Gerry Regan's Posts - The Wild Geese2024-03-19T05:37:27ZGerry Reganhttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/ger_reganhttps://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/68527861?profile=RESIZE_48X48&width=48&height=48&crop=1%3A1https://thewildgeese.irish/profiles/blog/feed?user=3plu7awwgzot7&xn_auth=noA Final 'Good Night' to Mary Louise, Ma Mèretag:thewildgeese.irish,2019-11-20:6442157:BlogPost:2447012019-11-20T04:00:00.000ZGerry Reganhttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/ger_regan
<p><em><span style="font-weight: 400;"><a href="https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/3721139914?profile=original" rel="noopener" target="_blank"><img class="align-full" src="https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/3721139914?profile=RESIZE_710x"></img></a> (Note: I delivered this eulogy today for my mother, Mary Louise Brooke, at All-Saints Church, in the University section of Syracuse, N.Y. My mother spent her earliest years a literal stone's throw from the church, where she was baptized.)…</span></em></p>
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<p><em><span style="font-weight: 400;"><a href="https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/3721139914?profile=original" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><img src="https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/3721139914?profile=RESIZE_710x" class="align-full"/></a>(Note: I delivered this eulogy today for my mother, Mary Louise Brooke, at All-Saints Church, in the University section of Syracuse, N.Y. My mother spent her earliest years a literal stone's throw from the church, where she was baptized.)</span></em></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;"><strong><span style="font-size: 18pt;">A</span>t the tender age of 44, I received my second letter</strong></span> <i><span style="font-weight: 400;">ever</span></i> <span style="font-weight: 400;">from my mother, that is, of course, Mary Louise, whom I’ve taken to calling M<em>ère</em>, French for mother. For she was truly a citizen of the world.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Her note to me was typed on paper about half the width of a regular sheet, with the printed heading, “Things to do on the maid’s day off ...”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">I read this and laughed. I said to myself, “Not only is this woman beautiful and smart, but she’s got a sense of humor. She’s even a touch exotic. In the lottery of lost-and-found motherhood, I thought, hey, I won.” </span></p>
<p><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Above, ma mère's casket just before interment, graced with a butterfly, part of her favorite iconography.</span></em></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">I am the only child of Mary Louise, whom we remember here today. There's so much to tell about this remarkable woman and so much still to know. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">For one, despite her surname Brooke, she is not nearly as British as her name suggests. She was born Mary Louise O’Connor nearly 87 years ago here in Syracuse. At my birth 20 years later, she named me Patrick O’Connor, and then sent me out into the world, <em>without</em> her, buoyed, I’m sure, by the belief that I would have a childhood she could never furnish.<a href="https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/3692770020?profile=original" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><img src="https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/3692770020?profile=RESIZE_710x" width="250" class="align-left"/></a></span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">MLB was highly intelligent and beautiful, and remained a handsome woman by the time we reunited in July 1997. It is</span> <i><span style="font-weight: 400;">absolutely</span></i> <span style="font-weight: 400;">amazing to me is that I stand here as a living, breathing, and I’m sure to her surprising part of her legacy.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;"><em>Mère</em> brought life, love and light to me in abundance. Before I found my mother I felt lost, never quite ‘enough.’ Finding her alive and well, after three years of searching and prayer, provided me confirmation that God has always watched over me -- and her, as well. </span></p>
<p><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Left, MLB in a shot to promote her modeling career by fotog Ronnie Berg, Paris, 1962.</span></em></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">MLB was born Nov. 25, 1932, to Catherine and Francis O’Connor, both descended from Irish immigrants. M<em>ère</em> was the second child, following Fran, and preceded siblings Ann, Cathy and Eleanor. Francis Sr. worked for New York Central Railroad for 50 years.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;"><em>Mère's</em> father was a skilled brakeman, and was transferred a number of times during her childhood. So Mere grew up somewhat rootlessly -- in Syracuse, then Pennsylvania, then to Toledo, Ohio, and back here. She finished her formal education at now defunct St. Anthony’s High School.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">After graduation, she moved to Manhattan. She landed a job as a telephone operator, and met my eventual father, John DeWitt Shiman, when she patched a phone call for him. They dated a few months. M<em>ère</em> found out she was pregnant just after she broke off the relationship. Mere decided to relinquish her baby,</span> <i><span style="font-weight: 400;">that would be me</span></i><span style="font-weight: 400;">, through the agency of the archdiocese’s Catholic Home Bureau a few days after I was born.</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><strong>Perhaps our sublimest hour</strong></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">I searched for my mother using records filed within New York City. One of the earliest came from an official, who described her as “5’9”, 129 pounds, red hair, blue-green eyes, and fair-freckled complexion,” and for good measure, “extremely attractive with poise.” When I related this description to her, she immediately took umbrage, noting that she was in fact</span> <i><span style="font-weight: 400;">5’10”</span></i><span style="font-weight: 400;">, and added that her kid sister Ellie was, in fact, the family beauty. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;"><em>Mère</em> gained weight after surviving colon cancer at age 61, so by the time we met in 1997, when she turned 65, she was no longer riding a bike around London and no longer 127 pounds. But she clearly mesmerized me, both for who she was and what she represented.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">After my birth, M<em>ère</em> remained in Manhattan and became engaged to a physician, Tom Kong, of Chinese ancestry <em>and</em> considerable means. She broke up with him after visiting Italy and France on his dime, without him. She came back to the city, worked and saved for a year, and in January 1960 she moved to Europe. She lived first in Rome, then Paris, and finally, since 1966 in London, where she died Oct. 3.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;"><a href="https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/3721166689?profile=original" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><img src="https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/3721166689?profile=RESIZE_710x" width="275" class="align-right"/></a>In her 59 years abroad, she had various jobs, including a stint at the CIA, where she served as an administrative aide. Her last job was as a secretary in a white-glove law firm across the street from her flat in London’s posh Knightsbridge section. She also pursued, somewhat halfheartedly, a modeling career. She ultimately opted for job security.</span></p>
<p><em>Right, my mother in Hydra, Greece, August 1977</em></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;"><em>Mère</em> was married once, in 1968, to an Englishman, named Guy Fitzsimmons Brooke, whom she met in Dublin, Ireland, of all places. It wasn’t, in her words, a felicitous match and they divorced.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;"><em>Mère</em> had reading and viewing tastes that hint at a romantic world view -- <span style="text-decoration: underline;">and</span> British sensibilities. My uncle Peter remembers M<em>ère's</em> enthusiasm for the 1948 British film, “The Red Shoes,” which</span> <span style="font-weight: 400;">follows a ballerina who finds she must choose between her career and a romance with an orchestra conductor. As well, Peter and Ann heard M<em>ère</em> often mention Somerset Maugham’s 1944 novel, “The Razor’s Edge,” about an American pilot who rejects a conventional life of career and marriage in pursuit of life’s deeper meaning.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Cousin Sean recalled, “As a boy I'd find it funny how (Aunt Mary) would say, "Well done." instead of "Thank you" if we did her a favor. Sean also recalls receiving from M<em>ère</em> the popular children’s book "Mr. Sneeze" by British author Roger Hargreaves. Sean reminded me, as well, of one of M<em>ère</em> favorite British-isms, “Full stop!” used to affirm a remark as unquestionable.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Perhaps my sublimest hour, among many with her, took place in the summer of 1999, when M<em>ère</em> visited me in New York City. I took her to a restaurant named Asti, where had gone on a date. Though the restaurant was not yet open, we squeezed through the unlocked door. A porter greeted us, I asked for Augie, whom I met 17 years earlier when he was the manager. Augie emerged from the kitchen and Mere stepped forward, saying “Hello, my name is Mary Louise, and this is my son, Gerry.” I was staggered by her open and casual avowal of our once-secret bond. I was proud of her, and me, too.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">I recall that in our first few months reunited, M<em>ère</em> said she only wanted family to know she was a mother. Two years later she led me into her law office and introduced me to the young women there. "Oh, Mary's son. We've heard so much about you! We're so happy to finally meet you." In welcoming me into her life, MLB demonstrated great courage.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Love is boundless. It spans time and distance. I suspected that I loved MLB the moment I sprang from her. I believe in her heart of hearts she felt the same for me, despite tensions that arose.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">My life has been graced by my time with M<em>ère</em>. God’s hand guided my search for her at every turn with St. Patrick riding shotgun. She and I found each other right on schedule! Mere, I always loved you, always will. FULL STOP.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;"><strong><em>(My thanks to Peter King, Sean Nevins, and Peter’s friend and assistant Monique for creating this “goodnight” to MLB; to my fiance, Mary, for her support over many years; and to Joe Soll and Prudence Bastian Karr, for their roles in facilitating my search.)</em></strong><br/> <br/> <iframe width="100%" height="300" frameborder="no" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/275963218&color=%23ff5500&auto_play=true&hide_related=false&show_comments=true&show_user=true&show_reposts=false&show_teaser=true&visual=true"></iframe>
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<p><strong>Related Media:</strong></p>
<p><strong>* <a href="https://thewildgeese.irish/profiles/blogs/all-souls-day" target="_blank" rel="noopener">All Souls' Day</a></strong></p>
<p><strong>* <a href="https://thewildgeese.irish/profiles/blogs/lost-and-found-seeking-patrick-o-connor" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'Birthday Boy': Seeking Patrick O'Connor</a></strong></p>
<p><strong>* <a href="https://thewildgeese.irish/profiles/blogs/birthday-queen" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Death of a 'Birthday Queen' . . . and Perhaps a Farewell</a></strong></p>
<p><strong>* <a href="https://youtu.be/pZ9GdG1QEnI?t=133" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Video Presentation of <em>'Death</em> of a Birthday Queen' at MINY Toastmasters, May 15, 2019</a> (YouTube, 8:45)</strong></p>
<p><strong>* <a href="https://thewildgeese.irish/profiles/blogs/i-m-dreaming-of-home" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'I Am Dreaming of Home'</a></strong></p>
<p><strong>* <a href="https://thewildgeese.irish/profiles/blogs/once-upon-a-time-maureen-o-hara-might-have-been-my-mom">Once Upon a Time, Maureen O'Hara Might Have Been My Mom</a></strong></p>All Souls' Daytag:thewildgeese.irish,2019-11-01:6442157:BlogPost:2446042019-11-01T18:30:00.000ZGerry Reganhttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/ger_regan
<p><strong><em><a href="https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/3692310962?profile=original" rel="noopener" target="_blank"><img class="align-full" src="https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/3692778386?profile=RESIZE_710x" width="750"></img></a> Death ends a life. But it does not end a relationship, which struggles on in the survivor's mind, toward some resolution, which it may never find.</em> -- The character Gene Garrison in the film "I Never Cried for My Father"</strong><br></br> <br></br> <span><strong><span style="font-size: 18pt;">M</span>y Dad appeared to me this morning, most…</strong></span></p>
<p><strong><em><a href="https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/3692310962?profile=original" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><img src="https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/3692778386?profile=RESIZE_710x" width="750" class="align-full"/></a>Death ends a life. But it does not end a relationship, which struggles on in the survivor's mind, toward some resolution, which it may never find.</em> -- The character Gene Garrison in the film "I Never Cried for My Father"</strong><br/> <br/> <span><strong><span style="font-size: 18pt;">M</span>y Dad appeared to me this morning, most unexpectedly,</strong> as he died 12 years ago. The venue was a dream I was experiencing only a few hours from the time I type this. I rarely remember the content of my dreams, but this one was different, as well you might imagine.</span></p>
<p><em>Above, Dad and me, circa 1960.</em><br/> <br/> <span>In this dream, I was kibitzing over the phone with a woman, familiar to me but unknown, interestingly, someone who had a lot of cooking savvy. I was feeling quite inadequate, as I often do, but particularly as the conversation turned to recipes, shortcuts, best practices and delicious outcomes. Strangely, I sensed I was in Minnesota, as well, a place I've never visited. Suddenly, Dad sat down beside me, out of nowhere, looking his charming, welcoming and handsome self, and said, "Ger," as he smiled and draped his arm over my shoulder. "Dad! . . . " I blurted, and I started sobbing uncontrollably. He was with me for a few minutes, held me, and then I awoke.</span><br/> <br/> <span><a href="https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/3649928986?profile=original" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><img src="https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/3649928986?profile=RESIZE_710x" width="350" class="align-left"/></a>I needed this assurance. Twenty-nine days ago, my first mother, whom I took to calling Mère, died, at age 86. Her final words to me, uttered in an abbreviated phone call four or so years ago, were "Get lost!" This, in a call I risked after she suffered a stroke, hoping this time she'd be sensible and let the love back in.</span></p>
<p><em><span>Mère</span> and I, White Horse Tavern, West Village in New York City, 1999.</em><br/> <br/> <span>Mère had severed all communication with me on my birthday in 2002, all but those two final stinging words. Telling an adopted person to "get lost" offered, inadvertently, a cruel touch of whimsy, which eluded me then. Not now though. She ended our intercourse a week after I shared with her that my adoptive mother drank heavily when I was a child, traumatizing me and my sister Laura. But before that, for nearly five years, Mere and I shared scores of letters and phone calls and even a few trans-Atlantic visits. Most simply, I loved and admired her, without conditions. She was a beautiful woman in her heyday, and that mightily impressed me, too, as I rarely felt attractive!</span><br/> <br/> <a href="https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/3692770020?profile=RESIZE_710x" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><img src="https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/3692770020?profile=RESIZE_710x" width="150" class="align-right"/></a><span>My time with Mère engaged all my emotions -- most simply, I felt 'enough,' perhaps for the first time in my life. When she introduced me as "my son, Gerry" to friends and strangers, I was thrilled. These were sublime words and sublime moments, which I'll never forget.</span></p>
<p><em>Right, <span>Mère</span> in Paris, 1962. Photo by fashion photographer Ronnie Berg.</em><br/> <br/> <a href="https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/1705713706?profile=original" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><img src="https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/1705713706?profile=RESIZE_710x" width="225" class="align-left"/></a><span>I relished finding Mère after a three-year search, relished talking to her, relished having her in my life. Then she shut the door. Her death has invited me to confront my anger at this inscrutable and shabby treatment. Her passing leaves me struggling to understand why she would do this -- and how she could. It was inconceivable then and only became more so with the passing of years. I loved "ma Mère," and my "sin," as I've come to internalize it, was telling Mère that my Mom, whom I also cherished, was an alcoholic during a formative part of my life.</span></p>
<p><em>Above, my Mom, circa 1960, and below, Dad and I, at my parents' Garden City home, circa 1985.</em><br/> <br/> <span>With that fateful phone call on my birthday 17 years ago, Mère may have thought that she ended our relationship, but my Dad's return this morning reminds me that these ties are inviolate, interwoven and will stretch on past all measured time. <em><strong>Ger</strong></em></span></p>
<p><span><a href="https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/3692766389?profile=original" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><img src="https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/3692766389?profile=RESIZE_710x" width="750" class="align-full"/></a></span></p>
<p><strong>Related Media:</strong></p>
<p><strong>* <a href="https://thewildgeese.irish/profiles/blogs/mere-eulogy" target="_blank" rel="noopener">A Final Good Night to Mary Louise, Ma Mère</a></strong></p>
<p><strong>* <a href="https://thewildgeese.irish/profiles/blogs/lost-and-found-seeking-patrick-o-connor" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'Birthday Boy': Seeking Patrick O'Connor</a></strong></p>
<p><strong>* <a href="https://thewildgeese.irish/profiles/blogs/birthday-queen" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Death of a 'Birthday Queen' . . . and Perhaps a Farewell</a></strong></p>
<p><strong>* <a href="https://youtu.be/pZ9GdG1QEnI?t=133" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Video Presentation of <em>'Death</em> of a Birthday Queen' at MINY Toastmasters, May 15, 2019</a> (YouTube, 8:45)</strong></p>
<p><strong>* <a href="https://thewildgeese.irish/profiles/blogs/i-m-dreaming-of-home" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'I Am Dreaming of Home'</a></strong></p>
<p><strong>* <a href="https://thewildgeese.irish/profiles/blogs/once-upon-a-time-maureen-o-hara-might-have-been-my-mom">Once Upon a Time, Maureen O'Hara Might Have Been My Mom</a></strong></p>Death of a 'Birthday Queen' . . . and Perhaps a Farewelltag:thewildgeese.irish,2019-08-21:6442157:BlogPost:2438122019-08-21T19:30:00.000ZGerry Reganhttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/ger_regan
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<p><em>Hey, ah, Gerry, I don’t know if you are, mmm, there. This is Dr. Chaudhury. Hello. Uh Hello. Anybody, Gerry? OK Let me try back. (Recorded on Wednesday, Feb. 25,…</em></p>
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<p><em>Hey, ah, Gerry, I don’t know if you are, mmm, there. This is Dr. Chaudhury. Hello. Uh Hello. Anybody, Gerry? OK Let me try back. (Recorded on Wednesday, Feb. 25, 2004, 3:35 a.m.)</em></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;"><strong><span style="font-size: 18pt;">T</span>here are a handful of events that demarcate</strong><b style="font-weight: 400;"> my life story, as I've come to understand it. </b>Death, that stalking horse of us all, has forged virtually all of them. Take, for example, the passing of my mom, on February 25, 2004.</span></p>
<p><em><span>Above, a link to the recording of the voice mail message left by my mom's gerontologist at 3:35 a.m. to inform me that my mother died that morning. (SoundCloud, 13 secs). Below that is a transcript. The embedded image is a scan of the diary entry I wrote after my Mom's death.</span></em></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Here I think it is useful to note that I have, or should I say had, two mothers, My first mother is named Mary Louise -- I’ve long taken to calling her Mère, French for</span> <i><span style="font-weight: 400;">mother</span></i><span style="font-weight: 400;">. Seven days after she gave birth to me in a Manhattan hospital, she relinquished me for adoption. She said decades later when I found her that she loved me. That’s why, or so it always seemed in the inverted world of adoption, she relinquished me. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">I was baptized in that hospital’s chapel by strangers, handled lovingly, I’m sure, and was handed to a “boarding mother” to wean me. I learned from notes the adoption agency recorded later that this woman grew very fond of me, and that she was upset when she returned me. I like to imagine I liked her too but I have no memories of her. Still, it seems reasonable that I was uneasy when she handed me to new caretakers after six months in her arms. Those caretakers became my parents.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">They -- the woman I’ve called Mom since that day and my adoptive father -- brought me back to their three-bedroom home in New Hyde Park, in the suburbs of Long Island.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">My Mom, named Evelyn, turned 84 on Dec. 11, 2003. (I relish the use of “my” here -- we all need to</span> have, <em>or</em> <i><span style="font-weight: 400;">possess,</span></i> <span style="font-weight: 400;">our mothers, I’ve realized for some time now.) Two days later, shortly after awakening, she fell in the bathroom, after either stumbling over a throw rug or passing out. She was never sure which. In the fall, she broke her wrist. An ambulance took her to the emergency room, where she lay atop a gurney waiting for an available room.</span></p>
<p><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Photo below: Leading the festivities, Mom, in red, joins in a rendition of "Happy Birthday" with, left to right, Grandma Eva (Belinski), "Jerry Boy" (holding Duchess), sister Patty and Patty's sister Joan, circa 1966.</span></em></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;"><a href="https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/3437444837?profile=original" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><img src="https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/3437444837?profile=RESIZE_710x" width="350" class="align-left"/></a><span style="font-weight: 400;">Over the next 10 weeks, my Mom moved inexorably, imperceptibly, to her death. She entered that final chapter of her life as a fragile woman, with osteoporosis and emphysema, reserved yet friendly, with a gentle and caring manner. I took to calling her as I pored through memories “birthday queen,” as she orchestrated the birthday celebrations of each and every family member by baking and carrying a candle-strewn birthday cake as we struck up the “Happy Birthday” song. She was always sober on those occasions, and I’m grateful for that, too. </span></span></p>
<p>As I write from the remove of 15 years, I find myself wondering now just how remarkable were these family birthday rites for my adoptive sister, Laura, and I. Years earlier, in a rare intimate, emotion-laden conversation I asked my Mom if she ever thought of my first mother before I announced I found her. She paused a beat, then, both us full of sadness and love, told me, “On your birthday, always on your birthday.”</p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">My mom, through most of my childhood and for decades beyond, had been a binge drinker. When she over-imbibed on those unnerving days, once or twice a week, every few weeks, she was no longer voluble. Her face would curl into a half-smile, and she’d try to hide from her embarrassment and our scrutiny in the bathroom or in my parents’ bedroom.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">One thing we know is that alcohol didn’t play a role in Mom’s fall, at least not a direct one. She never drank early in the morning, in my experience, as she typically used the cover offered by social events to drink. As well, by the time of her fall she had stopped abusing alcohol for many years, though she wasn’t abstemious by any means.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">At the tender age of 8 or 9, when I was told I was adopted, I came to hate myself, for I couldn't stop Mom's drinking and blamed myself. <span>Each time I found my mom intoxicated at home after arriving from school, I felt abandoned anew, and these seemingly countless episodes triggered what I long have described as rage, which I internalized. </span>On the other hand, Laura, brought home four years before me, as a teen</span> <i><span style="font-weight: 400;">acted out</span></i> <span style="font-weight: 400;">her rage by rebelling, often and loudly. In a common-enough dynamic in adoptive families, I became the ‘good’ adoptee, she the ‘bad.’<br/> <br/>
</span> <span style="font-weight: 400;"><a href="https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/3437453575?profile=original" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><img src="https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/3437453575?profile=RESIZE_710x" width="750" class="align-full"/></a>Despite the frequent childhood turmoil, Mom and Dad ultimately succeeded in making the family house a real home. I somehow found enough footing amid the emotional craters to navigate, to create a functioning life amid my periodic panic attacks and rebuffed queries and the myths my Dad spun about the circumstances of my birth, and that of Laura. </span></p>
<p><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Above, a family photo, taken in April 2003, at Mom and Dad's home in Garden City, taken via a timer. From left to right, my niece Kim's son Robert, my nephew, Joseph; Dad; Mom; Kim's husband, Phil, Kim's son Kevin; Kim; and me. Missing is my sister Laura, who had died 13 or so years earlier.</span></em></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Laura, on the other hand, drew her life as a succession of crises, as well as panic syndrome, that drove her to seek relief with Valium. She died from a heart attack at age 40. But there is absolutely no denying that my parents created a safe harbor for us, drawing in Laura, myself and later Laura’s son and daughter, along with their two grandchildren. My Dad was a successful executive in the brewing industry, charismatic, and generous to family, friends and colleagues. My parents were extraordinary in many ways, and we loved them despite all our collective imperfections.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">So when Mom’s health failed after her fall, my Dad, Kim, nephew Joseph and myself lined up to assist. By mid-January, five weeks later, my Mom stopped speaking to us. She ceased hydrating and eating about that time as well, something we hadn’t noticed, as she was, in her later years a parsimonious eater. On Feb. 19, finding her listless on the couch, an ambulance returned her to Winthrop, where all in my family have gone to die. In the hospital, in what became her final days, she breathed with the aid of a CPAP machine, adding yet another hindrance to communicating with her.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">I felt the weight of inevitability as never before as we discussed options with the staff: Feed her through her stomach tube in a dramatic bid to reverse her gradual emaciation or simply wait for her to fade to black. She didn’t betray any suffering, or perhaps she was inured, but we understood there was no quality of life for her. We decided to do nothing but continue to visit, and pray.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">On the night of Feb. 24th, two days before my birthday, Kim, my niece, Dad and I visited Mom in the hospital. We brought a bouquet of tulips and roses, presenting the optimism I wanted to convey for all life, if not for hers just then.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;"><a href="https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/3437461101?profile=original" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><img src="https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/3437461101?profile=RESIZE_710x" width="300" class="align-right"/></a>To my amazement, Mom greeted us, or so it seemed. She smiled through her mask and her pupils were fully open and beckoned us. I was agog -- her warm, even adamant welcome lifted my spirits, and I wondered if we were on the cusp of a miracle? Was my mom’s clear greeting the beginning of her recovery? I couldn’t think of any other reason for her sudden responsiveness.</span></p>
<p><em>Right, my Mom, circa 1999.</em></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">We departed after about 30 minutes to return to my parents’ house in high spirits. I dropped off my Dad there, and continued on to my apartment in Astoria and fell asleep alongside my felines Finn and Deirdre. Then I was startled full awake by a phone call at 3:35 a.m. By the time I got to the phone, Mom’s gerontologist, Dr. Chaudhury, had left a message. He called back minutes later, telling me that my Mom had passed.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">I called Dad and then drove straight to the hospital. A male nurse greeted me when I reached her floor and told me she had died an hour or two earlier, alone, slipping away from all of us without even a whimper or a goodbye. I was reminded then how my Mom, with a house full of company, seemed to always sit in an armchair in the corner of the living room, never on the couch where we could include her in the intimacy of shared seating. I never asked her why she preferred to sit by herself, which I realize now was in fact more convenient to the kitchen, where she held forth, but I felt she had created a boundary, whether consciously or not, and this saddened me. It still does.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">When I arrived, the hospital room was still, as I went to Mom's bedside. I noticed that a newscast was on the TV screen above her bed, the sound muted. Another patient in the room was asleep, with a family member. Under the dim overhead lighting, I eyed the flowers in the vase by her bedside. I recalled a scene in “Little Women,” when the Irish maid strewed rose petals over Beth’s death bed, a gesture I found affecting. I <span>removed the yellow and pink petals and </span>placed them about the bed, paused, and wordlessly departed. Down the stairs, with the sun finally pouring in, <a href="https://soundcloud.com/gerry-regan/observations-by-ger-outside-1" target="_blank" rel="noopener">I reached the street and recorded my feelings and observations on my hand-held recorder.</a> (SoundCloud, 2:53) I realized then, too, that it was Ash Wednesday. I never did get to church that day.</span></p>
<p><em><span>Photo below: Mom and I celebrating my birthday, circa 2000. The inclusion of this half-eaten cake suggests the photo was an afterthought.</span></em></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">In the intervening days, weeks and months, I was given time to ponder: Was it her impending death that animated my Mom the night before? Though words eluded her, her demeanor seemed to suggest she was at peace and moving through to the next chapter, whatever that may be. And she wanted us to know. <strong>Ger</strong></span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;"><a href="https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/3432010146?profile=original" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><img src="https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/3432010146?profile=RESIZE_710x" width="750" class="align-full"/></a></span></p>
<p><b>Related diary excerpts:</b></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">“78 Harrison St.</span> <span style="font-weight: 400;">fri,, 12/19/03</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">… Mom says that she has green eyes. I never seemed to have noticed, and find that quite strange as I know Amy has blue eyes, Susan brown, Christine blue, Mere green and so on. 1215 am”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">"20-67 38th Street wed, 2/25/04</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">“I strewed yellow and pink rose pedals (sic) around Mom, near her head and shoulders and on the thin blanket that covered her. It was a surreal, but strangely beautiful sight, and I placed the crucifix I made from palm on the chest, just above the sheets. . . .” </span></p>
<p><strong>Related media:</strong></p>
<p>* <a href="https://youtu.be/pZ9GdG1QEnI?t=133" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Video Presentation of This Story at MINY Toastmasters, May 15, 2019</a> (YouTube, 8:45)</p>
<p>* <a href="https://thewildgeese.irish/profiles/blogs/lost-and-found-seeking-patrick-o-connor" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'Birthday Boy': Seeking Patrick O'Connor</a></p>
<p>* <a href="https://thewildgeese.irish/profiles/blogs/i-m-dreaming-of-home" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'I Am Dreaming of Home'</a></p>
<p>* <a href="https://thewildgeese.irish/profiles/blogs/once-upon-a-time-maureen-o-hara-might-have-been-my-mom">Once Upon a Time, Maureen O'Hara Might Have Been My Mom</a></p>‘Blood Upon The Rose’: Poet's Universal Easter Contemplationtag:thewildgeese.irish,2019-04-21:6442157:BlogPost:2414062019-04-21T03:30:00.000ZGerry Reganhttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/ger_regan
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;"><em><a href="https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84711033?profile=original" rel="noopener" target="_blank"><img class="align-left" src="https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84711033?profile=RESIZE_710x" width="207"></img></a> I see his blood upon the rose</em><br></br></span> <em><span style="font-weight: 400;">And in the stars the glory of his eyes,<br></br></span> <span style="font-weight: 400;">His body gleams amid eternal snows,<br></br></span> <span style="font-weight: 400;">His tears fall from the skies.…</span></em></p>
<p></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;"><em><a href="https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84711033?profile=original" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><img src="https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84711033?profile=RESIZE_710x" width="207" class="align-left"/></a>I see his blood upon the rose</em><br/></span> <em><span style="font-weight: 400;">And in the stars the glory of his eyes,<br/></span> <span style="font-weight: 400;">His body gleams amid eternal snows,<br/></span> <span style="font-weight: 400;">His tears fall from the skies.</span></em></p>
<p><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">I see his face in every flower;<br/></span> <span style="font-weight: 400;">The thunder and the singing of the birds<br/></span> <span style="font-weight: 400;">Are but his voice -- and carven by his power<br/></span> <span style="font-weight: 400;">Rocks are his written words.</span></em></p>
<p><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">All pathways by his feet are worn,<br/></span> <span style="font-weight: 400;">His strong heart stirs the ever-beating sea,<br/></span> <span style="font-weight: 400;">His crown of thorns is twined with every thorn,<br/></span></em> <span style="font-weight: 400;"><em>His cross is every tree.</em><br/></span> <span style="font-weight: 400;"> -- Joseph Mary Plunkett</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;"><strong><span style="font-size: 18pt;">P</span>oet and revolutionary Joseph Mary Plunkett was born in 1887,</strong> a scion of wealth, in Dublin. He received a Catholic education, with his post-primary education coming at two renowned Jesuit institutions. He contracted tuberculosis as a child and spent much of his childhood in the more temperate climes of the Mediterranean, including Algiers. Plunkett became an ardent supporter of Irish nationalism and the Irish language, as well as drama and poetry. He joined the Irish Republican Brotherhood in 1915, a year after the outbreak of World War 1, and traveled to Germany in a successful bid to gain German support for a planned rising against British rule of Ireland.</span></p>
<p><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Above, Joseph Mary Plunkett circa 1910. Wikimedia Commons</span></em></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Plunkett was one of the chief architects of the strategy employed in the Easter Rising, which was launched Easter Monday, April 23, 1916. The rising began a day after his planned wedding to Grace Gifford, which was interrupted by events, including surgery a few weeks prior and the swirl of uncertainty that led up to the fateful call to arms on Easter Sunday. After the Rising’s collapse in six days, he was tried and executed for his role by British military authorities on May 4, 1916. <a href="https://thewildgeese.irish/profiles/blogs/joseph-plunkett-and-grace-gifford" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Only seven hours previous, he and Gifford were married</a> in the prison chapel.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Writing about “I See His Blood Upon the Rose” in the Irish Independent in 2015,</span> <a href="https://www.independent.ie/irish-news/1916/rising-poems-i-see-his-blood-upon-the-rose-by-joseph-plunkett-34143648.html"><span style="font-weight: 400;">Lucy Collins, a professor of English</span></a> at University College Dublin, states<span style="font-weight: 400;">: “These simple verses testify to the presence of the divine in the world, reading in nature the iconography of the crucifixion. </span><span style="font-weight: 400;">At the centre of the poem lies the conviction that Christ's suffering will never be forgotten, as long as God's word remains the bedrock of existence.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Of course, one could argue, the ultimate beauty of Plunkett’s work is its invitation for each and every one of us to consider the constancy -- and legacy -- of Christ’s sacrifice.</span></p>
<p><strong>Related Resources:</strong></p>
<p>* <a href="https://www.independent.ie/irish-news/1916/rising-poems-i-see-his-blood-upon-the-rose-by-joseph-plunkett-34143648.html" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Rising Poems: 'I See His Blood Upon the Rose'</a> (By Lucy Collins, Irish Independent, Oct. 29, 1915)</p>
<p>* <a href="Great%20Irish%20Romances:%20Joseph%20Plunkett%20and%20Grace%20Gifford" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Great Irish Romances: Joseph Plunkett and Grace Gifford</a> (By <a href="https://thewildgeese.irish/profile/SusanLevYadun">Susan McWilliams Lev-Yadun</a>, TheWildGeese.irish, Feb. 7, 2014)</p>
<p>* <a href="https://thewildgeese.irish/page/focus-remembering-the-easter-rising-of-1916" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Remembering the Easter Rising</a>, TheWildGeese.irish</p>'I'm Dreaming of Home'tag:thewildgeese.irish,2019-03-12:6442157:BlogPost:2397702019-03-12T19:30:00.000ZGerry Reganhttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/ger_regan
<p><i><span style="font-weight: 400;"><a href="https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/1391541769?profile=original" rel="noopener" target="_blank"><img class="align-full" src="https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/1391541769?profile=RESIZE_710x"></img></a> I hear the mountain birds</span></i></p>
<p><i><span style="font-weight: 400;">The sound of rivers singing</span></i></p>
<p><i><span style="font-weight: 400;">A song I've often heard</span></i></p>
<p><i><span style="font-weight: 400;">It flows through me now</span></i></p>
<p><i><span style="font-weight: 400;">So clear and…</span></i></p>
<p><i><span style="font-weight: 400;"><a href="https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/1391541769?profile=original" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><img src="https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/1391541769?profile=RESIZE_710x" class="align-full"/></a>I hear the mountain birds</span></i></p>
<p><i><span style="font-weight: 400;">The sound of rivers singing</span></i></p>
<p><i><span style="font-weight: 400;">A song I've often heard</span></i></p>
<p><i><span style="font-weight: 400;">It flows through me now</span></i></p>
<p><i><span style="font-weight: 400;">So clear and so loud</span></i></p>
<p><i><span style="font-weight: 400;">I stand where I am and forever</span></i></p>
<p><i><span style="font-weight: 400;">I'm dreaming of home</span></i></p>
<p><i><span style="font-weight: 400;">I feel so alone</span></i></p>
<p><i><span style="font-weight: 400;">I'm dreaming of home</span></i></p>
<p><i><span style="font-weight: 400;">It's carried in the air</span></i></p>
<p><i><span style="font-weight: 400;">The breeze of early morning</span></i></p>
<p><i><span style="font-weight: 400;">I see a land so fair</span></i></p>
<p><i><span style="font-weight: 400;">My heart opens wide</span></i></p>
<p><i><span style="font-weight: 400;">There's sadness inside</span></i></p>
<p><i><span style="font-weight: 400;">I stand where I am and forever</span></i></p>
<p><i><span style="font-weight: 400;">I'm dreaming of home</span></i></p>
<p><i><span style="font-weight: 400;">I feel so alone</span></i></p>
<p><i><span style="font-weight: 400;">I'm dreaming of home</span></i></p>
<p><i><span style="font-weight: 400;">This is no foreign sky</span></i></p>
<p><i><span style="font-weight: 400;">I see no foreign light</span></i></p>
<p><i><span style="font-weight: 400;">But far away I am</span></i></p>
<p><i><span style="font-weight: 400;">From some peaceful land</span></i></p>
<p><i><span style="font-weight: 400;">I'm longing to stand</span></i></p>
<p><i><span style="font-weight: 400;">A hand in my hand</span></i></p>
<p><i><span style="font-weight: 400;">Forever</span></i></p>
<p><i><span style="font-weight: 400;">I'm dreaming of home</span></i></p>
<p><i><span style="font-weight: 400;">I feel so alone</span></i></p>
<p><i><span style="font-weight: 400;">I'm dreaming of home.</span></i></p>
<p><i><span style="font-weight: 400;"> -- ‘Hymne des Fraternises (I’m Dreaming of Home)’ by</span></i> <a href="http://lyrics.wikia.com/wiki/Philippe_Rombi"><b><i>Philippe Rombi</i></b></a><br/></p>
<p><strong>Home (noun): a place of origin. (Merriam-Webster.com)<a href="https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/1423096906?profile=RESIZE_710x" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><img src="https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/1423096906?profile=RESIZE_710x" width="274" class="align-right"/></a></strong></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;"><strong><span style="font-size: 18pt;">H</span>ome often seems so elusive to me.</strong> And perhaps never more so with the passing of those those who’ve shared and shaped my childhood.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">As I consider them, today, inspired by the 70th birthday of my sister, Laura, where do I put her, and where do I put them? Where have they gone? They exist in my mind’s eye, certainly, and take bows in the swirl of emotions and memories that clamber in, vieing for attention, like so many dancers waltzing across the floor. Have they gone ‘home’? <a href="https://thewildgeese.irish/profiles/blogs/lost-and-found-seeking-patrick-o-connor" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Where, in fact, is home if you were relinquished in a closed adoption?</a></span></p>
<p><em>Top: Laura circa 1958. Right: Laura, circa 1982. Below, Laura and 'Jerry Boy,' circa 1963. All photos from Regan family archives</em></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Here, today, engendering my tears, is Laura, my only sibling, who died at age 40 thirty years next December. She was a companion in my early years, a playmate and foil for any temptation I may have had to feel forlorn. But then as she entered puberty she lost interest in being a little brother, and was no longer a playful presence, as she provoked a steady stream of conflicts with my parents. She seemed cruel, and yet so brave to me, in those shouting matches that rocked my world. Lacking access to the truth of her origins and undermined by my mom’s drinking, Laura struggled to articulate what she wanted, what she needed, which were the very things I craved -- honesty, love and consistency. <em>(Continued below.)</em></span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;"><iframe width="375" height="210" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/EaF-4WhCKJk?start=180&wmode=opaque" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""><span style="font-weight: 400;"><span style="font-weight: 400;"><span style="font-weight: 400;"><span style="font-weight: 400;"><span style="font-weight: 400;"><span style="font-weight: 400;"><span style="font-weight: 400;"><br/></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></iframe>
</span></p>
<p><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">Above selection from Concierto: "Voices for Peace" (Músicos Solidarios) 2013 Auditorio Nacional de Música de Madrid Madrid, March 10, 2013, Director: Miguel Roa</span></em></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Unlike me, Laura never learned the identity of her first parents, though we came to learn the outlines of their story after she died, many years after she died. Her mother was a nurse just like Laura, and like Laura’s daughter. Laura’s mother, a woman with the surname Brook, made love with a physician, became pregnant by him, and then she relinquished Laura. My parents adopted Laura and I, separately, four years apart. We are bound forever by a distant vision of home, achingly and only partly realized.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;"><span>Today, I now find myself admiring Laura’s feistiness, and understanding her restiveness. Like me, I believe, she wanted to understand ‘home.’ She yearned for truth, not the “lost and found” fairy tales we received about adoption. The hard-earned truth, which I have come to find inscribed in my heart, is this: Our pair of closed adoptions were not about “lost and found” but</span> <i><span>loss and found</span></i><span>.</span></span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;"><span>When Laura died, after years of struggle with anxiety and addictions, I found myself benumbed by my anger, fear and frustration. It has taken me these many years after her death to rediscover the love I felt for her. I'm dreaming of home, and finding her there once more. <strong>Ger</strong><br/> <a href="https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/1391565270?profile=original" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><img src="https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/1391565270?profile=RESIZE_710x" class="align-full"/></a></span></span></p>Once Upon a Time, Maureen O'Hara Might Have Been My Momtag:thewildgeese.irish,2018-05-02:6442157:BlogPost:2308922018-05-02T20:30:00.000ZGerry Reganhttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/ger_regan
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84722871?profile=original" target="_self"><img class="align-full" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84722871?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750"></img></a></p>
<p><strong><span style="font-size: 18pt;">I</span> once held the conceit that Maureen O'Hara was my mother. </strong>So it came as both a surprise and a delight to come across a picture of the deservedly famous Irish redhead standing alongside my father.</p>
<p><em>In the photo above, Dad is standing, third from left, next to film star Maureen O'Hara. To Dad's right is a…</em></p>
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84722871?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="750" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84722871?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750" class="align-full"/></a></p>
<p><strong><span style="font-size: 18pt;">I</span> once held the conceit that Maureen O'Hara was my mother. </strong>So it came as both a surprise and a delight to come across a picture of the deservedly famous Irish redhead standing alongside my father.</p>
<p><em>In the photo above, Dad is standing, third from left, next to film star Maureen O'Hara. To Dad's right is a member of Dublin's St. Lawrence O'Toole pipe band. Fellow Rheingold Brewery executive Bert Kummer stands next to the man to O'Hara's left. The venue is the Hotel Astor. The band arrived earlier from Ireland as guests of Rheingold. Below is a closer view of the relevant figures in the photo, with my Dad by Maureen's right. The picture was shot March 11, 1960.</em></p>
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84722972?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="250" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84722972?profile=RESIZE_320x320" width="250" class="align-left"/></a><a href="http://thewildgeese.irish/profiles/blogs/lost-and-found-seeking-patrick-o-connor" target="_self">I was born out of wedlock in February 1953,</a> and was adopted by my parents three months later. It was a "closed adoption," meaning that adoption officials were ordered to keep my original family's identity locked in a vault, away from me and even my new parents. My sister, Laura, also adopted, and I were, at least to the casual observer, to pass as my adoptive parents' offspring.</p>
<p>For decades, I believed, improbably, that despite my adoption, my Dad conceived me as well as raised me, for this was what he told me. I began searching for my first mother in 1992, at age 39, since Dad repeatedly and tearfully refused to identify her. In point of fact, he couldn't because he never met her and didn't know her.</p>
<p>My part-time but obsessive quest to find my first mother took three years to complete. Early on I learned from the records provided by the adoption agency that, at my birth, my mother had red hair, was 20 years of age, 5'9" tall, "very attractive and poised," with fair freckled complexion and green eyes.</p>
<p>Without much thought, one of my earliest candidates was Maureen O'Hara, who, for most of her 95 years, stood nearly 5'8" tall and possessed the requisite beauty, poise, green eyes, red hair and, to boot, fair freckled complexion. Maureen was 32 when I was born, not 20, however. The discrepancy didn't diminish my hopes.</p>
<p>I found when I embarked on this search, this journey of self discovery really, that the possibilities were dizzying and also intimidating -- rejection, for one, or a grave, or a dead end. Even "success" -- that is, discovery, acceptance and the prospect of getting to hold my mother brought its own fears. So, I thought, why not be upbeat -- Maureen O'Hara seemed at least a possibility. After all, women pregnant out of wedlock sometimes lied to agencies to better mask their identities, and their shame.</p>
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84722983?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="275" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84722983?profile=RESIZE_320x320" width="275" class="align-right"/></a>O'Hara had one child by the time I came along, a daughter, named<span> Bronwyn FitzSimons, born nine years earlier. </span>Discounting the age divergence, the clues were tantalizing. Still, more sober reflection provided hints that I was on the wrong track. For one, <span>Maureen's biggest success, the John Ford-directed film "The Quiet Man," premiered in the UK in July 1952 and in the United States a month later. These would feature big splashy openings, with requisite publicity interviews and photo ops. She may have started to show about that time. Hmmm . . . </span></p>
<p><em>Photo right, another beautiful woman who graced my life -- my Mom (second mother), voted "best-looking woman" in her high school graduating class, and I, circa 1961.</em></p>
<p>As my research progressed, it became ever clearer that my mother's name was not Maureen, nor O'Hara. Yet I remain delighted to report that my first mother is, in fact, of Irish ancestry, through two sets of Irish immigrant grandparents. She was (and remains in my mind's eye) beautiful and poised, at 5'10" with green eyes and freckles, suggesting, when in her prime, a felicitous blend of O'Hara, Grace Kelly and Audrey Hepburn, with keen intelligence, as well.</p>
<p>Those early days of my search, when every tall redhead was subject to intense scrutiny, were a heady, if quite perplexing, few weeks. So, Ms. O'Hara, despite this flirtation, in fact, I hardly knew ye! That said, let me seize the opportunity here to wish a Happy Mother's Day to <em>ma mere</em>, and to all mothers worldwide! You all have my utmost respect and gratitude for assuming a station in life that we mere mortals too often take for granted!</p>
<p><em>Below, a scene from "The Quiet Man" (1952). Pictured are John Wayne and Maureen O’Hara.</em></p>
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84723119?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="750" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84723119?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750" class="align-full"/></a></p>Baa, Baa 'Black Sheep': A Chat About the Mysterious Irwinstag:thewildgeese.irish,2017-01-30:6442157:BlogPost:2123362017-01-30T21:30:00.000ZGerry Reganhttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/ger_regan
<p><strong><span class="font-size-5"><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719953?profile=original" target="_self"><img class="align-full" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719953?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750"></img></a> C</span>ompiling family history can be a fascinating pursuit, particularly</strong> when a living descendant bequeaths a story as colorful and riveting as that of brothers Tom and John Irwin. The young men, among my grandmother’s numerous first cousins, shared a cold-water flat in Manhattan’s gritty Hell’s Kitchen neighborhood. That was, until…</p>
<p><strong><span class="font-size-5"><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719953?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="750" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719953?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750" class="align-full"/></a>C</span>ompiling family history can be a fascinating pursuit, particularly</strong> when a living descendant bequeaths a story as colorful and riveting as that of brothers Tom and John Irwin. The young men, among my grandmother’s numerous first cousins, shared a cold-water flat in Manhattan’s gritty Hell’s Kitchen neighborhood. That was, until Tom was arrested with two other men in the Oct. 16, 1926, rape and armed robbery of Maxime and Helene Jolivette in a Hell’s Kitchen apartment. </p>
<p><em>Above, a Hell's Kitchen scene, beneath the 9th Avenue elevated railroad line. Photo / Museum of the City of New York <span><br/></span></em></p>
<p>It is a quintessential New York crime saga, with an Irish twist, as the family had emigrated from County Cavan to New York City just prior to America's Civil War and moved to the Irish-dominated wharves-side enclave known as Hell's Kitchen, where they remained for generations. Interestingly, as recently as two years ago, <a href="http://www.irishmirror.ie/news/irish-news/crime/gangsters-ex-girlfriend-i-lived-lovehate-4701774" target="_blank">an "Irwin gang," based in Sligo generated headlines in Irish newspapers,</a> accused of murder and other mayhem tied to their sale of illegal narcotics.</p>
<p>The rub here is that Tom maintained he was <em>innocent</em>, not remarkable in itself, of course, but what is startling is that he stated to authorities that his brother John, a.k.a. Yerkie, was among the perpetrators. My Dad, also named Gerald Regan, told me through the years, in various conversations, that the Irwin family believed Tom.</p>
<p>When Tom began his 20-40 year sentence in Sing Sing Prison in 1928, authorities duly noted in the prison receiving blotter that Tom stated "his brother committed the crime and blamed him as they look alike." The New York Times described Tom as Yerkie’s “Irish twin,” noting they were born 11 months apart. The men’s family was upset with Yerkie’s willingness to let Tom be the ‘fall guy.’ </p>
<p>In 1931, three years into Tom’s sentence, Yerkie confessed his guilt to a New York State Supreme Court justice. Despite that public confession, revealed in a story in The New York Times, according to research to date, Tom was to serve at least another eight years in the slammer.</p>
<p>The following transcript represents a return to my initial primary source, that is, my Dad’s recollection of the Irwins’ startling story. In the decade before my Dad’s passing, I interviewed him on a number of occasions about the Irwins. This transcript, along with the actual audio provided here, represents the final interview with him on the topic.</p>
<p>The interview was conducted June 6, 2004, in the kitchen of my Dad's home, in Garden City, N.Y. He was 83 years at the time, and rather short-tempered during the interview as I pressed him for details. Our research suggests my Dad had an excellent recall of details he had heard mentioned. Most of what he passed along has proven accurate to date. My father died three years later, on June 1, 2007, at 86.</p>
<p><strong><a width="175" href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84716022?profile=RESIZE_180x180" target="_self"><img width="300" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84716022?profile=RESIZE_320x320" width="300" class="align-right"/></a>Ger:</strong> It’s June 6th, the 60th anniversary of D-Day. We’re sitting here in the TV Room in Casa Regan with the patriarch. I want to learn as much as I can in the next 15 minutes or so about the Irwins. Your grandmother Susan Condon -- her maiden name was Irwin --</p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>Susan Irwin</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>That explains the role of the Irwins in the overall family history.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>To my knowledge, she had three brothers, John, Willie and Frank. Frank was the only one that used to come out [to her house, across the street, in her home in Richmond Hill, Queens, N.Y.]. He seemed to be the most sensible of them all. He dressed very nattily. He had snow white hair, he was in his 60s.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><em>Left, my great-grandmother Susan Condon nee Irwin, an aunt of Tom and Yerkie, circa 1920. We haven't yet found any pictures of the immediate Irwin family.</em></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>When was [Frank] in his 60s, [it was] in the ‘30s when you remember him?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>Yes, I remember him. He was the only one that I had some recollection of. In the late ‘20s I don’t remember the exact time. He had Irish pink skin, pink complexion, white hair, and he was soft-spoken. He seemed to be a natty dresser. The other two I have only vague recollections of them being a couple of slobs.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>Any idea of what Frank did for a living? Was he retired?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>I have no idea. Willie and John were a little eccentric. Grandma [Condon] would have them out and they’d probably stay a day or so with her.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>Would they come out together -- Willie and John?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>No, she didn’t have room to put the both of them up at once. And my recollection was to go over and see Grandma, and the uncles were sitting there, one in his underwear and the other would be out taking a walk.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>Which one would be wearing his long johns?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>I think it was John, he had a derby hat on and be sitting at the kitchen table.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>Would he be smoking. Smoking a cigar?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>I don’t know if he’d have been smoking. Gerry, you’re talking about 70 years ago, 73 years ago. I don’t know if my grandmother allowed smoking in the house.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>Did she smoke . . . Susan?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>No, no women in her generation smoked. It’s [in] the next generation women found it fashionable to smoke. They didn’t know how to smoke, but they smoked.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719895?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="300" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719895?profile=RESIZE_320x320" width="300" class="align-left"/></a>Ger:</strong> <span>Your mother smoked, I remember.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>She didn’t know how to smoke, but she smoked.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>For how many years?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><em>Left, my Dad, Jerry Regan, in his easy chair at home in Garden City, N.Y., where he would hold forth on many aspects of world affairs and our colorful family history. Regan Family Archives, 2003</em></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><strong>Dad:</strong></span> <span>Not too long. I don’t know. I don’t know when she started and don’t know when she stopped. But she became an avid anti-smoker, waving her finger at those who smoked.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>So your recollections were that even though [John and Willie] might not have stayed overnight, they would have been together in the kitchen?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>I don’t remember seeing them together at different times. Frank was the one I saw the most. I don’t remember Willie or John ever being in our house. ... But Frank was.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><strong>Ger:</strong></span> <span>Any idea where they lived?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>On the west side of New York, probably in the tenements.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>Hell’s Kitchen, you think?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>That’s where they all came from. You have to remember (that), before rapid transportation and buses and telephones and all that, coming out to Long Island was a tremendous voyage for them.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>Any idea how they would come out? Would they take a car or a cab?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><strong>Dad:</strong> No, they probably were never in a car in their lives. They took the train. The station was on the corner. That was the elevated line.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong><iframe width="100%" height="450" frameborder="no" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/305494779&auto_play=false&hide_related=false&show_comments=true&show_user=true&show_reposts=false&visual=true"></iframe>
</strong></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>Were these gentlemen married?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>Frank was married. I don’t know about the other two. I never saw any wife with any of the three of them. Frank’s wife must have died. I don’t know. Again, I keep emphasizing I was a very young boy and I frankly didn’t give a damn about any of them, whether they were there or not.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>Was your mother fond of them, Frank and Willie and John?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>Not overly. They were characters, Willie and John. You don’t fall in love with characters. You tolerate them.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>Were they boozers? Did you have a sense that they were boozers?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><strong>Dad:</strong></span> <span>I never saw them doing anything but sitting at the kitchen table during the day. I never saw them at night. I never saw them in a bar.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>Was Susan Condon, your grandmother, much of a drinker?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>I never saw her take a drink in my lifetime. I was 14 when she died so I wasn’t privy to what her social life was. She had none.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>Her husband, John Henry [Condon], your grandfather, was apparently a heavy drinker, he had cirrhosis of the liver.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>He probably was a boozer and a carouser, but no one ever talked about it. “Pappa died of complications” [was a common explanation].</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>Now the other story you’ve told and that I’ve enjoyed is your recollection of some kind of sordid crime by two of Frank’s sons, Tommy and Yerkie, or one of the two. Can you just relate that story, as you remember it</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84720012?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="350" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84720012?profile=RESIZE_480x480" width="350" class="align-right"/></a>Dad:</strong> <span>All I know is that I was about 11 years old and I heard that Frank Irwin’s son was in Sing Sing. But the other side of the story was he didn’t commit the crime, his brother did. But his brother wouldn’t turn himself in, and he let Tommy Irwin get sentenced to 40 years in prison. And they tried to prevail upon him to go and turn himself in, but he wouldn’t do it. So apparently even the neighborhood police knew that he did it, but they nailed Tommy.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>What was the crime?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><em>Right, old cell block, Sing Sing Prison, 1938 / World Telegram Photo by C.M. Stieglitz, Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division. New York World-Telegram and the Sun Newspaper Photograph Collection. <a rel="nofollow" class="external free" href="http://hdl.loc.gov/loc.pnp/cph.3c19802">http://hdl.loc.gov/loc.pnp/cph.3c19802</a></em></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>It was supposed to be rape and stealing a woman’s diamond ring.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>And he raped her, as well?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>The crime was rape, and he stole a ring. I don’t know whether it was grand theft or petty larceny. It might have been a five-and-dime-store ring. I don’t know. No one ever told me anything. Hearsay, hearing my father talking, my mother talking.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>They would usually send you out with money to go out and play when they were talking?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>Not with money, they wouldn’t send me out with money. [They’d say] “Why don’t you go out and play with the kids?” And then they’d have a serious conversation. I imagine that would be the idea, of getting us out of there.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>They’d send your brother out with you or would you go out separately?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>I don’t ever remember us two being involved at the same time.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>Then there’s another story you’ve told, about going to Frank Irwin’s funeral or wake and, apparently, seeing either Tommy or Yerkie,</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>It was Tommy was brought down from Sing Sing with a black prison suit on and a black hat and handcuffed to two burly detectives brought into the funeral parlor.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>Was it a regular suit of clothes?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>It was a regular suit of clothes. It was what they issued you probably when you were released. …</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>On compassionate leave? He was reasonably well-dressed?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>He was dressed in a suit. I wouldn’t call it Wallach’s or anything.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>You recall him wearing a hat, too?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>I never saw him without a hat. He had the hat on all the time he was there.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>Like a fedora?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>Yea, that’s the only type of hats they wore. Maybe it was his own clothes. Jimmy Cagney always wore his own clothes to Sing Sing [as portrayed in his various gangster films].</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>I guess that’s the last time you heard of the Irwins mentioned?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>I guess there were dribs of something over the years. He went back to prison. I don’t know if he died in prison or ever got paroled.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><strong>Ger:</strong></span> <span>He never came looking for a job? He’s one of the few people who never hit you up for a job.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><strong>Dad:</strong></span> <span>Yerkie and Tommy would be about 110 years old if they were alive.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>Do you have any cousins from the Irwin’s side of the family?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>I never met any. I never met an Irwin other than those three. I don’t think Willie and John had any children. And Frank had two that I know of. He may have had others, but I never met them.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>So that would be the end of the line?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>My mother used to say there was an Irwin that lived in Floral Park [N.Y.] She thought they were related, but she never did anything about looking them up or anything.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>[Perhaps] one of Tommy or Yerkie’s chldren, presuming they went on to have any children? [We now know the Irwin brothers had three children, collectively, at the time of the attack on the Jolivets.]</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>I don’t know who they were. She used to talk about a cousin or a relative that lived in Floral Park. She never looked them up, never met them. I never saw them.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>Maybe they are still there. I’ll have to crack open a Nassau phone book and see if there’s still an Irwin in Floral Park.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><strong>Dad:</strong></span> <span>They probably don’t know that we exist.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>Yes, the Irwins are an intriguing crew.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>You have to understand they were all first- or second-generation Irish living in poverty over on the West Side of New York, living and dying in rat-infested tenements. And they never broke out of that life. As far as I know. The Condons [on the other hand] ... John had a fairly good job in the warehouse, and he moved the family to the Bronx. So they got out of the West Side of New York. But that’s where they are all from.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84720113?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="300" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84720113?profile=RESIZE_320x320" width="300" class="align-left"/></a>Ger:</strong> <span>You had mentioned at one time that either Tommy or Yerkie had a newsstand?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>Again the story … Yerkie had a newsstand on 34th Street. And people used to stop by and try to prevail upon him to turn himself in, and he probably said: “Screw you. I’m free. Let him [Tommy] stay there.”</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><em>Left, a typical midtown newsstand, perhaps a place where Yerkie might avoid, for a time, the family's wrath. This one was located at 35th Street and 3rd Avenue. Photo by Berenice Abbott, 1935, Changing New York, Federal Art Project, WPA/The New York Public Library.</em></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><strong>Ger</strong>:</span> <span>You think Frank might have been a watchman somewhere?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>He might have worked for the city. I have no idea. He didn’t come and tell us kids that “Uncle Frank is a success at this.” They were all menial jobs. Half of them were probably on welfare. I would say it’s just a true pattern of the Irish-American second generation in this country. They never got out of poverty. They had no schooling. They all dropped out of grammar school.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>I guess you have no idea whether they could read and write, the Irwin men?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>They never wrote me a letter. You have to look up on the history books whatever you want to call it, a lost generation. And some rose out of it, like [former New York Governor and Democratic presidential candidate] Al Smith, to become pretty famous people. Jim Farley, people like that that made something of themselves. The rank and file and I don’t know anyone in that side of the family or on the other side that was ever successful. The most successful part of both sides of the family was my brother and his eight children, and they were all well-educated and have good careers and jobs and families. But that’s a whole other chapter. </span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>One of the cousins last night made a reference to an anecdote that your father would share with them about Uncle Willie apparently either being the butt of a practical joke or being the practical joker himself and putting limburger cheese in [a derby worn by one of the eccentric brothers] …</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>To my knowledge, neither Willie or John were capable of practical jokes. They were dimwitted. So maybe the joke was on them. Probably people baited them and teased them and made fools out of them. I don’t see them being smart enough to pull practical jokes on anyone.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>Alright, thanks, Dad.<br/> <a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84720262?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="750" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84720262?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750" class="align-full"/></a></span></p>A U.S. Sailor Writes From His Post in Cork, 1918tag:thewildgeese.irish,2016-11-10:6442157:BlogPost:2037702016-11-10T22:30:00.000ZGerry Reganhttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/ger_regan
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719111?profile=original" target="_self"><img class="align-center" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719111?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750"></img></a></p>
<p><strong><span class="font-size-5">N</span>avy veteran John Washington Michael Condon died as he lived,</strong> a gregarious man with a penchant for sharing a good story. He was one of my father’s numerous uncles, and was known to me through Dad’s recollections as Uncle Jack. As evidenced by the following letter, dated July 19, 1918, Jack served during World War 1, when…</p>
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719111?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="750" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719111?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750" class="align-center"/></a></p>
<p><strong><span class="font-size-5">N</span>avy veteran John Washington Michael Condon died as he lived,</strong> a gregarious man with a penchant for sharing a good story. He was one of my father’s numerous uncles, and was known to me through Dad’s recollections as Uncle Jack. As evidenced by the following letter, dated July 19, 1918, Jack served during World War 1, when he was posted to the U.S. Naval Air Station in Queenstown, County Cork, today known by its Irish nomenclature, Cobh.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Jack was about 29 when this letter was written, and spent his first 16 years living in the Upper West Side of Manhattan, in an Irish enclave that eventually gave way to Lincoln Center. He and his family, which included my grandmother Sue Regan (nee Condon), then moved into the Morrisania section of the Bronx, to 807 Jennings Street, then a bit of newly developed suburbia 7 miles from their earlier home in upper Manhattan.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719225?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="250" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719225?profile=RESIZE_320x320" width="250" class="align-right" style="padding: 1px;"/></a>Jack died in 1953 -- as my Dad related, collapsing at a wedding reception, age 64, shortly after regaling the guests with his trademark humor. He died nearly instantly of cardiac arrest.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><em>Right, Jack Condon holding forth at the wedding reception shortly before he collapsed and died in 1953. Regan Family Archives</em></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>One story my Dad shared about Jack involved Jack’s long-time employ in the New York City Buildings Department as an inspector.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>As Jack fearlessly told the story (often), he was delegated by his comrades to speak to then-Mayor <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jimmy_Walker" target="_blank">Jimmy Walker</a> (Wikipedia) about the inspectors’ failure to obtain a raise from the city. Jack sought a parley with Walker, who reigned from 1926 to 1932, and was finally ushered into the mayor’s office. Walker then invited Jack to</span> <em>hastily</em> <span>explain his business.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>“Mayor,’ Jack said, “the men are upset that they’re not receiving a raise this year.” Walker, upset himself upon hearing Jack's bitching, then turned and curtly told Jack, “Condon, you know yourself that I could eliminate <span style="text-decoration: underline;"><em>all</em></span> of your salaries and not a jack one of you would quit. Now, get out of my office!”</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Jack, like the mayor and the rest of the city’s building inspectors, clearly was no stranger to graft, and got the Mayor’s drift. Jack left hastily, without rejoinder, having at least given it a shot.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>According to Capt. W. H. Sitz, USMC, the author of the monograph “History of U.S. Naval Aviation,” published in 1930, Jack must have written this letter while the U.S. Naval Air Station at Queenstown was under construction. Here's the relevant passage:</span></p>
<blockquote><p dir="ltr"><span>The Irish stations were located at Queenstown, Wexford, Lough Foyle, Whiddy Island, and Berehaven and were organized as a unit under the command of the commander, United States naval air stations, Ireland. Commander F. McCrary, United States Navy, assumed command of the United States naval air stations, Ireland, on February 14, 1918, and remained in command throughout the war with headquarters at Queenstown. The sites for these stations were selected at the request of the British Admiralty and in accordance with their plan of operation against submarines. In March, 1918, construction under the supervision of United States Navy civil engineers was commenced. All stations were completed at practically the same time about the middle of September and operations began immediately.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>The station at Queenstown was located on the southwestern section of Queenstown Bay. In addition to being a patrol station, it was also an assembly, repair, and supply depot as well as the headquarters of the commander of United States naval air</span> <span>stations in Ireland. This station supplied patrols and convoys from Cape Clear on the west, south into the English Channel to the sector covered by the aerial patrols from the north coast of France, and southeast and east to the sectors covered by the stations in the southwest of England and at Wexford.</span></p>
</blockquote>
<p dir="ltr"><span>There are many details offered by Jack in his letter that I find fascinating, some about his Irish sojourn, others echoing what he was hearing from his family back in the Bronx. I hope you too find the letter of considerable interest. My transcription follows. All grammatical errors found in the letter have been deliberately retained.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Happy Veterans Day to one and all!</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Related Resources:</span></p>
<p dir="ltr">* <a href="http://www.forgottenairfields.com/ireland/south-west/queenstown-s314.html" target="_blank">Queenstown -- Abandoned, Forgotten and Little Known Airfields in Europe</a></p>
<p dir="ltr">* <a href="http://www.corkshipwrecks.net/UnitedStatesNavyShips.html" target="_blank">The United States Navy in Cork Harbor, 1917-1919 -- Shipwrecks of Cork Harbor</a></p>
<p dir="ltr">* <a href="http://www.corkshipwrecks.net/UnitedStatesNavyShips.html" target="_blank">The Unites States Naval Air Service in Cork, Ireland -- Shipwrecks of Cork Harbor</a></p>
<p dir="ltr">* <a href="http://www.history.navy.mil/content/dam/nhhc/research/histories/naval-aviation/pdf/History%20(1).pdf" target="_blank">A History of U.S. Naval Aviation, U.S. Navy Department Bureau of Aeronautics, 1930 (Monograph)</a></p>
<p dir="ltr">* <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jimmy_Walker" target="_blank">Jimmy Walker, Wikipedia</a></p>
<p dir="ltr">*<a href="http://thewildgeese.irish/profiles/blogs/a-soldier-s-story-sgt-lawrence-f-condon" target="_self"> Soldier's Story: Sgt. Lawrence F. Condon, U.S. Army</a></p>
<p>* '<a href="http://thewildgeese.irish/profiles/blogs/we-will-probably-land-christmas-day-at-war-in-the-atlantic-1942" target="_self">We Will Probably Land Christmas Day’: At War in the Atlantic, 1942</a></p>
<p dir="ltr">--------------------------------------------------------------</p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><strong><span class="font size-5"><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719189?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="175" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719189?profile=RESIZE_180x180" width="175" class="align-left" style="padding: 1px;"/></a></span></strong></span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><strong><span>July 19. 1918.</span></strong></span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><span>Dear Ray and Sue: --</span></span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>About Monday I received a card and Ray’s letter and believe me sis was I ever pleased to hear from you. I was quite fortunate this week I received about 20 letters from the states and they sure listened good. I received one from Margarite and she tells me Thomas Conley from Bristow street was killed. It was sad news. She tells me Mama don’t hear from <a href="http://thewildgeese.irish/profiles/blogs/a-soldier-s-story-sgt-lawrence-f-condon" target="_self">Lawrence</a>, tell her not to worry no doubt he’s busy moving from place to place. I don’t know his where abouts but I sent him a letter last week hoping it would reach him.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>So you two were on a vacation trip? Some class to you. I hope while you were up around Rhinebeck you stopped in to see my old girl’s mother. You were saying in your letter that you visited Mrs. Von Der Linden why Carrie’s mother only lives around the corner from her.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Ray, there’s a young fellow here in our camp claims he know you he comes from McKinley Square. his name is Secore I think. If you think of it drop him a card it will make him happy. Everything is going along smoothly and all the boys are in the best of health and having a good time. On the 4th of July we had a Gala Day. Games of all sorts, boxing wrestling and in the evening we put on a wonderful minstrel show. All day we had music and every boy carried a swell colleen on his marriage arm. I’ll be disappointed if I don’t say furniture to some one before I leave.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>I heard from Charlie Kealley this week and he tells me the Bronx looks deserted. I also received 6 songs from him now Ray if you get the chance please send me some good late songs and jokes if you will we run an entertainment here every Thursday but we are at a disadvantage without material so please do this if you can. I sent Mamma a program of the show on 4th.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>How is Eddie making out kindly send me his address so I can write him. Tell Mamma I will send her some Irish lace to expect it it will be beautiful all hand made.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Ray, I want you to remember me to your sister Katherine and ask her does she ever give me a fleeting thought. I guess when I get home she will be married but if she’s not she soon will be when I get home. Also remember me to all the boys and girls also my brothers and sisters. Get Sue and the rest of them to send me their pictures.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Will close now hoping you both are in the best of health and had a good time on your vacation.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Your sailor boy</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Jack</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>P.S. Notice I made one jump in my rating</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>John W. M. Condon C.M.I.C.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>U.S. Naval Air Station</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Queenstown Ireland</span></p>
<p><span id="docs-internal-guid-69676751-505b-df6b-2acd-fc7f03164617"><span>℅ Post Master N.Y.</span></span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><em>Above left, a photo of U.S. Navy sailor John 'Jack" Condon, circa 1918. Below, the family plot of John W. M. 'Jack' Condon at Our Lady Gate of Heaven Cemetery, Valhalla, N.Y.</em> Regan Family Archives</p>
<p dir="ltr"><em><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719362?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="750" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84719362?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750" class="align-full"/></a></em></p>Injustice in Hell's Kitchen? -- The Story of Tom and ‘Yerkie’ Irwintag:thewildgeese.irish,2016-03-11:6442157:BlogPost:1855822016-03-11T16:00:00.000ZGerry Reganhttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/ger_regan
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84716822?profile=original" target="_self"><img class="align-left" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84716822?profile=RESIZE_480x480" width="350"></img></a> <strong><span class="font-size-5">"B</span>rother Pleads Guilt to Free Jailed 'Twin' " reads the headline</strong> in the July 30, 1931, edition of The New York Times.</p>
<p>The story refers to two of my grandmother’s first cousins, Tom and John Irwin. Tom stood accused with two other men -- and all were later convicted -- in the rape of a woman and the armed robbery of the…</p>
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84716822?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="350" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84716822?profile=RESIZE_480x480" width="350" class="align-left"/></a><strong><span class="font-size-5">"B</span>rother Pleads Guilt to Free Jailed 'Twin' " reads the headline</strong> in the July 30, 1931, edition of The New York Times.</p>
<p>The story refers to two of my grandmother’s first cousins, Tom and John Irwin. Tom stood accused with two other men -- and all were later convicted -- in the rape of a woman and the armed robbery of the woman and her husband. Tom’s family, though, remained convinced that it was Tom’s <em>brother</em> John, dubbed by the Times as the ‘twin,’ who actually committed the crime. Five years later, as the Times documents, John came forward and publicly admitted his guilt</p>
<p>Through the years, my Dad would occasionally talk about these brothers. They were his mother’s cousins, described as longshoremen in the Times article, and they lived together, with their spouses and young children, in the hardscrabble Irish ghetto of Hell’s Kitchen, on Manhattan’s West Side.</p>
<p>My father shared their story with me, how, in his telling, John, nicknamed Yerkie, let his brother Tom, then 28, take the rap for this heinous crime. My Dad heard that Yerkie’s relatives would later pressure Yerkie to turn himself in and free his brother.</p>
<p>The Irwin brothers were grandchildren of Irish immigrants William and Margaret Irwin (nee Dinnin), as was my grandmother, Susan Regan (nee Condon). Sue Regan told me that she heard that the Irwins emigrated from Ballyjamesduff, County Cavan, though we haven’t been able to prove that connection.</p>
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84717041?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="250" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84717041?profile=RESIZE_320x320" width="250" class="align-right"/></a>My father related to me what he knew of their story many decades after the events transpired. It came to his attention when his father, Raymond V. Regan, brought my Dad, then a boy, to a wake in Hell's Kitchen for an Irwin relative. My father recalled seeing a man brought in to pay his respects, wearing shackles and an ill-fitting suit, most likely prison issue, with burly plainclothes cops on each arm. Inquiring, my Dad was told the man was Tommy Irwin.</p>
<p><em>Pictured, Susan and Raymond V. Regan circa 1918, shortly after they married. Sue's grandparents were Irish immigrants William and Margaret Irwin (nee Dinnin), a relationship she shared with her cousins Tom and Yerkie Irwin.</em></p>
<p>My Dad later overheard snippets of conversation between the adults in their modest Richmond Hill home that Tommy was serving a sentence for a "rape," though his brother John had done the crime. The extended family, including my grandparents, were not pleased at Yerkie's apparent reticence to free his brother. My grandfather later encountered Yerkie working in a newsstand near Manhattan’s bustling Penn Station, my Dad further recalled.</p>
<p>According to the sworn statement given the police by Maxime and Henriette Jolivet, the victims, on Oct. 16, 1926, three men broke into an apartment at West 41st Street and 9th Avenue about 1 a.m. There, they awoke the Jolivets, and while one man held the couple at gunpoint, another raped Henriette. The rapist later struck her husband in the face. The assailants stole the woman’s diamond ring, forced the couple to strip and then fled. The rapist, Tom Finn, was quickly arrested in the hallway, while the other two assailants escaped through a window and down a fire escape.</p>
<p>In fact, we know from the Times article that three years into Tom’s sentence, in July 1931, nearly two years into The Great Depression, Yerkie asked a judge to release Tom and jail himself in Tom’s stead. Despite this confession, it seems Tom would serve 17 more years before he was paroled, his minimum sentence for good behavior.</p>
<p>How could Yerkie and other key witnesses, including the two other convicted perpetrators, remain silent in the face of this apparent miscarriage of justice? During trial, did Tom simply plead not guilty and then decide to refrain from vigorously defending himself, perhaps reluctant to ‘rat out’ his brother? Did the infamous ‘code of the streets,’ play a role, that is, in the city’s Irish demi-monde you didn’t share information with the authorities, even if you ended up unfairly convicted yourself.?</p>
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84717218?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="250" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84717218?profile=RESIZE_320x320" width="250" class="align-left"/></a>Tom and his two alleged co-conspirators received a 20-40 year sentence in January 1928 after their conviction on a charge of 1st degree armed robbery. None of the three were prosecuted on the rape count, perhaps to spare the victims from the embarrassment of testifying about that. Upon Tom’s admission to Sing Sing Prison, a secretary noted on the prison’s blotter that “he states his brother committed the crime, and blamed him as they look alike.” They were, according to The New York Times, born only 11 months apart, in the vernacular, “Irish twins.”</p>
<p>Only one of the perpetrators, Thomas Finn, was arrested on the scene. Fully 11 weeks after the crime, Tom Irwin found himself arrested, likely picked out of a lineup by one or both of the victims. Might she have picked the wrong brother? We presume Yerkie ‘went on the lam.’ Why didn’t Tom present an alibi to save himself? And why didn’t his two alleged accomplices, apprehended and previously tried and sentenced, exonerate Tom, and, by necessity, implicate Yerkie?</p>
<p><em>Pictured, an article from the New York American newspaper, dated Saturday, January 14, 1928.</em></p>
<p>At the time of the crime, Yerkie and Tom shared a flat at 511 West 43rd Street, just west of 10th Avenue, along with their wives and three young children, none older than 8. Did their two families, retiring the night of the assault, have any inkling of the impending nightmare?</p>
<p>Why would no one step forward with an alibi for Tom? Why would Yerkie later admit to a role in the robbery if in fact he was innocent? Why was Yerkie’s belated confession not sufficient to gain Tom’s release from prison?. So many haunting questions!</p>
<p>My colleague (and fellow WG member) James Dore and I are committed to finding the truth, and presenting it to as large an audience as we can generate. If you have any suggestions tips, or want to otherwise help us unravel this mystery, we’d welcome those. To learn more and to better share perspectives on family ‘black sheep,’ please join the group on TheWildGeese.irish we’ve created specifically to advance the story, titled, “The Irwin Brothers: In Search of the Truth.”</p>
<p>One aspect of this story does seem certain: One father languished in prison for many years, while another father remained free, indicted in the hearts of his own family.</p>
<p><strong>Please share <span style="text-decoration: underline;">your</span> stories of searching for your family’s "black sheep" with <a href="http://thewildgeese.irish/profile/jameslawrencedore" target="_self">Jim Dore</a> and I here on TheWildGeese.Irish's newest group, titled <a href="http://thewildgeese.irish/group/the-irwin-brothers-in-search-of-the-truth" target="_self">'The Irwin Brothers: In Search of the Truth.'</a> And stay tuned for more developments in the search for the whys and wherefores of this decades-old family mystery!</strong></p>
<p><strong>DRAMATIS PERSONAE (AS OF MARCH 11, 2016)</strong></p>
<p><em>Front stage are:</em></p>
<p>Thomas Irwin</p>
<p>John ‘Yerkie’ Irwin</p>
<p>Thomas Finn</p>
<p>Thomas Sommerville</p>
<p>Maxime Jolivette</p>
<p>Henriette Jolivette</p>
<p><em>Family members include</em></p>
<p>Francis irwin</p>
<p>Elizabeth Irwin</p>
<p>Susan Regan</p>
<p>Raymond V. Regan</p>
<p>Gerald Regan</p>
<p>Gerry Regan</p>
<p><em>Supporting Characters:</em></p>
<p>Graham Witschief, New York State Supreme Court Justice</p>
<p>Moses Sachs, counsel for Yerkie Irwin</p>Why You Won't Find Crow on the Holiday Menutag:thewildgeese.irish,2015-12-26:6442157:BlogPost:1789102015-12-26T22:30:00.000ZGerry Reganhttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/ger_regan
<p dir="ltr"><span><strong><span class="font-size-5"><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84715540?profile=original" target="_self"><img class="align-right" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84715540?profile=RESIZE_480x480" width="400"></img></a></span></strong></span> <strong><span class="font-size-5">I</span>t was well past sundown in a village named Bethlehem, just beyond Jerusalem,</strong> in the hills of Judea, on a surprisingly mild winter’s night.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Now the Roman occupiers of the kingdom of Israel required that all men go to their own towns…</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><strong><span class="font-size-5"><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84715540?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="400" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84715540?profile=RESIZE_480x480" width="400" class="align-right"/></a></span></strong></span><strong><span class="font-size-5">I</span>t was well past sundown in a village named Bethlehem, just beyond Jerusalem,</strong> in the hills of Judea, on a surprisingly mild winter’s night.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Now the Roman occupiers of the kingdom of Israel required that all men go to their own towns to register for a census.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Making their way back to Bethlehem was a carpenter, named Joseph, who had with him his wife, Mary, who was with child.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Circling above the couple, just out of sight, were two sable crows, Crispus and Caius, blacker than black, a pair ignored in retellings of the Nativity story.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>“Caw, caw, caw,” cackled Crispus, as he flew to a treetop just above the couple as they made their way to yet another inn seeking lodging.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>“Crispus, you old coot, hold thy tongue,” said Caius, as he alighted on an adjacent branch.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>The pair of birds were long-time associates (calling them friends would grossly oversimplify their complicated relationship). They watched intently as the couple turned away from another door.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>“Caius, do you know of a place for them? It’s getting late, and I fear for the safety of the mother and their unborn child.”</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>“Crispus, what about the stable, alongside the cave, our old rendezvous. You remember the one -- we helped your cousins replace some thatch on the roof. You surely must remember.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>“Ah yes, Caius, splendid bit of work, that. Yes, that stable could work for them.”</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>What that, Crispus alighted from the olive tree’s branch, with Caius in close pursuit. “Crispus, how can we direct them? It’s not as if we’re all on speaking terms.”</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>“Caius, they won’t likely find their way on their own. … See if you can find a fire, then light two twigs and bring them back. Post haste.”</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Caius then flew to a Roman sentry’s bonfire on a nearby rise. Grabbing two foot-long twigs from beneath the nest of a startled starling and her brood, Caius lit them as the sentry dozed. With the twigs alight, he then flew to the ashes of a long-expired fire, at the foot of the stable. Caius’ sister Cleopatra saw his light and flew over to ask if she could help.</span></p>
<p><img width="300" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84715486?profile=RESIZE_320x320" width="300" class="align-left"/></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>“Cleo, put some straw in the hearth and I’ll then light it. Quickly, the flames are flickering.”</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><em>Caius, Crispus and Cleopatra didn't make it into this portrayal of Christ's birth, painted by Dutch artist Gerard van Honthorst in 1622. ... What else is new?</em></span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Cleo pointed to a lamp hanging from a stable window.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>“Caius, here, come here with that torch, and light this lamp. And then make haste with your twigs, to Crispus, before he nods off.”</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Heeding Cleo's suggestion, Caius lit the stable’s sole lamp.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Crispus meanwhile cackled loudly as he circled over the heads of Joseph and Mary. Caius quickly caught up with him with Caius’ two torches, and he passed one to Crispus. The two then flew quickly down, directly at the heads of Mary and Joseph.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Having gotten their attention, Crispus and Caius then peeled off toward the stable. Joseph, just as the crows hoped, followed the light, and the arc of their path, to the stable.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>“Mary, quickly follow me,” Joseph said as he moved toward the stable, toward that light.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Arriving, Joseph and Mary noted that the stable was rude, and very drafty, a hovel, really, but it did offer shelter. The couple then made ready for the birth of the Christ Child.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>An angel, named Ceolus, took in the unfolding scene, and, her heart bursting with gratitude, swept the dirt from the window sill, providing Caius, Crispus and Cleo a front-row view of the imminent birth of Our Lord.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Marveling at Jesus’ arrival, the three crows vaulted from their perch and raced to spread the news to their fellow birds. Their message carried far and wide, across hill and dale, desert and forest, continents and oceans: “It’s the Lord, maker of heaven and earth, now among us in human form. The world is transformed! Alleluia, alleluia! Caw, caw.”</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>As a reward for this service to heaven and earth, from that day forward, the archangel Gabriel himself vested all crows a most distasteful flavor, discouraging all but the most desperate from consuming their flesh. To this very day, people favor turkey, duck, goose, and chicken, while “eating crow” has come to mean something far different.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Happy Christmas, one and all! And to all a blessed New Year! … <em>Caw, caw, caw.</em></span></p>What I've Learned From Fionn MacCuhultag:thewildgeese.irish,2015-12-07:6442157:BlogPost:1773092015-12-07T23:30:00.000ZGerry Reganhttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/ger_regan
<p dir="ltr"><span><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/herWJyYJoCo60V0HjKdx7TE4twQUSIrgCqk0JEkN1G9igUgigWM1c-UsI-KZbF6YBFC_2hK7pwI2h_trSOq3_8auvvpoqS7zCgecMsTsOic8mhlDbigcj_B-5ivmNQ9wLZOKzhH_" target="_blank"><img class="align-full" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/herWJyYJoCo60V0HjKdx7TE4twQUSIrgCqk0JEkN1G9igUgigWM1c-UsI-KZbF6YBFC_2hK7pwI2h_trSOq3_8auvvpoqS7zCgecMsTsOic8mhlDbigcj_B-5ivmNQ9wLZOKzhH_?width=624" width="624"></img></a></span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong><span class="font-size-5">I</span>’ve learned some valuable life lessons from Fionn MacCuhul.</strong></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Life is short.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Love is vital.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Companionship is…</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/herWJyYJoCo60V0HjKdx7TE4twQUSIrgCqk0JEkN1G9igUgigWM1c-UsI-KZbF6YBFC_2hK7pwI2h_trSOq3_8auvvpoqS7zCgecMsTsOic8mhlDbigcj_B-5ivmNQ9wLZOKzhH_" target="_blank"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/herWJyYJoCo60V0HjKdx7TE4twQUSIrgCqk0JEkN1G9igUgigWM1c-UsI-KZbF6YBFC_2hK7pwI2h_trSOq3_8auvvpoqS7zCgecMsTsOic8mhlDbigcj_B-5ivmNQ9wLZOKzhH_?width=624" width="624" class="align-full"/></a></span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong><span class="font-size-5">I</span>’ve learned some valuable life lessons from Fionn MacCuhul.</strong></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Life is short.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Love is vital.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Companionship is cherished.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Don’t sweat the small stuff.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>We can start over at any time.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>We’ve much more in common than not.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>I too will die.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>In many vital respects, among my very best pals these past 16 years was Fionn MacCuhul. And no, to clarify, my pal wasn’t the storied warrior of Irish legend. Fionn (Finn, or Finnie, as we affectionately addressed him) was my feline companion during that time. He died November 7, at 4:37 p.m., a date and time that I strongly suspect will be forever etched into my soul, along with the dates of passing of other members of my immediate family, that is, my Mom, Dad, sister, grandparents, and Finnie’s ‘adoptive’ sister, Deirdre.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><em>Pictured, Finn and Deirdre in their early years, with a pillow made by <a href="http://thewildgeese.irish/xn/detail/6442157:BlogPost:79593" target="_self">my first mother</a></em><em>.</em></p>
<p><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/Pwv70zo08lRp0Pc84NRQoaPTAfIrnsnYfJEpoEA_Yw-YEdrTmngINx7JCdh5ygu4sxZ4nydUww7yEvIiOUot5S7ObnfrMo8yf85qyk6hlu9rnbXdiaFwdb6Q57lZYoa0uUeAsFFl" target="_blank"><img src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/Pwv70zo08lRp0Pc84NRQoaPTAfIrnsnYfJEpoEA_Yw-YEdrTmngINx7JCdh5ygu4sxZ4nydUww7yEvIiOUot5S7ObnfrMo8yf85qyk6hlu9rnbXdiaFwdb6Q57lZYoa0uUeAsFFl?width=300" width="300" class="align-left"/></a>I came to relish his companionship, and, to my enduring credit, I never took it for granted. I have, hanging on a latch on my apartment door, a sign that reads, “Have you hugged your cat today?” (As I type this my eyes are brimming with tears, with one stray drop falling onto my upper lip). Yes, I unabashedly state -- I have (or at least did when Finnie was alive) embrace my feline every single day we were together. I savored just about everything about him -- his fragrance, the softness of his fur, the sound of his meowing, the way he would purr when I nuzzled him, how he responded to my voice (and I to his).</p>
<p>I knew within a week of Finn becoming a part of my life that he was a talker, and he, in fact, taught me to talk to him. I must admit that took some time, as I was reticent. I’d never had a feline companion before, and wondered, “Can I have a conversation with a cat?” But he was rapt when I began speaking to him, and I found that hugely encouraging. (More tears are now travelling down my face.)</p>
<p><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/cYcqCWsmtcPkWUl4Xp0dBX9i7fUI6za31dKG7udH3CIhHuzrJmZnM7GZjkHMqj_XExhQeCOVX_dejmzCGIFRTsfPKWBlboUzLUOVvXE_XjN6sZyZ9i-barjFFDUN-0nYvU_onOyi?width=300" target="_blank"><img src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/cYcqCWsmtcPkWUl4Xp0dBX9i7fUI6za31dKG7udH3CIhHuzrJmZnM7GZjkHMqj_XExhQeCOVX_dejmzCGIFRTsfPKWBlboUzLUOVvXE_XjN6sZyZ9i-barjFFDUN-0nYvU_onOyi?width=275" width="275" class="align-right"/></a> When Deirdre died in 2011, my friend and neighbor Dawn (their ‘auntie’ and cat-sitter) and I kept waiting to see Finn reflect our grief at Deirdre’s death. But Finnie never seemed to lose stride, never got sentimental or even sad, as best we could tell. He just simply remained, well, happy! Brings to mind the 12-step slogan, “Look back, but don’t stare back.” With Finnie, this wisdom became more visceral.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><em>Pictured, Finn McCool comes to aid the Fianna, by Stephen Reed, 1932. Wikimedia Commons</em></p>
<p>Finn was a keen hunter, as well, and here perhaps he best took on the personification of his namesake. From early days, we incorporated hunting into the meal time of both Finn and Deirdre, inspired by Anitra Frazier’s book “The New Natural Cat.” She emphasized the value of ‘hunting’ before meal time, to better help felines exercise their hunting proclivities and to stimulate their appetites. We had a large array of items that we employed to provide a hunting experience, including many fabric mice suitable for tossing (and biting), and feathers on a stick that ‘fluthered’ at our direction like wounded ducks.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><strong>The value of ‘hunting’ before meal time</strong></p>
<p>Let me also, perhaps bravely, confess to enjoying a power nap when circumstances allow. When I would stretch out on our couch, I merely had to thump the bottom cushion and say, “Finnie, sleepy time,” and, within a few seconds, I enjoyed him and his warmth stretched out alongside, a good few feet.</p>
<p>This reminds me -- Finnie, much to my pleasure, was, like me, long and (relatively) slender, though we came from different parents, much less species. He mysteriously emerged in or near our building on a fateful Thursday in mid-November 1999. A neighbor found him, then about six months old, by the tree in front of our apartment building’s entrance. She took him in, aiming to find him a home. I’ve often wondered where he spent his those first six months.</p>
<p><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/cAJQEjPQPUB1qrCCpYmbx5hAGO-kGJlKVqBjAXG-NKJF6W4zXJA2fUwafUWS0moLkVDefMX7SCR2ewHEDOw6Y1V_3MOod-6J69ilwsamt6qDiP1-9GRFkHfgY9O8hGhFKuqFFirt" target="_blank"><img src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/cAJQEjPQPUB1qrCCpYmbx5hAGO-kGJlKVqBjAXG-NKJF6W4zXJA2fUwafUWS0moLkVDefMX7SCR2ewHEDOw6Y1V_3MOod-6J69ilwsamt6qDiP1-9GRFkHfgY9O8hGhFKuqFFirt?width=340" width="340" class="align-left"/></a> One placement arranged apparently didn’t work out, and he was found again, near the same tree, a day or so later. I first set eyes on him as I exited the building, heading to Gettysburg for a commemoration. By the tree, another neighbor, Juliette, was holding Finn and introduced us as I headed out, mentioning that Finn (yet to be named) was looking for a home. Surely not coincidentally, I had been thinking about taking in such a feline pal, as I lived by myself.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><em>Pictured, Finn eyeing a red rose, there to help me mourn Deirdre's death a few weeks earlier, May 2011.</em></p>
<p>I told Juliette that I’d take him when I came back that Sunday night. That night, I collected him from her menagerie, finding him among 2 or 3 other felines, Finn jauntily strutting through her living room. I scooped him up and carried him to his new home one floor above, full of hope and anxiety -- I was now responsible for another living creature. We bonded quickly, Juliette commented, when she visited us a few days later.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><strong>The tallest feline I've ever seen</strong></p>
<p>Finn grew into perhaps the tallest feline I’ve ever seen, almost as if my stature (6’4”) inspired him. I always relished Finn’s length, as it seemed to provide yet another affirmation that we were a great match. As well, he had an extraordinarily long tail, which, more times than not, was hoisted happily, indicating that all was well with Finn, and hence my world.</p>
<p>When I would pray and then meditate in the mornings, as I’ve come to do over the years, I would intone a litany of those in my prayer circle, my loved ones and those whom I cared about, and, when I reached “my pal Finnie,” he was always there, perched on the desktop alongside, in easy arm’s reach. I can’t be certain if this was to better assert his desire to ‘hunt’ (most likely) and / or to get some <em>TLC</em>, but he was always alongside. Perhaps my most memorable of numerous recent outbursts of tears came when I prayed the morning after his passing. Reaching out as I intoned his name, I was forced to realize that he was, in fact, gone.</p>
<p>I certainly didn’t expect him to die last month. After all, he was 16 going on 12, at least in my mind’s eye. He’d slowed down some, sensibly, I thought, no longer vaulting from the kitchen table to the refrigerator top to an aerie situated above a cabinet. He showed no signs of arthritis or other obvious age-related disabilities.</p>
<p>So when I took Finn for his bi-annual ‘senior’ checkup, I was quite shocked to be told that his blood panel suggested he had developed severe kidney disease. In retrospect, there were signs -- his large volume of urine the previous month or so, and occasions of urinating outside the box (in our bed a few times, once on my brief case, another time in Dawn’s overnight bag). These seemed aberrations, though, and even, then, I thought, perhaps expressions of mischievousness or pique. He also experienced bouts of constipation, accompanied by some inappetance. But he always rebounded after a few days.</p>
<p><img src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/i3b0Tj-Lb-RSyE05yWB9CJoz3hHUnuim3ESTwqdiE-EsWavcTDkSfxcRva15j_DEKPKltsS-cpSP0p6Wn-BlV_xBKai-N2_yRnN_0Fw9FP9ChaTZdAP622Xize8aOWFuHwJeXfDr?width=400" width="400" class="align-right"/> On October 23, his vet called for a few days of intravenous hydration in a hospital setting, which we arranged. He went into a hospital October 28 (what I call Day 1), for what was thought to be three days, his first time overnighting in a hospital since he was neutered as a kitten. His critical numbers didn’t go down, and the vet there thought two more days offered at least a chance that the toxins accumulated in his system could be reduced.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><em>Pictured, Finn and me, a.k.a. "the boys," during one of our frequent power naps.</em></p>
<p>I was skeptical, but my sweetheart was facing surgery two days hence, and I was having trouble imagining how I could juggle Finn’s care at home with my yearning to support her. So I agreed to the extended stay. On Day 4, still in the hospital, his rear legs would no longer support his weight, something we hoped was temporary. On Day 5, I brought him home with a diagnosis of “end-stage kidney failure.” I was staggered.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><strong>Embracing the inevitable</strong></p>
<p>That night, I put him in bed alongside me, not sure if he could make it into bed himself. Unfortunately, after a few comforting hours he urinated. I cleaned him up and put him on the floor. Much to my surprise and delight, shortly thereafter, I heard him hop onto the bed and he remained there even after I awoke. But he wasn’t eating, and he remained incontinent, even again wetting our bed.</p>
<p><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/DvMvn7PaEJS0GdXZRieCMxZaVH1e2iUmNe8eqf4JZ_DhXlB_4SILirBmniMx-Fvxy85SylNEuq3G7esQI-06IIyCH9Hfc3ecLKsD6hMAdDrkaoDm-k9mYvr_MtvrpssUTvyeOqb0" target="_blank"><img src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/DvMvn7PaEJS0GdXZRieCMxZaVH1e2iUmNe8eqf4JZ_DhXlB_4SILirBmniMx-Fvxy85SylNEuq3G7esQI-06IIyCH9Hfc3ecLKsD6hMAdDrkaoDm-k9mYvr_MtvrpssUTvyeOqb0?width=360" width="360" class="align-left"/></a> On Day 7, at home, he still wasn’t eating on his own and then lost the ability to walk with his front legs, too. The prognosis was grim, but we began feeding him via syringe -- not enough, alas, to sustain life but enough seemingly to make him comfortable. He now seemed comfortable, if not ecstatic, and the sparkle seemed to return to his eyes, as we tenderly lifted him to deliver his feedings, medication and subcutaneous hydration. He could only crawl, though, an indignity that greatly distressed me.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><em>Pictured, Finn in his aerie, alongside a memorial photo of Deirdre, who had to vie with Finn for that vaunted perch.</em></p>
<p>Finally, on Day 8, I moved my power nap to the floor alongside Finn, him in his donut bed lined with a wee pad. After 30 minutes with my arm around him, me on a throw rug on our wood floor, I realized that we -- he and I -- could by ourselves find no value in postponing the inevitable. He’d lost two more pounds, 20 percent of his weight, in only a few weeks, plus he wasn’t eating on his own and could no longer walk.</p>
<p>I spent each of those remaining days, understanding that the prognosis was poor, taking care of Finn as best I knew how. I understood, through my work in Al-Anon, that I didn’t have to make decisions based on tomorrow, but could focus on the day in front of me. “Saint of 9/11” Mychal Judge is famously credited with saying: “Stay out of tomorrow. God hasn’t even created it yet.” And these words proved yet again to be a great comfort to me.</p>
<p>Even on the day we appointed for a trip to the veterinarian for what I feared would be the last time, I groomed Finn and brushed his teeth, as I had for years. With that, I remembered my Dad’s last trip to the hospital, in 2007, awaiting an ambulance. Suffering from what seemed a likely intestinal blockage, he ambled into his bathroom with his four-legged cane and combed his hair. Dad wanted to look his best, whether heading to the bank, restaurant or the emergency room. I wanted that dignity for Finn, too!</p>
<p>I told myself throughout what became Finnie’s last few days, and particularly on what became his final day, that only God has it within his power to cure him, but I can take actions to seed that possibility, and leave the result to Him.</p>
<p><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/DuvmWBw8srHUkOSrNglMNhT56Rh4jg92M1Mom-M6cBRaeyTxeqKtICkVJdOffOOIAcrODctMuNBi-Re8P83WGkxaK1pcpXitGqdmisUZ_GFC-HwCQod9-0B4aioJhoJO4vurKEhl" target="_blank"><img src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/DuvmWBw8srHUkOSrNglMNhT56Rh4jg92M1Mom-M6cBRaeyTxeqKtICkVJdOffOOIAcrODctMuNBi-Re8P83WGkxaK1pcpXitGqdmisUZ_GFC-HwCQod9-0B4aioJhoJO4vurKEhl?width=624" width="624" class="align-full"/></a></p>
<p>So, with that mindset, that we were forging at least the possibility of a miracle, I put Finn into his donut bed and then that into his carrier, and off we went in search of a miracle -- or, in the worst case, a quiet exit. I’m not sure I could have kept my composure any other way. We didn’t get our miracle for Finn, at least not then, but in retrospect I sense that the miracle we sought was in fact each day of our 16 years together.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><em>Pictured, Finn in the minutes prior to his passing.</em></p>
<p>My sweetheart, and I took Finn to the vet that final day, me caressing him as always, as he lay calmly, serenely, in his carrier. He looked really good, like he might walk out of there, as he lay curled up in his carrier. I had to remind myself, though, that Finn wasn’t eating and could no longer walk, at least not without God’s help. It’s unclear, of course, what he was feeling, and while he hadn’t purred since he entered the hospital (Who could blame him!), he was clear-eyed and seemed content right up to his last moments, when the telltale rise and fall of his lungs gradually stilled.</p>
<p>“Dying is much easier than living,” I heard someone say recently. In the hours after Finnie’s passing, I recalled that, and how calmly Finnie died, and how painful I’ve found his absence.</p>
<p>With Finn's death, I often find myself hearing the the voice of Peggy Lee as she sings, "Is that all there is, is that all there is ... If that’s all there is, my friends, then let’s keep dancing. Let's break out the booze and have a ball if that's all there is."<br/> <iframe width="640" height="480" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/LCRZZC-DH7M?wmode=opaque" frameborder="0"></iframe>
</p>Prayer to the Archangels -- An Ancient Irish Poemtag:thewildgeese.irish,2015-09-29:6442157:BlogPost:1711972015-09-29T14:00:00.000ZGerry Reganhttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/ger_regan
<p><strong><span class="font-size-5" style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-boBTRVPRLsg/UGohVi5jByI/AAAAAAAACEA/_GYTlCerP2c/s640/7+archangels+with+Mary.jpg" target="_blank"><img class="align-left" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-boBTRVPRLsg/UGohVi5jByI/AAAAAAAACEA/_GYTlCerP2c/s640/7+archangels+with+Mary.jpg?width=350"></img></a></span></strong></p>
<p><strong><span class="font-size-5" style="font-family: verdana, geneva;">M</span>ay Gabriel be with me on Sundays,</strong> and the power of the King of heaven.</p>
<p>May Gabriel be with me always that evil may not come to me nor injury.</p>
<p>Michael…</p>
<p><strong><span class="font-size-5" style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-boBTRVPRLsg/UGohVi5jByI/AAAAAAAACEA/_GYTlCerP2c/s640/7+archangels+with+Mary.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-boBTRVPRLsg/UGohVi5jByI/AAAAAAAACEA/_GYTlCerP2c/s640/7+archangels+with+Mary.jpg?width=350" class="align-left"/></a></span></strong></p>
<p><strong><span class="font-size-5" style="font-family: verdana, geneva;">M</span>ay Gabriel be with me on Sundays,</strong> and the power of the King of heaven.</p>
<p>May Gabriel be with me always that evil may not come to me nor injury.</p>
<p>Michael on Monday I speak of, my mind is set on him, <br/> Not with anyone do I compare him but with Jesus, Mary's son.</p>
<p>If it be Tuesday, Raphael I mention, until the end comes, for my help, <br/> One of the seven whom I beseech, as long as I am on the field of the world.</p>
<p>May Uriel be with me on Wednesdays, the abbot with high nobility, <br/> Against wound and against danger, agains the sea of rough wind.</p>
<p>Sariel on Thursday I speak of, against the swift waves of the sea, <br/> Against every evil that comes to us, against every disease that seizes us.</p>
<p>On the day of the second fast, Rumiel -- a clear blessing -- I have loved,<br/> I say only the truth, good the friend I have taken.</p>
<p>May Panchel be with me on Saturdays, as long as I am in this yellow-colored world. <br/> May sweet Mary, with her friend, deliver me from strangers.</p>
<p>May the Trinity protect me! <br/> May the Trinity defend me! May the Trinity save me from every hurt, from every danger.</p>
<p><em>Pictured, the fresco of Mary amidst the Seven Archangels, <span>Basilica of St. Mary of the Angels and the Martyrs, Rome.</span></em></p>
<p><strong>[Today is the Feast of Saints Michael, Gabriel, and Raphael. There are numerous variations in the oft-cited list of the names of the four other archangels. The seven are highlighted in this article in <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Seven_Archangels" target="_blank">Wikipedia</a>. The personifications of the archangels is among the most mystical aspects of the Christian faith for me, highlighting both poles of the universe -- between darkness and light, good and evil, heaven and hell.]</strong></p>An Homage to Ann O'Connor, Acolyte of Dorothy Daytag:thewildgeese.irish,2015-09-25:6442157:BlogPost:1708802015-09-25T17:00:00.000ZGerry Reganhttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/ger_regan
<div class="page" title="Page 1"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><strong><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84714094?profile=original" target="_self"><img class="align-center" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84714094?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="575"></img></a> 'In these times when social concerns are so important, I cannot fail to mention the Servant of God Dorothy Day, who founded the Catholic Worker Movement. Her social activism, her passion for justice and for the cause of the oppressed, were inspired by the Gospel, her faith, and the example of…</strong></p>
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<div class="page" title="Page 1"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><strong><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84714094?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="575" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84714094?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="575" class="align-center"/></a>'In these times when social concerns are so important, I cannot fail to mention the Servant of God Dorothy Day, who founded the Catholic Worker Movement. Her social activism, her passion for justice and for the cause of the oppressed, were inspired by the Gospel, her faith, and the example of the saints.' <em>-- Pope Francis</em></strong><strong> </strong></p>
<p><strong>'(Catholic Worker co-founder Peter Maurin) wanted no organization, so The Catholic Worker groups have always been free associations of people who are working together to get out a paper, to run houses of hospitality for themselves and for others who come in <em>off the road</em>. <em>-- Dorothy Day</em></strong></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><strong>'What we do know is that active love, the U<em>bi Caritas</em> that Christ calls his disciples to, is the preeminent but unfinished business of not only Unity Kitchen Community of the Catholic Worker but of the whole church, the Body of Christ. -- <em>Ann O'Connor and Peter King, The Unity Grapevine, Summer 2014</em></strong></p>
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84714178?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="175" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84714178?profile=RESIZE_180x180" width="175" class="align-right"/></a><span class="font-size-5">I</span>n reading commentary generated by Pope Francis' speech at yesterday's Joint Session of Congress, much has been made of the pope's nod to Dorothy Day, founder of the Catholic Worker Movement and, improbably, herself once somewhat contrary in the eyes of many within the Church hierarchy.</p>
<p><span class="font-size-2"><em><small>Above photo, Ann O’Connor and Peter King by Michael Greenlar / Syracuse.com </small></em></span></p>
<p>I immediately then thought how sad that my aunt, Ann O'Connor, was not around to see or even hear the Pope's remarks. Ann was an acolyte of Dorothy Day, and a co-founder of Unity Kitchen, the Catholic Worker community still battling for the poor in Syracuse, N.Y. Ann and her husband, Peter King, helped guide the community for more than 40 years. Peter, now a widower seeking to enter the priesthood, leads it still.</p>
<p><em>Pictured, Dorothy Day, 1897-1980, in her seniority, Wikimedia. Photo of Ann O'Connor and Peter King above by Michael Greenlar, courtesy Syracuse.com</em></p>
<p>Ann died in January at the age of 81, and I recall through the 19 years of our acquaintance that Ann too, while always respectful of Church authority, seemed somewhat muted in her enthusiasm for the Church leadership's approach to poverty, which I suspect she felt often seemed distracted from its core mission of serving the least among us. This, too, she had in common with Day.</p>
<p>Father Vincent W. Hevern, a professor at Le Moyne University, and like Pope Francis a Jesuit, concelebrated Ann's Jan. 24 funeral Mass at Syracuse's Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception. Here's a transcript of his homily, which documents the remarkable journey of faith that Ann came to exemplify.</p>
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<p><strong><span class="font-size-5">L</span>et me ask you to close your eyes</strong> <strong>and picture Ann O’Connor</strong> sitting by herself in her wheelchair with no one around. Do you see her? Her gaze straight ahead as she sits in thought. Her straight grey hair in a bun, but probably covered by a kerchief. Her hands gnarled. Able only to move the control knob on the chair to turn it around, but unable to turn even herself in that chair. Can you see her sitting there alone? Alright, let me ask: How many other people do you know who are more helpless or more dependent or more physically vulnerable than Ann in that setting? Perhaps some, in a hospital ICU or abandoned on the streets. But not many, I’d guess.</p>
<p><em>Pictured, young wheelchair-bound Ann O'Connor, and her father, Francis O'Connor Sr. (my grandfather), circa 1956</em></p>
<p><span>Yet, despite her physical dependence and a body marked by the deformations of rheumatoid arthritis, does anyone here really remember Ann as weak? She was someone who could fix you with those resolute eyes and speak directly – plain and simple – in ways that let you know that here was a woman as strong as steel. But, how can this be? In a world which idolizes the beautiful and the wealthy, in a celebrity culture of images and artifice, how can this unadorned daughter of Syracuse have been so resolute, so commanding, so much a contradiction to the superficial nonsense of our era?</span></p>
<p><span>All three readings that we just heard provide us the answer loud and clear. Perhaps the most central belief that Ann’s life expressed resonated deeply with the words of Our Lord on the Mount:</span></p>
<p><span>“Do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink, or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food and the body more than clothing? But seek first the Kingdom of God and His righteousness and all these things will be given you besides. Do not worry about tomorrow; tomorrow will take care of itself.”</span></p>
<blockquote><p><span class="font-size-3">And if Ann lived the poverty that Jesus spoke of on the Mount, what she did have – her days and years, her attentive listening, her sense of the preciousness of every life – these she gave away freely and without expecting any recompense in a continual ministry of hospitality.</span></p>
</blockquote>
<p><span>Here Jesus is asking His followers to embrace the reality of who we are: creatures dependent on the goodness of His Father and ours. To be dependent as a Christian can take many forms, but in whatever shape we choose to live as Christians, we must somehow embrace poverty if we ever hope to be true to Our Lord as He is true to us. Ann believed utterly that God would take care of her. She certainly never amassed very many possessions though that library of the masterpieces of literature at Hesed House is an understandable exception, a fault we Jesuits especially appreciate. No, she had few material resources. When the van broke down, somehow God would inspire some kind soul to offer one that worked. She didn’t worry; if you are poor in Christ, you are free of such fears. When the house burnt, well, you know what happened. It’s not fancy, but the generosity of so many here restored that home and its living quarters to her and to Peter and their guests. And, in her poverty, what riches of the imagination, of delight in all things simple and whole, of appreciation for beauty and grace and the panoply of God’s creation, what riches she experienced in ways that call us to weigh how free we are of our own cares and burdens so we might experience the same.</span></p>
<p><span>And if Ann lived the poverty that Jesus spoke of on the Mount, what she did have – her days and years, her attentive listening, her sense of the preciousness of every life – these she gave away freely and without expecting any recompense in a continual ministry of hospitality.</span></p>
<p><span>When God appeared to Abraham by the oak of Mamre in the guise of three travellers, our father in the faith showered upon these strangers all the generosity he could muster. He washed </span>their feet, and rested them under the tree, and sated their hunger in lavish fashion. And, in recompense, the Lord God gave to Abraham and his wife what they lacked, what seemed impossible to imagine: a child in their old age. How absurd a gift that Sarah could only laugh. But God reminded them, “Is anything too marvelous for the LORD to do?”</p>
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<div class="page" title="Page 2"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span>So, like Abraham and his wife, Ann and Peter and so many here have tried to emulate the welcome for the weary and the stranger that the Lord would send their way as He Himself came in that episode in</span> <span>Genesis</span><span>. In a world that trumpets the supreme value of exchange capitalism – that we will only barter what we have with each other if I can somehow made a profit from that trade – Ann’s response was “no.” For all that is truly important, especially life itself, there is no price, no currency of exchange that needs to secure such human transactions. Whether it be the coming to birth of every child, or feeding the hungry, or protecting those from death at the hands of violent passions and warring nations, Ann’s hospitality formed one continuous panel across that seamless garment of life which Cardinal Bernadin urged us to weave as our ultimate Christian response to the world today.</span></p>
<blockquote><p><span class="font-size-3">There waiting in greeting are Francis and Kathryn, her parents, and Fran and Ellie and Kathie, too. A smiling Dorothy Day and Peter Maurin as well, eager to share all their wisdom with a soul who already knew so much of what they knew.</span></p>
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<p><span>As we think about how much she tried to be of service to others, perhaps we also need recall the hospitality and the supportive embrace that you, her family and friends, gave her in return. I would probably get in trouble if I were to try to read out a list of everyone who contributed to her well-being; I can’t claim to know who you all are. But, I would get in trouble if I didn’t acknowledge her partner in marriage. One former Jesuit novice who left us years ago wrote on my Facebook page the other day: “I remember Ann and Peter well from my time in St. Andrews. What an inspiring couple they were to me ... altruistic and so in love.” Indeed. And, as St. Ignatius Loyola reminds us, love is shown more in deeds than in words. The indefatigable and unceasing care Peter gave Ann for so long: Has there ever been a more real testament to married love?</span></p>
<p><span><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84714330?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="250" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84714330?profile=RESIZE_320x320" width="250" class="align-right"/></a>But, there is still one more reading: St. Peter in the</span> <span>Acts of the Apostles</span><span>, on his way from Jerusalem to Joppa along the Mediterranean coast. On that trip, Peter did what the Lord Jesus did. Faced with the seeming death of the disciple Tabitha, he prayed over her and told her to “rise up” and, like Lazarus at the command of Jesus, she too arose to renewed life. This wonder sign testified to all who witnessed it the power of Jesus in whose footsteps Peter came preaching. Biblical commentators note that her name in Greek,</span> <span>Dorcas</span><span>, means a gazelle – that small, elegant, and swift creature that can match the speed of a car going 60 mph. Well, the disciple Tabitha received back her life and her mobility. What amazing things the Lord can accomplish.</span></p>
<p><span>Now it seems to me that I can relate this story to Ann in just two ways. The first is about amazement. And, it is a story a number of you, particularly the Jesuits, have heard me tell for a while. It happened, I guess, about seven or eight or nine years ago. Coming back from class one afternoon, Peter was on the telephone asking me to come down to Community General Hospital to anoint Ann. When I got there, the scene was grim. She was unconscious, an oxygen mask in place, and her breathing labored. Her face looked pained and Peter told me that the cardiologist was quite worried. He had tried some different things to relieve her cardiopulmonary distress and they weren’t working. I talked briefly outside the cubicle in the ICU with that doctor, and he said he had only one more thing he could do and it involved some sort of injection directly into her heart. So, I busied myself to perform the Sacrament of the Sick and get out of the way: I anointed her, and, as I was leaving, looked back to see the doctor pulling the curtain to perform whatever procedure he had planned. It worked. Of course, I can’t specifically say what “it” was: whether the anointing or the injection or, probably, both. What I can describe is the scene at Unity </span>Kitchen about 10 days later when I came to celebrate Mass that Sunday. There sitting in her chair was a beaming, bright-eyed Ann O’Connor who looked like a woman transformed. I have never been so astonished in my life than I was that morning to see her who had been so close to death now so alive.</p>
<p><span>My second thought about that passage from</span> <span>Acts</span> <span>asks you once more to picture Ann in your imagination. For just as Tabitha must have been so astonished at what happened to her at Peter’s words, can you not picture Ann’s own astonishment as she passed on to the final embrace of the God who loved her. There she comes forward to be greeted by so many who went before her but have continued to love her deeply. There waiting in greeting are Francis and Kathryn, her parents, and Fran and Ellie and Kathie, too. A smiling Dorothy Day and Peter Maurin as well, eager to share all their wisdom with a soul who already knew so much of what they knew. Waiting are Louie and those other guests of the Kitchen: Gertrude Stout and Helen Bean and Phil Buschle, and all the others whom so many of you knew and welcomed yourselves across the decades. They are there to be with her as she had once been there for them. And, one last image: Ann, herself, now radiant and beaming, unfettered and free forever from pain, smiling and filled without limit by that Love who had called her from her birth, Whom she followed so devotedly, and now Who would give her rest in His arms forever. Amen. Alleluia! </span></p>
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</div>Fotog Joss Barratt -- Bringing Films to Life, a Frame at a Timetag:thewildgeese.irish,2015-09-03:6442157:BlogPost:1691802015-09-03T22:30:00.000ZGerry Reganhttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/ger_regan
<p><img class="align-full" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84713603?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750"></img></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><strong><span class="font-size-5">O</span>ne could argue that freelance photographer Joss Barratt</strong> has done as much to inform movie goers about Ken Loach’s past 20 years of work as the noted British filmmaker himself. Barratt’s photography is seen far and wide, perhaps by millions, across newspapers, magazines, on movie house walls and windows, and across the Internet, by far more people than ever get around to seeing Loach’s provocative and…</span></p>
<p><img width="750" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84713603?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750" class="align-full"/></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><strong><span class="font-size-5">O</span>ne could argue that freelance photographer Joss Barratt</strong> has done as much to inform movie goers about Ken Loach’s past 20 years of work as the noted British filmmaker himself. Barratt’s photography is seen far and wide, perhaps by millions, across newspapers, magazines, on movie house walls and windows, and across the Internet, by far more people than ever get around to seeing Loach’s provocative and arts-house films.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><em>Above, Oonagh Dempsey (Simone Kirby) expresses her anger and frustration in a scene from "Jimmy's Hall". All photos by Joss Barratt. Learn <a href="http://thewildgeese.irish/profiles/blogs/learn-more-about-sixteen-film-s-jimmy-s-hall" target="_self">more</a> about Sixteen Films "Jimmy's Hall," and <a href="http://thewildgeese.irish/profiles/blogs/jimmy-s-hall-where-anything-goes-and-everyone-belongs-current-us" target="_self">where it is now playing.</a> </em></p>
<p dir="ltr">We decided to learn more about the man whose stills so artfully present glimpses of Sixteen Films projects, most notably, “The Wind That Shakes the Barley” and “Jimmy’s Hall,” the latter in select theaters across the United States. Joss and I IM’d via Skype to discuss his work for Sixteen Films, headed by Loach, screenwriter Paul Laverty and producer Rebecca O’Brien. And while you are here, take a look at an <a href="http://www.jossbarratt.com/client-galleries/jimmyshallexclusive/" target="_blank">exclusive package of Barratt photos from the set of "Jimmy's Hall,</a>" never before published -- exclusive to <strong>TheWildGeese.Irish</strong>. </p>
<p><strong>Gerry Regan:</strong> Joss, tell us a bit about your background — how’d you get into shooting movies and TV shows? And what other kinds of photography might you pursue?</p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84713542?profile=original" target="_self"><img src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84713542?profile=original" width="287" class="align-left"/></a>Joss Barratt:</strong><span> (pictured, center) I studied photography at art school 1989-91 and was hell bent on becoming the next Don McCullin or Larry Burrows (both combat photojournalists) until I realised I wasn't brave enough so started shooting documentary projects instead, moved to Hong Kong as London was closed to new arrivals due to the recession, and very quickly found my feet shooting news features and weekend mag stories for Hong Kong and London magazines around Southeast Asia.</span></p>
<p>Whilst in Hong Kong I was asked to cover a TV show, so I just rolled up with two quiet Leicas and took pics of what seemed interesting -- hardly covered the main actors, didn't get paid by the PR desk but made good friends with the director of the show, who insisted I look him up in London. A few years later, I did look him up and shot a few of his subsequent projects and then got the drift of what a stills photographer on a set does!</p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>I then thought I'd chance my arm with filmmakers whose work I really liked, most notably Ken (Loach)! I called his office and by sheer fluke he was there. I showed him a few black and whites of a stories I'd done in Vietnam and Kurdistan -- he loved that I wasn't from films and we became work partners and then good friends!</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>I grew up on a farm 30 miles from London with summers in Cornwall and Ireland -- with family in Wexford.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>What specific area of Britain did you call home? Not London, then, but a suburb?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Joss Barratt</strong><span><strong>:</strong> I now live in Dorset -- 100 miles southwest of London, I raise two kids on my own who are Elmo (15) boy and Connie (10) girl.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>Where specifically did you grow up?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Joss Barratt:</strong> <span>On the Kent / Surrey border, near a town called Edenbridge.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>If i’m not being impudent … how old are you? And where in Wexford is your family from? Are they from the Barratt side?</span></p>
<p><strong>Joss Barratt:</strong> I'm 47 and my mother’s family are called Power from Tintern Abbey.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>Ah, delighted to know that. The Barratts — Welsh, Scottish or Anglo-Norman? Or perhaps Cornish?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Joss Barratt:</strong> <span>If only the Barratt's were that exotic -- way back they were from Cornwall but long time London dwellers.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>So how long have you and Ken worked together? And the work is specifically recording stills from Sixteen Films’ productions?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84713663?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="350" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84713663?profile=RESIZE_480x480" width="350" class="align-left"/></a>Joss Barratt:</strong> <span>I first worked with Ken (Loach, pictured, foreground, center) on a project called “Carla's Song” -- I believe it was shot in 1994 or ‘95. I have worked on all Ken's feature film projects, documentaries and other bits of mischief for his football club "Bath City" and magazine articles he's written. My association goes wider with Sixteen Films as I also work with Rebecca O'Brien on other non-Ken projects.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>You missed “Hidden Agenda” then? That was before you began working with Ken?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Joss Barratt:</strong> <span>Yep -- missed that one, before my time.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>I believe that was what brought Ken to the Irish community’s attention, “Hidden Agenda.”</span></p>
<p><strong>Joss Barratt:</strong> “The Wind that Shakes the Barley” and “Jimmy's Hall” were my Irish mischief.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>Joss, stating what might be obvious — and also intriguing — Joss. A nickname for Joseph? Is it derived from Cornish, since we mentioned that before? Where did it derive?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Joss Barratt:</strong> <span>Ahh - shortening of Jocelyn -- never used it, never known it but I believe it's a very popular name with high-class French women.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>LOL, yes, so this is part of the decidedly Anglo-Norman, and baffling, practice of using names that work for men or women, like Evelyn?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Joss Barratt:</strong> <span>Bingo! However all my life I have had to parry people who insist on calling me Josh (né Joshua).</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>As a brand, Joss is clearly more memorable. Well done! So is Joss is a ‘nom de guerre (de fotografie)’ or were you given the name Jocelyn by your folks?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Joss Barratt:</strong> <span>Christened Jocelyn but forever known as Joss.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>So, Joss, clearly your line of work is very competitive — how do you come to excel at capturing these memorable, perhaps even searing scenes that are so essential to the marketing process?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Do you have both a great sense of anticipation, as well as technical mastery of the camera and lighting? And how do you get such intimacy with the camera? Does that come from the actors intensity or your own ability to be inobtrusive or both? How do you capture such intimacy, I mean to say?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Joss Barratt:</strong> <span>I have always tried to approach film sets like I would a story, for me good pictures always come from sensitivity, patience, timing and not being intimidated. I would like to think you can give a good actor the same degree of respect you would if you were shooting a humanitarian story -- give them their dignity and there's a chance they with know what you're doing and not trying to make a few quid out of a celebrity!</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Sets are hard places to photograph as everyone is busy making a film, not a photograph. I like to find a way to the inner circle, though, get the confidence of the cast, director and camera team and then you get private, intimate moments.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84713634?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="400" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84713634?profile=RESIZE_480x480" width="400" class="align-right"/></a>Ger:</strong> Let’s look at an example. This pic — the poster shot of ‘The Wind That Shakes the Barley’ — it’s become a touchstone for the film and its legions of fans — tell us how you shot that. Was it a ‘live’ shot, shot with the cameras rolling? Or was it set up?</p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Joss Barratt:</strong> <span>Both ! It is actually two shots, shot in sequential frames hiding in a ditch with Cillian and Padraic waiting for the famous scene where the farmhouse is set alight, they weren't being filmed but I was keen to see their reactions when they realised what was happening.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><strong>Ger:</strong></span> <span>You mention trust — I think it’s evident that you move in and out of shots with full confidence of the cast and crew. But clarify then, and this seems a key question to understanding your artistry, your muse, if you will. Are your most memorable, your most honest shots, taken when the cameras are rolling, when the actors are fully ‘in character’? That would seem to be the case.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>But as you just stated, that’s not always the case. And there clearly are many shots meant to capture the cast and crew at work as distinct from ‘on camera’ — documentary shots, if I might distinguish them that way.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Joss Barratt:</strong> <span>I think you have to have a bit of trust to get anything more than the surface, as stills man on a film is a pretty second-class citizen usually, but I try and find a way to connect to the cast and crew and then be discreet without being too invisible. When I ask for a scene to be held or re-run then they usually know I'm serious and not time-wasting. The really juicy pics are when the actors have just finished a shot and let down their guard, very private and revealing.</span></p>
<p><img width="400" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84713706?profile=RESIZE_480x480" width="400" class="align-left"/></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger: </strong><span>This shot — how’d you grab this?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><strong>Joss Barratt:</strong></span> <span>That was during a take on a medium long lens and slow shutter speed, they were so engaged with each other and I wanted soften the background and to create some movement.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><strong>Ger:</strong></span> <span>How far were you standing from Oonagh and Jimmy then?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Joss Barratt:</strong> <span>About 20 feet</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>What do you guys call ‘the other camera’ — the one that shoots the movie? Help me get the terminology straight.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Joss Barratt:</strong> <span>The main camera, "other camera" is the film/movie/video camera, I have to dance around it and not get in the way.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><strong>Ger:</strong></span> <span>In this shot, then, where were you in relation to the movie camera? Alongside it. Clearly you have to be out of the way of the shot. Is that one of the hardest things to learn to do?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Joss Barratt:</strong> <span>The dance was shot on three film cameras so I was along side one of them, making sure the other two didn't catch me ! It is a basic principle to never get caught out on the wrong side!</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong><span> (Chuckling) Yes, I sense that might be very important! There’s a lot of tracks and wires — you have to watch your step constantly, as well as be on the lookout for THE moment you want too. Lots to keep track of, no? </span>When the red light goes on, I imagine your adrenaline flows too!</p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Joss Barratt:</strong> <span>I go very light, Gerry, no heavy gear, no assistants -- underplay and over-charge!</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>Just the camera? No bulky equipment bag?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><strong>Joss Barratt:</strong></span> <span>Two small lightweight cameras on set with a box of other bits hidden away if I need them.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><strong>Ger:</strong></span> <span>What cameras do you use?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Joss Barratt:</strong> <span>Well, Gerry, it is always best to try and find the people you want to work with - for all of us!</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>I use Canon 5d Mk3 SLRs and Lumix GX7 compacts with Leica lenses, very small and quiet.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>Interesting. Thanks for that info. Tell us how you got this shot (at the top of this post). </span>A lot going on there -- do you have a motor drive usually, rolling, for high-adrenalin shots like that? Hearing that Ken often has an improvisational style, anticipating a moment like this could be, mmm, challenging to say the least. Or so it would seem.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><strong>Joss Barratt:</strong></span> <span>I do shoot pics in a sequence, but Ken's film camera always has a good view of the action so I nestle in with them, and in this situation had to shoot on a long lens. I knew what was going to happen and was just hoping for a good reaction or bit of tension.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><strong><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84713694?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="400" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84713694?profile=RESIZE_480x480" width="400" class="align-right"/></a>Ger:</strong> What's going on here?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Joss Barratt:</strong> <span>That's a cracker that pic ! He was really mucked up....</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>In this scene, which was emotionally charged, after the shootout with the Auxies? Do you find yourself getting emotionally involved in these kinds of scenes? And how do you stay focused then? When you say “cracker that pic” — meaning you liked the shot a lot, I gather.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Joss Barratt:</strong> <span>Those scenes are really exciting and also nerve-wracking, they are shot on three or four cameras and I have to make a judgment where I can get the best storytelling pic from. Ken can tell his story in an edited sequence and he's the master of this -- as a photographer I have to try and tell it in one image.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>I liked that shot a lot as yer man was so upset following the shootout, lots of his team were dead and he was very very agitated -- and it was all make-believe !</span></p>
<p><strong>Ger:</strong> Yes, I found it a stunning event, one of the reasons why the film was so emotionally searing for me and many others — with this we quickly understood, as did the survivors, the harsh reality of this war.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Are you able to turn off the ‘viewer’ and focus on the work, then, when filming an emotionally wrenching scene? Turn off the ‘viewer’ mode, if you will?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Joss Barratt:</strong> <span>It is a privilege to be moved by the work, I don't turn it off at all -- if I can convey some of the emotion and power then it does gray the area between fiction and reality, that's interesting.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><strong>Ger:</strong></span> <span>Are you the production photographer for these various film and TV projects? Is that the title for the work you typically do on these films?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><strong>Joss Barratt:</strong></span> <span>Yep -- Production Stills Photographer is the usual title or "Unit" Stills Photographer.</span></p>
<p><img width="400" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84713713?profile=RESIZE_480x480" width="400" class="align-left"/></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>Are you doing that work for “Downton Abbey” then? It would seem so.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Joss Barratt:</strong> <span>I did Downton Abbey Series 3. </span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><em>Pictured, Mrs. Patmore (Leslie Nicol), the cook, with Daisy Robinson (<span>Sophie McShera</span>), the kitchen maid, in a scene from Season 3 of ITV's hit series "Downton Abbey"</em></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><strong>Ger:</strong> Not the upcoming season? Which appears to be the final season, alas?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Joss Barratt:</strong> <span>Not the finale - can't give any scoops away sadly!</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>Were there any discernible differences in your working approach on “Downton Abbey” and Ken’s Irish films? Seems like a lot more interiors in Downton Abbey, for one.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><strong>Joss Barratt:</strong></span> <span>Not in my working approach but very much so in the access and how accommodating “Downton Abbey” was, I have an "access all areas" [pass] with Ken and, on glossy projects, they just let you shoot what they want you to shoot.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Also on a film with Ken I will be there every day from the start, getting to know everyone, on a TV job I will be there one day a week when something significant happens, hard to win people over when you only turn up on big days!</span></p>
<p><strong>Ger:</strong> Interesting insight. Seems you’re more of a collaborator in a Loach production than a typical TV shoot.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Joss Barratt:</strong> <span>You've got it ! He has a a good few of us around him that have been with him for years, a loyal team really.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>Do Ken and Rebecca, particularly Rebecca, who’s more the marketer for Sixteen Films, ever request specific shots for marketing purposes? Or is it just trust that you will generate the requisite ‘big’ shots the company needs for the posters and media kits?</span></p>
<p><strong>Joss Barratt:</strong> Rebecca and I get together with a script and a schedule and can quickly pick out when the key moments may occur however just by being there a lot you can get great candid moments, very real and tender insights to the cast and crew can come from the boring days.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>I also like shooting landscapes and portraits of the actors looking into the camera -- poster designers often use these and can cut out the background. The “Jimmy's Hall” poster was made from five separate pictures made to look like one!</span></p>
<p><strong>Ger:</strong> Wrapping up now: What is the favorite shot of yours from “The Wind That Shakes the Barley”? and from “Jimmy’s Hall,” the ones you may have framed on your study wall? And why are you so pleased with those two?</p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Joss Barratt:</strong> <span>I have a wide format black-and-white landscape of Jimmy's ma's cottage near the hall in my study, nestled into the landscape with the looming mountain behind and ominous clouds, very reminiscent of American landscape photographs from the 1930s. <em>(Picture at bottom of post.)</em></span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84713698?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="400" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84713698?profile=RESIZE_480x480" width="400" class="align-right"/></a>Ger:</strong> Your your favorite pic from TWTSB? With that, I’m away to produce this article. What’s the scene here, and what about it satisfies you the most? Is this the kid who gets executed? Later in the scene?</p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Joss Barratt:</strong> <span>Yep, he gets shot up in the hills. I really like this one, his eyes are so intense and he is just about to find out his fate, I love the rhythm of the picture and how SteadyBoy is smoking a fag, the far mountain outline and the colours -- so strong yet so damn sad. … He is just shot for giving information to the Tans under duress.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>Joss, great fun. Thanks for helping us promote “Jimmy’s Hall.” And, no pressure, but if you have an abiding interest in the Irish experience worldwide, we’d welcome you becoming one of our nearly 4,000 members.</span> <span><a href="http://thewildgeese.irish/?xgi=1qkGlEuAfZverJ">http://thewildgeese.irish/?xgi=1qkGlEuAfZverJ</a></span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Joss Barratt:</strong> <span>I'm off and away, Gerry -- send me a link to whatever's yer mischief.. All the best!</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84713717?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="750" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84713717?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750" class="align-full"/></a></span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><a href="http://thewildgeese.irish/profiles/blogs/learn-more-about-sixteen-film-s-jimmy-s-hall" target="_self"><strong>LEARN MORE ABOUT SIXTEEN FILMS' 'JIMMY'S HALL' (NOW PLAYING)</strong></a></p>Podcasting the Dot-Irish Experience Worldwidetag:thewildgeese.irish,2015-07-31:6442157:BlogPost:1667042015-07-31T17:00:00.000ZGerry Reganhttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/ger_regan
<p style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84713087?profile=original" target="_self"><img class="align-full" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84713087?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750"></img></a></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><strong><span class="font-size-5">W</span>e have no doubt</strong> t<strong>hat the word "Irish"</strong> in anyone's domain name, particularly as a TLD (top level domain, that is, 'behind' the dot) helps a marketer (and any devotee of the Irish experience) tap the passion that underscores the Irish experience…</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84713087?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="750" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84713087?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750" class="align-full"/></a></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><strong><span class="font-size-5">W</span>e have no doubt</strong> t<strong>hat the word "Irish"</strong> in anyone's domain name, particularly as a TLD (top level domain, that is, 'behind' the dot) helps a marketer (and any devotee of the Irish experience) tap the passion that underscores the Irish experience worldwide. Toward that end, I had an opportunity to talk to the folks producing the Trailblazers.irish podcast series about the fascinating worlds our members help us explore each and every day. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">The entire Trailblazers.Irish series is well produced! Give a listen to <em>our</em> <a href="http://trailblazers.irish/episode-4-thewildgeese-irish/" target="_blank">conversation</a>, at <a href="http://trailblazers.irish/episode-4-thewildgeese-irish/">http://trailblazers.irish/episode-4-thewildgeese-irish/</a></p>'The Rising' Is Centerpiece at Irish Consul's Residencetag:thewildgeese.irish,2015-07-27:6442157:BlogPost:1665022015-07-27T22:40:53.000ZGerry Reganhttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/ger_regan
<p><strong><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/31746955?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" target="_self"><img class="align-full" height="414" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/31746955?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" style="padding: 1px;" width="737"></img></a> New York --</strong> Dozens of individuals filled the terrace at the Irish Consul General's quarters in Manhattan's East Side on May 28 to learn more about "The Rising," a film project led by film producer Kevin McCann, head of Ireland-based Maccana Teoranta. Irish Consul General Barbara Jones served as host for the reception, which…</p>
<p><strong><a width="737" height="414" href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/31746955?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" target="_self"><img width="737" height="414" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/31746955?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" class="align-full" style="padding: 1px;"/></a>New York --</strong> Dozens of individuals filled the terrace at the Irish Consul General's quarters in Manhattan's East Side on May 28 to learn more about "The Rising," a film project led by film producer Kevin McCann, head of Ireland-based Maccana Teoranta. Irish Consul General Barbara Jones served as host for the reception, which featured spectacular views of Manhattan.</p>
<p><em>From left to right, "The Rising" screenwriter Colin Broderick; producer Kevin McCann; Tibor Sands, McCann's invited guest and first assistant cameraman for "The Godfather" film; and Irish Consul General Barbara Jones, who hosted the event.</em></p>
<p>"The Rising" aims to dramatize the full story of the Easter Rising, arguably for the first time in a major motion picture. The film has been in development since 2012, and is supported by the Irish Film Board and Northern Ireland Screen (Belfast).</p>
<p>This ambitious and timely project is slated to help commemorate the Rising in time for its upcoming April 2016 centennial, if the projected $6 million funding can be secured. The film is to focus on the role played by Sean MacDiarmada, whom McCann describes as 'the mastermind' of the 1916 uprising. The screenplay is by Colin Broderick, who, like McCann, is a member of TheWildGeese.Irish</p>
<p>There are opportunities for individuals to invest in the film, with a possible return on that investment, according to a Maccana Teoranta fact sheet. Contact McCann via <a href="mailto:kevin@maccana.ie">kevin@maccana.ie</a> for more information, or visit <a href="http://www.facebook.com/1916movie">facebook.com/1916movie</a>. Irish indie films such as "The Wind That Shakes the Barley" and "Magdalene Sisters" each earned more than $15 million profit, the fact sheet notes.</p>Holy Saturday ... When the Grief -- and the Hours -- Seemed Eternaltag:thewildgeese.irish,2015-07-27:6442157:BlogPost:1663682015-07-27T22:36:27.000ZGerry Reganhttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/ger_regan
<p dir="ltr"><span><strong><span class="font-size-6" style="font-family: 'book antiqua', palatino;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/e/ec/Tolentino_Basilica_di_San_Nicola_Cappellone_14.JPG/220px-Tolentino_Basilica_di_San_Nicola_Cappellone_14.JPG" target="_blank"><img class="align-left" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/e/ec/Tolentino_Basilica_di_San_Nicola_Cappellone_14.JPG/220px-Tolentino_Basilica_di_San_Nicola_Cappellone_14.JPG" style="padding: 1px;"></img></a> I</span> was staggered at the thought,</strong> which for 62 years had been hiding from me in plain sight -- the likelihood that after Jesus’ crucifixion, his followers fell into deep grief and…</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><strong><span class="font-size-6" style="font-family: 'book antiqua', palatino;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/e/ec/Tolentino_Basilica_di_San_Nicola_Cappellone_14.JPG/220px-Tolentino_Basilica_di_San_Nicola_Cappellone_14.JPG" target="_blank"><img src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/e/ec/Tolentino_Basilica_di_San_Nicola_Cappellone_14.JPG/220px-Tolentino_Basilica_di_San_Nicola_Cappellone_14.JPG" class="align-left" style="padding: 1px;"/></a>I</span> was staggered at the thought,</strong> which for 62 years had been hiding from me in plain sight -- the likelihood that after Jesus’ crucifixion, his followers fell into deep grief and anxiety -- and what must have seemed eternal waiting.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>At a prayer service this morning, in a church bereft of consecrated host and crucifix, I heard a deacon talk about the day after Christ’s crucifixion and his speculation on what they saw, felt and experienced the day after Christ’s death, hours before his resurrection.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Detail of Mary Magdalene kissing the feet of the crucified Jesus, Italian, early 14th century. She is one of the three Marys found in the Irish song "Caoineadh na dTrí Muire," and cited in the Gospel of John as present at Jesus' death.</strong></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Jesus had foretold he’d arise on the third day. But his closest followers, being human, just like their Lord, were left to alternate between bouts of intense grief and fear -- would they ever see Him again and if not, what did that mean for the world!</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>They were anxious about the future -- here they bet all on a man who many realized could transform the world that they knew. But rather than sweeping despots and hypocrites from thrones and altars, as many hoped, He passed from their midst, not with a bang, but a whimper, dieing a felon’s death, without a sword raised to save him (discounting perhaps Peter’s lopping off the ear of someone from Judas’ cohort the night before).</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>When the following morning Mary Magdalene found Christ’s body gone, is it truly any wonder that her first thought was that someone stole Our Lord’s remains? The stakes for these first disciples was immense, and a form of denial of Christ’s divinity understandably seemed to take hold at Christ’s death. It was the staggering scenes that unfolded on Easter morning that jolted the disciples and, through the ensuing millennia, the world into understanding the incompehensible.</span> <span>Christ Is Risen!</span> <span>(Uttered with a bang, not a whimper …)</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>ALLELUIA!</strong></p>A Sailor in Wartime Dixie: Startled by Catholic Apartheidtag:thewildgeese.irish,2015-07-27:6442157:BlogPost:1662522015-07-27T22:30:00.000ZGerry Reganhttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/ger_regan
<a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/CrQlf_OE1m3wtvrsa_8a6PzbVT82S1qQw6-Q6Pj4H5RQfpYqM1VsjmNn4Q7Gu12v6gOo03EkoLJA0dGbghT1YcoYuLENJ-t_M_ghfTgn63EVxTKx7AAAqJHe4iJ9JnOiQ5DZMzc" target="_blank"><img class="align-center" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/CrQlf_OE1m3wtvrsa_8a6PzbVT82S1qQw6-Q6Pj4H5RQfpYqM1VsjmNn4Q7Gu12v6gOo03EkoLJA0dGbghT1YcoYuLENJ-t_M_ghfTgn63EVxTKx7AAAqJHe4iJ9JnOiQ5DZMzc?width=624" width="624"></img></a><p></p>
<p><strong><em>And then when we got to Miami, the Gesu Church, which is a beautiful Catholic church, an old church in the heart of Miami, they had big signs posted as you entered, ‘Colored seat from the rear.’…</em> <br></br></strong></p>
<p dir="ltr"></p>
<a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/CrQlf_OE1m3wtvrsa_8a6PzbVT82S1qQw6-Q6Pj4H5RQfpYqM1VsjmNn4Q7Gu12v6gOo03EkoLJA0dGbghT1YcoYuLENJ-t_M_ghfTgn63EVxTKx7AAAqJHe4iJ9JnOiQ5DZMzc" target="_blank"><img src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/CrQlf_OE1m3wtvrsa_8a6PzbVT82S1qQw6-Q6Pj4H5RQfpYqM1VsjmNn4Q7Gu12v6gOo03EkoLJA0dGbghT1YcoYuLENJ-t_M_ghfTgn63EVxTKx7AAAqJHe4iJ9JnOiQ5DZMzc?width=624" width="624" class="align-center"/></a><p></p>
<p><strong><em>And then when we got to Miami, the Gesu Church, which is a beautiful Catholic church, an old church in the heart of Miami, they had big signs posted as you entered, ‘Colored seat from the rear.’</em> <br/></strong></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><strong><span style="font-family: 'book antiqua', palatino;" class="font-size-7">T</span>his month holds the 50th anniversary</strong> of the Selma-to-Montgomery Marches, which in turn led to passage of the landmark Voting Rights Act. The ensuing media spotlight has spurred me to highlight several of my Dad’s recorded encounters with racism, far more dramatic than anything I personally have experienced.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Photo top, an African-American man drinking at a "colored" drinking fountain in a streetcar terminal in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oklahoma_City">Oklahoma City</a>, Oklahoma, 1939. Russell Lee / United States <a href="http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Library_of_Congress">Library of Congress</a>'s Prints and Photographs Division</strong></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>My Dad, like me, named Gerald Regan, was born in 1921, in the Bronx, and died 86 years later. Though born in Bronx Jewish Hospital, he was a third-generation Irish-American, with Famine-era roots in Longford, Cavan and other counties in Ireland.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/f/f8/Gesu_Church_Miami.jpg?width=300" target="_blank"><img src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/f/f8/Gesu_Church_Miami.jpg?width=300" width="300" class="align-left" style="padding: 1px;"/></a>Dad lived all but two years north of the Mason-Dixon Line and briefly in California, with most of that time in the suburbs of Long Island raising his family and as an empty-nester, surrounded by family, friends and colleagues. They were all, not surprisingly white, most Catholic -- Irish or Italian. So among my Dad's stories, I wanted to hear about his experience with race, with</span> <span>diversity</span><span>.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>He and I spent 16 minutes on the topic, speaking at his home in Garden City, N.Y., in April 2004. The conversation was part of a series of talks with him that I recorded, to better understand his life and times and preserve them.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Most Catholic churches, including Miami’s historic Gesu Church, pictured here, lined up behind segregation in wartime Dixie, and even beyond. The pastor of Gesu from 1934 to 1945 was Iowa native <a href="http://scr.stparchive.com/Archive/SCR/SCR07241948p15.php" target="_blank">Rev. Florence D. Sullivan, S.J.</a> Photo / Wikipedia Commons</strong></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>My Dad was not a racist, but he clearly was a product of his times. He had no black friends, but he did have two Jewish colleagues from the beer business, Marvin Kimmel and Jerry Steinman, who became dear friends.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>I remember too our visiting Harry Paul, another of my Dad’s Jewish friends from the beer business in the early 1960s, when I was about eight years old. Dad and I schlepped what felt like to me then a solid mile across the beach for the visit, to Silver Point Beach Club, known then as the club Jews joined, while Christians, mostly Catholics, joined the adjacent Sun & Surf Beach Club, on Long Island’s Atlantic Beach. I can tell you that in my family’s eight years of membership in Sun & Surf, I never saw a black individual in either club as a member, as well, though this was certainly not my Dad's responsibility.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>No, it was my Dad’s earlier experience with segregation, during World War 2, when he was posted in in the South, that he found noteworthy.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr">It was a shock to me coming from New York,” he said, “where, although we weren't completely liberated, the blacks or colored, as they would call them, had a pretty good rein of freedom compared to what they had down South.”</p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>During 1943, my Dad was a physical education instructor at the Navy’s Subchaser Training Center in the port of Miami, working with fellow Navy personnel, across all economic strata and all races and ethnicity.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><iframe width="100%" height="450" frameborder="no" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/197061266&auto_play=false&hide_related=false&show_comments=true&show_user=true&show_reposts=false&visual=true"></iframe>
</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Photo of my Dad and Mom in Miami, 1943.</strong></p>
<p dir="ltr">“In dealing with the troops, I trained a group of colored boys from South Carolina and the only rank they could attain was mess cook,” he said.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>“I had about 120 of them (in his training sessions), some of them the first time they had shoes. They were right off the farm in Georgia, and it was a tough time to get them to be coordinated and trained and follow orders. They weren't disobedient. They just didn't know; they didn't realize. It was a whole different world to them and also for us.”</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Most jarring to me as a faithful Catholic were my Dad’s observations about the Catholic churches he encountered when living in the South.</span></p>
<p>After sea duty, transporting soldiers to North Africa, in December 1942 and January 1943, he was stationed at the US Naval Training Center Bainbridge, in Maryland. He recalled: “As soon as we got to Maryland, I went to a Catholic church there for Sunday Mass and they had big signs (indicating) colored seating up in the balcony. And after the white folks received communion, then, at a signal, the colored were allowed to come down and file down and receive communion separately from the white people. “</p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>The shabby treatment was on display also in his next posting.</span></p>
<p>He recalled: “And then when we got to Miami, the Gesu Church, which is a beautiful Catholic church, an old church in the heart of Miami, they had big signs posted as you entered the church, ‘Colored Seat from the Rear.’ And then they'd have water fountains there, and one would be for colored and one would be for white.</p>
<p>“And when they received Communion there, too, the colored could not receive from the altar until all the whites had received communion and sat down.”</p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/wHaqU2qW3BTQvbFl2_tyvzboLNzkXdEYhpATbje43gJlj-JL7ZH9VcGnbgA5z58DPMQ-k5pkSB1M_TDhihMPJ1C5UUAho_ZUEcA2rpoE-7I5t0Fbq_cjycajMdMbazwerNpeO9c" target="_blank"><img src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/wHaqU2qW3BTQvbFl2_tyvzboLNzkXdEYhpATbje43gJlj-JL7ZH9VcGnbgA5z58DPMQ-k5pkSB1M_TDhihMPJ1C5UUAho_ZUEcA2rpoE-7I5t0Fbq_cjycajMdMbazwerNpeO9c?width=300" width="300" class="align-left" style="padding: 1px;"/></a></span><span>And my Dad’s experience was apparently readily available to anyone attending Mass down South, where local white supporters of civil rights were rare.</span> <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Society_of_Saint_Edmund"><span>The Society of Saint Edmund</span></a><span>, a Catholic religious order, were the</span> <span>only</span> <span>whites in Selma who openly supported the voting rights campaign, according to the</span> <a href="http://www.encyclopediaofalabama.org/article/h-1898"><span>Encyclopedia of Alabama</span></a><span>.</span> <span>In fact, Bronx native Don Jelinek, a staff member of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee after the Selma Marches,</span> <a href="http://www.crmvet.org/nars/jelinek.htm#scrufse"><span>described the Edmundites as “the unsung heroes of the Selma March</span></a> <span>… who provided the only integrated Catholic church in Selma, and perhaps in the entire</span> <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Deep_South"><span>Deep South</span></a><span>.”</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>The Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. with members of the Sisters of St. Joseph in Selma in 1965. The sisters joined the Edmundite Southern Missions in Selma in 1940. <a href="http://www.encyclopediaofalabama.org/article/m-6654">Encyclopedia of Alabama Photo</a> by Alston Fitss III</strong></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Before my Dad’s passing in June 2007, he journeyed through life focused largely on his work and family, as did most individuals, I suppose, whether they were black, white or Asian, living in Harlem, Selma or Timbuktu.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>My Dad, as his words professed, treated people as they came. But details of his life in suburbia, and as an executive in the brewing industry, suggest he was not an activist. In his interview, he acknowledges his discomfort with the blatant racism he saw in the South, but he soon came to accept it as the way it was. He also made no effort to be politically correct. In listening again to his remarks, I'm struck at how they captured the mindset of so many of 'the greatest generation.'</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>“Blacks wouldn’t sit in the front of the bus,” he recalled, speaking of his time in Miami. ”They knew they weren’t -- they would be asked to leave or get into the back. … Those were isolated incidents. But, by and large, I didn’t see any flare up. Everyone seemed to know their place, but that was generations of knowing your place.</span> Not something new.”</p>
<p dir="ltr">"It was tough on boys from New York or Detroit or Chicago, black boys, who used to have more freedom, to be told to sit in the back of the bus or not to go into a white toilet, like they probably did in the city."</p>
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<dt><a name="first_comment"></a><a name="comment-6442157_Comment_149542" id="comment-6442157_Comment_149542"></a> <span class="xg_avatar"><a class="fn url" href="http://thewildgeese.irish/profile/RichardStrathern" title="Richard Strathern"><span class="dy-avatar dy-avatar-48"><img width="48" height="48" class="photo photo" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84713091?profile=RESIZE_180x180" alt=""/></span></a></span> Comment by <a href="/profile/RichardStrathern" class="fn url">Richard Strathern</a> on March 15, 2015 at 1:28pm</dt>
<dd><div class="xg_user_generated"><p>Gerry Regan, your article reminded me of two painful experiences that I had in 1948 and again in 1965. As a young Polio victim, age 10, in 1948 from Euclid, Ohio, I was sent to Warm Spring Georgia, for surgery. My father, William Charles Strathern, born in Derry, Ireland and I travelled through Georgia, to Warm Springs. Remember this is the site of FDR's the "Little White House." As we travelled by Greyhound Bus from Atlanta we witnessed first hand segregation. We were both shocked by what we saw. I remember two Black Orderlies who work at the hospital and whom I befriended were scared to go home one night because they would have to pass through an area where the KKK was having a evening meeting and they had to sleep in the stairwell that night rather then risk going home.</p>
<p>In 1965, as a than Marianist Teaching Brother, I was assigned to coordinate a health and education summer program for migrant farm families, both Black and Latino on John's Island, S.C. We had a week long orientation prior to the program start up. Several Charleston Clergy were to entertain me with evening dinners while we waited for the start of the program. I was unaware at the time that Bishop Ernst Unterkoefer had warned the Clergy not to have any discussions with the Yankee religious from Cleveland, about racial issues. One night sitting around the dinner table I listen to a spirited discussion about Dolphins and what level of intelligence they possessed. It toke me a few minutes to see that they had substituted dolphins for blacks. Obeying the letter of the Bishop's warning. This to say the least was not a very happy experience for me about to start the summer program. Msgr. Bernardin, a young priest at the time and who later became Cardinal Bernardin, who I shared the story with was able to save the day and talk me out of catching the next bus out of town. The program turnout to be a success in spite of this and other similar experience during program. I did get to work the poorest of the poor on John's Island and was never the same after returning to Cleveland. Bishop Unterkoefer called me in prior to returning to Cleveland and asked me directly what I though of the Church in the South. Before I could reply he started to laugh so I assumed Msgr. Bernardin must have told him of my experience. I think I said something like - you have a lot of problems to work on. The program was sponsored by both the Baptist and Catholic Church of Charleston, South Carolina. Six Catholic Nuns, and equal number of college students participated. We slept in tents and trailers. Half way through the program we had to move the Nuns back into Charlestown because of gun fire nearby from the road and the remaining group moved in near one of the migrant camps near a graveyard for protection. Here we are 50 years later wondering what happen to those that made up the program evaluating where we are today as compared to that time. Years later often thinking about this happening we were lucky to get out of there alive.</p>
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<dt><a name="comment-6442157_Comment_149449" id="comment-6442157_Comment_149449"></a> <span class="xg_avatar"><a class="fn url" href="http://thewildgeese.irish/profile/dennisharris" title="dennis harris"><span class="dy-avatar dy-avatar-48"><img width="48" height="48" class="photo photo" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/57439680?profile=RESIZE_180x180" alt=""/></span></a></span> Comment by <a href="/profile/dennisharris" class="fn url">dennis harris</a> on March 15, 2015 at 9:18pm</dt>
<dd><div class="xg_user_generated"><p>The events shared in the preceding posts are a result of the Reconstruction Period following the Civil War. During that time, whites were refused the opportunity to vote, had to house Yankee soldiers in their homes and feed them, were forced to give up their land to blacks, white women were raped by Yankees, whites could only own land or vote after making an oath of allegiance to the Federal Gov. When the Yankees soldiers left with their bayonets after a decade and a half, the blacks were left with no supporters or protectors. The whites then saw the blacks as the reason for the oppression by the Yankees and took revenge against the blacks who remained in the South.</p>
<p>I have lived in the North and the South. The North has been and is more segregated by race than any area I have seen in the South.</p>
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<dt><a name="comment-6442157_Comment_149554" id="comment-6442157_Comment_149554"></a> <span class="xg_avatar"><a class="fn url" href="http://thewildgeese.irish/profile/RichardStrathern" title="Richard Strathern"><span class="dy-avatar dy-avatar-48"><img width="48" height="48" class="photo photo" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84713091?profile=RESIZE_180x180" alt=""/></span></a></span> Comment by <a href="/profile/RichardStrathern" class="fn url">Richard Strathern</a> on March 16, 2015 at 1:07am</dt>
<dd><div class="xg_user_generated"><p>Yes Dennis, I agree racism is still a big problem in our society. I do not ever remember seeing separate washroom, drinking fountains, separating seating on buses or at Churches in the north. I assume the segregation you are referring to is based on economics and its effects on affordable housing. We do have a long way to go before that problem is resolved. We have made some progress but not enough again due to the deep seated racism issue. Slavery was immoral and unchristian and is discrimination in whatever form. Don't you agree.</p>
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<dt><a name="comment-6442157_Comment_150719" id="comment-6442157_Comment_150719"></a> <span class="xg_avatar"><a class="fn url" href="http://thewildgeese.irish/profile/ger_regan" title="Gerry Regan"><span class="dy-avatar dy-avatar-48"><img width="48" height="48" class="photo photo" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/68527861?profile=RESIZE_180x180" alt=""/></span></a></span> Comment by <a href="/profile/ger_regan" class="fn url">Gerry Regan</a> on March 21, 2015 at 11:00pm</dt>
<dd><div class="xg_user_generated"><p>Richard, thank you for sharing your experience with racism in America. Interesting for me, my sweetheart, Mary, and I recently visited FDR's home in Hyde Park, and I read there how FDR worked relentlessly before he became president to gain at least the appearance of more mobility. He also remained committed to the Warm Spring's facility's commitment to create a better life for those afflicted with polio who came through its doors. How did you make out there? Sounds like you achieved full mobility. Did you remain in religious life? So many from that era left, I gather.</p>
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<dt><a name="comment-6442157_Comment_150822" id="comment-6442157_Comment_150822"></a> <span class="xg_avatar"><a class="fn url" href="http://thewildgeese.irish/profile/RichardStrathern" title="Richard Strathern"><span class="dy-avatar dy-avatar-48"><img width="48" height="48" class="photo photo" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84713091?profile=RESIZE_180x180" alt=""/></span></a></span> Comment by <a href="/profile/RichardStrathern" class="fn url">Richard Strathern</a> on March 22, 2015 at 1:41am</dt>
<dd><div class="xg_user_generated"><p>Hi Gerry,</p>
<p>I never did regain use of my left leg. Initially in August of 46 I had little use of both legs but after 11 months at Cleveland City Hospital I regain complete use of my left leg. The surgery was on my left hip and knee to reduce contraction of my muscles, and stabilize my left foot. Through most of my youth and early career wore a long leg brace with a lift. The rest of my careers on crutches.</p>
<p>I joined the Marianist afrer graduating fro High School in 1957 and left the order in1973. Work as a consultant in Management Control System and then became a Plant Manager in Photofinishing for three years, I moved into Divisional Director Human Resource Manager for Y & O Coal Company after five years became Plant Manager for TRW/Precision Castparts for eight years and finally out to Precision Castparts Portland Oregon Division a Director of Human Resources from 1994 to 2005 when I retired. Became active in politics and was elected to a four year term on City Council in Gresham Oregon. Still very active in local community activities. Polio and a lot of good people made me who I am today enjoying life to the fullest with my wife Patty, daughter Deana and three grand children. Sill a big Thomas Merton fan.</p>
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</div>A ‘Wild West’ Tour -- Imprinted in the Hearttag:thewildgeese.irish,2015-07-27:6442157:BlogPost:1661982015-07-27T22:23:19.000ZGerry Reganhttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/ger_regan
<p dir="ltr"><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84713398?profile=original" target="_self"><img class="align-full" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84713398?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750"></img></a> <strong>“<span class="font-size-5">Y</span>ou won’t forget your first time.”</strong></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>We’ve incorporated that aphorism in our ongoing travel initiative and contest, titled “The ‘Wild West’ of Ireland,” now in Day 12 of 25. According to one recent visitor to the ‘Wild West,’…</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84713398?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="750" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84713398?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750" class="align-full"/></a><strong>“<span class="font-size-5">Y</span>ou won’t forget your first time.”</strong></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>We’ve incorporated that aphorism in our ongoing travel initiative and contest, titled “The ‘Wild West’ of Ireland,” now in Day 12 of 25. According to one recent visitor to the ‘Wild West,’</span> <a href="http://www.tripadvisor.com/members-forums/NCGrandma"><span>NCGrandma,</span></a> <span>this may be equally true of your first time traveling with our partner</span> <span>Wild West Irish Tours.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><em>Photos: Tourers walking on Sligo's Inishmurray Island, and happy 'Wild Westies' checking in with their feelings.</em></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><a width="250" href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84713632?profile=RESIZE_320x320" target="_self"><img width="250" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84713632?profile=RESIZE_320x320" width="250" class="align-right" style="padding: 1px;"/></a>Ten days ago, NCGrandma</span> <a href="http://www.tripadvisor.com/ShowTopic-g186591-i88-k8480721-Wild_West_Irish_Tours_the_experience_of_a_lifetime-Ireland.html"><span>posted her review</span></a> <span>of a just-completed tour led by Wild West Irish Tours’ Michael Waugh on TripAdvisor.com’s Irish Travel Forum. She wrote the headline “Wild West Irish Tours - the experience of a lifetime.” It seems Michael and Trish, his partner in business and life, have made yet another raving fan of both his tours and the rugged West of Ireland.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>NCGrandma drove herself and a friend around Ireland a few years ago, so she has a benchmark for comparison. I found her praise not only heartfelt, but remarkable.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>“People ask me what my favorite part of the trip was and I cannot answer,” NCGrandma writes. “The depth of this tour is unreal. You see the beautiful land, you feel the stones that date back to 5,000 bc, you smell the peat burning in the stoves, you taste the local specialties, and you hear of the true Ireland, her history and her music, from HER people.”</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><a href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41CMLvSdjkL._SY300_.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41CMLvSdjkL._SY300_.jpg?width=250" width="250" class="align-left" style="padding: 1px;"/></a>I’ve often felt that the most vivid imprint of my life’s journeys are left by the people I’ve encountered, so I have to nod my head in accord. I can</span> <span>still</span> <span>remember a freckle-faced redhead I saw on a bus in Dublin in October 1973. I was 20, new to Ireland, abroad for the first time in my life, and a sucker for redheads with freckles. I wanted to chat her up, but girls, especially beautiful girls, terrified me. I demurred. But I’ve never forgotten that encounter, and count it a highlight of my remarkable nine-month sojourn living in Dublin.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><em>Photo: Film star Maureen O'Hara, another Irish ginger that turned quite a few heads.</em></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>NCGrandma further writes, referring to her newly completed Wild West Irish Tour: “Our heads were full but our hearts were even fuller. . . . We learned of the great famine. We learned so much. We felt so much. We cried when we left our b&b. We cried when we left each other.”</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>‘Nuff said!</span></p>
<p><b>Tell us why YOU want to experience the ‘Wild West’ of Ireland, and you might win a free 9-day trip there, courtesy of Wild West Irish Tours and WOW Air.</b> <a rel="nofollow" href="http://thewildgeese.irish/group/the-wild-west-of-ireland-you-won-t-forget-your-fir" target="_self"><b>Get the details!</b></a></p>
<p><a href="http://thewildgeese.irish/group/the-wild-west-of-ireland-you-won-t-forget-your-fir" target="_self"><img width="750" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84712022?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" class="align-full" width="750"/></a></p>List of Suspects in July 4 Bombing Includes Nazis, IRA, MI6tag:thewildgeese.irish,2015-07-27:6442157:BlogPost:1664312015-07-27T22:00:00.000ZGerry Reganhttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/ger_regan
<p dir="ltr"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/v3jvWGrmmYggv-RcTLTSRhF0h53ExiXeK1C0puWTL4MirLn9INOBLrCgsSajz5SikBSGRzAr0RKFn1LwOu9EEWRqf2SOTjvgyGDgFulagZ2mQTXVkKksj2Bw9J3SFiASGrele3s" rel="noopener" target="_blank"><img class="align-left" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/v3jvWGrmmYggv-RcTLTSRhF0h53ExiXeK1C0puWTL4MirLn9INOBLrCgsSajz5SikBSGRzAr0RKFn1LwOu9EEWRqf2SOTjvgyGDgFulagZ2mQTXVkKksj2Bw9J3SFiASGrele3s?width=300" width="300"></img></a></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong><span class="font-size-5">W</span>as it the IRA who created the bomb</strong> that killed two detectives outside the New York World Fair's British Pavilion 75 years ago today?</p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Or was it a German agent or Nazi…</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/v3jvWGrmmYggv-RcTLTSRhF0h53ExiXeK1C0puWTL4MirLn9INOBLrCgsSajz5SikBSGRzAr0RKFn1LwOu9EEWRqf2SOTjvgyGDgFulagZ2mQTXVkKksj2Bw9J3SFiASGrele3s" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/v3jvWGrmmYggv-RcTLTSRhF0h53ExiXeK1C0puWTL4MirLn9INOBLrCgsSajz5SikBSGRzAr0RKFn1LwOu9EEWRqf2SOTjvgyGDgFulagZ2mQTXVkKksj2Bw9J3SFiASGrele3s?width=300" width="300" class="align-left"/></a></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong><span class="font-size-5">W</span>as it the IRA who created the bomb</strong> that killed two detectives outside the New York World Fair's British Pavilion 75 years ago today?</p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Or was it a German agent or Nazi sympathizer? Or perhaps a French national outraged over the British sneak attack on the Vichy France's fleet outside Oran 24 hours earlier, coupled with Britain’s seizure of French naval vessels earlier provided ‘safe haven’ in British ports.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>This British ‘sucker punch’ took more than 1,300 French lives in one day and reignited France's centuries-old Anglophobia that would cost America and Britain dearly. In the early days of the November 1942 British and American invasion of Vichy-held North Africa, the French military resisted furiously, killing hundreds of US personnel and wounding hundreds more.</span></p>
<p>NYPD Lieutenant and writer Bernard Whalen posits that the bomb may have been planted by Britain itself, to convince Americans that their best interests lay in joining Britain in the war against Nazi Germany.</p>
<p>The list of suspects remains long to this day!</p>
<p><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/Ma5nt5F1rC-a6BUQVppFroPcxsk4ho71_LbenOS0cqHcRon6JjmhvSSdMmA9569o7vMLXV3K-juyz-DUEgAh13fqKH_nPshGTGWKjOK2gdheCwwVbg5UwmSYXzkLD2DiXQHNO8k" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><img src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/Ma5nt5F1rC-a6BUQVppFroPcxsk4ho71_LbenOS0cqHcRon6JjmhvSSdMmA9569o7vMLXV3K-juyz-DUEgAh13fqKH_nPshGTGWKjOK2gdheCwwVbg5UwmSYXzkLD2DiXQHNO8k?width=100" width="100" class="align-right" style="padding: 1px;"/></a></p>
<p>On July 11, at 10 a.m., next Saturday, the deaths of bomb squad detectives Ferdinand Socha and Joseph Lynch<span><span>, 33, (pictured here) will be recalled at a memorial service at the site of the bomb blast, in Flushing Meadow Park, near the Queens Museum of Art, in New York City. (Read about the ceremony <a href="https://gerregan.com/blog/f/long-list-of-suspects-in-july-4-bombing----ira-and-britain-at-top" target="_blank" rel="noopener">here</a>.)</span></span></p>
<p><em>Below: The scene at the New York World's Fair, July 4, 1940, after a time bomb detonated after NYPD detectives Fred Socha and Joseph Lynch attempted to defuse it.</em></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Read more about the incident using the resources below, and share your own thoughts (and possible suspects). There remains a $26,000 reward for the bomber's arrest and conviction.<br/><br/></span><strong>GerRegan.com <a href="https://gerregan.com/blog/f/across-fairground-echoes-of-75-year-old-unsolved-bombing" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Across Fairground, Echoes of a 75-Year-Old Bombing</a></strong></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><strong>New York Post, May 25, 2015</strong></span> <span><a href="http://nypost.com/2015/05/25/cops-killed-at-1940-worlds-fair-to-be-honored/">Cops killed at 1940 World’s Fair to be honored</a></span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>A Walk in the Park NYC Blog, May 26, 2015:</strong> <span><a href="http://awalkintheparknyc.blogspot.com/2015/05/detectives-socha-lynch-honored-in.html">Detectives Socha & Lynch Honored In World's Fair Bombing Traged...</a></span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>NPR.org, July 1, 2010:</strong> <span><a href="http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=128216755">A Forgotten July 4 Bombing At The World's Fair</a></span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Bloomberg News, June 26 2010:</strong> <span><a href="http://www.bloomberg.com/news/2010-06-25/deadly-1939-world-s-fair-bomb-remains-unsolved-lewis-lapham.html">Deadly 1939 World’s Fair Bomb Remains Unsolved: Lewis Lapham</a></span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><img src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/glFlEg19WJDLz6bMwUdtMMAfvC4g6tujc2D-75Fz3YuX1ykOt8fLxu_Nedf4cwNr5ZOhXTLPu9SrUdbHVvGA2VP65kLB8t_d2PWuOtMHiHLFg3uLt-MSjqr-HEAw4qxksTEIUcg" width="624px;" height="467px;" alt="FMCP1940world%2527sfairBomb%2B2015-05-26%2Bat%2B10.43.16%2BAM.png"/></span></p>From Bockagh Hill to Bayside Hills: The P.F. Grady Sagatag:thewildgeese.irish,2015-07-27:6442157:BlogPost:1663662015-07-27T22:00:00.000ZGerry Reganhttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/ger_regan
<p dir="ltr"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/_MFbKA5vuESNh8AimI4zFRsszWqHahiu9BsO-R1x54M4EQgxZCRYmKBnFEZbPvNXyBXbFq2HSXMxN-7S7z_k-C5umugL5UPqOab9Ml02mFODhUT_yz3qE9MPQtmfgT1bjPXqMpU" rel="noopener" target="_blank"><img class="align-center" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/_MFbKA5vuESNh8AimI4zFRsszWqHahiu9BsO-R1x54M4EQgxZCRYmKBnFEZbPvNXyBXbFq2HSXMxN-7S7z_k-C5umugL5UPqOab9Ml02mFODhUT_yz3qE9MPQtmfgT1bjPXqMpU?width=513" width="513"></img></a></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong><em>‘I am of Ireland,</em></strong><br></br> <strong><em>And the Holy Land of Ireland,</em></strong><br></br> <strong><em>And time runs on, cried she,</em></strong><br></br> <strong><em>‘Come out of charity,</em></strong><br></br> <strong><em>Come…</em></strong></p>
<p dir="ltr"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/_MFbKA5vuESNh8AimI4zFRsszWqHahiu9BsO-R1x54M4EQgxZCRYmKBnFEZbPvNXyBXbFq2HSXMxN-7S7z_k-C5umugL5UPqOab9Ml02mFODhUT_yz3qE9MPQtmfgT1bjPXqMpU" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><img src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/_MFbKA5vuESNh8AimI4zFRsszWqHahiu9BsO-R1x54M4EQgxZCRYmKBnFEZbPvNXyBXbFq2HSXMxN-7S7z_k-C5umugL5UPqOab9Ml02mFODhUT_yz3qE9MPQtmfgT1bjPXqMpU?width=513" width="513" class="align-center"/></a></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong><em>‘I am of Ireland,</em></strong><br/> <strong><em>And the Holy Land of Ireland,</em></strong><br/> <strong><em>And time runs on, cried she,</em></strong><br/> <strong><em>‘Come out of charity,</em></strong><br/> <strong><em>Come dance with me in Ireland.’</em></strong><br/> <strong>— From “I Am of Ireland,” by William Butler Yeats</strong></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>By Gerry Regan and Mary Grady</strong></p>
<p><strong>Patrick Francis Grady, 90 years on this earth</strong> until his passing April 6, came from Ireland, and, in a sense, came from dance.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Pat’s father, Jimmy Grady, also known as Jimmy or “Jimmy Man” Grady, was a farmer by trade, but those who knew him say Jimmy’s real calling was stepdancing. He could barely restrain his feet in earshot of a reel. Pat’s passion ran more toward set dancing.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Pat recalled in an interview in 2009 how Jimmy once overheard a boast while in the nearby village of Ballaghaderreen. Jimmy rose to meet the challenge, stripping off all but the clothing essential for modesty, and wowing onlookers as he danced to the fiddling of Hugh Gillespie. His Dad “got a great send-off,” Pat noted.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><em>Photo, above: Patrick Grady, foreground center, age 14, at the family farm, with, left to right, brother Michael, mother, Bridget, and brother James.</em></span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Pat’s character was shaped by a rural practicality that prizes saving, hard work, devotion to family, and making do. In Pat’s case, the simple values instilled by farm life remained strong.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>His story began January 27, 1920, in the townland of Bockagh Hill, in the family farmhouse of his parents, Jimmy and Bridget.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>The Grady's farm, 30 acres, was known to locals as the Coarse Ground. The farm, and its four fields, stood two miles from the cathedral and barracks town of Ballaghaderreen, in the county of Roscommon, in the rugged expanse of the west of Ireland.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Pat was the fourth of six children born to Bridget and James. His birth followed that of James, Molly, Winnie, and Kitty, and preceded Michael, the ‘baby’ of the family.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Pat’s grandfather James Grady was a widower and survivor of the Irish potato famine, and lived with Pat’s parents before his death, according to the 1911 Irish census.</span></p>
<p>Pat's grandmother, on his mother's side, a McGeever, represents a nexus between the old Ireland and the new. Her posting of a makeshift pennant brought special pleasure to Pat and his sister Winnie.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Winnie recalled: “She had an old red towel and she put it up on the side of the gable, over a broom or whatever she had. … We’d run down. She’d always say, ‘Keep a couple of pence for yourself, and buy candy.’ The only candy you could buy there was ‘sugar candy.’ It was made from brown sugar. Oh, was that a treat!”</span></p>
<p>Grandma McGeever, as were many women in the countryside in earlier times, was fond of tobacco. Pat's daughter Patty recalls the challenge her smoking presented to her Dad:</p>
<blockquote><p>“Grandma was smoking a clay pipe, and she was smoking in bed. So the brother was finished with Grandmom. He felt she was gonna burn his house down. And grandma and Dad and I guess grandfather all took the the horse and trap, went over to the house and they moved Grandma, in her bed, back to their house, where I presume she remained until she died.”</p>
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<p dir="ltr"><span>Pat’s dad, Jimmy, enjoyed stepping out, and offered a counterpoint to his wife, Bridget, who was both pious and a teetotaler. Jimmy was easygoing and supportive of his children.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Pat was a blend of both parents, loving a spin on the dance floor, but fervent in his faith, encouraging of his children, and, a onetime Pioneer, still sparing in his drink.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>While Pat was growing tall, Ireland itself was in the throes of a birthing process, in the midst of a war to overthrow the centuries-old yoke of British dominion.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Ballaghaderreen, home to a British barracks, saw its share of violence, including IRA attacks. Nine months after Pat’s birth, only two miles away, British forces dragged the body of an IRA officer through the village’s streets. Yet, despite the war, life on Coarse Ground went on largely untouched. The world beyond would soon enough tempt Pat and his siblings.<br/> <br/></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><strong>On the farm</strong></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><em>When the rain stopped the rain began ...</em><br/> <em>And seeped inside the warmth of prostrate cows.</em><br/> <em>Then pelted bogs to syrupy peat ...</em><br/> -- From "Roscommon Rain" by James Harpur</p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>The Grady farm encompassed 30 acres, with an additional 10 coming to it after the death of Pat’s uncle, Martin Grady. It was not unusual to find Gradys in and about Ballaghaderreen. Many weren’t even sure if and when they were related.</span></p>
<p><span><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/DOocQQisu3Fo7TzlFRpMVR6kFkP9pH_80BINK-8GP7g8SchAQRfJbWY9662kXk43-vFLtWYS3QLpXLAXZRuHzTZvJrm81fkZ33CYQot59pP6N2oXPsvcZ_uZSnukNB9u9rdhcaU" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><img src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/DOocQQisu3Fo7TzlFRpMVR6kFkP9pH_80BINK-8GP7g8SchAQRfJbWY9662kXk43-vFLtWYS3QLpXLAXZRuHzTZvJrm81fkZ33CYQot59pP6N2oXPsvcZ_uZSnukNB9u9rdhcaU?width=300" width="300" class="align-right"/></a></span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>The family worked the land, selling potatoes and oats, calves, pigs and a high-quality turf, "black coal," locals called it. Ballaghaderreen’s country fair offered a convenient marketplace.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>The women milked the farm’s two cows, and tended the kitchen garden, which included carrots and cabbage, and the chickens, which provided eggs and meat. Bridget showed her versatility, though, as Pat’s nephew, Tommy Flannery, recalls:</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>“I remember a time when Mark Casey had a cow in the drain. All the men couldn’t get the cow out of the drain. Go back for Bee, quick, he says, and Bee might give us a hand. … She shoved the cow and the cow got up of the drain. All the men standing there couldn’t say a word because Bee had done all the work.”</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><em>Photo: Pat, 29 years old, right, and oldest brother, Jimmy, back from New York City, at Coarse Ground.</em></span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>The women, minus Winnie, who balked at farm work, cooked and baked on the open hearth. Plowing, harvesting, turf cutting and livestock rustling fell largely to Pat and his Dad, as brother Jimmy emigrated in 1929 and young Michael was left to his school work.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Pat did attend the two-room Tonregee School in Bockagh for a few years but finally left to help his Dad with farm work.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>As a young man, Pat embarked on one of the legendary rituals of the Catholic Church in Ireland, joining hundreds of pilgrims during a nighttime trek up 2,500-foot-high Croagh Patrick, which St. Patrick, climbed during the 5th century. During the ascent, Pat lost his hat to a stiff breeze. A neighbor prevented Pat from a rash effort at rescue, perhaps saving Pat’s life.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Another incident nearly thwarted Pat’s attempt to reach his 90</span><span>th</span> <span>birthday. His grandson Tim relates the story: “Grandpa had to take a horse out in the morning. The horse went berserk. And then he just made a run for the shed. There was a cobblestone archway. If he hit his head, I was afraid Grandpa wouldn’t be here today. … He ducked right by the horse’s head, and went right into the barn and was safe.”</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>If Pat hadn’t ducked, we might not be here today. Meanwhile, though, Ireland was learning that independence didn’t guarantee prosperity.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Pat would soon face a wrenching decision, to work Coarse Ground, as did his forebears, or take the well-trod immigrant’s path to America.<br/> <br/></span></p>
<p dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;"><strong>To London and America</strong></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><em>'The car is yoked before the door,</em><br/> <em>And time will let us dance no more.</em><br/> <em>Come, fiddler, now, and play for me</em><br/> <em>'Farewell to barn and stack and tree.'</em><br/> — From The Emigrant by Joseph Campbell</p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>At Coarse Ground, life continued hard, and the income as uncertain as Ireland’s fickle weather. Still, all was not drudgery. Pat, now a young bachelor, often made time for the local dances, whose late hours brought him to what his mother called “the Old People’s Mass.”</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Pat’s sisters Molly, Kitty and Winnie eventually followed young Jimmy to America.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Winnie and Kitty worked in England as the Nazi blitzkrieg swept across much of Europe. They had an opportunity to book a passage to America, and decided they wouldn’t let German U-boats intimidate them. Winnie made a harrowing wartime voyage to New York.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr">Hinting at Pat’s own anxieties about his sisters, brother Mike’s fears about the fates of his sisters arose in an interview: “The war was raging at the time. They boarded at night. There was a couple of thousand of American soldiers on the boat.”</p>
<p><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/d/de/West_St%2C_Harrow-on-the-Hill_-_geograph.org.uk_-_378157.jpg" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><img src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/d/de/West_St%2C_Harrow-on-the-Hill_-_geograph.org.uk_-_378157.jpg?width=300" width="300" class="align-left" style="padding: 1px;"/></a></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>In 1949, with “The Emergency,” as neutral Ireland called the war, well behind, Pat’s father died. Now 29, Pat took charge of the farm.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Through the years, he and his father worked the farm, his siblings would pay sporadic visits, bringing with them newly acquired Yankee ways and perspectives.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><em>Photo: West Street, Harrow on the Hill, By Herry Lawford / Wikimedia Commons</em></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Molly brought the family its first “wireless” radio, an item that her mother quickly rejected as too extravagant.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Clearly, that mindset had an impact on Pat, who carried forth his own brand of practicality.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>In 1947, Pat’s youngest brother, Michael, emigrated, leaving Pat as the only man on the farm. One added burden faced bachelors like Pat in Roscommon – competition. In 1951, when Pat was 31, there were 6 men to every five women in the county.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>After one particularly poor harvest, a destructive storm, and buoyed by an invitation from his brother Jimmy, Pat began to contemplate a better life — abroad.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Pat too soon took the well-trod immigrant’s path. He traveled to Dublin, but failed the U.S. embassy’s physical when a spot showed up on his lung in a chest X-ray. He feared the worst — tuberculosis, a highly contagious infection of the lungs that often brought its victims to sanitariums.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Back on Coarse Ground, Pat met with some of his mother’s kin back from London for a funeral. One man, McGeever, invited Pat to stay with him and his wife and work with him in London. Resolute on starting anew, Pat left for England. His sister Kitty was the last of his siblings on Bockagh Hill.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>In bustling London, unlike anything he’d ever seen, Pat quickly found work in construction in Harrow on the Hill, in London.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Unlike many of his country peers, Pat always kept up with dental care, and McGeever’s wife referred Pat to her dentist. This man in turn led Pat to a contact at the U.S. Embassy, where Pat was cleared for emigration, having discovered that the spot on his x-ray was not tuberculosis.</span></p>
<p>Ebullient, Pat set out for New York via Trans World Airlines in September 1955. On arrival, Pat found he couldn’t work the pay phone, so he gave some change to a stranger to make one of the most momentous calls of his life.</p>
<p dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;"><strong>Job, Wife and Kids</strong></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><em>So you had a few jobs</em><br/> <em>Then said "What the hell!</em><br/> <em>I like talking so much</em><br/> <em>I'll work for Ma Bell."</em><br/> <em>-- From "To PF" by Danny McLaughlin</em></p>
<p>Big brother Jimmy brought Pat home for a few weeks. Pat later sojourned into the homes of sisters Molly and Winnie, before moving into an apartment with his brother Michael.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84713115?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="300" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84713115?profile=RESIZE_320x320" class="align-left"/></a></span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Pat sampled a number of jobs, finally landing at New York Telephone in 1957, a job secured with the aid of Martin Hunt, a fellow Roscommon native.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><em>Photo: Pat and Mike Grady in their bachelor days.</em></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>With this, Pat's thoughts turned to finding a mate and building a family, and lively Friday and Saturday nights venues in Manhattan offered the young Irish abundant opportunity.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>In one of the clubs, Pat found Mary Teresa Burke (pictured, circa 1959), a native of Caherciveen, County Kerry, had a winning way, and, importantly to Pat, was a passable dancer, and so the love match was made.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Their marriage took place July 26, 1958, in St. Ignatius Church, in Manhattan’s Upper East Side. In typical fashion, Pat and Mary kept the nuptials, and their anniversaries, low key. Summing up their attitude, Pat’s bride wryly noted in 2008, with a bit of wry exaggeration: “We don’t celebrate anything.”</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/w37DGqMG_qWEyvbHJjZWRNuOSD_13KtetznQ6lEtkDt154x7MQts_CopSzezNbD89I-uWLTDPAQp36F2qkMxTKPrvk2Etm4RAEszj6LnYQbgrtJZZHuPpH9hBbz8gWEyXeyIVGg" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/w37DGqMG_qWEyvbHJjZWRNuOSD_13KtetznQ6lEtkDt154x7MQts_CopSzezNbD89I-uWLTDPAQp36F2qkMxTKPrvk2Etm4RAEszj6LnYQbgrtJZZHuPpH9hBbz8gWEyXeyIVGg?width=175" width="175" class="align-right" style="padding: 1px;"/></a></span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Pat and Mary moved into an apartment in Flushing. Pat took on a part-time job at Flushing High School as a janitor to help with the bills. Their first child, Mary Josephine, came along Sept. 8, 1959. Catherine followed, in 1961. Patricia, their youngest, was born in 1964.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>In 1965, Pat moved his family to a solid, albeit modest, home in Bayside Hills, in St. Robert’s parish, where Pat and Mary continue to reside and worship.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Pat and brother Mike’s families typically shared the holidays with each other, then and now.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>“PF,” as he is also known, urged his children to further their educations, and as they moved out of the house, relished their stories about gaining raises and boosting their savings. “You have to pay yourself first.” he was fond of counseling.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Pat retired from New York Tel at age 65, and took a part-time job as a security guard at Queensboro Community College. Finally, at age 75, Pat</span> <span>seemed</span> <span>ready to take it easy.<br/> <br/></span></p>
<p dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;"><strong>Pat’s Legacy <br/></strong></p>
<p dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;"><em>'Grow old along with me!</em><br/> <em>The best is yet to be,</em><br/> <em>The last of life, for which the first was made:</em><br/> <em>Our times are in His hand …</em><br/> <em>-- From 'Grow Old Along With Me' by Robert Browning</em></p>
<p dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-6fe27dd5-1681-917a-cd07-ed263382bbae"><span>Arthritis, in fact, hobbled Pat, though in the past 15 years, he has found himself a much-in-demand baby sitter, with an emphasis on</span> <em>sitting</em></span>. As Pat neared 80, he became a grandfather, first to Meredith, then Tim, Willie, Elizabeth, Frankie, and Sarah. Ever since, Pat and Mary have had regular gigs keeping a watchful eye on the grandkids.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>When a bit sprier, Pat would regularly go with daughter Patty and one or two of her kids to the Bronx Zoo. There they met Bill Clinton one day. Firmly independent and focused, Pat was unimpressed:</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>“Pat and I used to do weekly trips up to the Bronx, to the Bronx Zoo and Botanical Gardens. One Tuesday in particular, lo and behold, we see a police unit coming through. There was Bill Clinton coming out of his car with his security team. I was enthralled, I am meeting a celebrity, a former president. Dad was more concerned with his grandchildren, whom I had sort of ignored. I shake the hands of Bill Clinton, while Dad tips his hat and keeps on walking,” more focused on keeping his grandchildren in sight and safe.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Faith is a bulwark in Pat’s life, and one figure looms particularly large in his spiritual formation — one-time Bockagh Hill neighbor, Father Pete O’Grady. The padre, a remarkably well-traveled and talented musician and man of God, seemed to embody those two pillars of Pat’s life. Father Pete was educated in St. Nathy’s College in Ballaghdereen, and attended seminary at Salamanca in Spain, where he was ordained. He was on the faculty of Gonzaga University for many years, and occasionally performed with Josie McDermott, a flute player from Arigna. Father Pete composed “Father O’Grady’s Trip to Bocca,” among other traditional tunes.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><em>Photo below: Family and friends of Patrick Francis Grady and his wife, Mary T., gathered with them at St. Robert Bellarmine Church to celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary in 2009. Photo by Gerry Regan</em></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Pat worked as an usher for many years at St. Robert’s, yielding that post only when he found it too difficult balancing the collection basket and his cane.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>PF never lost his feel for farming, though he only returned to Ireland once, in 1986. In a 2009 phone conversation, former Bockagh resident Pat Flannery said: “I remember walking down the land with him. … I was bringing a cow up for milking. You’d think Paddy had never left Ireland. I said ‘I’m farming the length of your arm and you know more than I do about cows.’ ”</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>But Pat’s journey ultimately led him to us, his legion of surviving friends and family. At his passing, PF was the patriarch of a large, and ever-growing extended family. Right up until his death, his children, grandchildren, sons-in-law, and a wide circle of friends continued to draw inspiration and love from his quiet, attentive and, yes, country ways.</span></p>
<p><span><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/5t2M7mHQmXFK7gEt6x7WbhOtzzMw6LwcB241PLX2MuG4beiyV1qhp6BlpC-j8nVcijN9U0TELpXmrLD4lGOwzcmdmiOlNtmrDz6FGBJBnnYtH9zHMEN5tb0lelR3r_1AupcMRz8" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><img src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/5t2M7mHQmXFK7gEt6x7WbhOtzzMw6LwcB241PLX2MuG4beiyV1qhp6BlpC-j8nVcijN9U0TELpXmrLD4lGOwzcmdmiOlNtmrDz6FGBJBnnYtH9zHMEN5tb0lelR3r_1AupcMRz8?width=624" width="624" class="align-center"/></a></span></p>Heroism at 'Selma': Were the Irish On The Right Side of History?tag:thewildgeese.irish,2015-01-10:6442157:BlogPost:1374162015-01-10T18:00:00.000ZGerry Reganhttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/ger_regan
<a href="https://pmcvariety.files.wordpress.com/2014/12/selma-past-mirror-on-the-present.jpg?w=670&h=377&crop=1" rel="noopener" target="_blank"><img class="align-full" src="https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/8426627896?profile=RESIZE_710x" style="padding: 1px;" width="750"></img></a><p></p>
<p><strong><span class="font-size-7" style="font-family: 'book antiqua', palatino;">"S</span>elma," a new film that just went wide</strong> to screens around the US, is an Interesting film, and for me as a student of the American, as well as the Irish, experiences, one well worth the investment to watch. The film narrates…</p>
<a href="https://pmcvariety.files.wordpress.com/2014/12/selma-past-mirror-on-the-present.jpg?w=670&h=377&crop=1" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><img src="https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/8426627896?profile=RESIZE_710x" width="750" class="align-full" style="padding: 1px;"/></a><p></p>
<p><strong><span class="font-size-7" style="font-family: 'book antiqua', palatino;">"S</span>elma," a new film that just went wide</strong> to screens around the US, is an Interesting film, and for me as a student of the American, as well as the Irish, experiences, one well worth the investment to watch. The film narrates the epic events from March 7 to March 25, 1965, when civil rights activists, led by the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr., marched to secure voting rights for black Americans, but particularly for those in the former Confederacy. </p>
<p><strong>In a scene from "Selma," David Oyelowo as Rev. Martin Luther King Jr., pauses after police withdraw from Edmund Pettus Bridge, seemingly opening the way for them to march unimpeded. Brad Pitt and Oprah Winfrey produced the film and Ava DuVernay directs. Martin Sheen has a cameo as a judge asked to rule on the legality of the attempted marches. </strong></p>
<p>In two of the film's most dramatic scenes, marchers, of a variety of colors and religious beliefs, assemble on Selma's Edmund Pettus Bridge, to challenge local officials and their police minions, attempting to stem the protesters' civil rights march to Montgomery, the Alabama state capital. In the first of three attempted marches, state police and a civilian 'posse' attacked the marchers, driving them back into Selma as they whipped and hammered them mercilessly. This provided the activists a nationwide audience for the brutality of local and state officials, and the many vocal white citizens who stood by as cheerleaders for their inhumanity.</p>
<p>So as I watched the second and ultimately unimpeded third march set off, with nuns in habits, men wearing yarmulkes, and many whites, of all ages, in the ranks, I thought, 'Were the Irish there in significant numbers?" Certainly, the sisters in the ranks suggested some were? And <em>who</em> were they and what might be their stories? I'd welcome any info on this.</p>
<p><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/3/3c/Bloody_Sunday-Alabama_police_attack.jpeg" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><img src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/3/3c/Bloody_Sunday-Alabama_police_attack.jpeg?width=300" width="300" class="align-left" style="padding: 1px;"/></a></p>
<p><strong><span>Alabama police attack marchers attempting their first Selma-to-Montgomery March, March 7, 1965, an infamous event that came to be dubbed "Bloody Sunday." Wikipedia Commons Photo</span></strong></p>
<p>As far as the film itself, it is <span style="font-size: 13px;">always difficult, it seems to me, to translate historical events into taut drama, with the drama often coming at the expense of historical accuracy. My sense here is that where 'Selma' falls short is its desire to offer both verisimilitude while keeping us fully and emotionally engaged. I found the film a bit 'talky' at times, during the strategy conferences, for example. These interludes are great for historical exposition, I think, but invite the mind to wander as for me the emotional pull lags in those moments. (To view the film's official trailer, follow <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x6t7vVTxaic" target="_blank" rel="noopener">this link</a>.)</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: 13px;">I admit to being disappointed with "Selma," as my expectations were high. The producers have done a masterful job promoting the film and building anticipation, as last night's nearly full screening in Manhattan demonstrates. My hope was that it would become a blockbuster, but I am reminded with this of the immense challenge facing filmmakers who want a particularly meaningful history to find new life and audiences via their work. I hope I'm wrong, but my sense is that the word of mouth may not provide "Selma" with the audiences I think it deserves. <strong>-- Ger</strong></span></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"></p>Not Too Frigid To Hear the Story of The Irish in 'Da Big Easy'tag:thewildgeese.irish,2015-01-08:6442157:BlogPost:1371402015-01-08T21:00:00.000ZGerry Reganhttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/ger_regan
<p><strong><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84709800?profile=original" target="_self"><img class="align-full" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84709800?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750"></img></a> New York --</strong> About 20 stalwarts, including three members of The Wild Geese, trekked to American Irish Historical Society last night in near sub-zero temperatures for a presentation on "…</p>
<p><strong><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84709800?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="750" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84709800?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750" class="align-full"/></a>New York --</strong> About 20 stalwarts, including three members of The Wild Geese, trekked to American Irish Historical Society last night in near sub-zero temperatures for a presentation on "<a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Irish-Orleans-Laura-Kelley/dp/193575453X/ref=as_sl_pc_ss_til?tag=thewildgeeset-20&linkCode=w01&linkId=3LCOTXG3LKYVVYKW&creativeASIN=193575453X" target="_blank">The Irish in New Orleans</a>." </p>
<p>The climate, replete with winds howling like banshees beyond the windows outside the Society's tony 5th Avenue townhouse, was inhospitable, but we wayfarers were, I think it fair to say, amply rewarded.</p>
<p><strong>The Wild Geese in attendance at last evening's presentation, p</strong>ictured, left to right: the evening's speaker, author Laura Kelley, Gerry Regan (holding Kelley's new book), and singer / songwriter Tara O'Grady, who next month is releasing her fourth studio album, titled "Irish Bayou," featuring "a<span> gumbo of genres – from zydeco and rockabilly, to folk, funk, swing and blues." <span class="font-size-2">Photo by </span></span><span class="font-size-2">Moira Tierney</span></p>
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84709858?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="250" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84709858?profile=RESIZE_320x320" width="250" class="align-left" style="padding: 1px;"/></a><span style="font-size: 13px;">The presenter, </span><span style="font-size: 13px;">historian (and Wild Geese member) Laura D. Kelley, who resides in the Crescent City</span><span style="font-size: 13px;">, came home to her New York birthplace a complete weather naif, sans hat and gloves, which she said were kindly provided by her hosts, some empathetic Redemptorists in Brooklyn.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: 13px;">For 45 or so minutes, she beguiled us with her artful narration of the Irish experience in New Orleans, from the early 17th century settlers who came with The Wild Geese via France to the last, and largest, immigrant wave during The Great Famine.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: 13px;">Kelley, <span>an adjunct assistant professor in the Tulane University </span><a id="http://history.tulane.edu/web/default.asp|" href="http://history.tulane.edu/web/default.asp" name="http://history.tulane.edu/web/default.asp|">Department of History</a> <span>and creator of the Hidden History </span><a id="http://tulane.edu/cps/students/servicelearning.cfm|" href="http://tulane.edu/cps/students/servicelearning.cfm" name="http://tulane.edu/cps/students/servicelearning.cfm|">service-learning</a><span> course, </span>teaches "The Irish in New Orleans" at Tulane. Her book, "<a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Irish-Orleans-Laura-Kelley/dp/193575453X/ref=as_sl_pc_ss_til?tag=thewildgeeset-20&linkCode=w01&linkId=G7WTBYNCQF6MWBZF&creativeASIN=193575453X" target="_blank">The Irish in New Orleans</a>" from University of Louisiana at Lafayette Press, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Irish-Orleans-Laura-Kelley/dp/193575453X/ref=as_sl_pc_ss_til?tag=thewildgeeset-20&linkCode=w01&linkId=G7WTBYNCQF6MWBZF&creativeASIN=193575453X" target="_blank">is available</a> online.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: 13px;">Here's how her publisher describes Kelley's new book:</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: 13px;">"In this well-researched volume, historian Dr. Laura D. Kelley tells the colorful, amusing and often adventurous history of the Irish in New Orleans. From 'Bloody' O’Reilly in the 18th century to the great churches and charitable organizations built by the Irish Famine immigrants in the 19th century to the Irish-dominated politics of the 20th century, as well as Irish dance, music and sports, the author introduces the reader to a hitherto untold story of one of America’s most historical cities. The book also includes essays by Betsy McGovern recalling her involvement in the city’s Irish music scene and Terrence Fitzmorris who discusses wakes and funerary practices of the Irish. The lively and readable text is beautifully illustrated with photographs by Carrie Lee Pierson Schwartz that convey the continuing vibrancy of the Irish community of the Crescent City."</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: 13px;">We are hoping to bring Laura's expertise to The Wild Geese for a week-long focus on the Irish experience in New Orleans. Stay tuned!</span></p>
<p></p>
<p><span style="font-size: 13px;"> </span></p>Irish Brigade Clears Way for Governor Mario Cuomo, March 1991tag:thewildgeese.irish,2015-01-06:6442157:BlogPost:1369082015-01-06T21:00:00.000ZGerry Reganhttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/ger_regan
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/31742771?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" target="_self"><img class="align-full" height="480" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/31742771?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="640"></img></a> <strong>New York --</strong> News of the passing of former New York state Governor Mario Cuomo reminds me of one of several serendipitous encounters I had with the Governor, whom I once happily envisioned as US president. With his flights of eloquence, his progressive views, and staunch opposition to the death penalty, he seemed to exude the…</p>
<p><a width="640" height="480" href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/31742771?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" target="_self"><img width="640" height="480" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/31742771?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" class="align-full"/></a><strong>New York --</strong> News of the passing of former New York state Governor Mario Cuomo reminds me of one of several serendipitous encounters I had with the Governor, whom I once happily envisioned as US president. With his flights of eloquence, his progressive views, and staunch opposition to the death penalty, he seemed to exude the self-assurance and humanism that I'd long sought in a leader. Clearly, though, God had another plan.</p>
<p><strong>Former Governor Mario M. Cuomo in praise of <a href="http://thewildgeese.com/photo/albums/celebrating-the-launch-of-peter-quinn-s-new-thriller-dry-bones" target="_self">author and former Cuomo speechwriter Peter Quinn</a>, December 2013, at the midtown residence of New York Consul General Noel Kilkenny and his wife, Honora.</strong></p>
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84709575?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="400" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84709575?profile=RESIZE_480x480" width="400" class="align-left" style="padding: 1px;"/></a>My first encounter occurred in 1991. First some background: From 1987 through 1991, I worked with a few other devotees of the Irish military experience, most notably fellow WG member <a href="http://thewildgeese.com/profile/LiamMurphy" target="_self">Liam Murphy</a>, to pull together a portrayal of a color guard drawn from Thomas Francis Meagher's Civil War-era Irish Brigade. We began that year with about a dozen reenactors, drawn primarily from Long Island-base Co. H, 119th New York Infantry, and by 1990 our numbers swelled to 160 or so, the year marking the 125th anniversary of the end of America's Civil War.</p>
<p><strong>'2nd Battalion, Irish Brigade, Castle Clinton, New York NY, March 16, 1991'</strong></p>
<p><span style="font-size: 13px;">We typically had a lot of down time before step-off, as the parade drew 150,000 marchers and millions of spectators. For us in the brigade, it was verily a time when art imitated life, noting the miltary's penchant to 'hurry up and wait.' We delighted in the many Civil War-era artifacts and structures that we found, including our lodgings -- a Coast Guard-operated motel in nearby Governors Island, a stone's throw from antebellum structures Fort Columbus and Fort Jay.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: 13px;">In 1991, we also included a stop at Castle Clinton, at the Battery, the lower end of Manhattan. Here our entourage, which must have included at least two companies, and perhaps three, posed for pictures. We also had an opportunity before we all stepped off to talk with briefly then-Governor Cuomo and Senator Al D'Amato, aka "Senator Pothole" for his unrivaled attention to constituents. For most politicians then, less-so today, an appearance in the parade was mandatory to better curry favor with the city's substantial Irish-Catholic population. </span></p>
<p><strong><span style="font-size: 13px;">Below, center, in profile, Mario Cuomo surrounded by armed reenactors. My original hand-written caption reads, "Irish Brigade Clears Way for Gov. Mario Cuomo West 44th Street, 3/16/91."</span></strong></p>
<p><span style="font-size: 13px;">I recall feeling on the heels of this contact that this governor was very dignified yet personable, a remarkably adroit and engaging human being, a man of the people. We at The Wild Geese were to meet the Governor again in December 2013 at the <span>midtown residence of New York Consul General Noel Kilkenny and his wife, Honora, at <a href="http://thewildgeese.com/photo/albums/celebrating-the-launch-of-peter-quinn-s-new-thriller-dry-bones" target="_self">a reception honoring author and former Cuomo speechwriter Peter Quinn</a>.</span></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: 13px;"><span><span>Governor Mario Matthew Cuomo, <span>June 15, 1932 – January 1, 2015</span>. <em>Ar dheis Dé go raibh a anam!</em></span></span></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: 13px;"><span><a width="750" href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84709643?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" target="_self"><img width="750" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84709643?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" class="align-full"/></a><br/></span></span></p>
<p></p>‘Who Turned Those Lights On? Kill the B------’: Christmas at Sea 1942tag:thewildgeese.irish,2014-12-23:6442157:BlogPost:1349142014-12-23T23:00:00.000ZGerry Reganhttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/ger_regan
<p dir="ltr"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/oEZVhCKkWLeMvfGzD0iaHnWXTvji8BrbGqDNBhqX-p5_hy3JbQ7EtABbpmrC_UrIAoePz0ayYdY6eEQHAtjVQOdpVeHuRXJO4olH3MGlH5Sq-VlCyOZWQall_SLfmLx3TQ" target="_blank"><img class="align-full" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/oEZVhCKkWLeMvfGzD0iaHnWXTvji8BrbGqDNBhqX-p5_hy3JbQ7EtABbpmrC_UrIAoePz0ayYdY6eEQHAtjVQOdpVeHuRXJO4olH3MGlH5Sq-VlCyOZWQall_SLfmLx3TQ?width=750" width="750"></img></a></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Part 3 of 3 of the Series '<span style="font-size: 13px;">We Will Probably Land Christmas Day’: At War in the Atlantic, 1942</span><span style="font-size: 13px;"> </span></strong></p>
<p><strong><span style="font-size: 21.1111125946045px;">T</span>his…</strong></p>
<p dir="ltr"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/oEZVhCKkWLeMvfGzD0iaHnWXTvji8BrbGqDNBhqX-p5_hy3JbQ7EtABbpmrC_UrIAoePz0ayYdY6eEQHAtjVQOdpVeHuRXJO4olH3MGlH5Sq-VlCyOZWQall_SLfmLx3TQ" target="_blank"><img src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/oEZVhCKkWLeMvfGzD0iaHnWXTvji8BrbGqDNBhqX-p5_hy3JbQ7EtABbpmrC_UrIAoePz0ayYdY6eEQHAtjVQOdpVeHuRXJO4olH3MGlH5Sq-VlCyOZWQall_SLfmLx3TQ?width=750" width="750" class="align-full"/></a></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Part 3 of 3 of the Series '<span style="font-size: 13px;">We Will Probably Land Christmas Day’: At War in the Atlantic, 1942</span><span style="font-size: 13px;"> </span></strong></p>
<p><strong><span style="font-size: 21.1111125946045px;">T</span>his third and final part</strong> <span style="font-size: 13px;">of <a href="http://thewildgeese.com/profiles/blogs/we-will-probably-land-christmas-day-at-war-in-the-atlantic-1942" target="_self">‘We Will Probably Land Christmas Day’: At War in the Atlantic, 1942’</a> </span><span style="font-size: 13px;">presents my Dad's decades-later recollections of his experience with and in the U.S. Navy in 1942, including his voyage as a sailor aboard the troopship USS Elizabeth C. Stanton.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: 13px;">The “Lizzie,” as shipmates came to refer to the former freighter, with Dad in tow, was heading across the Atlantic Ocean as Christmas approached. In our 10-minute recorded conversation, he and I focused on the ship’s participation in a massive convoy in support of the Allied forces’ invasion of North Africa, the first large-scale US-British blow struck against the Axis.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Of all the parts of my Dad's oral account, perhaps his most colorful relates how an inadvertent flip of a switch illuminated the "Lizzie" during a blackout, which, he noted,</span> <span>could</span> <span>have had a calamitous ending.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><em><span id="docs-internal-guid-6d1285ed-8696-09ff-e384-f0f276a92140"><span><span id="docs-internal-guid-6d1285ed-8698-a0dc-7faf-19770fcab1a3"><span>' I inadvertently threw a switch</span></span>’ -- In the photo above,</span><span> searchlights pierce the night sky during an air-raid practice on Gibraltar</span><span>, November 20, 1942. </span><span>My Dad would run afoul of blackout rules while his ship passed through the Straits nearly five weeks later.</span></span> Dallison G W (Lieut), War Office official photographer / Wikimedia Commons </em></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Part 1 of 2, “<a href="http://thewildgeese.com/profiles/blogs/we-will-probably-land-christmas-day-at-war-in-the-atlantic-1942" target="_self">Getting To Where We Are Going”</a> by contrast, </span><span>includes the early parts of a long episodic letter my father wrote to my Mom while in the convoy. In these, he focused on his first quiet week on the high seas, as part of the convoy transporting tens of thousands of U.S. soldiers to support the ongoing invasion. The rest of the letter, covered in <a href="http://thewildgeese.com/profiles/blogs/we-will-probably-land-christmas-day-at-war-in-the-atlantic-1942-p" target="_self">Part 2, begin with his musing that there are “3 more shopping days left and I haven’t a thing to buy.’</a></span><span> </span><span>It includes the USS Elizabeth C. Stanton’s approach to Spain, passage through Gibraltar and safe arrival in Oran.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/OoLlN9IoUPo0AiFTq-CYXeq05Qa6wnGh_dCfE-VEWqU8clXsP23JBNlmS0_wLtPqOO8mioPC06zCFo7V-csgJ_-sB3UPthWuUqPqyw1z0DT6h7Pu1OsuvEZoSROp33fFEA" target="_blank"><img src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/OoLlN9IoUPo0AiFTq-CYXeq05Qa6wnGh_dCfE-VEWqU8clXsP23JBNlmS0_wLtPqOO8mioPC06zCFo7V-csgJ_-sB3UPthWuUqPqyw1z0DT6h7Pu1OsuvEZoSROp33fFEA?width=426" width="426" class="align-right"/></a></p>
<p dir="ltr"><em>American troops landing at Fedala, Morocco, on Sunday, November 8, 1942. Civilian and Navy personnel at Pier 45 in lower Manhattan, including my father, installed armor plate on landing craft such as this. US Army photo</em></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>What Dad chose not to mention in his letter home was his ever-present unease that the convoy could be attacked at any moment.</span> <span>“</span><span>All the time we were going there they kept dropping depth charges off the rear end of the ship,” Dad mentions in his interview. “Then they had a reconnaissance plane on the rear end of the ship that took off every day and hovered in and out of the convoy at lower altitudes to see if they could detect anything underwater.” He noted that, at least as far as he could tell, none of the 600 ships in the convoy were lost.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Of all parts of my Dad's account, perhaps his most colorful relates how an inadvertent flip of a switch illuminated the Elizabeth C. Stanton during a blackout, which, he noted,</span> <span>could</span> <span>have had a calamitous ending.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>The transcript of the conversation with my Dad, lightly edited, is presented below. It was recorded on Feb. 4, 2004, and begins with his work as a civilian crane operator on Manhattan's Pier 45, where he drew the favorable attention of the Navy's commander there. In a harbinger of the dramatic air-sea-land missions to come, the workers on Pier 45 were adding armor-plating to landing craft.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span style="font-size: 13px;">My Dad, much to his relief, garnered stateside assignments for the war's duration, in Maryland; in Miami, as a physical training instructor for officers in the Navy’s subchaser program, and finally, in New York City, at St. Alban’s Naval Hospital as a physical therapist for wounded military personnel. "Andy" in his account below refers to my Dad’s father-in-law, Andrew Belinski, a Brooklyn-born Navy veteran of World Wars 1 and 2. After Pearl Harbor, Andy was called up from the Naval Reserve and served as a lieutenant, where he was posted to 90 Church Street, a vital recruiting and administration center for the Navy in Manhattan.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><iframe width="100%" height="300" frameborder="no" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/182510811&auto_play=false&hide_related=false&show_comments=true&show_user=true&show_reposts=false&visual=true"></iframe>
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<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>All right, we were talking about Andy, that he had gotten you a job on the Port working on the docks.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>On Pier 45 in the North River. And they had contracts to armor-plate the landing barges. And they need someone to operate this mobile crane. For some reason, I had never been on one in my life. I took to it and they liked it and they had me working.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>On Pier 45, is that in the Village? You told me at one time. Around Christopher Street?</span></p>
<p><strong><span style="font-size: 13px;">Dad:</span></strong> <span style="font-size: 13px;">West Village</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>Around Christopher Street?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/qAz8s3kY38h9HZ4X_hOP4E3aDH9EAenq12-i4v6GgnOqdrXdBaUOSk0IHigRJgMYnAptlD-fVrX1PUq0BUMvqaXCp8oax84sM3tLQCcSIC9UudufqtpFHjYdACJDjOZ70Q" target="_blank"><img src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/qAz8s3kY38h9HZ4X_hOP4E3aDH9EAenq12-i4v6GgnOqdrXdBaUOSk0IHigRJgMYnAptlD-fVrX1PUq0BUMvqaXCp8oax84sM3tLQCcSIC9UudufqtpFHjYdACJDjOZ70Q?width=750" width="750" class="align-full"/></a></span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><em>Towing the hull of USS Lafayette with a view of the Hudson River piers, 1945. Photo Credit: U.S. Navy via the New-York Historical Society</em></p>
<p><strong><span style="font-size: 13px;">Dad:</span></strong> <span style="font-size: 13px;">Around Christopher Street, yea. Then this Navy commander came over to me one day and said to me “How come you’re not in the service?” I didn’t tell him I’d been in the Army, I just said I am married. He said, "We’ll get you a spot, a rental allowance and subsistence, and you can continue on the job here."</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><strong>Ger</strong>:</span> <span>You were a crane operator, did you say?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>Yea</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>And this guy, he was assigned there, and he would see you and ...</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>No, he was in charge, he was a lieutenant commander in charge of the whole operation.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>How long did you work there, at Pier 45?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>Only about three or four months, and then, as I say, he offered me this opportunity to go into the Navy. </span><span style="font-size: 13px;">Pier 45 was the Navy’s installation. Andy got me the job, because the Port Authority, the Port Director, supervised it.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>After three months, you caught the attention of the military commander?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>He wanted to know why I wasn’t in the service. I didn’t tell him I had been in the Army and out. He sent me down to 90 Church Street with a letter. It was sealed, I didn’t read it. I saw a little old chief yeoman like Andy with stripes all up and down his arm. He says "Sit down here, kid. I don’t think we can make you an ensign. We don’t have any openings today."</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger laughs</strong></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>He came out after I sat there about an hour.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><strong>Ger laughs:</strong> </span><span>Is that what the letter said, “make you an ensign.”</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>So he said, the best I can do is a second-class bosun’s mate, which is the second highest enlisted man’s rating.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>So that lieutenant commander put in the fix for you?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>Yea, and then my first assignment in the Navy was back on Pier 45. That’s what he wanted me in for.</span></p>
<p><strong><span style="font-size: 13px;">Ger:</span></strong> <span style="font-size: 13px;">Did you have to go through any training?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>Never went to boot camp in my life, never handled a gun or anything.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>He gave you this rank, and then you immediately got your uniform and reported back to work.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>Yea, I went right back doing my job that I did as a civilian for 82 cents an hours. Actually, I was making about the same money, between the pay of a second-class bosun’s mate and the rental allowance.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>What are we talking about ... April of ‘42?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>October or November of 42.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>The next thing I know he called me in one day. Now he’s got me suckered into the Navy … "I’m handpicking a crew to go on a special assignment," he says, so I volunteered, and I wound up in North Africa.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger laughing:</strong> <span>In other words, he picked you to <em>volunteer</em>.</span></p>
<p><span><span> </span></span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/h_0d3KXfkJ8b2Zwik49JdRK-6giXzGIS5f7_bZDMqEBBwmHrkr-IQlSMm-SzpRGrxMtF0i5yN4E1QyRau6r6eWmUAQJNogSWMSJI4e8edIHzFtVh21GZ_najLMPm4ZLy1w" target="_blank"><img src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/h_0d3KXfkJ8b2Zwik49JdRK-6giXzGIS5f7_bZDMqEBBwmHrkr-IQlSMm-SzpRGrxMtF0i5yN4E1QyRau6r6eWmUAQJNogSWMSJI4e8edIHzFtVh21GZ_najLMPm4ZLy1w?width=750" width="750" class="align-full"/></a></span></p>
<p><em><span style="font-size: 13px;">Once on board the USS Elizabeth C. Stanton, Dad was put in charge of an Oerlikon 20-mm cannon, identical to this one found on the SS Jeremiah O'Brien. Photo by Earthpig / Wikimedia Commons</span></em></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>Yea! But the thing was I had never gone to boot camp. I didn’t know anything, I didn’t have any Naval routine or procedure. And I’d been on board ship as a bosun’s mate. So they made me a gun captain of a 20-mm. I’d never looked at a 20-mm gun.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>Your first assignment -- was that the Elizabeth [C.] Stanton?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>It was my only assignment on the ship I was on.</span></p>
<p><strong><span style="font-size: 13px;">Ger:</span></strong> <span style="font-size: 13px;">You got a letter report telling you to report. Is that how it worked, a telegram or a letter?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>In the Navy, they sent you a notice -- that was to become on active duty. I went home in my civilian clothes and a bag with all my Navy clothes that they issued to me. And then within a week or so they called me to active duty and assigned me to Pier 45. It was all cut and dried.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>How long did you work at Pier 45 as a sailor?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>About two months.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>Now we’re talking about October of 42 when you got your orders to ship out.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>For this mysterious trip! We went over to Staten Island.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>How did that work? Were you told to assemble at Pier 45 and then they would transfer you?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>I was the only one from Pier 45.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>OK, where were you told to report?</span></p>
<p><strong><span style="font-size: 13px;">Dad:</span></strong> <span style="font-size: 13px;">I guess the commander called me in or they gave me a letter or something. I was to report at a certain time, to pick up a bus or train, I think it was, I took a train to Penn Station. They took a wide looping trip to wind up coming in from the Jersey side to Staten Island. Then we went aboard a ship at 3 o’clock in the morning.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>Which was the Stanton?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/BRNNdnNz4m-biMZzRlPgorJiZNH_sR6jA2xFVm6CKqJU8C9hoCukVLkl12U1wc1PvPv1wbgMW-n_QNi0CnWOuAnLJ670xrKpnA4lM8gf7L6Az8Fk-YIruzE5vXCicGFZ6Q" target="_blank"><img src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/BRNNdnNz4m-biMZzRlPgorJiZNH_sR6jA2xFVm6CKqJU8C9hoCukVLkl12U1wc1PvPv1wbgMW-n_QNi0CnWOuAnLJ670xrKpnA4lM8gf7L6Az8Fk-YIruzE5vXCicGFZ6Q?width=750" width="750" class="align-full"/></a></span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>I was scared stiff. I was no hero. I was wondering what I got myself into.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>Did the Stanton immediately head out then, as soon as it got its crew?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>After they put on about 5,000 troops, put them down in the hold of the ship. They smelled so, the feet, I don’t think the guys took their clothes off for 16 days. At least the Navy had a little better quarters.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>These were Army troops, I guess.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>All Army.</span></p>
<p><strong><span style="font-size: 13px;">Ger:</span></strong> <span style="font-size: 13px;">Did you run into anyone you know at that point, in the Army?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>I don’t think I spoke to 10 people on board.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>Was it November you shipped out?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>November and the early part of December. We had a rendezvous off the African coast. About 700 ships, what do they call those things?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>Convoys?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>Convoys!</span></p>
<p><strong><span style="font-size: 13px;">Ger:</span></strong> <span style="font-size: 13px;">Didn’t you assemble into a convoy off the Atlantic coast rather than the African coast? That would seem to me …</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>Ships converged from all over the East Coast, all over the ports of Staten Island, Norfolk, probably Florida, and they rendezvoused out in the ocean. And sometimes they went around in circles for days, waiting for the convoy to converge.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>So you crossed the Atlantic in a convoy, I guess.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>And then all the time we were going there they kept dropping depth charges off the rear end of the ship.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/VniM_OdaynCQQ0cg9RJNE9hxEUlEfAUWYE-danmY0MDS4E79LO43v1A8Qbnzx4zsUAajDkDBy55N_65demTnF8ZfIx2ZpnjGwwLm_suwqkOo1Bj0gxO7unM6Ob_d9_wg_g" target="_blank"><img src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/VniM_OdaynCQQ0cg9RJNE9hxEUlEfAUWYE-danmY0MDS4E79LO43v1A8Qbnzx4zsUAajDkDBy55N_65demTnF8ZfIx2ZpnjGwwLm_suwqkOo1Bj0gxO7unM6Ob_d9_wg_g?width=380" width="380" class="align-left"/></a></p>
<p><em><span style="font-size: 13px;">Depth charges fired from an unidentified destroyer escort. Photo courtesy of USSSlater.org</span></em></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>Your ship?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>Yes, because there were suspected submarines. I never saw one but they suspected them, and they dropped these depth charges. Then they had a reconnaissance plane on the rear end of the ship that took off every day and hovered in and out of the convoy at lower altitudes to see if they could detect anything underwater.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>Did the convoy lose any ships?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>Not that I know of. Someone said it was spread out for 600 miles.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>That seems a bit of an exaggeration but could have been ...</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>It was 700 ships … They weren’t all close together.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>One of your scariest moments was crossing through Gibraltar, right?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/I46arq3809ffwre7qpgFAoS8Ju_6rWEZjKbb0Vwngv_nKKVyVMCiOqk1Ppdh0KV6lER19Xkt7XKeWXkRD6-U7ZcrLBJ-XSYHpiXFxTRTHAkMyV2ZzgW7TKoKmso1n4yYEg?width=250" target="_blank"><img src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/I46arq3809ffwre7qpgFAoS8Ju_6rWEZjKbb0Vwngv_nKKVyVMCiOqk1Ppdh0KV6lER19Xkt7XKeWXkRD6-U7ZcrLBJ-XSYHpiXFxTRTHAkMyV2ZzgW7TKoKmso1n4yYEg?width=300" width="300" class="align-right" style="padding: 1px;"/></a><strong>Dad:</strong></span> <span>The straits of Gibraltar. Because of my rating I was supposed to be qualified as a gun captain, bosun's mate of the watch, and all those things that went with the rating. At that time, anyone who was a bosun mate second-class had been in the Navy four or five years. And they’d always say, “Hey Boats, what ship were you on before?” “Oh, I had shore duty, I was on Pier 45.” I lengthened my time there.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><em>My Dad and Mom, together again, at Dad’s duty station in Miami, Florida in 1943. Regan Family Archives</em></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>What happened when the ship passed through Gibraltar?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>They made me bosun’s mate of the watch, and the ship was in complete darkness because there was a blackout in North Africa. The city of Tangier [in neutral Spanish Morocco] was an open city, so all around (Tangier) was blacked out, but Tangier looked like Coney Island. It was a joke! On one side was Tangier all lit up and on the [Gibraltar] side was ... all blacked out. And I don’t know somehow, I, inadvertently, I threw a switch and all the lights went on on the ship. And the captain yelled, “Who turned those lights on? Kill the bastard. Shoot him!” [I replied] “I don’t know .. who, who was up there?” I got out of there in a hurry.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>Were you on the bridge when that happened?</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>Yea, but when I saw what happened, in the turmoil, I went down off the bridge and got to the lower deck there.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Ger:</strong> <span>Did you consider jumping over?</span> <span>Ger laughs.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dad:</strong> <span>I was just so happy they didn’t determine it was me.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;"><em>--30--</em></p>‘3 More Shopping Days Left': A Christmas in Convoy 1942tag:thewildgeese.irish,2014-12-13:6442157:BlogPost:1325642014-12-13T23:00:00.000ZGerry Reganhttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/ger_regan
<p dir="ltr"><strong><a href="http://images.rarenewspapers.com/ebayimgs/10.84.2012/image047_w200.jpg" target="_blank"><img class="align-left" src="http://images.rarenewspapers.com/ebayimgs/10.84.2012/image047_w200.jpg?width=350" style="padding: 1px;" width="350"></img></a> Part 2 of 3 of the series ‘We Will Probably Land Christmas Day’: At War in the Atlantic, 1942 </strong></p>
<p dir="ltr"><em><a href="http://thewildgeese.com/profiles/blogs/we-will-probably-land-christmas-day-at-war-in-the-atlantic-1942" target="_self">Part 1 of 2, “Getting To Where We Are Going”</a> includes my father's accounts of his first quiet week on the high…</em></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong><a href="http://images.rarenewspapers.com/ebayimgs/10.84.2012/image047_w200.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://images.rarenewspapers.com/ebayimgs/10.84.2012/image047_w200.jpg?width=350" width="350" class="align-left" style="padding: 1px;"/></a>Part 2 of 3 of the series ‘We Will Probably Land Christmas Day’: At War in the Atlantic, 1942 </strong></p>
<p dir="ltr"><em><a href="http://thewildgeese.com/profiles/blogs/we-will-probably-land-christmas-day-at-war-in-the-atlantic-1942" target="_self">Part 1 of 2, “Getting To Where We Are Going”</a> includes my father's accounts of his first quiet week on the high seas heading to North Africa as part of a convoy transporting tens of thousands of U.S. soldiers to support the Allies' ongoing invasion of North Africa. Part 2 begins with his musing that there are “3 more shopping days left and I haven’t a thing to buy.’ It includes the USS Elizabeth C. Stanton’s approach to Spain, passage through Gibraltar and safe arrival in Oran. </em></p>
<p dir="ltr">Upon landing in Oran, my Dad told me, he was issued a pistol, despite his complete lack of firearms training, and told to help guard the gangplank, as the Stanton arrived the day after a gunman in Oran assassinated Vichy France’s Admiral Francois Darlan, who had weeks before pledged his support for the Allied forces pouring into North Africa. All leaves were canceled amid the high dudgeon ashore.</p>
<p dir="ltr">A postscript <a href="http://thewildgeese.com/profiles/blogs/we-will-probably-land-christmas-day-at-war-in-the-atlantic-1942-3" target="_self">'Who Turned Those Lights On,'</a> t<span>he third and final part of this series, </span>presents a transcript, along with the actual recording, of a 10-minute conversation with my Dad on the incidents described here, an account which goes beyond the rosy portrayal of the events related in this letter to my Mom.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><em>Photos: Above, a headline from the Christmas Day 1942 edition of The Boston Post. Below right, the letter my Dad wrote my Mom on Dec. 25, 1942. Photo bottom is a 1941 picture of Evelyn and Gerald Regan (my folks) and his brother Raymond's wife, Marion, Richmond Hill, Queens.</em></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Sunday</strong></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Dearest Evelyn</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>I miss you very much. I hope that when I come back you don’t get tired of hearing me tell you much I love you. This is our second Sunday at sea and in a short while I am going to Mass given by the Army Chaplain. The Navy hasn’t any Chaplain so the Army supplies one.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>So we should reach Gibralter and then around Thursday or Friday we should reach Oran. I never thought that I would spend my Christmas in Africa. The sea is quite calm today, but the air is a little chilly. I keep wondering how your money is holding out and whether or not you got a job that you like.</span> <span>I only hope that when I come back we well be blessed by God with Pat.</span> <span>Gee wouldn’t that be swell? I guess that when I get back Jimmy will be in the Army. When you get this letter I hope you tell everyone I sent my regards. I only wish I could call you on the Phone Christmas but that’s impossible so I will just say a few prayers for you. Gee Honey I love you.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span style="font-size: 13px;"><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84708831?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="400" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84708831?profile=RESIZE_480x480" width="400" class="align-right" style="padding: 1px;"/></a></span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong><span style="font-size: 13px;">Monday</span></strong></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Hello Honey:</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Either late tonight or tomorrow we will sight the Rock of Gibralter.</span> <span>If three weeks ago when the news of the African front was told I thought that I would be in Africa on Christmas day, I would tell them that they were crazy. B</span><span>ut here it is only</span> <span>3 more shopping days left and I haven’t a thing to buy.</span> <span>I hope that you don’t get tired sending out our Christmas cards. The sea is very calm and the air is getting warmer.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>By now I am an old sea salt, no matter how the ship rocks I just rock with it and I have learned to eat with the food sliding back and forth in front of me.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>We all have to wear our battle helmets from today on. I guess this is to protect us from falling stars.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>This would be a nice honeymoon trip for us.</span> <span>Maybe someday when the war is over we will take our planned trip around the world.</span> <span>Well honey I have to stop now as I have to go on watch. I’ll be thinking of you all the while. I’ll write more later.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span> </span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Tuesday</strong></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Hello Honey</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>We have not yet passed the Straight of Gibralter but this morning we passed the islands of Midaras, (Madeira) which I think are somewhere off the coast of Spain.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>I wish you were with me last night. There was a full moon and it just lit up the whole sea, the water reflected the moon and it was so calm and quiet. Just the place to be with your best girl. Tomorrow we are supposed to have a Turkey dinner and celebrate Christmas aboard ship. It seems impossible the Christmas is so near and you are so far away. We should land in Oran late Thursday or Friday morning so say a few prayers for me. I know you won’t get this letter for some time but say a prayer anyway. When I get back I have so much to tell you that you’ll get tired listening to me. I wonder if your brother [Bob] has joined up yet.</span> <span>I also keep thinking that maybe my brother [Raymond] is in this same convoy. I hope he isn’t but there is a possibility that he may.</span> <span>So long for a while, I will write more later.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>I love you.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span style="font-size: 13px;"><strong>Dec 23, Wednesday</strong></span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Merry Christmas Dear</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Its Christmas aboard ship although it is only Dec 23rd. We are going to have our Turkey dinner in a short while. We still are waiting to go through Gibralter. T</span><span>he British are late as usual and we are sailing around in circles waiting for their escort. Not that their help is needed.</span> <span>I was on watch this morning and I never saw such a beautiful sunrise in my life, it came up over the African coast.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Everyone is getting restless and are anxious for the trip to get over with. I hope we get a good reception when we land.</span> <span>When it’s Christmas in N.Y. I will say a prayer for you and my Mother + Father. At least I know that I have a Christmas tree somewhere even if it is 4000 miles away.</span> <span>The crew of this ship was on sea Thanksgiving Day and will be on Christmas Day and New Years Day. They sure are doing their part in winning the war. By the way, I wonder how the war is making out. We don’t get any news about it at all. So long for a while as we are going to eat. I love you and miss you very much.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span> </span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Thursday</strong></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>After 2 days of going around in circles we have finally met the British escort. They were only 2 days later. We should surely go through the Straight today and land at Oran sometime tomorrow.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Yesterday at our Christmas dinner, which was very good at that someone brought out a phonograph and played records . It was just like being home with you listening to the Make Believe Ballroom.</span> <span>When I get back you better let me listen for the whole two hours every night as I have to make up for all the nights I am missing it. As we are going to land soon I will close this letter as we dock so one of the sailors who is going back to the states can take it with him and mail it in N.Y. If I mail it on board it will be censored and you will still have to wait for the ship to get back to N.Y. before you receive it. A</span><span>s this is Christmas Eve back home I sure do feel homesick, but I have a strong feeling that it won’t be long before you and I are together again.</span> <span>I hope that you are well and in good spirits. Well Honey I will close now for a while as I have a 12 to 4 watch this afternoon. So long for a while. I love you.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/hCOYMMXBk6xadnTIdn6sWA6px0xfyv7_9o2pQRHEe3FfBDdOo-IDrzMOr044ndlootbeER5lluVcQSXKDH-aIowGpwAx9aOgfR4v8eJJhCN7VYo9aepVhpc5duvTzeAxrg" target="_blank"><img src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/hCOYMMXBk6xadnTIdn6sWA6px0xfyv7_9o2pQRHEe3FfBDdOo-IDrzMOr044ndlootbeER5lluVcQSXKDH-aIowGpwAx9aOgfR4v8eJJhCN7VYo9aepVhpc5duvTzeAxrg?width=250" width="250" class="align-right"/></a></span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span> </span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Dec 25, Friday</strong></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Dear Evelyn</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>We are now in the Mediterranean Sea slowly heading for Oran. During the night we finally passed through the Straight of Gibralter. And now we can clearly see the Coast of Spain. It sure is a</span> <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Smallworld-Tales-And-Legends-Expansion/dp/B003Q5SS5K/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1351193204&sr=8-2&keywords=small+world"><span>small world</span></a><span>. The sea is quite calm and the air is warm. As yet we have no action. This will be the last of this lengthy and boring letter as I will have to close it early so I can give it to some sailor who is going to mail it in the states for me. When you get this letter,</span> <span>please do not</span> <span>answer it at the address on the envelope as I won’t receive it. Instead wait until you hear from me again. Maybe the next time you hear from me it will be over a telephone.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>As this is Christmas day back home I am enclosing a large kiss for you and I wish you a Merry Merry Xmas and a Happy New Year.</span> <span>And with the help of God I will soon be with you.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Remember Honey don’t answer until you hear from me.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>I sure do miss you and love you very much. Please be good and take care of yourself for me.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>I love you always,</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Jerry</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>P.S. Be careful and Pray to God for both of us.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"></p>‘We Will Probably Land Christmas Day’: At War in the Atlantic, 1942tag:thewildgeese.irish,2014-12-13:6442157:BlogPost:1326502014-12-13T21:30:00.000ZGerry Reganhttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/ger_regan
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84708847?profile=original" target="_self"><img class="align-full" src="https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84708847?profile=original"></img></a></p>
<p></p>
<p><span class="font-size-1"><strong><em>No large operation in World War II surpassed the invasion of North Africa in complexity, daring, risk, or -- as the official U.S. Army Air Forces history concludes -- 'the degree of strategic surprise achieved.'<br></br> <br></br></em></strong></span> <em style="font-size: 8pt;"> -- Author Rick Atkinson,…</em></p>
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84708847?profile=original" target="_self"><img class="align-full" src="https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84708847?profile=original"/></a></p>
<p></p>
<p><span class="font-size-1"><strong><em>No large operation in World War II surpassed the invasion of North Africa in complexity, daring, risk, or -- as the official U.S. Army Air Forces history concludes -- 'the degree of strategic surprise achieved.'<br/> <br/>
</em></strong></span> <em style="font-size: 8pt;"> -- Author Rick Atkinson, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/An-Army-Dawn-1942-1943-Liberation/dp/0805087249/ref=as_sl_pc_ss_til?tag=thewildgeeset-20&linkCode=w01&linkId=SVUZH3WLE2VX37AQ&creativeASIN=0805087249" target="_blank" rel="noopener">"An Army at Dawn: The War in North Africa, </a><a href="http://www.amazon.com/An-Army-Dawn-1942-1943-Liberation/dp/0805087249/ref=as_sl_pc_ss_til?tag=thewildgeeset-20&linkCode=w01&linkId=SVUZH3WLE2VX37AQ&creativeASIN=0805087249" target="_blank" rel="noopener">1942-1943 (Thorndike Press Large Print Nonfiction Series)” (2002)</a><a href="http://www.amazon.com/An-Army-Dawn-1942-1943-Liberation/dp/0805087249/ref=as_sl_pc_ss_til?tag=thewildgeeset-20&linkCode=w01&linkId=SVUZH3WLE2VX37AQ&creativeASIN=0805087249" target="_blank" rel="noopener"></a></em></p>
<p dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;"><strong style="font-size: 13px;"><span class="font-size-7" style="font-family: 'book antiqua', palatino;">M</span>y Dad, also named Gerald Regan (or Jerry),</strong> <span style="font-size: 13px;">played a role in one of the most unsung but vital campaigns in the dramatic history of World War 2. He did so in his characteristically understated style, in large part because he did not have the hindsight of history to know what he and his fellow sailors meant to the war effort. But Dad was also keenly aware that, unlike so many, he escaped this time in a war zone unscathed. </span></p>
<p><a style="font-size: 13.3333339691162px;" href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/aYyiXlJvA7PXbAv8lWigDIO3NpMA0-BnNL8NQzww8T1EgWr0QeigorHb0987NqOdXh0Z7zGRBksNep1MmuSDstcRwWP4x_XTBbl4-yyhjTwd6qVAtdm-_Vcirue01y03Hw" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><img width="150" class="align-left" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/aYyiXlJvA7PXbAv8lWigDIO3NpMA0-BnNL8NQzww8T1EgWr0QeigorHb0987NqOdXh0Z7zGRBksNep1MmuSDstcRwWP4x_XTBbl4-yyhjTwd6qVAtdm-_Vcirue01y03Hw?width=150"/></a></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>I became aware of the letter I present below, written by my Dad to my Mom, Evelyn, in their second year of marriage, after my Mom’s passing in 2004. I found it when going through her chest of drawers. I mentioned it to my father then, but he evinced no particular interest in it. I was struck by the letter’s earnestness, commentary and trove of details about my Dad that I had never heard -- it constitutes a heart-felt, even whimsical view at times of both sea duty and longing for home as Christmas approached. It was his first Christmas away from his family.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>D</span><span style="font-size: 13px;">ad found himself 4,000 miles away from my Mom on Christmas Day 1942, part of a crew of 38 Navy personnel aboard the transport USS Elizabeth C. Stanton. The “LIzzie” carried, according to my Dad’s letter, 2,000 American soldiers in the cramped hold of this former Moore-McCormack cargo liner originally named Mormacstar. He documented the journey, from his ship’s departure off the waters off New York City on Monday, Dec. 14, to his arrival in Oran, Algeria, on Christmas Day. He made time to write, between long, often tedious, occasionally breathtaking stretches of open sea, churning across the Atlantic Ocean. </span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84709090?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="200" class="align-right" style="padding: 1px;" src="https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84709090?profile=RESIZE_320x320"/></a>This was Dad's first and last combat ocean crossing, and he later told me that the experience, described at times below in rhapsodic terms, was sometimes harrowing. At one point in the account below, he wonders aloud if his brother, Raymond, serving in the Army, might be aboard another ship in the convoy. Blessedly for him (and the rest of our family, by extension) the convoy avoided Nazi U-boats, despite 1942 marking the high-point of Nazi success in sinking Allied vessels.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span style="font-size: 13px;">Dad wrote this letter, a little each day, in 12 installments, until his ship landed in Oran. Then, the plan was to hand the letter off to a sailor heading stateside to expedite delivery to his young wife back in Richmond Hill, Queens. I suspect many soldiers and more sailors used the same time-honored strategy, finding that writing each day, no matter how hurried or abbreviated, served as a visceral link to hearth and home.</span></p>
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84709127?profile=RESIZE_320x320" target="_self"><img width="200" src="https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84709127?profile=RESIZE_320x320" class="align-left" style="padding: 1px;"/></a></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Whether he mailed the letter upon his return to New York, or succeeded in handing it off, it’s too late </span><span style="font-size: 13px;">to </span><span style="font-size: 13px;">know. It is postmarked Hoboken, Jan. 14, 1943.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><strong>Part 1 of 2, “Getting To Where We Are Going,”</strong> includes his accounts of his first quiet week on the high seas. <a href="http://thewildgeese.com/profiles/blogs/we-will-probably-land-christmas-day-at-war-in-the-atlantic-1942-p" target="_self"><strong>Part 2 begins with his musing that there are “3 more shopping days left and I haven’t a thing to buy.’</strong></a> It includes the USS Elizabeth C. Stanton’s approach to Spain, passage through Gibraltar and safe arrival in Oran.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Finally, in <a href="http://thewildgeese.com/profiles/blogs/we-will-probably-land-christmas-day-at-war-in-the-atlantic-1942-3" target="_self"><strong>Part 3, ‘Who Turned Those Lights On? Kill the Bastard</strong>,’</a></span><span>we present a postscript, a transcript, along with <a href="https://soundcloud.com/gerry-regan/pt-3-of-3-interview-with-gerald-regan-by-gerry-regan-04fe01-1942wma" target="_blank" rel="noopener">the actual recording, of a 10-minute conversation I shared with my Dad</a> in February 2004, centered on his experience during 1942, with a particular focus on the experience of crossing the Atlantic as Christmas approached. Here my Dad reveals his role in an incident that could have resulted in the destruction of his ship.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><em>Photos: Above, A convoy moves eastward across Atlantic bound for Casablanca, Africa, ca. November 1942. US Navy (NARA). Above left, my Dad in 1944, promoted to Chief Petty Officer. (Regan Family Archives) Below right, the USS Elizabeth C. Stanton, Hampton Roads, Va., Oct. 1, 1942. (<i>Source: U.S. National Archives, RG-80-G</i>) <br/> <br/>
</em></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span class="font-size-3"><strong>Part 1 of 2: ‘Getting To Where We Are Going’</strong></span><span style="font-size: 13px;"><span class="font-size-3"> </span> </span><span style="font-size: 13px;"> </span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Monday, Dec 14</strong></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Dear Evelyn</span></p>
<p dir="ltr">Here I am on the high seas heading for somewhere. We did not sail until Saturday morning although we were on board Friday. There are 2000 soldiers and 38 sailors being transported on this ship. It is a very large convoy and it gets bigger all the time. Nothing exciting happens and every day is the same. I miss you very much and hope that you are well and getting along.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><span><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/SL0G7SaYp2Co-lGdMlis4F9N7VzbFuYkiENFctlyehAR_OtRddAWq5RGzRZRU3ErD1HZDwtjkODS6EKyZd48y1z2T2XA0d83NIAmOHWR_Njm32d8EDVrkZ72224Ce50jyA" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><img width="300" class="align-right" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/SL0G7SaYp2Co-lGdMlis4F9N7VzbFuYkiENFctlyehAR_OtRddAWq5RGzRZRU3ErD1HZDwtjkODS6EKyZd48y1z2T2XA0d83NIAmOHWR_Njm32d8EDVrkZ72224Ce50jyA?width=300"/></a></span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Tuesday</strong></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Hello</span> <span> </span> <span> </span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>The sea is quiet and we are slowly but surely getting to where we are going</span><span>. We are told that we will be sailing for 14 days so you can see that there won’t be much change in our routine for the next few days. We were told that where we are going we are supposed to stay no longer than 90 days. So if everything goes alright I will be home sometime in April. My beard is growing half blond and half black. I love you and miss you very much</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Wednesday</strong></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Good morning</span> <span> </span> <span> </span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>It is raining again and the sea is quite rough. It seems much longer than a week since I last saw you. These ocean voyages seem like years after a few days.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>The poor soldiers on board are really cramped and uncomfortable but our quarters are OK.</span> <span>We will probably land Christmas day and I only hope that our little tree at home helps to make your Christmas a happy one.</span> <span>I keep reminding myself that I owe you a birthday and a Christmas present.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Thursday</strong></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Good morning honey. I missed you all day yesterday more than you could imagine. We are not very busy therefore I have loads of time to think of you. You won’t get the letter for quite some time but don’t worry about me as I feel fine.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>We turned our watches forward another half hour, by the end of today we will be almost halfway to where we are going. The sea is calm and a slight breeze is blowing so is my beard growing by the feet.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Friday</strong></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Dear Honey</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span>Yesterday we were told that we were going to Oran in Northern Africa.</span> <span>I only hope that they don’t have too hot a reception waiting for us as we go through the Straight of Gibralter (sic).</span> <span>Last night I had to stand Boatswain watch from 12 midnight to 4</span> <span>AM</span> <span>. I don’t like that switch because it gives me too much time to think and worry about you. I sure hope you are OK. We were told that there will be no means of cable to announce our arrival in Oran so you will have to wait for this letter which may not reach you until the 15</span><span>th</span> <span>of January. Please don’t be worried.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"></p>
<p dir="ltr"><strong>Saturday</strong></p>
<p><span id="docs-internal-guid-6d1285ed-457d-d0d1-69bf-ce76f2123101"><span>Today they made (me) shave my beard. I took it off I was surprised. My face had gotten pretty thin. We are still sailing toward Oran and as yet there hasn’t been any change.</span> <span>I only wish I could be with you on Christmas, which is only 6 days off.</span> <span>We have been at sea one whole week today and it seems like a year. Nothing much happens except to look forward to getting ashore. I hope everything is is OK with you and I wish I was with you right this minute.</span></span></p>
<p></p>
<p><strong>Part 2 of 3: <a href="http://thewildgeese.com/profiles/blogs/we-will-probably-land-christmas-day-at-war-in-the-atlantic-1942-p" target="_self">'3 More Shopping Days Left, and I Haven't a Thing to Buy'</a></strong></p>Beer, Strikebreaking, Exquisite Furniture: How Work Came to Define This Irish-American Family's Historytag:thewildgeese.irish,2014-09-01:6442157:BlogPost:1159402014-09-01T16:00:00.000ZGerry Reganhttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/ger_regan
<p><span><strong><span class="font-size-5"><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84707316?profile=original" target="_self"><img class="align-full" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84707316?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750"></img></a> <span class="font-size-7" style="font-family: 'book antiqua', palatino;">T</span></span>houghts of labor this holiday, however modest in its aspirations,</strong> invite me to contemplate the role of work in both defining and coloring the lives of my family.</span><br></br> <br></br> <span>My grandfather Ray Regan was born in Harlem, in upper…</span></p>
<p><span><strong><span class="font-size-5"><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84707316?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="750" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84707316?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750" class="align-full"/></a><span class="font-size-7" style="font-family: 'book antiqua', palatino;">T</span></span>houghts of labor this holiday, however modest in its aspirations,</strong> invite me to contemplate the role of work in both defining and coloring the lives of my family.</span><br/> <br/> <span>My grandfather Ray Regan was born in Harlem, in upper Manhattan, in 1898, to (possibly) Irish immigrant Edward Michael Regan, who census records indicate was born in "New York" in 1853. Interestingly, labor leader George Meany was born in Harlem four years earlier. (Read more about Meany on WG <a href="http://thenewwildgeese.com/forum/topics/labor-day-invitation-please-share-your-stories-with-the-wild-gees" target="_self">here</a>.) Edward became an officer in the New York Police Department, entering the force in 1872 at the age of 19. He died in Manhattan in 1911, attaining the rank of lieutenant in the NYPD's mounted patrol. We heard he was, in fact, kicked by a horse, and this occasioned his final illness.</span></p>
<p><strong><em>Above, a Regan family portrait, circa 1910, with Ray Regan sitting, far right, on the lower step. We believe Edward may be sitting atop the railing, far left, and are working to confirm identities of the others pictured, as well as the locale.</em></strong><br/> <br/> <span><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84707437?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="300" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84707437?profile=RESIZE_320x320" width="300" class="align-right" style="padding: 2px;"/></a></span>His son Ray, my grandfather, was the youngest of eight children. Ray worked as a bank teller as a young man, living with his mother, Mary E. Regan (nee Farrell) in an apartment on Franklin Avenue in the Morrisania section of the Bronx. In November 1917, Ray married Susan C. Condon in St. Augustine's Church in Morrisania. My grandma Sue was born in Manhattan's Upper West Side in 1897 but was moved as a young child to 'the country,' in Morrisania. </p>
<p><span><strong><em>Photo right, Ray and Sue in 1941. To hear my Dad discuss Ray and Sue's relationship with Kathryn, listen <a href="https://soundcloud.com/gerry-regan/dad-on-kathryn-regan" target="_blank">here</a>. (SoundCloud snippet, 1:08)<br/> <br/></em></strong></span> Within a few years of their union, Ray and Sue moved the household, and two young sons, to a new home in the Richmond Hill section of Queens. Around that time, Ray seems to have landed a job as a sales representative for the prestigious Thonet furniture company, with factories based in Germany and Austria, and offices and representatives (and many accounts) in New York and elsewhere in the United States.</p>
<p><span>Unlike so many other middle- and working-class Americans, Ray was able to work throughout the Great Depression and, in fact, worked for Thonet until his retirement a few years before his death in 1966, handling sales for the Archdiocese of New York.</span><br/> <br/> <a href="https://img0.etsystatic.com/005/0/5870588/il_fullxfull.369156440_93f0.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="https://img0.etsystatic.com/005/0/5870588/il_fullxfull.369156440_93f0.jpg?width=250" width="250" class="align-left" style="padding: 2px;"/></a><span>Ray's older brother Frank was, said my Dad, "muscle," an itinerant 'strikebreaker,' who disappeared for months or years at a time. When Frank would emerge, is brother Ray, ever gracious and supportive of his family, no matter their sins, would put Frank up in the small bedroom shared by my Dad and Dad's brother Raymond, forcing the two boys to share their bed and Frank's snoring.</span></p>
<p><strong><em>Photo left, several Thonet 'bent-wood' chairs, remarkable for their simplicity and beauty.</em></strong></p>
<p><span>Tantalizingly, we later heard that Frank, an imposing man, had a child through a hush-hush relationship with a woman upstate, something we've never confirmed.</span><br/> <br/> <span>Underscoring his generosity, Ray took in his older sister Kathryn along with his new wife, in deference to Kathryn's care of him when he was a teen after his father died, when their mother grew less able. Kathryn lived with my grandparents from the time of their marriage till Ray finally heeded the final periodic ultimatum Sue issued him. Ray then put his sister, well into her 70s, into a rented, furnished room in a boarding house. Kathryn, after nearly 40 years a part of the household, never recovered from that dramatic and traumatic decision. The pall that created, in my own mind, darkly colors my recounting of our family history.</span><br/> <br/> <span><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84707570?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="275" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84707570?profile=RESIZE_320x320" width="275" class="align-right" style="padding: 2px;"/></a><span>Undoubtedly adding to the tension between Sue and Kathryn, neither were employed, with Sue a stay-at-home mom and Kathryn either not much interested in or never able to hold down a job. I do recall hearing about Kathryn trying to sell door-to-door, light bulbs or the like, near their neighborhood, but the effort didn't last long.</span><br/> <br/> My Dad, after his service in the U.S. Navy during World War II, entered the beer business, landing a succession of jobs in sales, each a step-up, starting with Trommers, then Ballantine , then Rheingold, where he became the Brooklyn sales manager in the glory days of the brewery, which went to head to head with Schaefer for bragging rights as the NYC's largest-selling brew. Eventually, my Dad headed Martlet Importing Co., created by Montreal-based Molson Breweries to give the company distribution in all 50 U.S. states and make Molson the #1 imported brand in the United States. He never got there, with Molson peaking at #2 when he stepped down in 1985.</span></p>
<p><strong><em>Photo right, a page from an advertising supplement, highlighting my Dad's success making Molson Beer and Ale a leading import within the United States.</em></strong></p>
<p><span>Unwittingly, the Martlet / Molson tenure brought our immediate family's history full circle as Dad often cited a persistent rumor that Edward Regan left Ireland for Canada, and finally arrived in New York City, but not before Edward was taken in by the Molson family, perhaps as a hire, though clearly not as an heir. Happy Labor Day! </span></p>
<p><span><strong><strong>Join The Discussion: <span><a rel="nofollow" href="http://thenewwildgeese.com/forum/topics/labor-day-invitation-please-share-your-stories-with-the-wild-gees" target="_self">Work! Tell Us How It Defines Us -- and Our Irish Ancestors</a></span></strong></strong></span></p>'Dysphasia,' 'Rory O'Shea': Irish Films With Heart, Hard Headstag:thewildgeese.irish,2014-07-21:6442157:BlogPost:1063622014-07-21T19:00:00.000ZGerry Reganhttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/ger_regan
<p><b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Rory-OShea-Here-James-McAvoy/dp/B00005JNV9/ref=as_sl_pc_ss_til?tag=thewildgeeset-20&linkCode=w01&linkId=DBBC42U2UOYEBH5N&creativeASIN=B00005JNV9" target="_blank"><img class="align-left" src="http://images.moviepostershop.com/rory-oshea-was-here-movie-poster-2004-1020252646.jpg?width=300" width="300"></img></a> Long Island City, N.Y. –</b> How we try, and often fail to communicate, and how we ultimately and triumphantly can bridge that chasm came across as the focus of two extraordinary and allegorical films that screened Saturday night in Queens at New York Irish Center's…</p>
<p><b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Rory-OShea-Here-James-McAvoy/dp/B00005JNV9/ref=as_sl_pc_ss_til?tag=thewildgeeset-20&linkCode=w01&linkId=DBBC42U2UOYEBH5N&creativeASIN=B00005JNV9" target="_blank"><img width="300" class="align-left" src="http://images.moviepostershop.com/rory-oshea-was-here-movie-poster-2004-1020252646.jpg?width=300"/></a>Long Island City, N.Y. –</b> How we try, and often fail to communicate, and how we ultimately and triumphantly can bridge that chasm came across as the focus of two extraordinary and allegorical films that screened Saturday night in Queens at New York Irish Center's periodic 'Irish Movie Night.'</p>
<p>“<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Rory-OShea-Here-James-McAvoy/dp/B00005JNV9/ref=as_sl_pc_ss_til?tag=thewildgeeset-20&linkCode=w01&linkId=DBBC42U2UOYEBH5N&creativeASIN=B00005JNV9" target="_blank"><strong>Rory O’Shea Was Here</strong></a>,” the night’s main event, debuted in 2004, stars Glasgow-bred actor James McEvoy, and was helmed by Damien O’Donnell from a script by Jeffrey Caine and story by Christian O’Reilly. “Rory” was presented with a short film titled “Fluent Dysphasia,” starring Stephen Rea and written and directed by Daniel O'Hara, a remarkable double-bill assembled by the Center’s Chris Deignan.</p>
<p>What I found startling, despite coming in three minutes into the opening film, the 16-minute ‘Dysphasia,’ is how vividly the films conveyed the frustration created by our failure to understand each other. Having seen both films, I’m inclined to make the case that our difficulty communicating clearly and honestly may be among the greatest challenges we face as human beings.</p>
<p>Overcoming these obstacles provides the setup for these two immensely satisfying explorations of speech and its role in our lives, in a distinctly Irish context but one with universal relevance. </p>
<p>In “Rory O’Shea Was Here,” wheel-chair bound Rory fatefully encounters Michael Connolly at Dublin-based Carrigmore Residential Home for the Disabled, where Michael seemed to have made peace with his cerebral palsy and his inability to articulate well enough to be understood by anyone. Twenty-something Michael, portrayed by fellow Scottish actor Steven Robertson, is a favorite of the staff there, in large part because he passively accepts the home’s program -- affection is so easy to lavish on someone seemingly so helpless. <a href="http://www.jamesmcavoy.com/coppermine/albums/rory/inside004.jpg" target="_blank"><img width="325" class="align-right" style="padding: 2px;" src="http://www.jamesmcavoy.com/coppermine/albums/rory/inside004.jpg?width=325"/></a></p>
<p>Rory, 20, as portrayed by McAvoy, presents a stark contrast. When Rory noisily arrives, he introduces himself to fellow residents and staff: “Rory O'Shea. Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy. Besides the full vocal range, I have the use of two fingers of my right hand, sufficient for self-propulsion and self-abuse. You can shake me hand or kiss me arse -- but don't expect me to reciprocate.” </p>
<p><strong>Right, Rory, portrayed by James McAvoy, races neighborhood kids for their pocket money. Still from "R<span>ory O'Shea Was Here" (2004)</span></strong></p>
<p>With Rory’s whirlwind entrance, nothing in Carrigmore will remain the same, at least not until Rory effects his long-desired exit to independent living. In a brilliant twist, much to Michael’s own amazement, Rory understands everything Michael says. And this allows Rory to take Michael with him from the facility, though one could debate just who is liberating whom.</p>
<p>In a memorable scene, Rory and Michael participate in a fund-raising effort for Carrigmore on a Dublin street, with institution-issued cups, caps, and ID badges in hand, and all <em>able</em> residents of Carrigmore hitting the streets. With their cups nearly brimmed with currency, Rory suggests to Michael they reward themselves for their day’s work, and wheel themselves into a nearby pub, where they use the proceeds to treat two young women to numerous rounds of drinks. Finally, Rory and even Michael grab a kiss with their favorites. It’s a transformative moment for Michael.</p>
<p>Ultimately, Michael is able to get an allowance for his own apartment, something he would never have contemplated before Rory’s entrance, and Rory and he move into a flat. They hire Siobhan, a bodacious blonde supermarket clerk, as their much-needed assistant, portrayed by Romola Garai. Rory, and then later Siobhan, become Michael’s bridges to self-realization. “Rory O’Shea” also contains solid performances by Dublin-born Brenda Fricker (“<a href="http://www.amazon.com/My-Left-Foot-Special-Edition/dp/B004U7MR1Y/ref=as_sl_pc_ss_til?tag=thewildgeeset-20&linkCode=w01&linkId=FDNAFI4LG5FO7NDL&creativeASIN=B004U7MR1Y" target="_blank"><strong>My Left Foot</strong></a>”) and Tyrone-born Gerard McSorley (“<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Veronica-Guerin-Cate-Blanchett/dp/B000189LE2/ref=as_sl_pc_ss_til?tag=thewildgeeset-20&linkCode=w01&linkId=CJ3XJ2YSHXHTY5SU&creativeASIN=B000189LE2" target="_blank"><strong>Veronica Guerin</strong></a>” and “<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Omagh-Gerard-McSorley/dp/B000AQKV1C/ref=as_sl_pc_ss_til?tag=thewildgeeset-20&linkCode=w01&linkId=CLBPFAUF5QAC2JV2&creativeASIN=B000AQKV1C" target="_blank"><strong>Omagh</strong></a>”).</p>
<p><a href="http://www.aisff.org/2005/p_img/1129371597.JPG" target="_blank"><img width="300" class="align-left" style="padding: 2px;" src="http://www.aisff.org/2005/p_img/1129371597.JPG?width=300"/></a>In “Fluent Dysphasia,” Academy Award Nominee Stephen Rea stars as Murph in this 16-minute film. Murph and his teen-age daughter have a communication failure, with seemingly little to share between them other than the family tie itself. She is struggling with her <em>Gaeilge</em> homework, while Murph and a buddy celebrate a win by their local football side. Murph overdoes the partying, and awakes in the morning only speaking and understanding Irish, a language he had -- and has -- no interest in mastering.</p>
<p><strong>Left, Stephen Rea ("Murph"), in a scene from "Fluent Dysphasia," tries to buy a train ticket <em>as Gaeilge</em> in Dublin<em>.</em><br/></strong></p>
<p>In one particularly comic turn, Murph tries to buy a rail ticket and the clerk doesn’t understand him. Murph persists as Gaeilge, struggling to make the clerk understand what Murph wants. Finally, the clerk finds what he feels is clarity, that Murph is having him on, and the clerk comes out with something like “Yea, I love the Irish, me … <span><em>Go n-éirí an bóthar leat</em> and all that<em>.</em> </span><em>Cead mile failte</em>, what!” and slides over the ticket. There is <em>no</em> victory for Murph here.</p>
<p>Ultimately and ironically, Murph has to depend on his daughter – and her school-level <em>Gaeilge</em> -- for the help he needs to regain his English. (You can <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cH-yDRPnbOM" target="_blank">watch the film</a> in its entirety in HD via YouTube.)</p>
<p>This resonant pair of films raise for me a question: Can anyone be truly voiceless if just one person can understand him or her? As suggested in these offerings, the sublimest communication transcends mere words, embracing heart, humor, yearning, and heartbreak, as well. <b>Ger</b></p>'The Wild Geese in NYC' Catch 'Gaelic Sports Day'tag:thewildgeese.irish,2014-06-09:6442157:BlogPost:973052014-06-09T15:30:00.000ZGerry Reganhttps://thewildgeese.irish/profile/ger_regan
<p><strong><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/31744297?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" target="_self"><img class="align-full" height="508" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/31744297?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" style="padding: 2px;" width="737"></img></a> Breezy Point, N.Y. --</strong> More than 100 individuals, a number likely to have doubled before the day ended, came to Breezy Point on Saturday to demonstrate the draw -- and drawing power -- of Gaelic sports worldwide.</p>
<p>The event, billed Gaelic Sports Day, was produced by Shannon Gaels Gaelic Football Club. The Gaels are the only…</p>
<p><strong><a width="737" height="508" href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/31744297?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" target="_self"><img width="737" height="508" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/31744297?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" class="align-full" style="padding: 2px;"/></a>Breezy Point, N.Y. --</strong> More than 100 individuals, a number likely to have doubled before the day ended, came to Breezy Point on Saturday to demonstrate the draw -- and drawing power -- of Gaelic sports worldwide.</p>
<p>The event, billed Gaelic Sports Day, was produced by Shannon Gaels Gaelic Football Club. The Gaels are the only Minor GAA club, serving the children of Queens with 19 teams, providing them an invaluable opportunity to develop their athletic skills while learning the values of teamwork and sportsmanship. Shannon Gaels GAA, founded in 2002, is the second largest minor club in the New York area, and one of the fastest growing minor clubs in North America.</p>
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<p>The morning featured several matches for players over 18, including a side from NYPD which drew 11-11 to a team gathered from players living in or near Breezy Point. On an adjacent field kids received pointers from coaches, and then took practice kicks and honed their skills for upcoming games. Lunch and baked good were available to all comers -- fans, players and those just curious. A tent and exhibit was set up as well to promote the Gaels' ambitious 'Field of Dreams' initiative, which is raising $4.5 million to fund development of a seven-acre permanent facility for Gaelic sports in Queens' Frank Colden Park.</p>
<p>Later on Saturday, Shannon Gaels teams playing in a tourney in the Bronx in a more formal GAA playoff were to join the club for the celebration, followed by a presentation of trophies to the winning sides and live music in the evening.</p>
<p>Four of us from The Wild Geese in NYC -- Tommy Dullaghan, Mary Grady, Corina Galvin, and Gerry Regan -- turned out, and I for one was taken by the friendliness of the assemblage and the skills already evidenced by the club's young players.</p>
<p>(Photos by Gerry Regan and Mary Grady)</p>