IT'S AN IRISH LULLABY

In this story, I pay tribute to my Irish roots. 04/21/2016

IT’S AN IRISH LULLABY

It is good to be King, which I am not. It is better to be Irish, which I am. I would not trade one title for the other. This would shortchange me.

I began to explore my Irish heritage after my retirement. I entered the names of my maternal and paternal grandparents into a computer genealogy program and began compiling the names of their descendants. These trees took root and now contain hundreds of twigs. As I added the name of each one of my ancestors, I tried to envision the appearance of that individual. With which of them share do I share a physical resemblance or characteristic? Which one of you bestowed my small, crooked toes upon me, who passed on my large beak, and who is to blame for my scaly skin, baldness, and poor vision? On the plus side, I would like to recognize the people who gave me my astounding intelligence, my engaging wit, and my commanding voice. Ah, they were a fine group, the lot of them.

Both my parents came from Ahascragh, not far from Ballinasloe, in County Galway, Ireland. Their families lived about four miles apart. My mother left Ireland at age 17, in 1907. She sailed to Boston and began work as a servant, following the path of many Irish immigrant girls of that time.

My father left Ireland for England at age 16. He moved to New York City, also in 1907. He met and subsequently married my mother in Manhattan in 1912. In those days, few immigrants ever returned to Ireland once they sailed away. Neither of my parents did. Those who remained at home treated the farewell event as a wake.

My mother’s maiden name was Finnerty. She had sixteen siblings, ten step-related. My father had nine siblings. I had a difficult time trying to figure out my relationship to numerous relatives, all named Finnerty. A combination of good sense and good fortune allowed me to marry someone with a completely different surname. Angelina Sammarco is not quite Irish, but her name had a certain charm, irresistible to me.

A college friend once remarked that he loved to hear my mother speak because she had such a lovely brogue. Until then, it never occurred to me that others thought of my parents as being Irish. To me, they were Americans. In raising me, they never talked about Ireland or their childhood. They did not belong to, nor did they support any Irish organizations. They taught me nothing of Irish lore or history. They never required me to march in a St. Patrick’s Day parade or learn to dance a jig. Let us face it. They did a poor job of making me an Irishman.

Another impetus to my desire to know more about my ancestry came after reading The Irish in America edited by Michael Coffey with text by Terry Golway. They describe the plight of the Irish who faced adversity of every sort, including famine, prejudice, poverty, religious persecution, the abolition of their native language, and the scorn of nations. They state that many of the Irish who came here stayed put in the large eastern cities rather than moving west. Apparently, few wanted to rely on farming as a livelihood, given their bitter experiences in Ireland.

Once here, the Irish Catholics formed parishes, a haven to protect them from the rigors of religious and economic discrimination they faced. Penny by penny, they financed the construction of St. Patrick’s Cathedral. They also created some of this country’s most enduring social service programs. Think of all the Catholic hospitals and parochial schools that still exist to this day.

At my retirement party in 1989, I met a first cousin, Mary Cummins, who lives in Connecticut. She informed me that her brother Matthew Finnerty lived with their 90 year old mother, Bridget, on my mother’s land where he raises cattle. This news bowled me over.

“We’re going to visit our daughter, Ellen, next year. She’s working near London for the next few years. Perhaps we could visit the homestead.” Mary gave us Matthew’s phone number and said she would let him know in advance of our arrival.

In the summer of 1991, Ellen, my wife and I flew from London to Dublin on a Friday morning. Ellen rented a tiny stick-shift car that lacked power steering and we set off for the hinterlands, riding on the wrong side of the road. Hours later, during which time we saw nothing but green fields, we managed to locate the hamlet, Ahascragh. After a phone call, Matthew’s wife, Laurie, came and led us to my mother’s homestead. Laurie prepared us for a rude reception. She said that her husband would be unable to greet us and would probably remain out of sight due to “chronic conditions” he suffers. That would be a combination of alcoholism and paranoia.

Regardless, she welcomed us into her home where we met her three children and had dinner. I don’t recall meeting Bridget, her elderly mother-in-law. We sat around the dining room table looking at family pictures and listening to Laurie’s description of the history of the region. Awkwardly, she made arrangements for us to sleep there that evening. We learned later on, they had not expected us to stay with them. In the morning, we began a grand tour. .

There were two structures on the property. One, my mother’s birth home, now served as a barn. It dated back 150 years, perhaps longer. The other is the "modern" home in which Laurie lives. It dates back to about 1932.

Let me qualify the term, "modern," to describe their residence. My mother’s oldest brother, James, a 40-years-old bachelor living in New York City returned to Ireland in 1930 to take care of his ailing mother. A young woman named Bridget Kelly had been serving in this capacity. When his mother died, James inherited the land. He married Bridget and built a house for his bride, the first new one constructed in that area in eons. In the garden stands a plaque praising him for building a new home, signed by Eamon DeValera, the President of Ireland.

In the morning, I met Bridget a woman well into her nineties, and the mother of nine children, three of whom lived in the United States, three others residing in Great Britain, and three who remained in Ireland. My video captured a rare moment in my life, as she sat in her rocker, and after some prompting, rattled off the names of all her children and their respective spouses. Then, silence.

“So, you’ve been rocking away for some years?” I said, hoping to get her talking again.

Fire came out of her eyes as she rejoined, “Well, I wasn’t always sittin’ here.”
Then, she gave me an earful of her hard, rustic life.

When James died, the original property went to his oldest son, Matthew, who has since purchased adjacent farms, and now raises cattle on about 70 acres of land. Laurie provided us with boots before we began trekking around the property. She brought us to the bog where peat abounds.

“How much of it is yours?”

Laurie replied, “All of it, enough to last the family about 1,000 years.” She said that Ireland’s decision to sell its peat to Germany had caused a political firestorm.

Laurie took us to the barn where we encountered cattle on a personal basis. These beasts tend to step on people’s toes. One knocked me backwards. Laurie pushed the brute away, turned and asked, “Good Lord, are you hurt?” with a tone of real concern.

“Not a scratch to show for the fight, but my ego may have been damaged.” My city boy upbringing revealed itself rather quickly.  

It fascinated me to gaze around the fields so green, watching cattle graze, wondering what my life might have been like had not my mother emigrated. Had I been born and raised here, my life would have ended early, done in by hay fever, hoof-mouth disease, or sheer boredom.

Back at the barn, Ellen tried lifting a bale of hay with little success. It caused me to fall over in laughter to witness her effort to perform this mandatory farm skill. People with MBA degrees apparently don’t make good cattle ranchers.

Laurie then took us to see property once owned by my father’s family. Standing on the roadway was an elderly man who looked as though he had stepped out of the movie, The Quiet Man.

I asked him, “Do you know anything about my father’s family or who owns the property?”

He pointed across the road to a field and with a thick brogue said, “There it is. A neighbor bought the property years ago and tore down all the buildings.”

“Thanks for telling me. What’s your name?”

“James Finnerty.”

Why did this not surprise me? It happens to be my father’s name, my brother’s name and yes, his son’s name.

From there, Laurie took us to visit my father’s nephew Martin Finnerty and his wife. I captured this memorable meeting on videotape. He had lived in America and had worked for my father, and told hilarious tales of his experiences. “Always work for Jim Finnerty,” he said, “because he always has the money.” In those days, my father operated a tavern. That is an upgrade. Patrons called it a speakeasy saloon.

Nearby is a cemetery, spelled ChapleFinnerty. Buried there are untold numbers of people with my surname engraved on numerous headstones. It struck me that most of the people buried there had lived long lives, many into their nineties. In the middle of the cemetery is a cave, an odd shaped hole in the ground. It is revered by the locals because an Irish priest, John Finnerty, had lived in it for years while hiding from the tender mercies of Cromwell’s soldiers.

We bade farewell to Laurie and her three children with fond regard. Her older son, John, may one day inherit the land and continue to raise cattle for a living. But who knows? He may well choose to sell the ranch and the herd and move to Hoboken, now that he has met me.

That evening, we drove to Limerick and stayed at a B & B. In the morning, the hostess admired my daughter Ellen’s beautiful sweater. “Oh, I see you bought one of Ireland’s famous sweaters,” she enthused. Reluctantly, Ellen revealed the tag on the inside of the neck. It read, Made in China. An embarrassing silence filled the room.

We stopped and bought some glass from a local factory before heading to Waterford. We prefaced our factory tour with a Chinese lunch. Bowing to local customs, the meal included French fries. Go figure.

Dublin turned out to be a challenge to our map reading ability. We arrived at the height of commuter travel and got stuck for hours before wending our way to a little resort community on the Irish Sea. There, we stayed in a beautiful, modern resort hotel. In the morning, while gazing out upon the water, my thoughts turned to my parents. What were their thoughts when they sailed to the U. S., ones of sorrow or joy? It is certain they enjoyed much more prosperous lives living here than had they remained on the old sod.

My brief trip to Ireland made me grateful for and proud of my heritage. The Irish in America have succeeded so well.

Join with me in singing my song, loud and clear:

"F, I, double N - E, R-T-Y spells Finnerty. (Finnerty)

Proud of all the Irish blood that's in me, (in me)

‘Divil’ a man can say a word agin’ me.

F, I, double N - E, R, T, Y, you see, you see,

Is a name that a shame never has been connected with.

Finnerty. That's me! That’s who? That’s me!”

(Don't tell Harrigan.)

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 See picture below..

St. Patrick's Day party picture.

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