Friday, August 31, 2018
2008 Christmas Letter
A Christmas Letter (2008)
Ever hopeful that this may be the first of a series of annual Christmas, New Years, Spring letters (hey, it’s only February, May) I embark on this journey despite the realization that the chance of actually completing this adventure is pretty slim. Still, hope springs eternal.
The attached letter actually began as a response to a wonderful letter from Sharon prior to Christmas where she surmised (correctly) that we too had signed up for the New Austerity program offered to everyone in this country by the demise of rational thought on the part of ‘the smartest guys in the room’, then watched “with great humor as our life savings followed Lehman Brothers down the toilet”, and were now happily signing up for the latest universal health care programs and economic stimulus plans from Congress designed to keep us all active and healthy by removing even the notion of anything as sedentary as retirement.
Her ruminations that the emergence of this ‘new economy’ is actually extremely fortuitous, providing an opportunity to set aside personal goals and ambitions, and embark on a personal ‘character building’ opportunity not offered extensively in this country since the Great Depression, are a wonderful testament to our mother’s eternal optimism.
Briefly flirting with the notion of a more insular approach to this current economy Sharon offered a possible alternative involving a potato farm, perhaps in Idaho, where we might collectively draw on our vast skills and knowledge of rural farming to begin life anew. Sign me up!
Sharon,
Other families not so genetically predisposed toward this potentially ruinous crop, may not see the beauty in your potato farm idea. We however, believe it has great merit! We would of course have to spend a few minutes learning how to actually grow something, but how hard could that be?!
In light of having spent our formative years developing the “lightning harvest” method of gathering potatoes from a paper sack in a darkened cellar, and having consequently exhausted much of our childhood in pursuit of the land speed record for ascending a flight of cellar stairs while simultaneously honing our negotiating skills (apparently successfully) with the resident boogey-man, perhaps “extensive farming experience” might be viewed as padding the resume. However it had been my sincere hope that this experience and subsequent lessons would have proven a sufficient developer of character to see me through the rest of this life. And yet here we are, still apparently needing yet a few further ‘evening classes’ in character improvement. Still, it seems somewhat apparent that this potato farming thing must truly be the root of our DNA, if not the sole source of our outstanding character.
Hunting and Gathering
As a matter of fact Cathy and I were just discussing such a venture. We’ve spent some time looking at a place in eastern Washington as a possible retirement home. The town of Cle Elum, WA (population 1,723) just east of the Cascade Mountains was, until recently, second runner-up after Chiang-Mai on our ‘best places to retire’ list. This area in fact had many thriving potato farms at the turn of the century. It also had coal mines until that wasn’t a nice thing to do anymore, a robust logging industry until that was determined to be politically incorrect, and an astonishing number of mink ranches (farms?) until that wasn’t cool anymore either. So now it has, well, nothing…which I guess is why we like it so much.
So here’s this great house (it was built as the main house for what was at the time planned to be a bed and breakfast) surrounded by 20 acres of land, on a forested hillside overlooking the Yakima River valley with the Stuart Mountain range on the horizon. The original Bat Masterson homestead (remember the 1950’s TV western?) is just down the road. Astonishingly huge herds of elk traipse back and forth through the woods around the house to access the river below.
It would be the perfect place to circle the family Winnebegos in September when the cottonwoods turn gold, and the heady musk of yarrow lingers over the potato fields. This could be the perfect retreat for an annual fortnight celebrating the potato harvest at the new “Gib”, spent separating rocks from potatoes, tall tales from the truth and the devil from our Irish whiskey. (Gib of course is short for Gibraltar as the endearing nickname for the rock strewn Killarney farm in Aunt Mary’s memoir) As you suggest, with the economic future looking increasingly bleak this literal approach of moving “back to our roots” has great appeal.
It could of course also become the site of the new ‘Hooverville’; a shanty town built on the edge of our soon to be urban economic dustbowl as a literal retreat from the 21st century where we could all reminisce about our collective expulsion from the garden of eden and that long lost American attribute once referred to as ‘character’.
Given the dominant culture in Cle Elum however, in addition to the potato ranching we may also need to learn how to hunt. Having apparently misspent much of my life in other pursuits, I’m now informed that this is a required social skill here much like clam digging is in Boston, only with somewhat bigger guns. On any autumn Sunday morning the trees along the residential streets are festooned with deer carcasses, swinging like so many church bells along the parking strip in front of the homes. Maybe it’s the place, perhaps it’s my age, but although I don’t remember this particular seasonal ritual on the streets of Boston, it somehow doesn’t seem out of place here. Although I’m not sure I would be fully in communion with this congregation, perhaps it’s time to embrace a more ecumenical perspective of life.
“Vegan”, the menu at the local restaurant informs me, is actually an old Yakima Indian word meaning “bad at hunting”. This may partially explain the dominance of Idaho, and not Cle Elum in the french-fry index of our global economy. Still, crashing thru the woods in plaid, day-glow orange hats in pursuit of dinner, is perhaps just the natural progression from dashing up the cellar stairs while being pursued for dinner.
Still hunting, less actual gathering.
And yes, just as we thought our aim was improving and we were beginning to land a few retirement-destination-darts with a decisive and satisfying thud on our world map, our darts gradually began falling farther and farther short of their intended destination. We realized eventually and to our great consternation that not only did subsequent darts fail to reach the map, but even ones that were once firmly affixed, were now falling to the floor.
We picked up Chiang Mai from the debris beneath the map, smoothed her ruffled tail feathers and placed her plans for the exotic Thai guest house back in the box. The dart for Luong Prabong whose once promising guide service to Ankor Wat and the temples of northern Cambodia now lies somewhat tarnished next to the dart marking our kora of Mt Kailash. The boisterous Buddha Bar in Uttar Pradesh for the moment, lies quietly next to the annual retreat and renewal at the ghats in Varanasi. The bike trip from Lhasa to Kathmandu is now lined up neatly next to the Corcovado tent camp in the Osa Penninsula. Bathing in the fabled glow of the rose-fingered dawn over the battlements of ancient Troy, waits patiently next to the ruins of Ephesus and the caves of Cappadocia.
So we’ll spend the next few years earnestly sharpening our darts, kept vigilant by the hot breath of remembrance on the back of our necks whispering urgently the story of two fathers who also had retirement plans at a similar age, and who somehow came up short.
Hunting and Hunting
Aaron is doing well. Last January he took over the Collections department at Ben Bridge Jewelers which has been a good move for him and he has done well. He seems pretty happy. The girl friends come and go. Cathy is steadfast in her vigilance to maintain the maternal pressure at full steam for him to stop running around, find a nice girl and settle down. He is equally dutiful in maintaining his independence, swiftly and confidently parrying any notion of domesticity.
Aaron’s vision is down to just a few degrees. I sometimes sense a rising panic, a smoldering fear just below the surface. He calls more often now. He lingers longer in the car when I drive him home. He wants to talk, but always about other things. Not about him. Not about his blindness. Always a positive outlook.
The cataracts that seem so be so pervasive with many of these retinal diseases, tend to cloud his remaining vision, but he has just an amazingly positive attitude. He adapts well. He’s extremely resourceful. He’s very engaging. Has a delightful sense of humor and a very quick wit. People instantly like him. He’s maintained his mobility and his independence and he’s an absolute joy to be with. We try to spend time together, try to see as much as we can. Coordinating schedules to be able to do that of course becomes more and more difficult. I can’t imagine why but apparently spending time with friends often takes priority over spending time with Mom and Dad.
Still, in the past few years we’ve managed to do a few father and son trips. We hiked the Grand Canyon and then stumbled our way through Las Vegas (talk about a trip full of contrasts!). We’ve sniffed and swilled our way through the champagne and wine regions of France, circumnavigated Ireland, checked in at the family farm in Killarney and struggled with the language barrier through most of England. We rode the Iron Rooster to the remote hill towns of Bac Ha and Lao Cai on the Chinese border, sipped rice wine or kerosene (we still don’t know which) in Sapa, ate fermented fish in Hanoi, sailed Halong Bay, wet our toes in the South China Sea and celebrated New Years in Ho Chi Minh City. This year we will immerse ourselves in the remarkable poetry of Rumi, and awaken each morning to the call to prayers, as we all celebrate the Christmas holidays together in Istanbul.
When Aaron was in high school and was diagnosed with Retinitis-Pigmentosa, we were told that he would be completely blind before he was thirty. He’s now 32, still has some good central vision left, and we all try to be thankful for, and celebrate all that we have. Which is a lot. Ever hopeful for a cure, ever hunting for a separate peace.
Gathering and Gathering
Cathy is constantly in motion. President of this volunteer organization or that, flying off to LA or other destinations for board meetings or to receive leadership awards, she is always involved. She is the rock of the family, although she’ll tell you differently, she is what keeps us all grounded.
We are all well here, despite occasional protests to the contrary. Cathy still postpones her knee replacement even though she now comes full circle if she tries to walk 100 yards in a straight line. She had some other surgery done in Mumbai a couple of years ago, so we may go back there or take a summer medical hiatus elsewhere this year and get matching knees to compliment our matching Christmas sweaters. Medical tourism! A scourge and a blessing. Frightening and fascinating. Often like the bar scene in the original Star Wars; Saudi Sheiks and African Princes, Burmese generals and Kansas housewives, all sitting around recuperating together and discussing the intimate details of their ordeals. It truly is a new world.
Cathy turned 60 on Friday, and I will follow obediently in the coming year. As I find myself increasingly surrounded by people burdened by this gathering of years, I find myself increasingly aware of just how brief this walk in the sun truly is, and the necessity of coming to terms with how I have spent these years, and of course how I will engage the ones yet to come. (I’ll send another e-mail if I come to any startling conclusions!)
I re-encountered W.B. Yeats poem “Sailing To Byzantium” over the Christmas holiday. Like so many things that I cast disparagingly aside in youth, (religion, reason, pistachio ice cream…) and re-encountered decades later, I find myself almost continuously re-born to old notions and ideas, now somehow perceived in a new light. An extraordinary observation on the intersection of mortality, art, and spirituality, Yeat’s poem, so vaguely morose and obscure 40 years ago, now seems almost astonishingly insightful, and exceedingly personal.
Still Hunting and Gathering
Our business is (for the moment) still doing well given the state of the world. It’s all relative of course. “Flat” is the new “up” as someone said the other day. We ended the year down just under 2% in volume but with a slight rise in our profit margin. Not a remarkable performance, but better than many. The collapse of big businesses, to say nothing of entire governments, is staggering. The number of small businesses that are beginning to fail around us is sobering. There was a card shop just two stores down from us that closed it’s doors last week. She posted a small card on her now papered over windows: “Life is hard sometimes. I recommend that you get a manicure and a really cute helmet”.
I think this is just the beginning. We’ve done a lot to try to position ourselves for the coming year and we will continue (we’ve kept the sandbags in reserve). The coming year(s) will be, if nothing else, at least memorable (and will add perhaps a few check marks to our character building scorecard!).
A study conducted by Dr. Haviland-Jones at Rutgers University a few years ago found that the presence of flowers in homes and businesses made people more sociable, more productive, engendered a higher level of enjoyment and life satisfaction, and significantly reduced the stress levels in most people’s lives. I can’t think of a better time to send flowers!
I hope this letter finds you well. My apologies for the endless ramble.
Love to all,
February 28, 2009
Sharon,
Other families not so genetically predisposed toward this potentially ruinous crop, may not see the beauty in your potato farm idea. We however, believe it has great merit! We would of course have to spend a few minutes learning how to actually grow something, but how hard could that be?!
In light of having spent our formative years developing the “lightning harvest” method of gathering potatoes from a paper sack in a darkened cellar, and having consequently exhausted much of our childhood in pursuit of the land speed record for ascending a flight of cellar stairs while simultaneously honing our negotiating skills (apparently successfully) with the resident boogey-man, perhaps “extensive farming experience” might be viewed as padding the resume. However it had been my sincere hope that this experience and subsequent lessons would have proven a sufficient developer of character to see me through the rest of this life. And yet here we are, still apparently needing yet a few further ‘evening classes’ in character improvement. Still, it seems somewhat apparent that this potato farming thing must truly be the root of our DNA, if not the sole source of our outstanding character.
As a matter of fact Cathy and I were just discussing such a venture. We’ve spent some time looking at a place in eastern Washington as a possible retirement home. The town of Cle Elum, WA (population 1,723) just east of the Cascade Mountains was, until recently, second runner-up after Chiang-Mai on our ‘best places to retire’ list. This area in fact had many thriving potato farms at the turn of the century. It also had coal mines until that wasn’t a nice thing to do anymore, a robust logging industry until that was determined to be politically incorrect, and an astonishing number of mink ranches (farms?) until that wasn’t cool anymore either. So now it has, well, nothing…which I guess is why we like it so much.
So here’s this great house (it was built as the main house for what was at the time planned to be a bed and breakfast) surrounded by 20 acres of land, on a forested hillside overlooking the Yakima River valley with the Stuart Mountain range on the horizon. The original Bat Masterson homestead (remember the 1950’s TV western?) is just down the road. Astonishingly huge herds of elk traipse back and forth through the woods around the house to access the river below.
It would be the perfect place to circle the family Winnebegos in September when the cottonwoods turn gold, and the heady musk of yarrow lingers over the potato fields. This could be the perfect retreat for an annual fortnight celebrating the potato harvest at the new “Gib”, spent separating rocks from potatoes, tall tales from the truth and the devil from our Irish whiskey. (Gib of course is short for Gibraltar as the endearing nickname for the rock strewn Killarney farm in Aunt Mary’s memoir) As you suggest, with the economic future looking increasingly bleak this literal approach of moving “back to our roots” has great appeal.
It could of course also become the site of the new ‘Hooverville’; a shanty town built on the edge of our soon to be urban economic dustbowl as a literal retreat from the 21st century where we could all reminisce about our collective expulsion from the garden of eden and that long lost American attribute once referred to as ‘character’.
Given the dominant culture in Cle Elum however, in addition to the potato ranching we may also need to learn how to hunt. Having apparently misspent much of my life in other pursuits, I’m now informed that this is a required social skill here much like clam digging is in Boston, only with somewhat bigger guns. On any autumn Sunday morning the trees along the residential streets are festooned with deer carcasses, swinging like so many church bells along the parking strip in front of the homes. Maybe it’s the place, perhaps it’s my age, but although I don’t remember this particular seasonal ritual on the streets of Boston, it somehow doesn’t seem out of place here. Although I’m not sure I would be fully in communion with this congregation, perhaps it’s time to embrace a more ecumenical perspective of life.
“Vegan”, the menu at the local restaurant informs me, is actually an old Yakima Indian word meaning “bad at hunting”. This may partially explain the dominance of Idaho, and not Cle Elum in the french-fry index of our global economy. Still, crashing thru the woods in plaid, day-glow orange hats in pursuit of dinner, is perhaps just the natural progression from dashing up the cellar stairs while being pursued for dinner.
And yes, just as we thought our aim was improving and we were beginning to land a few retirement-destination-darts with a decisive and satisfying thud on our world map, our darts gradually began falling farther and farther short of their intended destination. We realized eventually and to our great consternation that not only did subsequent darts fail to reach the map, but even ones that were once firmly affixed, were now falling to the floor.
We picked up Chiang Mai from the debris beneath the map, smoothed her ruffled tail feathers and placed her plans for the exotic Thai guest house back in the box. The dart for Luong Prabong whose once promising guide service to Ankor Wat and the temples of northern Cambodia now lies somewhat tarnished next to the dart marking our kora of Mt Kailash. The boisterous Buddha Bar in Uttar Pradesh for the moment, lies quietly next to the annual retreat and renewal at the ghats in Varanasi. The bike trip from Lhasa to Kathmandu is now lined up neatly next to the Corcovado tent camp in the Osa Penninsula. Bathing in the fabled glow of the rose-fingered dawn over the battlements of ancient Troy, waits patiently next to the ruins of Ephesus and the caves of Cappadocia.
So we’ll spend the next few years earnestly sharpening our darts, kept vigilant by the hot breath of remembrance on the back of our necks whispering urgently the story of two fathers who also had retirement plans at a similar age, and who somehow came up short.
Aaron is doing well. Last January he took over the Collections department at Ben Bridge Jewelers which has been a good move for him and he has done well. He seems pretty happy. The girl friends come and go. Cathy is steadfast in her vigilance to maintain the maternal pressure at full steam for him to stop running around, find a nice girl and settle down. He is equally dutiful in maintaining his independence, swiftly and confidently parrying any notion of domesticity.
Aaron’s vision is down to just a few degrees. I sometimes sense a rising panic, a smoldering fear just below the surface. He calls more often now. He lingers longer in the car when I drive him home. He wants to talk, but always about other things. Not about him. Not about his blindness. Always a positive outlook.
The cataracts that seem so be so pervasive with many of these retinal diseases, tend to cloud his remaining vision, but he has just an amazingly positive attitude. He adapts well. He’s extremely resourceful. He’s very engaging. Has a delightful sense of humor and a very quick wit. People instantly like him. He’s maintained his mobility and his independence and he’s an absolute joy to be with. We try to spend time together, try to see as much as we can. Coordinating schedules to be able to do that of course becomes more and more difficult. I can’t imagine why but apparently spending time with friends often takes priority over spending time with Mom and Dad.
Still, in the past few years we’ve managed to do a few father and son trips. We hiked the Grand Canyon and then stumbled our way through Las Vegas (talk about a trip full of contrasts!). We’ve sniffed and swilled our way through the champagne and wine regions of France, circumnavigated Ireland, checked in at the family farm in Killarney and struggled with the language barrier through most of England. We rode the Iron Rooster to the remote hill towns of Bac Ha and Lao Cai on the Chinese border, sipped rice wine or kerosene (we still don’t know which) in Sapa, ate fermented fish in Hanoi, sailed Halong Bay, wet our toes in the South China Sea and celebrated New Years in Ho Chi Minh City. This year we will immerse ourselves in the remarkable poetry of Rumi, and awaken each morning to the call to prayers, as we all celebrate the Christmas holidays together in Istanbul.
When Aaron was in high school and was diagnosed with Retinitis-Pigmentosa, we were told that he would be completely blind before he was thirty. He’s now 32, still has some good central vision left, and we all try to be thankful for, and celebrate all that we have. Which is a lot. Ever hopeful for a cure, ever hunting for a separate peace.
Cathy is constantly in motion. President of this volunteer organization or that, flying off to LA or other destinations for board meetings or to receive leadership awards, she is always involved. She is the rock of the family, although she’ll tell you differently, she is what keeps us all grounded.
We are all well here, despite occasional protests to the contrary. Cathy still postpones her knee replacement even though she now comes full circle if she tries to walk 100 yards in a straight line. She had some other surgery done in Mumbai a couple of years ago, so we may go back there or take a summer medical hiatus elsewhere this year and get matching knees to compliment our matching Christmas sweaters. Medical tourism! A scourge and a blessing. Frightening and fascinating. Often like the bar scene in the original Star Wars; Saudi Sheiks and African Princes, Burmese generals and Kansas housewives, all sitting around recuperating together and discussing the intimate details of their ordeals. It truly is a new world.
Cathy turned 60 on Friday, and I will follow obediently in the coming year. As I find myself increasingly surrounded by people burdened by this gathering of years, I find myself increasingly aware of just how brief this walk in the sun truly is, and the necessity of coming to terms with how I have spent these years, and of course how I will engage the ones yet to come. (I’ll send another e-mail if I come to any startling conclusions!)
I re-encountered W.B. Yeats poem “Sailing To Byzantium” over the Christmas holiday. Like so many things that I cast disparagingly aside in youth, (religion, reason, pistachio ice cream…) and re-encountered decades later, I find myself almost continuously re-born to old notions and ideas, now somehow perceived in a new light. An extraordinary observation on the intersection of mortality, art, and spirituality, Yeat’s poem, so vaguely morose and obscure 40 years ago, now seems almost astonishingly insightful, and exceedingly personal.
Our business is (for the moment) still doing well given the state of the world. It’s all relative of course. “Flat” is the new “up” as someone said the other day. We ended the year down just under 2% in volume but with a slight rise in our profit margin. Not a remarkable performance, but better than many. The collapse of big businesses, to say nothing of entire governments, is staggering. The number of small businesses that are beginning to fail around us is sobering. There was a card shop just two stores down from us that closed it’s doors last week. She posted a small card on her now papered over windows: “Life is hard sometimes. I recommend that you get a manicure and a really cute helmet”.
I think this is just the beginning. We’ve done a lot to try to position ourselves for the coming year and we will continue (we’ve kept the sandbags in reserve). The coming year(s) will be, if nothing else, at least memorable (and will add perhaps a few check marks to our character building scorecard!).
A study conducted by Dr. Haviland-Jones at Rutgers University a few years ago found that the presence of flowers in homes and businesses made people more sociable, more productive, engendered a higher level of enjoyment and life satisfaction, and significantly reduced the stress levels in most people’s lives. I can’t think of a better time to send flowers!
I hope this letter finds you well. My apologies for the endless ramble.
Love to all,
- Bill
Wednesday, August 29, 2018
Carnaval 2018
Postales del Paraíso
Carnaval!
I stepped out the front door and was immediately swept up in the tumultuous roar and excitement of the crowds, then someone grabbed my arm and started to dance me backward down the cobblestone streets and as I’m spun around POOF! I’m hit in the face with a handful of flour! The bright blue sky is swirling with balloons and crepe paper streamers, the sun is blazing, and glittered beads, plastic necklaces, candy kisses and reams of confetti are raining down from every rooftop.
The entire town echoes with Mariachi bands, and firecrackers, and the street rumbles and vibrates with garishly decorated tractors and trucks lurching down the narrow roads and alleyways filled with palm fronds and beauty queens, pink haired revelers and guests of honor. The smiles and laughter are absolutely infectious.
Mardi Gras, or Carnival (Carnaval in Spanish) is the last big blast before Lent ushers in the more somber 40 days before Easter. Schools are out, business are closed, and everyone in the village is crammed onto the narrow sidewalks craning their necks to be the first to see what ever is coming next. The school kids come running around the corner first, racing at full tilt ahead of the parade, chased by an enormous charging paper mache bull and an army of lanzadores harinas. Everyone is wearing a mask and the lanzadores harinas (flour throwers) come in all guises, and disguises, but a woven sack slung from their shoulder is ample warning. They’ll engage you, and charm you, and sweetly smile as they slyly reach into their sack and before you realize what’s going on POOF! You’re covered from head to toe in flour.
Las Zayacas are everywhere. Traditionally women dressed as old men, and men dressed as women with enormous balloons stuffed under their dresses to “enhance” their butts and bosoms all of them wearing outrageous wigs and masks. They zigzag back and forth across the streets dodging the parade floats, marching bands and costumed dancers as they try to sneak up on the kids, whose challenge of course is to get close enough to a Zayacas to pop one of the their balloons. But the crowd is fickle and alternates between protecting and betraying the giggling kids, but whether a balloon is popped or a kid is instantly transformed into a Pillsbury doughboy, the encounter is always celebrated with a spontaneous roar of approval from the crowd.
There are beauty pageants and chili contests, dance-a-thons and carnival rides, there are art shows and food stalls, milagro vendors and games of chance. There are marching bands and antique cars, circus clowns and animal rides and everything is going on at once, seemingly on top of each other.
Carnival here is not as expensive or as naked as it is in Venice or Rio. Its enormous charm lies in the fact that it’s a family affair (at least the daytime parade is, the evening event is another story). Everything is made by hand, people labor for months, even all year, making the costumes, the masks, and the elaborate headdresses. Moms help dad’s decorate their pickup trucks with enormous crepe paper roses, dads help their kids make fanciful paper mache masks and wondrous carts to pull through the streets, and the kids make every attempt to dress up their dogs and cats like superheroes and fanciful dragons.
The caballeros and horses are always at the end of the parade (for obvious reasons), but what a finale! Enormous sombreros with dingle balls swaying from the brim, silver spurs and embroidered jackets, tasseled leggings and intricately embellished buckles, filigreed bows and studded leather; and that’s just the horses!
But the best part of the whole parade is when the last ballooned and crepe papered float rounds the final corner and the crowd turns to depart; the first of the crowd to arrive are, as always, the last to leave. As the front line of spectators lining the streets turn, almost in unison, it is both startling and hilarious. Perfectly normal from behind they instantly transform into a ghostly apparition of shock and awe. Caked with flour from head to toe so thick they are barely recognizable as people, this is a chorus line of walking ghosts, Pillsbury doughboys, and marshmallow men! It’s at once startling and hysterical!
Lent, which begins tomorrow on Ash Wednesday, must be a very difficult time for some here. The Christmas celebrations began sometime last October and finally came to an end on the Feast of the Three Kings in mid January. The Carnival season begins on that same day, also referred to as Twelfth Night or the Feast of the Epiphany, with the grand finale of Fat Tuesday celebrated today. So its been pretty much non-stop party time around here for the past five months or so. It will seem ghostly quiet here for the next 40 days, until the Easter festivities crank everything back up into high gear. I can’t wait!
Cle Elum Reconsidered
Cle Elum Reconsidered
It’s kind of like a love affair.
When we’re apart we long to be together.
When we’re together, the realities of the relationship begin to set in.
But we keep coming back to this house in Cle Elum,
and we keep imagining a life together.
And of course this life is perfect.
We walk all around it. We sit on the steps. We talk.
Certainly the winters here are harsh,
spring is always late in arriving, and the days are slow to warm.
But in the summer when the dark earth radiates the heat of the day
and the sweet, pungent smell of tall grass fills the air,
and when the autumn nights beckon with a thousand stars,
it’s a place I could come to call home.
I think I love this place for everything it will never be.
It’s a promise of a simple life,
a place to pursue dreams, to write poetry,
to build bird houses and spirit shrines,
to talk, and sing, and grow old.
It’s a place to take long walks,
to nurture gardens and each other,
to learn and ponder and love and remember.
It’s a place that lets us embrace everything that we hope
and all that we dream, and allows us to believe
that those things are not only possible
but also as natural, as Walt Whitman tells us,
as leaves of grass.
But Cathy’s knee doesn’t like the cold,
and Aaron’s cane doesn’t like the snow,
so we’re still not ready to make a commitment.
__________
so we’re still not ready to make a commitment.
__________
Monday, August 27, 2018
Trading Places
Postales del Paraíso
Trading Places
If Enrique Peña Nieto were to implement similar restrictions in Mexico, I do not believe that I could withstand an extreme vetting process similar to what Donald Trump has proposed in the U.S. for some people seeking a new life in a new country.
I cannot recite the Mexico pledge of allegiance, and I cannot sing the national anthem. I cannot quote the Mexican constitution, nor am I proficient in the details of all its laws. My religious preferences are probably not in alignment with the majority of the population. Although I continue to improve, my communication skills are limited to those of a child. I do not know that my political perspective is in alignment with those of Mexico on issues of gay rights, religious freedom, or gender equality, I would assume that most Mexicans, like most Americans, are deeply divided on these issues. I can provide no proof of my respect for this country, admiration of the Mexican people, or the validity of my moral compass. I have no official sponsor to validate my application of immigration. I have not submitted to a medical exam, or an ideological test and yet I have been granted ‘permanent resident’ status here.
Although I am a stranger living in a foreign land without a complete understanding of it’s culture, it’s people or it’s politics, I am welcome in this country. I am here by choice and I am free to come and go as I choose. The contrasts with the place I called ‘home’ for the better part of my life, are striking.
For too many in this world, menial labor, humiliation, and discrimination are but one price of immigration. That my halting and heavily accented mumblings are greeted with appreciation and encouragement rather than derision, that I have never been questioned by the Immigration Service or the police about my political views or why I’m here, and that I have never experienced the negative affects of racial profiling, are testaments to the remarkable tolerance of this country and its people. That my Mexican neighbors knock on my door offering steaming bowls of pozole and warm tortillas as a heartfelt welcome to the neighborhood is a humbling experience. That they invite me to share in their family’s triumphs and celebrations, their births and their baptisms is an honor.
On the surface the difference may perhaps be dismissed by the fact that I’m not a refugee. I’m not perceived as a threat to someone’s job, or as a national liability dependent on the charity of others for healthcare, education, or food to put on my table. You become a refugee because something has gone terribly wrong, because your life has reached a point where your best option, perhaps only option, means abandoning your hopes and dreams, your roots, your identity, your family, and the graves of your forefathers, and placing yourself at the mercy of strangers. The hope of being able to overcome all these injustices is perhaps the reason the United States has the best-educated taxi drivers in the world. However while my lack of refugee status does nothing to dispel the realization that, were my financial situation more precarious, my political status would certainly follow, the culture here is to help, not ignore or denigrate, the less fortunate.
I’m reminded of all this as we join in the nine day festival of the Christmas Posadas that are celebrated here, and throughout Mexico. The word posada means “inn” or “shelter” and the posadas are a re-enactment of the journey of Mary and Joseph to Bethlehem and their search for a place to stay. The evening celebrations begin in each neighborhood with the singing of Christmas carols and a candlelit procession led by a young couple enacting the part of Mary & Joseph. The procession makes its way through the village to a particular home (a different home in a different neighborhood for each of nine nights), where a special song, La Cancion Para Pedir Posada, is sung. There are two parts to the traditional posada song. Those outside the house sing the part of Joseph asking for shelter and the family inside responds, singing the part of the innkeeper telling Joseph that there is no room. The song alternates back and forth a few times until the innkeeper relents, opens the door, lets everyone inside, and the Christmas celebrations then begin in earnest.
One can debate the story of Mary and Joseph, the journey to Bethlehem or even the Christmas tradition, but in a world reluctant to address the tragedies and countless refugees in Aleppo and throughout Syria, Afghanistan, Somalia and South Sudan, and in a country with a president so fearful of immigration, that he advocates building walls and religious registries as barriers to keep people out, the traditions of tolerance and acceptance that are taught here, especially to the very young, are a welcome alternative.
Wishing all of you the very best this holiday season. Feliz Navidad!
Wednesday, August 15, 2018
Sunday, August 12, 2018
Washington D.C.
Remembrance
As my son Aaron and I stand together watching the intensely precise, practiced movements in red, white and blue, the flash of gold braid, the muffled slap of white gloves against a rifle stock, the measured steps, and the loud crack of metal plates on mirror polished shoes, I’m reminded that traveling here with my father to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier overlooking the Nation’s Capitol somehow always felt like a religious pilgrimage. Having, after many years, finally finished reading The Illiad, a book that my father would often quote, I think now that it was more a Homeric experience. Perhaps they are the same.
Arlington National Cemetery is above all else, a place of Truth, a place of Honor and Glory; “Kleos” in the Greek. This is a place that makes us face an uneasy truth; that it is easier to honor the dead than the living. Achilles famously knew the choice that he faced; “Kleos”- die in battle and be remembered forever as the greatest warrior the world has known, or “Nostos” - return safely home. This is a place where those two irreconcilable choices meet. This is a place for stories to be told. It is still an overwhelmingly emotional place to remember, bear witness to, and retell the stories of my father.
Wednesday, August 1, 2018
The Sheehan Family of Maulykeavane
(Note: Multiple updates have occurred since
this was originally written in 2011. Refer
especially to Sue’s extraordinary and extensive
research on the Sheehan Family)
this was originally written in 2011. Refer
especially to Sue’s extraordinary and extensive
research on the Sheehan Family)
_____________________________
Noun; from the Greek: nostos (νόστος)
meaning to return home, and also from
the Greek; algos, (άλγος) and Latin;
algia, meaning pain or longing.
___________________________________
In 1908 the twenty-two year old John Joseph
Sheehan said his final goodbye to his family
in Killarney, Ireland stepped aboard the RMS
Lusitania and immigrated to America in search
of a new life.
In 1958 the seventy-two year old John Joseph
(Grandpa) Sheehan returned to Ireland to visit
the home and family that he had left behind 50
years before.
In 1965 Mary Sheehan Coleman followed her
father John back to Ireland. Her trip and her
stories of her father and mother, their families,
and life on the old family farms are lovingly
remembered in her wonderful memoir “The
Long Road From Over There To Over Here”.
In 1995, using her memoir as a guide, we in
turn followed Mary back to Ireland. We found
Seamus O’Shea who had guided Mary through
the countryside, and he again guided yet another
generation of the Sheehan clan back through the
many intervening years to the old family farm.
On the occasion of Dad’s 100thBirthday I
thought it appropriate to finally “get a move on”,
“not let any more grass grow under my feet”
and share what I think we’ve learned about the
Sheehan Family of Ireland.
I hope that this is merely another chapter of what
to come, of the Sheehan Family returning to the
place that our Great, Great Grandfather called ‘Gib’.
July, 1995
Stepping out onto the street that first morning in Dublin, Cathy and Aaron both asked if I had remembered to take along our copy of “The Long Road From Over There To Over Here”; Aunt Mary’s wonderful remembrances of her family and her trip to Ireland. I assured them that I did indeed have the document in my pocket, but I also suggested that as much as we wanted to embark on our genealogical quest, since it was such a beautiful morning perhaps we should take a little time to see at least some of Dublin before we sequestered ourselves in a government office pouring over long forgotten records. So, headed toward Trinity College to see the ancient Book of Kells, we rounded the second corner and ran right into the National Genealogical Center. We had no choice. We had to go inside.
They were very nice. For $50 the man gave us a little folder, a smile, and a list of places to go for further information. After suggesting that the fee paid was perhaps a wee greater value than a smile and a piece of paper, and after a little prompting, he put his hand on my shoulder and noted with a wink that a good first step would be the Registrars Office which was just a few blocks away. He ushered us hurriedly out the door seemingly eager for us to reconnect with our past, or perhaps simply eager to return to his tea.
At the Registrar’s Office we decided to look for Grandpa Sheehan’s birth certificate first. Knowing that he was born in 1886 and that he was from Killarney, this would be very simple and very fast.
The indexes to the birth certificate records, as it turns out, are in huge volumes about the size and weight of gravestones and the names are listed by year of birth (very simple). However the listings are not catalogued by area or county, they are just a big list of everyone in the entire country that was born that year (not so simple)! The indexes list the name of the newborn, the date of birth, the names of the parents, and the local name for the area in which the child was born (ie: Carrignafeela, or Ballybunion) with no reference to a district (Killarney) or county (Kerry). The key to these documents apparently is in knowing the local names for the areas for which you are searching and hopefully the parish name so that you are at least checking in the right end of the country. We of course knew neither. However knowing from Aunt Mary’s writings that Grandpa Sheehan’s (John’s) parents were named Jeremiah and Hannah, and that they were from Killarney, we decided that this was still a simple task, after all how many John Sheehans could possibly be born to parents with these names in 1886?
Well, apparently there were only six boy’s names in all of Ireland in the 1880’s; John, Michael, Patrick, William, Diarmuid (Jeremiah), and perhaps one other, and while this makes naming a child a relatively simple choice, the sheer volume of boys named John born in 1886 is overwhelming! Also, there were about 13 different ways to spell Sheehan, Sheahan, Sheean, Sheahan, Sheenan, Sheehen, Sheenan, Sheehin, Sheen and about every third newborn in the county was using one variation or another, most of them had a father named Jeremiah, and apparently 1886 was the designated year for all women named Hannah, Hanna, Hana, Johanna, Honora, or Hanora, to give birth to a boy named John!
Now the process by which you search these huge volumes of names and dates is that you troll through the listings until you come upon a name that you think you are looking for. You fill out a form and give it and two dollars to a clerk who disappears for twenty minutes and comes back with a photostat of the pertinent portion of the actual records which invariably indicates that the particular person you think you have found, although he has the same name, was born at least 200 miles away from the person for whom you are searching. It took us no more than twenty dollars to figure out that maybe getting a map that indicates the names of the townslands, civil parishes, and their location by county might be a worthwhile investment.
So, armed with our parish map as a cross reference to the names, we eventually discovered that noJohn Sheehan was born to a Jeremiah and Hannah Sheehan in all of the District of Killarney in 1886. So, we figured that Aunt Mary was probably off by a year. We would search 1885 and 1887.
We eventually searched ten years of records and finally came to the conclusion that all of this was just an elaborate scheme by the Irish Magistrate’s Office designed to entertain gullible American tourists and lure them into singlehandedly providing a major portion of the Irish economy, two dollars at a time!
Nonetheless we decided to make one last review of 1886, this time cross referencing only the name John Sheehan to the parishes in the District of Killarney in the County Kerry without reference to the name of either parent.
There was one name.
But there were two problems. One; the mother’s name was Mary, not Hannah, and two; the place of birth was listed as Mauly Kivane, a name not on our parish map for Killarney or the County Kerry. Having invested a small fortune in the search already, and realizing that it was now five minutes till five and the Registrar’s offices were about to close, I decided to gamble on one more search. As one clerk disappeared with my money I asked another clerk if he knew where the parish of Mauly Kivane was. He explained that the name was certainly not a parish, it was less than a parish, smaller than a town, it was not even a village, it would be much smaller, perhaps a cluster of houses, maybe not even that big. He said that “Mauly” in Irish means a small rise or hill and that “Mauly Kivane” was a small hill in the middle of a large bog. He pulled out a huge geographical volume and looked up the name. Maulykeavane was a townland about seven miles northeast of the town of Killarney.
Knowing that we could spend at least the next three weeks in this office searching volume after volume, or we could see the rest of the country, we continued on our journey south.
We stayed one night at a B&B near Cashel, (The Rock of Cashel is an ancient stone fort that legend associates with St. Patrick) and the couple that owned this converted castle suggested that we try going to the town of Mallow where they were beginning the process of consolidating and digitizing census and emigration records for all of Ireland. We drove to Mallow the next day to find that they were indeed just beginning the process of computerizing their records, but they were beginning at the other end of the country. So after a brief stop to pay homage to one of Ireland’s national treasures by hanging upside down from the top of a crumbling stone parapet of an ancient castle to kiss the Blarney Stone, we continued on to Cohb, formerly Queenstown, just across the harbor from Cork.
It was from here in 1908, according to Aunt Mary, that the 22 year old John Joseph (Grandpa) Sheehan had said his final goodbye to his family and boarded the RMS Lusitania in search of a new life. The old railway station here has been converted to a fascinating emigration museum, filled with heart rending stories of the hundreds of thousands of people who died of malnutrition and disease from 1845 to 1851 and the million plus who emigrated in those years in search of a better life. But again, there were no records. So we continued on to Killarney.
Mary had told us that Shamus O’Shea owned a pub in Killarney and she also provided a phone number for Shamus; her intrepid guide in 1965 to the Sheehan Family farm and to the O’Meara home in the McGillycuddy Mountains. Not knowing whether Shamus would still be there - after all it was now 30 years later - we decided to call anyway. An old voice with a charming Irish accent answered the phone and told me, very sympathetically but emphatically, that he had no idea who Shamus was, that there was certainly no one at this number by that name, that he had never heard of Aunt Mary, and although he agreed that there were many Sheehans and O’Sheas in the area, he had no idea what I was talking about!
I got pretty much the same response from every bar, pub, lounge, restaurant and watering hole, up and down the main street through the entire city of Killarney, to the point where toward the end of the day, as they waited for me on the sidewalk outside, Cathy and Aaron took to laughing hysterically each time I once again came out of a bar with a glazed look on my face.
Very late in the day, long after I’d become quite immune to the “What are you some kind of nut?!” look from an assortment of bartenders across the city, we saw a sign for ‘Jack C’s Public House, Spirits and Tobacco – Seamus O’Shea, proprietor’. At Aaron’s bemused urging I reluctantly went inside and went up to the woman behind the counter and said ”I don’t know if I’m in the right place, and you’ll probably think I’m nuts, but I’ve got this story to tell you, and I need to know if it makes any sense to you.” So I launched into my story about my Aunt Mary who had come to Ireland many years ago, blah, blah, blah, and had been taken on a donkey ride to the Gap of Dunloe by this guy named Shamus O’Shea, blah, blah, blah, and I’m thinking that this poor woman probably hears this same story from 800 people every year, and is thinking “Another American tourist who thinks that everyone he meets is his long lost relative,” and all of a sudden her face lights up. “Yes! That was Seamus!” she said. “I haven’t heard him tell that story for years! I’m Ellen. Seamus is my husband and this is our daughter, Brigitte.”
As it turned out Seamus had left for the day and would not be back until later that night. We had planned on being in the town of Dingle that night (about 75 km away), but we decided that we had to meet Seamus, so we left our copy of Mary’s story with Ellen and decided that we would drive to the tip of the Dingle Peninsula that night and come back again the next morning to meet with Seamus. As we were leaving the pub Ellen smiled, put her hand over mine on the top of the bar, and confided in a soft voice “I should have known you were a Sheehan when you walked in the door, you have the Sheehan hair!” I’m not exactly sure what she meant by that, and I wasn’t entirely sure it was a compliment, but then she added with a warm smile and a nod of approval, “And the eyes. You have the Sheehan eyes!”
We walked into Seamus O’Shea’s pub at 10:00 the next morning. All the locals were already on their second Guinness by then and as soon as I walked in I knew the man I was looking for. Gray haired (Sheehan haired?) with a ruddy complexion and a quick smile, Seamus must be 6’5” if he’s an inch and he must weigh 300 pounds.
We talked for a long time. He told us how he loved reading Aunt Mary’s story; he talked about his family and our family, and the Sheehans and the O’Sheas, and the brothers and the sisters. We showed them our family tree and Brigitte showed us theirs. We showed him our copy of Grandpa’s birth certificate and he smiled and said “Mauly Kivane. Yes, this is the place your great, great grandfather called “Gib”. Would you like to see it?”
We drove out of town heading north, turning off the main road to follow very old and very narrow roads through the hillside. We made one stop on the way. A sharp left turn took us up to the top of a hill to an old church. On the far side overlooking the valley was a grave yard (the Old Kilcummin Cemetery) and the family plot. The grass was very high, some of the stones had fallen over, some were half covered in lichen and overgrowth. Seamus apologized. The stone church had been closed for many years. The family that had cared for the plot were old now and could no longer keep their promise of upkeep. As we walked we came upon a stone marker, larger than most, chiseled with the Sheehan name. It was, I think, the stone that Aunt Mary describes in her story. “These are your people”, Seamus said, pointing to the tall, thin grave stone and gesturing to the gravestones beyond. “This is your family”. As I looked down the rows, stone after stone held the Sheehan name; Patrick, Ellen, John, Jeremiah, Julia, William, and on and on.
We didn’t linger long. Seamus had only a few hours to spend with us, and Cathy and Aaron who had been riding in the back seat had taken copious notes of each turn in the road. We would come back.
We continued on, driving perhaps another few miles. The road rolled gently over the bogs, and lush green fields rolled gently away for miles on both sides. Seamus looked to the left and pointed across the fields. “Do you see that hill? That’s Mauley Kivane. That’s Gib.” A complex of small buildings stood on the top of a slight hill surrounded by trees, like a welcoming island rising of out of the vast sea of bogs and fields. As I stood there gazing out over the fields, for a moment I was speechless. All I could think was that I wished that Dad was here. Although I knew this was a place he had never been, a place he had never seen, I felt that somehow a part of him was here.
It’s interesting the incongruous thoughts that flood your mind in less than an instant. I suddenly remembered many conversations with Dad, arguments really about politics, the war in Vietnam, flag burning, long hair, and just as suddenly I remembered a line from a favorite poet, Rumi, a 13thcentury Persian:
“Out beyond ideas of right doing and wrong doing, there is a field.
I’ll meet you there.”
This, I thought, is that place.
Seamus was uncomfortable with my suggestion that we stop at the house and introduce ourselves. “They are very old now, and don’t receive guests well” he said “It’s been many years, I don’t know that they’d remember who I am.” So we drove on.
Back at Seamus’ Pub, we thanked Seamus, said goodbye to Ellen, Brigitte gave us a copy of her family tree, and as we prepared to walk out the door one of the men at the bar came up to me. He was maybe 70 years old with a worn cap and a weathered smile, and he said “You know you have lots of family here. The O’Sheas are not your only relatives in Killarney”. We wanted to stay. Hear his stories. Be enveloped by the warmth of this place. But knowing that we were now more than two days behind our schedule, and thinking as you do when you are young, that you will come this way again, we thanked everyone profusely and continued on our journey.
We toured the rest of Ireland; driving the Ring of Kerry, then up across the Shannon River, heading north to Galway, whispering with the sheep along the coast, dancing hand in hand around ancient stone cairns in the magnificent desolation of the Burren, lying down briefly with ghosts and banshees on millennium old stone slabs propped up against the sky in Connemara, stumbling our way through the distilleries of Northern Ireland, and eventually back to Dublin.
We found Sheehan’s Bar close to where Mary said it was, just off Grafton Street. We sat down for a beer and as I looked up at our waiter I almost fell off my chair. Maybe 25 years old, dark wavy hair, blue eyes, and a Roman nose, he was the spitting image of pictures of Dad when he was young. He introduced himself and after hearing our story he told us that this had been his Great Grandfather’s pub and that his real name was Diarmuid (Irish for Jeremiah), but that there were so many Jeremiahs in the family, everyone just called him Paul!
We ended up back where we had started; the registrar’s office in Dublin where we shuffled through the pages of peoples lives for many long hours. We had answered many of the questions that we had come here with, and now had more by a hundred fold. We hurried back to the archives in search of a few more answers and arrived just in time for closing.
_______________ *** _______________
So the following is what we know, or at least what we think we know about the Sheehans of Ireland… unless of course we don’t. Some detail is more speculation than fact, some is clearly conflicting. It is a very long string tied together with many knots.
I would certainly defer to Aunt Mary in all matters, after all Mary’s visit to Ireland was guided by a lifetime of love and stories from her father and was also thirty years closer to the truth than ours.
Maulykeavane is a townland in the Poor Law Union of Kilcummin in the District of Killarney, County Kerry. It is an area of 522 acres (less than one square mile). On this land 11 houses are clustered together along the top of the small hill, the rest of the acreage is farm land or bog. On this small plot of land the 1901 census indicates there were 6 Jeremiahs, 6 Johns, 7 Michaels, 3 Patricks, 7 Julias, 5 Ellens a few Margarets and Kates and a couple of Hannahs; 11 families, 67 people in all, all of them related, and that is after many of the children had grown up, married, and moved perhaps to some other nearby farm. Generations of families lived and died here, so a reference to a Jeremiah Sheehan from Maulykeavane could reference any number of people from many different families, and multiple generations. Obviously the process of trying to sort through the names and places gets even messier as you broaden the search to a parish (Kilcummin) or a county (Kerry). So from here things begin to get a little sketchy but bear with me.
We unfortunately did not visit the Gap of Dunloe and so have nothing to add to Aunt Mary’s remembrance of her mother’s home.
- The birth certificate that we obtained in Dublin states that John Sheehan was born May 19, 1886 at Mauley Kivane, to Jeremiah Sheehan and Mary Sheehan (nee Donoghue) in the District (Civil Parish) of Coom, (Catholic parish of Rathmore), District of Killarney, County Kerry. This confirms the date (at least the year) given by Aunt Mary. Everything that follows is predicated on this document. If this date or documentation is incorrect, everything that follows falls apart.
- The location of Mauley Kivane was dangled tantalizingly by the clerk in the registrar’s office in Dublin and later confirmed by Seamus in Killarney.
- However the name of our great grandmother on John’s birth certificate is indicated as ‘Mary’ on the document and, although confirmed by Seamus and by Brigitte’s Family Tree, it is in direct conflict with Aunt Mary’s remembrance that John’s mother was named Hannah. One would think that Mary would have remembered the name well if she, her Mother, and her Grandmother shared the same name. We however found no birth registration records for a child named John born to a Jeremiah and Hannah Sheehan in any parish in all of Killarney in 1886. The 1901 and 1911 Irish Census records would also seem to confirm the name of Mary as Jeremiah’s wife. (see notes regarding Jeremiah and Hannah)
- Seamus confirmed that the children of Jeremiah and Mary were born 20 years apart, and remembers that his mother Ellen, who was grandpa’s sister (Aunt Mary called her by her nick-name “Nellie”), who was born in 1899 and was the youngest child, never knew some of her brothers and sisters.
- We searched 15 years of records (1865 - 1880) and finally found reference to what may (or may not) be the marriage certificate for John’s parents. The marriage certificate notation indicates that on February 8, 1876 Jeremiah Sheahan (note spelling) a 28 year old farmer from Mawley Kivane (note spelling) and Mary Donoghue a 17 year old farmer’s daughter from Barnadune, were married in the Roman Catholic Chapel of Killaha, in the District of Coom, Killarney, County Kerry, Ireland. The reference to the ‘District of Coom’ here seems to make sense; the majority of the records we have found for the Sheehan family are from Coom or Kilcummin (these are two parishes to the east and west respectively of Maulykeavane), Killaha is just a few miles southeast of Maulykevane. (We have no idea where Barnadune is.) The ages and the dates on these documents would seem to be in alignment with what we know.
- What is not in alignment with what we know is this: Aunt Mary states that the first born son was John Joseph who died at an early (unspecified) age and that John’s oldest (presumably living) brother was Patrick. We have found birth records that indicate that Patrick was born in December 1876. If these records refer to the correct Patrick, the date on the marriage certificate for Jeremiah and Mary (Feb. 1876) would leave no room for John Joseph to have been the first born son. So either we’ve got the wrong parents, the wrong Patrick or Joseph was not the first born son. Isn’t this fun!? Are we all thoroughly confused yet? Just wait.
- The marriage certificate indicates that Jeremiah’s father, Patrick - this would be Aunt Mary’s Great Grandfather who divided his farm among his four sons, and Mary Donoghue’s father were also farmers and that Daniel and Patrick Donoghue (presumably Mary’s brothers or uncles) witnessed the wedding ceremony. Indications are that Patrick’s wife was Ellen Rahilly. Brigitte O’Shea’s (Seamus’ daughter) family tree seems to agree with this theory but some names are different. (no surprise).
- There is some uncertainty however about the names of the 11 children of Jeremiah and Mary Sheehan. Aunt Mary lists her father’s brothers and sisters as; John Joseph, Patrick, Michael, Jerry, Danny, Joseph, John Joseph (Grandpa), Julia, Nellie, Kate and Mary. We found documentation that would confirm most of this, with a few notable exceptions.
- Aunt Mary states that the eldest son (John Joseph) died at an (unspecified) early age. His name does not appear in any records that we have yet found.
- Seamus confirms Mary’s story about Jerry and Michael, adding that they moved to Dublin and became police officers and it was after having won quite a bit of money in the Irish Derby (Sweepstakes) that Jerry purchased the Pub, now known as Sheehan’s Pub (which incidentally is on Chatham Street, which runs off of Grafton Street, but still very close to Aunt Mary’s remembrance.) We did find baptism records and census records for both Jerry (born 1891) and Michael (born 1893).
- Aunt Mary indicates that Kate (Caitlin? Catherine? Kathleen?) and Mary were two of John’s sisters who moved to Dublin. Seamus does not recall that Mary and Kate were the names of any of the sisters but he does point out that these were the names of the wives of Jerry and Michael, John’s brothers who moved to Dublin and opened a pub. We have found no birth or baptismal records for either Kate or Mary. (see notes that follow regarding Mary)
- We did however find baptism records for a Bridget Sheehan born to Jeremiah Sheehan and Mary Donoghue in 1895. The 1901 Census seems to confirm this since it indicates a daughter Bridget Sheehan (6 years old at that time) living with Jeremiah and Mary Sheehan.
- The 1901 census does not indicate Patrick living at Maulykeavane. He would have been 24 y/o by then and probably living elsewhere, or perhaps he had by then already immigrated to America.
- Danny and Joseph, according to Seamus and Mary, stayed on the farm and although neither is listed in the 1901 census for Maulykeavane, Danny does reappear on the 1911 census. Also the 1911 Census no longer lists Jeremiah (the father), but instead now lists Mary as the “Head of Family”. Perhaps this was the reason for Danny’s return. We have found no records at all for Joseph.
- The 1901 census indicates that there were indeed four homes with the Sheehan name as Head of Household at Maulykeavane which seems to substantiate Aunt Mary’s remembrance of the farm being divided among the four sons.
- Griffiths Valuation of Ireland, the recorder of property ownership for the country contains records from 1853 that indicate parcels of land at Maulykeavane in the names of John, Daniel, Jeremiah, Michael and Patrick Sheehan. (see attached)
- The 1901 census also shows Ellen, now a widow and 80 y/o, listed as Head of Family in house #7 in Maulykeavane. The date and age may indicate that this may be the former Ellen Rahilly, wife of Patrick Sheehan who divided their farm (Gib) among the four boys.
- The RMS Lusitania sailed mostly from Liverpool with a stop at Cohb (Queenstown) and then on to Ellis Island in New York, but also sailed a route through Halifax to Boston. Apparently emigration records available from NARA (The National Archives in Washington DC) are on microfilm, and the Archives in Boston would document specific dates and a passenger manifest for these arrivals.
Perhaps our own father, Jeremiah Joseph Sheehan, inherited his wonderful and wry sense of humor from his Great Grandfather Patrick. The baptismal records from the Roman Catholic Parish of Rathmore indicate the following: Of Patrick’s four sons to whom he divided his land, the place of birth for two of his sons is listed as Maulykevane (the official townland name), for the other two the place of birth in the National Register is listed as ‘Gibraltar’... Gib.
Was ‘Gib’ a remembrance of a place now long forgotten? Perhaps. A wish or a prayer for his family and for their future? Almost certainly. Gib, true to its name through many generations is a place that has endured in our family lore now for more than 150 years. A rock. A place of remembrance. And nostalgia.
With the documentation included here, if certification can be found in Boston for Grandpa’s immigration to America we could all claim Irish Citizenship through the Irish Consulate (and claim an EU passport). We could then, in the Grand Sheehan Family Tradition, all move to “Gib” and open another Irish Pub!
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