My Irish Family
A
question posed to my dad on a whim resulted in a weekend filled with family
history, stories, names, Irish humor, and distant cousins. Every household I
visited welcomed me with the same greeting: a simultaneous hand-squeeze, hug,
and kiss on the cheek. I’m still not sure whether this greeting followed some
Irish form of Xenia or acknowledged family ties. They were my distant cousins,
so distant that we weren’t really sure how we were related; if a genealogy term
that fits exists, I don’t know it and neither would an average reader. John
McGoldrick and my grandfather are first cousins and as far as I could gather
they’ve never met. When stationed in Ireland during WWII my grandfather
intended to visit John and his wife Lily, but never did, he was in Northern
Ireland. John and Lily’s daughter Breda received my email about visiting. The
way it seems to be with the Irish family, if you can contact one of them you
can reach them all. Breda called her cousin Patricia and arranged my visit to
the Homestead. She even planned to accompany me from her house in Dublin until
her mother suffered a slight stroke.
In the
car to her house and later to the bus station Breda told me of the two
relatives who stood in line for the Titanic but never boarded, the wife who
told her husband that he couldn’t go to America because he couldn’t get
sponsored when in truth she feared he’d leave and never return. There may have
been a baby on the way. Of Bridget-Ann Murray, who served as a judge in
Philadelphia. With each of these stories I tried to connect how the people were
related to me. I would need a genealogy chart of some sort to keep it straight;
instead I succeeded in forgetting all of their names.
Breda
left me at the bus station in Dublin with specific instructions of how to
recognize Patricia: earlobe-length dark hair, a little heavyset—though I would
describe her as full-figured and curvy. And her husband Martin, who would be
driving: slender and lithe, hair combed to the side covering a growing bald
patch. “Don’t tell them I said that, I’m only trying to think of distinguishing
features,” Breda said.
Filing
off the bus at Sligo, I glanced around and saw a man who could be Martin
sitting in a car; he called out “Rebecca?” Unsure of whether he meant me—the
name Rebecca has no relation to Heather—or was waiting for someone else, I
concerned myself with rescuing my bag from under the bus. A woman fitting Breda’s
description of Patricia approached me; she knew my name. Props to Breda for
describing everyone aptly. Patricia led me to the car Martin now leaned against—it
had been Martin who called out Rebecca, and his mistake became a running joke
during my stay.
As the
car turned off the narrow, winding road into a gravel drive that ran past a
field and up to the house, Patricia and Martin apologized for the construction
site. I saw a snug house with a crackling fire. A home—lived in. The small
one-story white stuccoed house with dark trim looked like it belonged nestled
among the Irish hills. The room inside was furnished with three dark
upholstered armchairs; books and paper covered a rocking chair; a small TV in
the corner, turned on to the X-Factor; a fireplace with mantel piece covered,
in nicknacks, family photos, and a few candles, filled the room with a warm
glow.
“Sit by
the fire; you must be perished.” Martin pulled up a stool and practically
forced me into the seat. I didn’t feel cold, but I enjoy the coziness of
sitting beside fires.
After
Chinese take-out and tea while sitting around the fire, Patricia pulled me into
the next room to show me the photos of my distant relatives hanging on the
walls. Martin said, “That room’s cold, she doesn’t want to look at photos.”
Patricia pointed out various relatives. Then on one wall…
“There
are my grandparents,” I said. They looked down from a photo taken at some
cousin’s wedding in the states, when my grandfather still had mutton chops.
“Really,
where?”
I
pointed them out, and Patricia dragged Martin in, who put on the X-Factor in
that room because I had to hear this band.
With
ease they drew me into their Irish family humor. The banter called to my mind
sitting around the dinner table with my own family. The content differed, but
the atmosphere felt the same. Martin referred to me as Rebecca, making his
mistake at the train station into a joke. Jason, their son, would say, “Dad,
think of what you just said.” And Martin would smile and assure me that he knew
my name. Then someone would chime in about Martin going senile, and that they
would have to send him to a home soon. In response Martin said, "Just give
me a bullet, and bury me."
"You
know where you're going? Into the pit that's where,” Patricia said. They had
just told me about a lake that would disappeared into the ground every now and
then leaving behind a muddy pit. A folk story explained these features.
“Don’t
tell her that, she has to sleep in that room by herself.”
Through
the interruptions, the story they told involved a giant with a third eye in the
middle of his head. Someone shot out the eye with an arrow and it landed,
somehow creating the lake, or maybe the pit in the center. The logistics of the
story never became clear to me.
In the
evening, after a visit to Patricia’s brother, Patricia commented about the
house: “It’s not modern, like Peter’s.” However, I felt the age gave it
character, and family history filled it with life. My great-great uncle John
Naughton built it in the 40s. Patricia worried about how others would see it,
especially coming from the city. I protested that these qualities made the
house special. Of course I may be a country girl at heart. I can imagine myself
living on a modern day farm with the amenities of running water, all of which
they had. Even the T.V. had digital; growing up I never had cable and when
analog switched to digital we never bothered to get it. Patricia agreed, “Filled
with happy memories.” She grew up in the house, a better place to raise
children than town she and Martin lived in. I could imagine running through the
hills, acres of fields to play in.
From a
closet Patricia pulled out a plastic bag. “My grandpa was always working on
something with his hands; I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away.” She
extracted a fish net she’d watched him make with a nail on a block of wood. The
old skills have been forgotten.
The
next morning, a little after noon, I put on wellies, and Patricia showed me
around the homestead. Ozzy, their dog, ran ahead of us, ducking under the gate,
then circling back and waiting as Patricia opened it. At the edge of an old
orchard, where a clump of trees now grows in the corner, used to stand the
cottage my great-grandmother Catherine Naughton grew up in before she moved to
the states. Shoes squelching in the mucky fields, we walked through the
homestead: old sheds, a barn once part of a house, tractors old and new, two
horses, a bull and a young cow shut inside the barn. The bull, because of a
tendency to run off, and the young cow because of a need to be dehorned so he
couldn’t hurt the others in the field.
The
cows approached as we entered their field, still keeping their distance, but
showing curiosity. Patricia pointed down to a lower field, where once she drew
water from the spring well after school. Wearing boots I ventured through the
muddy barrier to see it. Patricia, in old sneakers, followed carefully. The
well now overgrown served different uses, its water directed to the animals.
I will
remember the laughter we shared while sitting around the fire talking, watching
the X factor. Martin rolling cigarettes, while Ozzy leaned against his legs.
The dog and his master forming one entity. Patricia adventurous with no concern
about trekking through muck in the drizzle on a cold day. Jason teasing his
father. Martin giving Ozzy the command to watch Jason. The dog’s eye intent on
his target, and his defensive bark when Jason feinted at Martin. Patricia
telling stories late into the night. The familial unity I felt part of.
Those
few days, an unexpected treasure. At one point I dreamed of seeing Ireland.
Later I thought I could visit the place my ancestors came from. I never
imagined before this semester that I’d meet relatives in Ireland. I can’t quite
fully believe I actually went to Ireland; it seemed a very distant impossible
place to reach. Now it’s not so distant and I have a reason to go back: family
to visit.
