eldest sister.

Are you still with me?

Also, you may find children named after brothers or sisters who pre-deceased them. Think of Henry Smart in Roddy Doyle's A Star Called Henry. Further, there is a superstition in some Irish families which holds that three living individuals cannot bear the same forename. The thinking is that it would portend death for one of them. For example, if there are two elder Patricks alive in the same family, then a new son cannot be christened with that name. This is a superstition of the 18th/19th century variety, but it might very well still stand in some families.

If they had stuck like glue to those Irish naming patterns what an interesting group we'd be.

According to a strict observance of Irish Naming Patterns:

My father should have been named Patrick, but then he would have been Patrick with an elder brother named Patrick. It might have made introductions a little awkward. I recall a sitcom on television with the introduction, "This is my brother Darryl, and my other brother Darryl". Perhaps the Darryls' parents were strictly following naming patterns.

My paternal grandparents stuck to the naming convention with my father's elder brother, who was christened Patrick after my great-grandfather. My grandparents named my father Michael Francis, after the brother my grandmother lost during the Irish War of Independence.

My own brother should have been called John, after our paternal grandfather, instead my parents chose to name him after our father and my mom's father, so he is Michael Patrick.

As the second daughter in her family, my mother should have been called Jane. She much prefers her name of Mary Jane Teresa, a combination of names from her mother, maternal and paternal grandmothers, and a spinster grand-aunt. Her elder sister should have been Mary, but she was christened Bernadette, and Mom's younger sister should have been Mary as well, but Kathleen was chosen for her.

As you can see the name Maria (pronounced Mariah), anglicized to Mary, is a very popular one in my matrilineal tree.

Matrilineal Tree: Married names appear in parentheses

I am the only 'Jennifer' in my family, although rumour has it that there is a distant cousin Jennifer hiding out in Tennessee, but that's a story for another day. According to tradition, I should bear the moniker 'Mary Angela'. When it came to naming me, my mother steadfastly refused to follow any pattern of any kind. It seemed to my mom as though almost every woman in the family was either a Mary, a Kathleen, or an Anne. Some family members didn't like my name. "Who is she named after?", they'd ask. The answer that 'Jennifer' was just a name my mother liked didn't hold water with them, but nevertheless the name stuck. I'm sure it made my mom's head spin just a little when I chose Maria Bernadette as my confirmation name.

What is your experience of naming patterns in your own family tree?

Copyright© J.Geraghty-Gorman 2011.

Wordless Wednesday, almost: A rainy afternoon in Dublin town

2011-07-13T11:18:00.003-04:00

Scurrying across the Ha'penny Bridge

The Wellington Monument, Phoenix Park, liquified.

The Croppies Acre, fluidly. Collins Barracks in the background.

In the mist, the Clarence Hotel.

Tuesday's Tip: New sources added to 'Finding Irish Family: Research Aids' page

2011-07-12T10:01:00.023-04:00

Here are some recent additions I have made to the Finding Irish Family: Research Aids page of this blog.

Happy Hunting Everyone!

Irish Emigration Database: I mentioned this database last year when it first went live, and over time they have greatly improved it. If you are looking for information on Irish ancestors who emigrated from Ireland in the 19th century, then take a look here. The database is freely searchable.

http://www.dunbrody.com/

Also, if you want to view photographs of the replica famine ship, then view my post "The Dunbrody, A Famine Ship".

Deceased Online: This website is looking to become the one stop shop for cemetery records in the UK and The Republic of Ireland*. Do check out their database listing to see which cemeteries are now included. You may conduct a free search; viewing records is on a pay-per-view basis. *Note: a check of their database reveals that it does not currently include any cemeteries in Ireland, but they are committed to adding records on a regular basis, so this will be one to watch.

https://www.deceasedonline.com/

Buildings of Ireland: via the website of The National Inventory of Architectural Heritage (NIAH). The work of the NIAH involves identifying and recording the architectural heritage of Ireland, from 1700 to the present day. In my opinion, projects such as this are always worth a look because you never know what you might learn from them in terms of your ancestors' experience of living in Ireland.

http://www.buildingsofireland.ie/

If today was your last day on earth...

2011-07-10T01:03:00.077-04:00

If you knew that today was to be your last day on earth, what would you regret not having done in terms of your family history research?

I think it's safe to assume that most of us, if not all, would want to spend our last day on earth surrounded by loving family and friends; however, just for a moment, think about your last day in terms of your family history research.

Is there a letter you have been thinking of writing to an elderly relative, but you keep putting it off? Do it now. Sit down and put pen to paper. Tell that person how much you love your family, and explain the hows and whys of the family history you're writing.

Is there a thank you note you wanted to send to an archivist or a researcher who helped you along the way? Perhaps you think too much time has passed to send that note. Send it now. Let them know how much you appreciate their help.

Is there a family secret you would like to better understand? Ask your questions now. Be gentle and respectful in asking. Thank the person who shares with you what they know about it.

Is there a repository you have avoided going to, because you're worried that your research skills aren't up to snuff? Go to that repository. Go, and ask for help. These places are staffed with people who love family history as much as you do, and understand how important it is. They are always willing to help.

Is there a trip you've been thinking about, and talking about, for years? Perhaps a trip to your family's homeland? Plan it today. Save for it today. It is possible for you to go.

Have you been hesitating to write comments on blogs because you feel intimidated or shy? Write your comments. Do it today. Share your experiences and your opinions. Give someone praise or encouragement.

And, to the family for whom you're writing your history:

Thank them today.

Tell someone you love them today.

Tell someone you forgive them today.

Not a single one of us is promised tomorrow so...

If you knew today was to be your last day on earth, what would you do?

Just do it.

Copyright© J.Geraghty-Gorman 2011.
Click on photograph to view larger version.

Sepia Saturday: 'The Hobby Horse Set'

2011-07-09T06:15:00.005-04:00

False Pedigrees: "I beg your pardon sir, but that Marquis is not yours."

2011-07-08T01:03:00.381-04:00

Thank You to Leslie Ann, of Ancestors Live Here, for her Thursday morning tweet of this link to a site about false pedigrees. Some of you may be familiar with the practices of these 'pedigree pedlars'. They represented themselves as professional genealogists and engaged in questionable research practices, which resulted in false pedigrees. The most creative among them even produced fake documents to support their spurious claims. If you worry that some of your surnames appear on these pedigrees, such thoughts may make you want to go the ostrich route (i.e. bury your head in the sand), but before you do that, take a look at the link. Also, head over to FamilySearch.org and peruse this page. It lists the names of those best known to have engaged in the practice, along with details of publications about them.

The link suggested by Leslie Ann got me thinking about the possibility that false pedigrees may be produced unwittingly, by even the most well-intentioned family history researcher. A researcher may worry about disappointing someone, particularly if the outcome of their work proves that a long standing family tale is false. Also, many of us are familiar with hitting the proverbial 'brick wall', that moment when the document trail goes cold, and we are left with nothing but questions. Unfortunately, instead of presenting family members with a 'brick wall', a well-meaning researcher might grease that wall a little and swing themselves up over it, all the while believing they will break those bricks eventually. I suppose I must also include those who make a false claim simply because a connection to someone famous, or infamous, is very appealing.

The problem is: False pedigrees do more harm than good.

Consider the case of actor John Hurt, (star of The Elephant Man, and Mr. Ollivander to Harry Potter Fans). Last summer, on the U.K. version of "WDYTYA?", the actor was very disappointed to discover that his family is not connected to Ireland. Throughout his life he had been told by his mother, and other family members, that they were descended from the Marquis of Sligo. The connection was borne out of the belief that his great-grandmother, Emma Stafford, was the illegitimate daughter of the Marquis. Hurt described how he had always believed Ireland was his home, given his great-grandmother's paternity. Because of this belief, he held a special place for Ireland in his heart.

Ultimately, John Hurt discovered that, although his great-grandmother was indeed illegitimate, her father was not the Marquis of Sligo. Further information provided by his family held that it was her husband, Walter Lord Browne, who was descended from the Marquis; however, this also proved to be untrue. The interesting thing is, it appears that Browne was the source of this false pedigree, as well as many other rumours, which falsely connected him to the Marquis. In fact, Browne's father was a lowly clerk who ended up in debtor's prison. In the end, researchers were able to uncover no connection of any kind to Ireland. The truth seemed to cut through John Hurt like a knife; his disappointment over these lies was palpable. Unfortunately, claims of connections to the rich and famous often emerge from false pedigrees.

Beyond avoiding feelings of deep disappointment, to claim a false connection means that the real connections may be ignored or even buried. In my own family tree, I have connections to some persons who had a degree of fame in their day, but do I view them as more worthy of remembrance than others who languished in anonymity? Would I give up my maternal great-grandfather Thomas Fitzpatrick, who worked as a dock labourer, in favour of someone rich and famous? Not a chance.

So, thank you Leslie Ann for pointing out these pedigree pedlars. It reminds us of the need to be accurate, to use primary source documents where possible, to use only reliable resources, and to document and cite those resources. The further we move away from the original documentary history, the more malleable that history becomes.

Copyright© J.Geraghty-Gorman 2011.
Thank You to The Graphics Fairy for the crown image.

Wordless Wednesday, almost: On a bus in Ole Dublin town

2011-07-06T01:03:00.023-04:00

Dame Street

James Street Post Office, with a little surprise riding by.

Stuck in traffic reading the menu board at M. J. O'Neill's Pub

Entrance to Irish Museum of Modern Art courtyard, Military Road, Kilmainham

One of the many Guinness Gates

Stuck behind a bus on Suffolk Street

Wordless Wednesday, almost: 'The Horsey Set'

2011-06-29T01:03:00.052-04:00

Horseback riding through The Gap of Dunloe, County Kerry, Ireland:
left to right: my brother Michael and our mom Mary in the pony-drawn 'trap',
me on 'Tom', my dad Michael on 'Maudie'.

Tombstone Tuesday: Minding the dead: The watch towers of Glasnevin

2011-06-28T10:23:00.000-04:00

Sentimental Sunday: Odd sayings & words heard in and around my Irish family: a.k.a. "Be careful what you say to the milkman."

2011-06-26T01:03:00.044-04:00

Do you ever think about particular odd words or phrases that you have heard from friends and/or family members?

The other day I was thinking about a close friend of my mom's who passed away a few years ago, and for some reason remembering Phyllis got me thinking about some of the words and phrases my mother, her Irish friends, and family members used when I was a child.

"Will you ring me?": Translation: "will you phone me?"

"I'll break your face": My Mom's friend Joan used to say this to her daughters. Translation: they were in big trouble.

"Ah, hold your whisht": My mom used to say this when she doubted the truth of what she was hearing. Basically it translates to: "I've heard enough".

"I'll give you a puck in the gob": Translation: "a smack in the mouth". This was ALWAYS said in jest. Basically it means "Don't be a smart aleck".

Also, I was reminded of a story my mother shared with me about the first time she learned the importance of speaking 'Canadian', so to speak. After my parents and brother emigrated to Canada, my mom learned very quickly that there were certain words and phrases that didn't translate in quite the same way they did in Ireland.

When my parents first lived in Canada, they had milk delivered to their home. The milkman would usually arrive around 5 a.m.. He would leave the milk bottles on the veranda just outside the front door, and my mom would leave payment for him in an envelope in the letter box. Mom would usually rise at around 6 a.m. to make breakfast for my dad, and see him off to work.

In Ireland, my mom had been accustomed to purchasing groceries from local shops, and occasionally from 'carters'. A carter was a man who would bring a large horse-drawn cart or wagon into the neighbourhood. It would be loaded up with such items as fresh vegetables, bread, potatoes, and eggs, all for sale. My mother recalls, that when she was a child, quite a number of carters would venture into their neighbourhood very early in the morning. Her father, who set off for work on his bicycle around six o'clock, could often be seen knocking on the doors of his neighbours homes so that they wouldn't miss the carters. When my mom learned that in Canada she could deal with a version of a 'carter', in the person of the milkman, she was very happy. It would be almost like having a little bit of Dublin on this side of the world.

My mother learned from one of her neighbours that the milkman also delivered baked goods. He would bring a large basket filled with fresh baked goods and you could choose whatever appealed to you. One morning she got up extra early in order to speak with him about buying fresh bread and pastries. Since it was the milkman's usual practice to deliver at around five in the morning, Mom was worried that she might miss him when she wanted to buy bread, and so she asked him the following question:

"Can you knock me up in the morning because me Da' used do it for the neighbours?"

Mom found it strange that the milkman's face blushed bright red, and he didn't answer her question. She thought that he might not have understood her, given her Irish accent and tendency to speak very quickly. Perhaps it was that he simply didn't want to be knocking on a customer's door at five in the morning. Later on that day she went to her next door neighbour Louise, and told Louise that she thought the milkman may not have understood her request. Mom told Louise what she had asked for...

And then...Louise explained to my mom what she had actually asked for.

After that day, my poor mother bought her baked goods only in the local grocery. She never again made eye contact with that milkman, and was very relieved when they moved to new neighbourhood.

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Genealogy: a prime topic, especially in Ireland

2011-06-24T06:40:00.006-04:00

Perhaps I have donned my rose-coloured glasses yet again, but honestly I cannot think of another country in the world in which the subject of genealogy would be a topic for discussion on the floor of the houses of government, but that is exactly what took place in the Dáil Éireann, earlier this week, on Wednesday, 22 June 2011.

Directly quoting from the Houses of the Oireachtas debate:

Deputy Tom Fleming asked the Minister for Arts, Heritage, and the Gaeltacht:

"if he will set up a central genealogy service to capitalise on the recent visit by President Obama in view of the fact that it would provide a comprehensive research facility to the Irish diaspora worldwide and contribute greatly to attract these persons to Ireland."

Jimmy Deenihan, the Minister for Arts, Heritage, and the Gaeltacht replied:

"My approach to genealogical services is to assist the two main national institutions involved in this area which are under the aegis of my Department, the National Archives and the National Library, to make available to the public the records of genealogical interest in their collections, online and free of charge, to gain the highest usage domestically and around the world."

Deputy Deenihan goes on to describe the other initiatives underway to ensure the greatest access of materials to the greatest number of people. He includes mention of http://www.irishgenealogy.ie/index.html, not currently my favourite site, given the snail's pace at which it is updated, but clearly a site which will be of great value once the work is complete.

Further, he makes reference to the fact that the release of the 1926 Census remains in legal limbo, but again, at least they are working on it. There is also discussion of creating a main web portal in order to draw together Irish genealogical web resources currently in use.

To read the entire debate visit The Houses of Oireachtas website debates page.

The significance of all of this is that the Irish government continues to recognize the importance of genealogy. Given the fact that it is good business to give people what they want, some will no doubt see this as a money grab, with the sole purpose of boosting tourism; however, as a researcher, I can only view it as a good thing.

Cheers to all, and Happy Hunting.

Jennifer

What does it mean to say "I am an Irish Citizen."?

2011-06-22T01:03:00.110-04:00

Father: Irish Born, Irish Citizen
Mother: Irish Born, Irish Citizen
Brother: Irish Born, Irish Citizen
Me: Canadian Born, Irish Citizen?

Under Irish law, because it is the case that my mother and my father are Irish born, and were Irish citizens at the time of my birth, I am automatically an Irish citizen.

BUT...

What does it truly mean to say, "I am an Irish citizen"?

Strictly speaking, to be an Irish citizen means that I am a member of a political community, specifically the nation of the Republic of Ireland. With Irish citizenship come certain legal rights; for example, I am allowed to travel on an Irish passport. Ireland is a member of the European Union (EU); therefore, as an Irish citizen I am free to live and work in any member country of the EU. No residence or work permits are necessary for me. It all sounds very nice and uncomplicated; however, with rights come responsibilities, so what is required of me as an Irish citizen?

As an Irish citizen living outside of Ireland there is little required of me, at least in legal terms. I am not allowed to vote in Irish elections, nor am I allowed to be a jury member. I am an Irish citizen, but I am on the outside looking in. In some respects it appears as though the legal designation is a meaningless one; however, for me being a citizen of Ireland is more than just a legal or political designation. To be a citizen is to represent the country of Ireland in the best possible way. Perhaps this explains my tendency to "get my knickers in a knot" when I feel as though Irish research is being misrepresented.

A few years ago when I attended an Irish women's history conference, I had a discussion with a couple of Irish academics about the way in which Ireland is viewed by citizens living outside the country. In the case of my parents, and some other family members who had emigrated out of Ireland, it seemed to me as though their idea of Ireland was frozen in time, as if the country remained exactly as it was when they left it. It also appeared that over time their view of Ireland had changed. In their estimation it now seemed as though the country was a sort of dream-like place, a place without hardship or conflict, a place to look upon with only fond memories. I asked the academics if they thought that ex-patriot Irish could really understand what Ireland was like today. They said that they thought there might be a tendency to view the country through rose-coloured glasses. This certainly makes sense to me.

It seems to me as though to 'lose' a country, by emigrating, is almost like losing a loved one. When we look back over the life we shared with a now deceased family member, the troubles between us lose their edge and fade into the background. The happy times, and all that was good about that individual, come marching into the fore. Perhaps the same holds true for the immigrant when they are no longer "legally responsible" for the country of which they are a citizen. Perhaps an immigrant wants to remember, and to bring to their new country, only all the best of what they knew in their homeland.

In many ways I have taken on my parents' ideal of what Ireland is. It is only when I travel to do research, and meet with family members who still live in Ireland, that I get a very small taste of exactly how things are politically and economically. Despite that, I have always loved the country of Ireland, and it is still my dream to one day live there in the person of a 'real' citizen. Although I may be viewing it through rose-coloured glasses, I am proud to say I am a citizen of Ireland.

Tuesday's Tip: Irish Records Updates on 'Finding Family: Research Aids' page

2011-06-21T01:03:00.211-04:00

On this Tuesday's Tip I am passing along updates for sites I have listed on my page "Finding Family: Research Aids", as well as additions to the page itself. I add to this page anytime I find a site that proves to be helpful.

Cheers and Happy Hunting to you!

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New portal website for finding search accessible archival collections:

The Irish Archives Resource (IAR) is a web portal that enables researchers to search for publicly accessible archival collections that are located in Ireland. The IAR is funded by the Heritage Council of Ireland and is supported by the Archives and Records Association (Ireland). This portal is useful now, depending on your research interests, and with the possibility of future institutional partnerships, it holds the promise of growing into a far reaching and valuable resource.

They describe it as follows:

"The IAR consists of an online database which provides searchable archival descriptions that are created in accordance with national archival guidelines and international archival standards. Web links from each descriptive entry lead to repository home pages, detailed item level finding aids, databases, or digital objects.

The purpose of the IAR Portal is to:

Allow users to locate archival collections that are relevant to their research.
Stimulate the increased use of archival collections across the whole of Ireland by directing researchers to the relevant repositories/archives services.
Encourage the development and publication of comprehensive, standardised archival descriptions.
Facilitate access to documents/items by linking to detailed finding aids/descriptive lists, web pages, or digital objects, that are held, for example, on the web site of each repository/archives service."

Link to the site here: http://www.iar.ie/AboutUs.html

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Irish Family History Foundation: Wicklow Church Marriage Records

The IFHF is pleased to announce the online addition of 95,000 church marriage records from the Wicklow Family History Centre for Roman Catholic and Church of Ireland parishes in Co. Wicklow. See the Wicklow Sources List for full details.

Use this link and login using your existing IFHF login details.
http://wicklow.rootsireland.ie

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Ancestry Ireland (Ulster Historical Foundation)"Explore Ulster's History and Genealogy":

These records are not just limited to the modern day state of Northern Ireland, but cover the Province of Ulster, including areas which are not part of Northern Ireland.

Here is a full listing of all that they have in their database, including newly added records:
http://www.ancestryireland.com/database.php

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Cemeteries

I've added a link to the Irish cemetery pages at Interment.net. Despite the fact that it's a bit of an eyesore, I've also added a 'Find A Grave' customized search box for graves in Ireland.

Interment.net: Ireland and Northern Ireland pages:

http://www.interment.net/ireland/index.htm

Find A Grave: Irish Cemeteries:

See 'Find A Grave' customized search box on 'Finding Family: Research Aids' page.

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The National Library of Ireland Digital Photographic: You don't have to pay Ancestry.com in order to view photographs from the National Library Digital Photographic Archive. Just click on the link below, which I've added to my research page, and you will be able to access over 33,000 digital images, including those from the collections of Lawrence, the Keogh Brothers, and the Irish Independent newspaper.

National Library of Ireland Digital Photographic Archive

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Madness Monday: Misinformation Makes Me Crazy!!! Part Three

2011-06-20T01:03:00.140-04:00

Uh oh, you may be thinking, here she goes again. Back in March I posted part two about my madness over misinformation, made reference to my first "bout of madness" in July of 2010, and wrote about how I don't usually give in to an inclination to rant. Now, here I am in June of 2011 and I'm feeling that itch again. Three upsets in the space of one year? I'm going to give myself a break and say it's okay.

Once again I made one of my forays around Internet Land, and once again I was surprised at some of the little nuggets that I came upon about doing genealogy research in Ireland. Here are just a few.

1. "It takes two hours to get a reader's ticket at the National Library of Ireland".

Really? Two hours? What the heck were you doing during that time?

Getting a reader's ticket at the National Library of Ireland is very easy and should take, at most, about fifteen minutes.

One: you fill out the application (now via computer in their lobby).
Two: you present i.d. (your passport is best), and get an i.d. photo taken in their gift shop.
Three: the staff member prints out the ticket with photo, laminates it, and puts in on a little chain so you can wear it.

Tah Dah!

You're ready to research.

(You might spend a few more minutes if you'd like to have a chin wag with the gift shop staff member or the security guards.)

2. "Irish Research Centres are really expensive to search in."

What???

Okay, if a man in a trench coat approaches you on the street and says, "Psst, want to buy some research from my research centre?", then RUN as fast as you can to the National Library of Ireland (NLI) or the National Archives of Ireland (NAI), both located in Dublin City.

Both the NLI and the NAI provide a FREE genealogy advisory service, and they are staffed by very helpful personnel. They will direct you to the library and archive resources which you may want to view (again free). Also, both the NLI website and the NAI website provide research guides to Irish genealogy, and details about all of their holdings, including materials such as parish registers (NLI, on microfilm), Tithe Applotment books, wills and testamentary records (NAI). As is the case with all libraries and archives, you do have to pay for photocopies or microfilm copies.

For those searching online, individual county based genealogy centres have been involved in the transcription and digitization of Irish church records for many years. Most of them are part of the Irish Family History Foundation (IFHF), and their records can be accessed online through the IFHF website. You may search this site for free; the viewing and purchase of an individual record will cost 5 Euros (about $6.50 USD). If you are in Ireland, it is best to stick with such places as the National Library, the National Archives, Dublin City Library, or other local libraries for research. The county centres provide a research service based on the indexes they hold, but do not normally allow members of the public direct access to them.

As is the case elsewhere, if you contract with a professional researcher/genealogist to do research for you, then yes, you must pay for the services of that person. I have been doing research in Ireland for years, and I have never, at any time, paid to do my own research.

3. Few records exist because, "they [the Irish] were taught not to make records".

This bit of nonsense nearly made my head explode. Taught NOT to make records? Was there a training course? Did everyone just sit in the classroom and stare at the chalk board?

Consider for a moment a micro-mini history of Ireland...

12th and 13th centuries:

The Norman invasions: burning, pillaging, rack and ruin: Yes, probably loss of records.

17th century:

That little darling Oliver Cromwell stopped by, ripping up the south and east of the island in his bid to "reconquer" Ireland for England. Catholic Churches were deliberately razed by cannon fire. More burning and pillaging, and yes loss of records, hiding of records, and who knows perhaps even avoidance of making records.

18th century:

1798 Rebellion: some damage to property, perhaps even some destruction of records.

19th century:

1845: legislation provides for the registration of civil marriages and the regulation of all non-Catholic marriages, and creates the Office of the Registrar-General responsible for the collation and custody of all birth, death and marriage records.

1864: further legislation provides for the inclusion of Catholic marriages, together with all births and deaths.(For the history of civil registration in Ireland visit this GRO site history page).

20th century:

1922: during the Irish Civil War: fire at the Four Courts Complex results in the destruction of the Public Records Office and with it the loss of about two-thirds of the pre-1870 Church of Ireland parish registers, as well almost all 19th century census documents, and pre-1922 probate records. (see this post for further information)

YES, throughout Irish history there have been times when records have been destroyed, either deliberately or inadvertently, but the Irish being "taught NOT to make records"? I think that's more than a bit of a stretch.

As always, I thank you for reading/listening to my Monday Madness. Sigh! I feel so much better.

**********************************************

Copyright© J.Geraghty-Gorman 2011.
Note: The money image is of defunct Irish legal tender, an old £20 note; the Euro is now the standard used.
Thanks to The Graphics Fairy for the black and white graphics in this post.

Happy Father's Day!: Fathers of our family

2011-06-19T05:37:00.003-04:00

father

to lift, never to falter

to care, without fail

to love and support without error

these are dream words

these are not father.

to try, and then fail,

but try again

to love, and have trouble showing it,

but love anyway

to be strong, but allow frailty,

these are human words

these are Father.

Thankful Thursday: Santa Claus, The Tooth Fairy, and Archivists

2011-06-16T01:03:00.033-04:00

When you think about the people (both real and imagined) in your life who rarely disappoint you, to whom would you point? When I was a child it was Santa Claus who might deliver what was requested (often a beloved story book). The Tooth Fairy could usually be relied upon to come up with a quarter, or perhaps even two, for the little incisors that I might tuck under my pillow. Now that I am an adult, historian, and family history researcher, I find Archivists fit nicely into the same category.

After participating in "Ask an Archivist" day last Thursday on Twitter, I asked myself about the last time an archivist said "NO" to me, and I honestly couldn't think of a single instance. On twitpic I posted the photograph which you see below, because I am trying to identify all of the men in it. They are, I believe, members of the Dublin Active Service Unit. The two men I can identify are Michael Magee (back row, far right) and Bernard Ryan (front row, 2nd from left), about whom I've previously written on this blog.

On "Ask an Archivist" day, I asked if anyone at The National Library of Ireland would view the image and possibly be able to identify the other men in the photograph. I posted my query and less than 2 minutes later received an enthusiastic reply with further questions, suggestions, and the offer of help. The photograph has been forwarded to their photo archivist, and they asked if they could distribute it to their wide audience of followers, and anyone else who might be helpful. WOW!

This made me think about the fact that as researchers we regularly ask Archivists (and Librarians) for help, and they never say no to us. If it is possible to locate a document or film, or material of any kind which is helpful to us, Archivists step up and bring it along. Often I have found myself in situations in which I not only received the information I requested, but was also given extra materials. The sentences, "this might help you" and "you might find this interesting or useful" are ones I hear a lot when I am doing research.

Today, on this Thankful Thursday, I am so very thankful for Archivists and Librarians, so I want to say thank you to each and every one who has helped me along my way, and might help me in the future.

THANK YOU!!!

Matrilineal Monday: Ladies' Night and a new (old) discovery

2011-06-13T01:03:00.049-04:00

What is it about searching after midnight? Is there magic in the air? Do we hear the voices of our ancestors as we toss and turn unable to sleep? What is it about waking up in the wee hours when the house is asleep, but you are wide awake and percolating with thoughts of family connections?

Previously I shared with you the success I've had with late night research (see this post), and this past week I had yet another sleepless night, so what else could I do but get up to work. Perhaps I should just give up sleeping.

I have been working through various files, pulling out information in preparation for this summer's research trip to Ireland, and in one of the files there was a page bearing the surnames Brunton and Malone. The surnames looked familiar, but I had not entered the information from the records into my database. At that very moment I really could not say with any certainty to whom they belonged, and so I started looking. File by file, page by page, hour on hour.

Finally, I made the connection. The surname Brunton belongs to Maria Teresa Brunton, the mother of Maria 'Mary' Teresa Hynes, my maternal great grandmother. Maria Teresa Brunton is my maternal great-great grandmother. Maria Teresa Brunton married Mark Hynes 20 October 1872; their daughter, my great grandmother, Maria Teresa Hynes was born on 26 September 1873.

Maternal great-grandmother
Maria 'Mary' Teresa Hynes Fitzpatrick

On the marriage record of Mark and Maria Hynes, the forenames of both mothers are included (Maria and Bridget), but their maiden names are not. Of course, I was not surprised to see yet another Maria, but a Bridget? On the marriage record for Maria Teresa Brunton's parents in May of 1847, and on Maria Teresa Brunton's birth record in July of 1850, her mother is named as Bridget Malone. Why had I not recorded these records in my database?

Bridget???

Okay, there is no excuse for not adding the Brunton maiden name information to Maria Teresa Hynes in the database, but I now understand my reticence to add Bridget Malone. Having Bridget Malone as my maternal g-g-g grandmother would mean that my matrilineal tree of women named Maria 'Mary' begins with a woman named Bridget. I recall the surprise I felt at the time I found that record. Given Irish naming patterns, I guess I was skeptical that I could have a Bridget instead of another Maria. Skepticism leads to uncertainty. Uncertainty usually leads me to place such documents in the "uncertain file". That's probably why I did not add it to the database.

Also, the surname Brunton is Scottish in origin. Perhaps there are some bagpipes in my family tree. Hmmm? The plot thickens. Here's my matrilineal tree so far.

Matrilineal Tree: Married names appear in parentheses

New page for this blog: Faces of Genealogy

2011-06-10T13:01:00.003-04:00

Last week Thomas MacEntee alerted us to the publication, by an L.A. newspaper (which shall remain nameless), of an offensive image within the body of an article about the SCGS Jamboree. At that time Thomas asked us to publish images on our blogs which feature the faces of those people who represent the face of genealogy for us.

When I saw the outpouring of photographs and articles on this topic, I felt so very proud of all of us who are members of the GeneaBloggers community. Personally, this exercise was very meaningful, because it meant I took the time to go through all of the images I have in order to look for that defining one which is, for me, "The Face of Genealogy". Ultimately I ended up publishing a grouping of photographs which I thought fit the bill.

In light of the fact that doing this meant so much to me, I have decided to create another page for this blog. On this page, which is entitled "Faces of Genealogy", I have published photographs which are especially meaningful to me. I hope that you will enjoy viewing them as much as I do. As I have stated at the top of the new page, "These are the faces of some of my family members. These are the faces of some of those who have inspired me, driven me to do research, and haunted my dreams. These are the faces of my family history and genealogy."

"A picture is worth a thousand words"

2011-06-09T01:03:00.092-04:00

So very grateful am I to have the old photographs that I have, although they are few in number. Each time I see a fellow blogger post 'found' photographs of an ancestor, my heart leaps for them because I know the joy such photos bring to me, and I imagine they feel the same way.

Often I find myself looking intently into the faces of those in the photos I do have, wondering what they are thinking, wondering what life was like for them at just that very moment. Did they 'pose' as we might do when a photograph is taken? Did they dislike having photos taken, or mistrust the medium of photography? Did they think they had "a good side" and prefer to be photographed from that angle? In some photos it is clear that all the rules of portraiture were not yet in play, as those pictured look very uncomfortable posing for posterity.

It is, I suppose, easy for us who do family history research to judge a past life in its entirety, since we have knowledge that those individuals did not have at the time those photos were taken. We know how their lives ended, and how their stories turned out. In the very moment when they posed before the cameras they did not know all that life would bring to them.

I was thinking about this the other night while I looked at some photographs of my father when he was a child. There were times, when I was growing up, that I observed my father in solitude, and at those times he seemed to have a heavy heart. There was a sort of shadow that would come over his face, sadness hung heavy in the room, and he would be lost in thought. When I look at his childhood photographs there is none of this, no sadness, no longing; there is only sheer joy in his face. Sometimes I wish I could climb into those old photographs and share the energy of that joy with him. It is enough to know that he experienced it, and it is good to be reminded that he had joy in his childhood, no matter what else life brought his way.

For me, no matter how small it may be, a picture or a photograph really is worth a thousand words, and more, because it encapsulates the emotions, hopes, and dreams that were there in that moment in which our loved ones were captured with the click of a shutter.

Copyright© J.Geraghty-Gorman 2011.

Wordless Wednesday: Waiting for the East Passage Ferry: Waterford to Wexford

2011-06-08T06:22:00.000-04:00

Click on photographs to view larger version.

This Is The Face of Genealogy

2011-06-06T04:13:00.008-04:00

These are the faces of some of those who have inspired me, driven me to do research, and haunted my dreams. These are the faces of my family history and genealogy.

Click on photograph to view larger version.
Copyright© J.Geraghty-Gorman 2011.

Thankful Thursday: My start in Family History? Two Conversations

2011-06-02T01:03:00.201-04:00

One Friday night a few weeks ago, on GeneaBloggers BlogTalkRadio, Thomas MacEntee asked us to consider this question: "Who gave you your start in Genealogy/Family History?", and further to that, "Who helped you along the way?". On the chat board immediately I typed in the first 'name' that popped into my head, 'my father'. After the show I sat down and gave the question some serious thought. In my world, the history of my family is one which my family members, particularly my parents, were often reticent to talk about, but every now and then I was given brief glimpses.

If I was to pinpoint when I felt as though I was being encouraged to uncover our family's stories, then I would have to say it was born out of two conversations, and both of those were with my father. The first began during a very long commute, and may have been spurred on by the desire to avoid uncomfortable silences. The second was filled with detail and driven by the fact that my dad was dying.

1. The Second World War and free leather boots.

When I was in graduate school I lived about 60 miles from the university I was attending. The commute was a long and often uncomfortable one; however, the time spent on the inter-city bus allowed me to get reading done, or grade assignments for the classes I was teaching. One semester the teaching work I was offered included a lecture session at 7:30 a.m. on Thursday mornings. Since the inter-city bus schedule didn't include a trip that would get me to the university on time, my dad very generously offered to drive me, leaving every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m., so that I could teach the class.

Truth be told, my dad and I had not spent a lot of one on one time together as I was growing up, so at first I think each of us was a little uncomfortable with the seventy-five minute drive to the university. Initially we talked about the weather and sports, and he talked about his work a bit, but after a while there were noticeable lags in the conversation.

Then, one day he asked me what I was working on at school. There were two things about this conversation that I remember very clearly. First, my dad began by saying "I'm not an educated man, but would you mind telling me about what you're working on at school?". I remember feeling a little stunned that somehow I'd made my dad feel as though he had to justify asking such a question, and I certainly didn't want him to feel that way. I talked about my belief that life offers us all sorts of education that is in many ways better than anything you might ever learn inside a school room. The second thing I remember about that conversation is that I didn't want to just talk about what I was doing, I wanted to know about what he had learned in life, so I started asking him a few questions. I learned so much from his answers.

One of the stories which stands out in my mind from this conversation is one in which he talked about working for the Irish version of the ARP (Air Raid Precautions) during the Second World War. Ireland was officially neutral during this war; despite that, and given their proximity to England, the Irish government built some air raid shelters, distributed gas masks, and required homes to hang black-out curtains. When the air raid sirens sounded it was the job of members of the ARP to go out into the streets to ensure street lights were extinguished, citizens were taking shelter, curfews were being respected, and black-out curtains were drawn so that no lights were visible.

To say I was dumbstruck by the story of my father as a 14 year old doing something so risky is an understatement. All I could say was "Wow", and then I asked him what prompted him to join, and his answer was even more astonishing.

"They gave us leather boots for free Jenn", he said. "Leather boots! We were very poor, and my whole life I wanted leather boots, and they gave them to us for free. Those boots were a thing of beauty."

I felt a catch in my throat and tears welled up in my eyes when my dad told me this, and I literally could not speak. I understood just then that I really had no idea of the kinds of challenges my dad had faced in his life, and I was so very grateful that he thought enough of me to share this story with me.

2. A diagnosis and a map.

My father had been a smoker for a very long time, and although he had quit smoking about fifteen years before his death, it was lung cancer that was killing him. He was diagnosed with terminal cancer on the tenth day of February and he died thirty-four days later on the sixteenth of March.

Very clearly I remember the phone call I received from my sister-in-law saying my father was ill and I needed to go home. When I returned home I was shocked to see my father. To me he was always a very powerful man, tall and imposing. He was a handsome man with a mass of blond hair, and he took pride in his appearance. Within a short time he had lost a lot of weight and now looked to me like a small boy curled up tight under soft blankets.

About two weeks before he died, one afternoon my father got out of his bed and joined us downstairs for tea. His once formidable figure, which walked firm and deliberate everywhere he went, now shuffled slowly toward the room in which we were to sit. My mother followed close behind carrying the tube through which the oxygen travelled which was now helping him breathe. His slight body swam in a soft cotton shirt and corduroy pants which were now much too large for his disintegrating frame. We didn't talk about what was going on in his body; we didn't mention the 'C' word (cancer), although clearly it was growing within him with a voracious and vicious appetite.

Dad brought an old road map to the table, a tourist map really, of Dublin. His hands moved over the map pointing out places of significance: St. Stephen’s Green, the Four Courts, Trinity College, O'Connell Street. I was struck by the beauty of his hands. On the back of each, a light dusting of soft beige down covered skin which was a whitish grey colour. His nails were perfectly square and unblemished like smooth pebbles. They looked as though they were manicured, which they were not. His hands concealed the anger at work in the rest of his body. They were peaceful, even happy, and they were willing to share.

As he pulled the map out full across the dining room table it made a lovely crinkling sound, and I felt as though I was being presented with a gift. It shoved back the plates and glasses, the napkins and little fancy cakes that my mother had laid out — the river Liffey, Phoenix Park, Dublin Castle, The General Post Office. His hands skimmed over the poor areas of Dublin which he had known best. I didn’t know exactly why he brought that map to the table, but he was dying, and it seemed to be of irrational importance to him that I look at it. It was as if he was trying to prove that he had come from somewhere real, a place of substance. I dug down into the bottom of my purse, found a crumpled piece of paper, and scribbled down notes about what he told me of his family. He seemed quite happy to answer any questions that I had. Throughout my life my father and I had been on opposite sides of a lot of issues, but at that moment I felt honoured that he would share his stories with me. Even though, like my mother and my brother, I didn't fully understand that he would be dead in a couple weeks, I guess a part of me knew enough to recognize how important this time was, and for that I am very grateful.

So...that is where this journey began for me, with these two conversations. On the radio show Thomas also spoke about the importance of showing gratitude to those who help us, something which I definitely believe in doing, and thank you for the reminder Thomas. Each time my dad told me any of his stories I always made sure to thank him for sharing them with me, and I thank him each and every day for guiding me on this wonderful journey of family history research.

Thanks Dad!

Copyright© J. Geraghty-Gorman 2011.

In the news: 1764 Dublin

2011-05-31T01:03:00.005-04:00

The second half of September of 1764 was a busy time in and around County Dublin, as this piece from a newspaper of September 26 attests. I was drawn to it because of the surname Cavanagh (matrilineal), but I do not know if the "outrageous fellow" to whom the writer refers in the incident report of the 23rd is any relation of mine. Anyway, I found the whole column to be both interesting and amusing, and thought you might be too.

Note that in the first two entries the persons in question are not identified by name. Obviously the mugger in the second entry eluded capture. I was struck by the first entry about the suicide of "a man in Mullingar" and wonder what brought him to choose that tragic end. Although I would like to know his name, it is interesting that the newspaper respected the privacy of his family and saved them the embarrassment of it being broadcast. I cannot imagine such consideration being shown to anyone in our time. If you consider the way in which suicide was viewed by both the church and the law in Ireland in the period, his family would have borne the mark of shame for his actions, and it may have had very real consequences in terms of the way in which they were treated in their community.

With respect to the printed form of the material, if you look at the column itself you will notice that, in accordance with the printing fashion of the day, the letter 'S' resembles the letter 'F', so that words such as 'passenger' look like 'paffenger'. I have transcribed the spellings and punctuation as they appear in the column.

It reads as follows:

Dublin, September 26

17th] A man in Mullingar, put an end to his life by taking a strong dose of poison.

21st] At night a single footpad attacked a gentleman in Upper Kevan-street, who making resistance, obliged him to retire without his booty: There is not a watchman's stand in said street.

22nd] A smuggling wherry, having a considerable quantity of run goods on board, was taken off the east end of Lambay island, and carried into Skerries, where they had been concealed the night before.

23] In the morning, one Cavanagh went into a cook's shop in Copper-alley, and after regaleing himself, he drew out a long knife and threatened destruction to any person that dare oppose him, whereupon he escaped as far as Ormond-market, which was then inspecting by our chief magistrate, who immediately caused this outrageous fellow to be lodged in New-gate.

25th] Six hundred and forty pounds weight, and five casks of tea, seized by Mr. Lean were lodged in his Majesty's stores.

At night Capt. Rankin, Mess. O'Brien, Hannel, Gordon, Shields, Sweeny, Watt, Maxwell, Bent, Wrays, Johnston and the Mail, arrived in the Hampden Packet from Hollyhead.

26th] Upwards of two Tuns and a half of Leaf and Roll Tobacco, and 14 Casks of Brandy and Rum, seized by George Glover, Esq; were lodged in the Custom-house Stores.

The Right Hon. Lord Viscount Jocelyn arrived in the Dorset Yacht, Williamson, from Parkgate; several Passengers and a Cargo of Merchandzie arrived also from thence in the Kildare, McCulloh; and the Nonpareil, Brown, with Passengers and Merchandzie, arrived from the same Place.

Henry Mossop, Esq; and Mr. Johnston, arrived in the Francis, Nevin, from Holyhead.

Copyright© J. Geraghty-Gorman 2011.

A very fine man, indeed: Francis 'Frank' Magee 1902-1974

2011-05-30T01:03:00.097-04:00

Francis 'Frank' Magee

When I sat down to write about my paternal granduncle Frank Magee, I felt a little troubled because I want to do his family proud in telling you about him. When I visited with the Magees in Dublin in August of 2010, one thing became abundantly clear to me. Francis 'Frank' Magee was a man who was not only loved by his children and grandchildren, but also greatly respected by them.

Frank Magee was a 20th century hero, but not in the ordinary sense of the word. There are neither war stories about him with which to regale you, nor a caché of special medals to review. Frank Magee is a hero in what I think is the most important sense, as a husband, father, and grandfather, one of those who is rarely celebrated, but should be. He was a hero to his family and to his community, to his beloved wife Mary, to his fourteen children, to his 47 grandchildren, and as a worker and foreman at Jameson Distillery.

Francis 'Frank' Magee was born in Dublin Ireland 16 December 1902, the second born son and youngest child of my paternal great-grandparents, Patrick Magee and Mary Dunne Magee. In September of 1928 Frank and his wife Mary (nee Maher) were married in Aughrim Street Church of the Holy Family in Stoneybatter, Dublin. Frank followed his father Patrick, and elder brother Michael, into the profession of scriber at Jameson Distillery. Frank Magee quickly rose up through the ranks at Jameson, and eventually became a foreman. As part of his responsibilities he had to always be near the Jameson compound and so he moved his family into the huge house on North Ann Street which was part of the Jameson property.

Mary Magee nee Maher

Frank and his wife Mary loved the big house and filled it with family and friends. My mother recalls the very first time she went to meet Uncle Frank. She felt overwhelmed by the sheer size of the six story house, and truth be told, somewhat intimidated by the stature of the man she was meeting. My mom remembers him as a man who very clearly had the respect of all members of his family. She recalls that everyone had to stand behind their chairs at a massive table before Uncle Frank indicated that they might all sit down to dine. I imagine that running the household in an ordered way was the only way to rule a roost with 14 children. Although his children recall him as a man who required great discipline, they also remember a lot of love and laughter in their home.

Frank and Mary Magee

Some of his children recall going around the Jameson Distillery property with their father at the end of the business day when he checked to make certain everything was locked up and that all was as it should be. What a wonderful thing to remember sharing such a time with your father. They spoke of climbing up the many stairs in the facility, making their way close to the tops of the huge distilling vats, and of the huge water container which resembled a giant swimming pool.

One of his daughters told me that although her father was strict, a necessity for keeping fourteen children in line, he had a gentle side as well. If there was a time when he had to discipline them for misbehaviour, afterward, at night when the children were in bed, he would pop his head into their rooms and, not knowing whether they were awake or asleep, he would softly whisper that he was sorry they'd had a disagreement that day.

Frank Magee also had a very positive influence on my father. My dad had many fond memories of childhood holidays spent in Rush with his Uncle Frank, Aunt Mary, Aunt Mollie, and Uncle Willie. Dad also remembered his uncle as a man with an excellent work ethic which my father sought to emulate as he grew into a man. When our family returned home to Ireland for the first time, I remember my father was very excited about going to Ballyfermot to have a visit with Uncle Frank, and to introduce my brother and me to him. Of that visit I recall the sheer joy that was there between my father and his uncle when they greeted each other. It brought tears to my thirteen year old eyes.

Francis 'Frank' Magee died 6 December, 1974 and is interred along with his wife Mary at Glasnevin Cemetery, Dublin, Ireland. Their children and grandchildren visit their grave often.

Surname Saturday: "My dad said so..."

2011-05-28T01:03:00.059-04:00

Can you prove a connection to all of the names on your surname list?

This post is prompted by an email exchange I recently had with someone who contacted me because of their connection to the Kettle family in the matrilineal branch of my family tree. The exchange prompted me to consider what it means to say that we are connected to someone who lived long ago. What kinds of research have we done to establish these connections? What do we consider to be a legitimate source for research? Believe or not, I am surprised to discover what some researchers consider to be acceptable answers to these questions.

In this particular email exchange the author, whom I will call 'Andy'** since I don't have permission to use his/her name, wrote about having discovered my blog in the course of doing family history research. In the first message Andy claimed to be an "immediate" descendent of Andrew J. Kettle. I was a little flummoxed by the use of the word "immediate", because I have always understood 'immediate' to be a referent for the closest family members of a person. For example, as his daughter, I am an 'immediate' descendent of my father. Setting aside meanings, I continued to read the message. Andy explained that, as the official family genealogist, for years every family member has relied on Andy to do all of the family history research.

I was very excited to be contacted by this fellow family member and so wrote back right away explaining that my maternal great-great grandmother Mary Kettle Fitzpatrick was Andrew J. Kettle's sister. I outlined the matrilineal branch of my family tree in order to demonstrate my connection to her, and explained that I would be happy to share sources and documents. Then, I asked how Andy was connected to the family. The answer I received very much surprised me. Andy said the following, "Our family surname is Kettle, and my dad said we are descended from Andrew J. Kettle, the Irish Land Leaguer".

Thinking my question had been misunderstood, I wrote back asking about Andy's lineage. You know, which child of Andrew J. Kettle is your great-grandmother, grandmother, great-grandfather, grandfather, or whatever? The email reply I received almost knocked me over. Andy repeated that their surname is Kettle, and that their dad told their family that they were "immediate" descendants of Andrew J. Kettle.

Okay, I admit it, I was like a dog with a bone on this one. I wrote back and explained that I did not understand the way in which Andy was using the term 'immediate', and asked for clarification. Also, I included the names of the Kettle children and asked, of the names I had listed, to whom was Andy related?

Big surprise (not): I did not receive a reply. So...I guess Andy is descended from Andrew J. Kettle because Andy's dad said so. The source is not a record or even a family tree; the source is insistence.

My dad once mentioned that our family is connected to St. Laurence O'Toole. I have not yet done the research to prove or disprove that the connection to this 12th century Irish saint is a legitimate one, but hey "my dad said" we are connected. If I use Andy's logic that would mean my dad's claim must be true. That would be a very good thing because then I would have a direct connection to Heaven, and I might very well need one.

Click on photo to view larger version.
Copyright©J.Geraghty-Gorman 2011.

Note:**I am using the alias "Andy" as gender neutral: it is not my intention to embarrass this man or woman and so I am not identifying this person as a man or a woman.

Matrilineal Monday: Liverpudlian birth records in Latin, and a nice surprise

2011-05-23T01:03:00.070-04:00

As I have shared with you in past postings, the family of my maternal grandmother Mary Angela Fitzpatrick left Dublin sometime after the birth of her younger brother Joseph in 1895. The family headed to Liverpool England where their father Thomas found work on the docks. While they were in residence at Liverpool the family not only suffered the loss of six year old Joseph, in November of 1901, but also welcomed two more boys. Thomas Andrew was born on 27 April 1899, and John came into this world on 27 August 1901.

During their tenure in Liverpool, the Fitzpatrick family lived in the densely populated wards of Kirkdale and of Scotland. Despite the hardships they endured, the family remained deeply religious and were members of St. Alban's Roman Catholic Church, a church which stood just inside the Scotland ward near Athol Street. At the time of Thomas's birth the family was living at 19 Milford Street in the Kirkdale ward; by the time of John's birth they had moved to 360 Great Howard Street in the Scotland ward. It is in the parish records of St. Alban's Roman Catholic Church that I located the birth records for John and Thomas.

The records are interesting in and of themselves because they are written in Latin, the language of the Roman Catholic Church well into the 20th century. Most, if not all, of the records I have so far gathered have some Latin words or phrases in them; however, despite the fact that my research dates back to the 1740s, these are the first records I've found in which the information is disseminated entirely in Latin. In my opinion the Latin version bears a certain elegance that I find attractive. The records are also interesting because of what they include and what they do not, and the nice surprise which showed up on one of them.

Here is a list of the Latin terms used in the record translated into English:

Anno: "In the year"
die: "the day of"
mensis: "of the month"
natus: "was born" (male)(female would be 'nata')
baptizatus: "was baptized" (male) (female would be 'baptizata')
filius: "the son of" (daughter would be 'filia")
olim: "in times past": in other words the maiden name of the mother
conjugum: "married couple"
a me: "from me"
Patritia: Priest (not an exact translation, but you get the picture)
Patrinus fuit: "godfather was"
Matrina fuit: "godmother was"

Before we even look at the forenames, which are also recorded in Latin, some of the word endings (as noted above) tell us that this is a male child. Also, in this case I am fortunate because the forenames closely mirror their English language counterparts, so there is no confusion.

Thomas Andreas Fitzpatrick is Thomas Andrew Fitzpatrick.
His father’s name is noted as Thomae instead of Thomas.
His mother Meariae Teresae Fitzpatrick is Mary Teresa Fitzpatrick.

Literally translated Thomas Andrew Fitzpatrick’s record reads as follows:

In the year 1899, the day of 27, of the month April was born, and in the year of 1899, the day of 8, of the month May was baptized Thomas Andrew Fitzpatrick, the son of Thomas and Mary Teresa Fitzpatrick (in times past Hines), married couple: from me Father Francis Keating. Godmother was Elizabeth Christie.

You will notice there is no godfather named on the record. Also, after the priest's name there appears a phrase which is abbreviated. I cannot say for certain what it is; however, it may be 'missio adiuncti' meaning "associated to the mission of" the church.

John Fitzpatrick's birth record has a few interesting quirks in comparison with his elder brother's.

Literally translated John's birth record reads:

In the year 1901, the day of 27, of the month August was born, and in the year of 1901, the day of 30, of the month August was baptized John Fitzpatrick, the son of Thomas and Mary Fitzpatrick (in times past Hynes), married couple: from me Father Francis Keating. Godmother was Anna Kennedy.

John's record is a excellent example of the need to search such records carefully. His name is recorded as 'Joannes', which is the Latin rendering of 'John'. On first sight an English reader might pick it up as a female name. Again, the word endings of 'natus' and 'baptizatus' confirm this as a male child. Also, his mother's forename is recorded as Maraie (Mary) and her maiden name is recorded as 'Hynes', not 'Hines' as it is on his brother's; however, I have seen these incarnations before in records of Mary's other children. Once again you will notice the name of the godfather is curiously absent, and the odd little abbreviation follows the priest's name. The godmother in this case is Anna Kennedy.

Also, there is a wonderfully interesting notation in the column under the home address, the nice surprise to which I alluded in the title of this piece. It reads, "Matrimonius junctus Mariae Donegan in Ecclesia Inchicore Dublin Eire die 11th Augustus 1940. T. Carney". This translates to "joined to a marriage with Mary Donegan in the Church of Inchicore, Dublin, Ireland, the day of 11 August 1940". I am very grateful to T. Carney, whoever he/she was for what looks like a good lead to John Fitzpatrick's marriage record.

The search continues...

Copyright©2011 J. Geraghty-Gorman. All Rights Reserved.

Time for a refreshing change

2011-05-19T16:19:00.004-04:00

Enjoying rain and more rain here, but at least the flowers in the garden are happy, and Spring seems the perfect time to hit the refresh button on this blog.

I have changed the blog template so that I might add the pages you see in the tabs above. The page entitled "Finding Bits: Research Aids" is comprised of a list of websites on which I have literally found "bits" of material which have proven very worthwhile. I hope that within the list you find sites which may aid your own Irish family history research.

At the suggestion of a fellow researcher, I've also popped in a copyright and disclaimers page.

Also, If you're having any trouble at all interviewing living family members, then some or all of the questions on the interview page might prove helpful. With my own family members I find sometimes it's hard to reel them in to focus on family history. Sometimes it's just more fun to get into a real chin wag about some Irish legend or other.

I am still playing with the background image; this one is another version of the Cliffs of Moher, but I'm not totally settled on it yet.

Anyway, I hope the research page proves to be some help to you. As always feel free to email me anytime at irisheyesjennifer at gmail dot com; I'm always happy to help in any way I can.

Cheers, and Happy Researching!

Jennifer

Wordless Wednesday: Never Forget: The Hungry Heart, a Famine Memorial

2011-05-18T05:24:00.005-04:00

'The Hungry Heart' by Edward Delaney, St. Stephen's Green, Dublin