The Grace of My Grandfathers

I arrived at dawn at the airport in Nairobi, Kenya jet-lagged from my 30-hour journey from San Francisco.  A battered taxi conveyed me over the rutted highway into the city and to the overcrowded matatu that would carry me several hours into the bush for three months of medical relief work with AIDS orphans.  The early morning haze burned off in an instant, and out of it appeared hundreds of barefoot travelers, all seemingly resolute in their destinations...for what?  Food, shelter, work of some kind?  A few shillings to stave off the inevitable starvation/disease/death that seemed to gallop behind them, nipping at their heels?

My first conscious thought that morning was, "There, but for the grace of God, go I."  What, but sheer luck and divine providence, had caused me to be born in the USA and not along a road such as this one?  In the months that followed, I came to know some of those red clay footpaths intimately...the resiliency of its poorest and most vulnerable, and the simple joy of rolling in the red dirt with those motherless children while answers to the larger questions of how to fix the problems caused by social injustice, greed and corruption remained painfully beyond my grasp.  If nothing else, these little darlings would know my unconditional love for them as I struggled to keep my anger and impotence hidden from them.  Still, every day as I walked hand-in-hand with them over the red clay, I was overwhelmed with wonder at what had caused me to be born along a different road, one that had led to bountiful nutrition, a fine education and the very best of medical care whenever I needed it.

A letter from my brother Frank ("Ye ought ta stop in Ireland on yer way home an' get ta know yer own tribe!"), coupled with an abscessed tooth that required immediate attention I dared not risk in that AIDS-ridden land, prompted me to divert my flight itinerary through Dublin.  Irish colleagues of my sister Mary at the University of Kentucky put her in touch with their good friends Jack and Marie-Claude Gillespie.  Before my plane touched down in Dublin, they'd arranged an appointment for me with their good friend Brendan Glass, a dentist-with-a-heart-of-gold in Maynooth.  (His fine skills as a dentist are unmatched, but perhaps surpassed by his true artistry as a fisherman.) Not only did he set aside half a morning of his busy practice on my behalf and see me twice more over the next few weeks for follow-up care, but he wouldn't allow me to pay for his state-of-the-art services when my US insurance and the international traveler's insurance I'd been suckered for didn't pay a penny!

In the meantime, the Gillespies invited me to join them for Easter Week at their country home in Easkey, County Sligo.  In long walks along the seashore and long evenings of delicious food, drink and conversation around their hearth as the peat fires burned low, their gracious hospitality and lively young sons, Sam and Pierre, allowed me a gentle transition from the scorched red clay of Kenya to the delicate fragrance of the blooming yellow gorse infusing my every step.  I continue to be awed by the kindness of these strangers.  Surely, nothing I had done warranted this generosity, this hospitality so freely given!  I could only accept it gratefully and offer a prayer of thanksgiving.

My dental problem solved, I decided to spend the remainder of my visit in search of the birthplaces of my grandfathers.  As 16- and 24-year-olds at the turn-of-the-century they had, reluctantly and with heavy hearts, emigrated to the US when their families' lands couldn't produce enough to sustain them all.

Finding my maternal grandfather's homestead wouldn't be difficult, I reasoned.  I knew that an elderly, bachelor second-cousin still farmed the place in County Roscommon.  However, my repeated phone calls to him went unanswered.  I set out by bus for Carrick-on-Shannon, figuring I'd walk from there to Leitram Village, only to be quickly turned back by the fast-moving traffic along the narrow road.  A call for a taxi took me under the wing of Colm Spellman, who immediately took up my quest as his own.  (If ever ye find yerself in need of a trusty ride or a bit of quick-witted sleuthing, sure, Colm's yer man!)  In the four short miles to Leitram Village he contacted local folks, and then hospitals in Sligo and Dubln, and before we'd reached the village I was speaking on Colm's mobile to my distant cousin at a hospital in Dublin.  Being a nurse, I offered my services to him; being a hardy, independent farmer, he eschewed them.  No, he was getting the best of care, he assured me, but invited me for a visit when he'd have returned home in a few weeks.  (Outfitted with a new titanium hip joint, he was ready for another eight decades of farming!)  Being so close to my grandfather's birthplace on this rainy afternoon, Colm understood my longing without my uttering a single word.  He contacted an acquaintance at the local garage for directions and within minutes we were traipsing through cow pastures along the banks of the River Shannon.  He removed himself at one point without being asked, granting me privacy for my emotions.  Urging me to take my time, he assured me he'd be waiting down the lane when I was ready to drive back to town. What could have prompted this young man to so generously forego multiple fares while he waited idly for this sentimental, middle-aged stranger to trod in the footsteps of her long-dead, beloved Grampy?  The tears streaming silently down my cheeks mixed with the gentle afternoon rainfall as I offered yet another prayer of thanksgiving for the hospitality and generosity for these Irish people.

I continued on to Newport, County Mayo whence my paternal grandfather had come.  I didn't know where to begin my search, but landed at a B&B across the road from Burrishoole Abbey.  There amidst the ruins of the Abbey, the granddaughter of the proprietors of the B&B joined me on daily walks through the cemetery, recounting for me the stories of those buried there.  Kerry Lenahan, a mere ten-year-old with an historian's knowledge of several generations past!  I was awed and delighted to be in her company.  She'd seen me pocket a small stone now and then during our sunset walks to the water's edge, and inquired what they were for.  "Oh, I just want to keep a memory of this place," I told her.  On our last day together, May 1st, she surprised me with a bouquet of buttercup-yellow "May flowers" she'd gathered and placed a small stone into my hand, saying, "I hope you'll remember me."  How could I ever forget?

Kerry's grandfather Vincent suggested I meet with Paddy Gibbons, the keeper of the keys to the Church vault housing the Baptismal records of its parishioners.  A gentle, unassuming man, Paddy was keen on helping me locate the records of my ancestors, along with prodding me gently about my experiences in Africa.  Yet another heart-of-gold, he so obviously felt a kinship with those suffering masses in a distant land.

The vault exposed a treasure trove of beautifully hand-written records from the past and led me to the 1880 record of my grandfather's birth and to the townland of Shanvallyhugh, just a stone's throw from my B&B!  The only surviving elder in the townland, a generation removed from my grandfather but with first-hand knowledge of him, was alive and kicking in one spirited white-haired nonagenarian, Katy Kilcoyne.  Though arthritis caused her every step to be painful, she insisted on hiking me through her cow pastures to the site of my grandfather's homestead.  In fact, she told me, the best stones from his place had been used as the cornerstones for her "new" place, where she invited me in to share a pot of tea and a nip of sherry, urging me to return the next day for another walk through the land.  Indeed, I couldn't help but return, drawn as I was across the centuries-old stone bridge and down the narrow lane, being met by sheep that nuzzled my hands with their dewy noses and seemed to guide me along in my grandfather's footsteps.

As I gazed at the lone remaining stone wall of that humble home, marveling at the small footprint of the place that had housed such a large family, I was joined by three energetic young brothers from a neighboring homestead.  They were curious, full of questions about who I was and what I was doing there.  I explained that my grandfather had been born at this place and that he'd set out for America down this very lane 100 years ago.  They fell silent.  Then the eldest of the brothers, a lad of about ten, moved to the wall of mortarless stone, deftly slipped a thin stone from between larger ones and placed it reverently into my palm.  With that, they were gone!  I, too, had to be on my way. As I turned, reluctantly and with heavy heart, to leave that hallowed ground and make my way down the narrow lane that would lead me to America, all the anguish of those wee ones trodding the red clay footpaths of Kenya came flooding back to me.  The mystery of my "luck" at having been born to a life of privilege became vividly apparent.  Aye, there but for the grace of God and my grandfathers...

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