My sister was going to Ireland. So,
naturally, my father gave her an address. Years ago, his mother had written to
someone at this address in Ireland and we were somehow related. That’s all we
knew. Others had taken the same address on their trips to Ireland with little
success. But, my father said, she should take it again. Try to make a connection
with family in Ireland.
My great grandmother, Margaret Coleman, left
Ireland alone in her early 20’s. She came to Chicago to meet her brothers, James
and John, who worked on the railroad, but she never found them. So, like
millions of other Irish immigrants who came to America, she built a life.
I often wonder if her family held a funeral for Margaret the night
before her departure. They often did that back then for those who were leaving
for America. Everyone knew that their lives were over as they had known them.
The idea of the funerals makes me think how sad and scared she must have been to
leave all she knew. We hardly think of it today as we can take a plane across
the world in a matter of hours. Even if we can’t get home we can hear each
other’s voices over the phone and even see one another with a webcam or a video.
Those who left back then knew they were leaving for good.
And when they
came here as my great grandmother did, they didn’t have time to look backwards.
Surviving in Chicago in those days took all you had. So the sadness had to be
pressed down and the energy used to make a successful life. Maybe that is why an
Irish tenor in those days could make everyone cry – he reminded them of the
enormity of their loss.
There was one sister who stayed in Ireland.
Margaret wrote to her, and to her daughter, Alice. And when Margaret was gone,
my grandmother kept up the communication. We have one letter from Alice. That
was the letter my sister Deb was taking back. Alice would be gone, but maybe the
address would lead them to someone else.
When Deb and her husband got to
the small town of Enniscorthy, they stopped at a pub. Deb asked the bartender if
he knew of anyone related to an Alice Murphy who had lived at the address.
“Sure, Sean Murphy, he lives right across the road.” “Would he welcome a knock
at the door?” she asked. “Mmmm well, now, I don’t know…”
Deb was abit
taken aback. But she did cross the road and knock at the door. A man answered
the door. “Yes?”
And yes, it was himself and yes that was his mother’s
handwriting. Would she come in? Yes, she would, yes.
Tea was made, as
were telephone calls. “You’ll never guess who is standing in this room but your
American cousin” said Sean when he called his sister, Bridie. She thought he was
putting her on…she didn’t even know they had an American cousin. “Here” he said,
“I’ll let you talk to her.” “Not till I heard your voice,” Bridie said later,
“did I even begin to think he wasn’t joking.”
The next two days were
filled with meetings and meals and visits to an old graveyard. Deb met three of
Alice’s children on her trip. They were all delighted with each other, and with
the connection.
The day that Deb and her husband were to leave they
stopped by Sean Murphy’s house one more time. She wanted to give him a copy of
the letter his mother had written 30 years ago. He invited her in and she
resisted as they had to get on the road but Sean wouldn’t take no for an answer.
“I have to show you something,” he said.
He pulled out a photo album.
There were pictures of his mother and his brother and sisters. Then he turned
the page. “I don’t know who these people are…but I thought you might
know.”
“Yes, I do know.” Deb looked at the pictures. “That’s my mother
and father, my grandmother and grandfather. Those are some of my sisters and
brothers.”
And there we were. It seems my grandmother was sending
pictures with the letters she wrote, to keep the family alive even though she
had never met her Irish cousins. To keep us connected to that world that
Margaret Coleman had left. And to welcome us, when finally, we went home.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Nanie
My mother says I get along with my dead relatives better than the ones who are
living. I don’t disagree. It’s not even close.
I began doing serious research into my family tree about two years ago – though I’d been interested for a lot longer than that. I was lucky to start with John A. Rogers, my great, great uncle who was a Chicago alderman back at the turn of the twentieth century. My research unearthed lots of great information – gambling, money and murder. Just what every genealogist hopes for, notoriety. There were Chicago City Council records, newspaper articles, obits – he was a character, and John A. Rogers got me hooked.
My favorite is a Chicago Tribune article, titled:
I started to go back 10 years at a time in the national census to trace my great grandmother’s life. I got back as far as 1920, but couldn’t find her in 1910. I knew she was there somewhere. I became obsessed and started looking block by block in the south side neighborhood I thought she might have lived in.
Finally, there was her name. I was surprised to find her living with her married sister in April of 1910. She should have been living with her husband because she was pregnant with my grandmother. Oh! It finally dawned on me that she was pregnant and unmarried that day when the census taker came to call. Now I had a picture of the young woman I had known so well when she was old. Had she been nauseous with morning sickness that day? Did anyone else know? Her sister? Did my great grandfather know yet? I pictured her scared and excited, listening to her sister give the census information and trying not to panic at what the next year would bring.
My eyes drifted up one line on the census sheet. The next-door neighbors. Wait, that was another sister and her family. I’d given them up for lost because I couldn’t find them, and I’d spelled their name everyway I could think of. But here they were – a huge family living just next door. I felt like they had all just looked up and started waving at me – “You found us! Hello!”
So, I look at my great grandmother, 20 in 1910, single and pregnant, living with her sister, parents long dead, soon to be married to my great grandfather. They would divorce after just a few years. She would live to be old and tell me wonderful stories, watch my sister get married and hold her first great great grandchild. She would watch the world change from horse and buggy to man on the moon.
But on that day she only knew that the census taker had come and taken her name. And that she was pregnant. I know how her story ended – it ended with me, my brothers, sisters, cousins and our children. Now I could see how it began.
I swear for a moment she sees me. I’m a daydream she has that day about her future and for a moment we catch sight of each other – she looking forward, me looking back. Then the census taker gets up to leave, they close the door and she’s gone.
I began doing serious research into my family tree about two years ago – though I’d been interested for a lot longer than that. I was lucky to start with John A. Rogers, my great, great uncle who was a Chicago alderman back at the turn of the twentieth century. My research unearthed lots of great information – gambling, money and murder. Just what every genealogist hopes for, notoriety. There were Chicago City Council records, newspaper articles, obits – he was a character, and John A. Rogers got me hooked.
My favorite is a Chicago Tribune article, titled:
John Rogers Says, “I’m Cold”He was sick with a fever and the doctor ordered him packed in ice. Of course he was the envy of the non-air conditioned city on that blistering July 4th. His personality came through as he joked: “First time I ever had cold feet.” Or when they quoted his response to allegations of running illegal gambling in his saloon.
“Yes, I’ve run a gambling house.” he admitted when the charge was made against him in his campaign for alderman. “But I’ve always run a square game.”The Chicago Tribune was a gold mine for info on Johnnie Rogers, but I found many of the less notorious members of my family in the census lists on Ancestry.com. I discovered to my surprise that 80 years ago, my maternal grandmother and great grandmother lived three blocks from where I live now. I walked by the building and wondered what their life was like then.
I started to go back 10 years at a time in the national census to trace my great grandmother’s life. I got back as far as 1920, but couldn’t find her in 1910. I knew she was there somewhere. I became obsessed and started looking block by block in the south side neighborhood I thought she might have lived in.
Finally, there was her name. I was surprised to find her living with her married sister in April of 1910. She should have been living with her husband because she was pregnant with my grandmother. Oh! It finally dawned on me that she was pregnant and unmarried that day when the census taker came to call. Now I had a picture of the young woman I had known so well when she was old. Had she been nauseous with morning sickness that day? Did anyone else know? Her sister? Did my great grandfather know yet? I pictured her scared and excited, listening to her sister give the census information and trying not to panic at what the next year would bring.
My eyes drifted up one line on the census sheet. The next-door neighbors. Wait, that was another sister and her family. I’d given them up for lost because I couldn’t find them, and I’d spelled their name everyway I could think of. But here they were – a huge family living just next door. I felt like they had all just looked up and started waving at me – “You found us! Hello!”
So, I look at my great grandmother, 20 in 1910, single and pregnant, living with her sister, parents long dead, soon to be married to my great grandfather. They would divorce after just a few years. She would live to be old and tell me wonderful stories, watch my sister get married and hold her first great great grandchild. She would watch the world change from horse and buggy to man on the moon.
But on that day she only knew that the census taker had come and taken her name. And that she was pregnant. I know how her story ended – it ended with me, my brothers, sisters, cousins and our children. Now I could see how it began.
I swear for a moment she sees me. I’m a daydream she has that day about her future and for a moment we catch sight of each other – she looking forward, me looking back. Then the census taker gets up to leave, they close the door and she’s gone.
The Horse Race
I am looking back a hundred years at my great-great uncle. There is a picture of
him in the Chicago Daily News Archives from 1907. The caption is “John A.
Rogers, Gambler.” He is standing outside with his bowler hat, three-piece suit
and bow tie. He looks confident and prosperous in the photo, his shoulders back
and his chin raised. It isn’t a posed photo – you can’t be sure that he even
knew it was being taken. He looks as if he is about to say something, maybe
respond to a reporter’s questions.
I have another picture of him that is in pretty bad shape, but I love to look at it. This one comes from my Grandmother’s album, and it shows John A. sitting on a bench in his three-piece suit. I can see his shoes in this one, they are the tall ones that lace up and again he wears a bow tie.
He is not alone; there are four other men with him. I know one of them is his brother, my great grandfather. I wonder if the other men were also brothers and brothers-in-law. They are sitting on a fake log cabin set of some kind, two of the men standing inside the cabin and poking their heads out of the window and three of them sitting on this log bench. A white paper tag hangs from a string on each suit coat – maybe an admission ticket. They are smiling easily, not a care in the world have these guys.
Another picture brings me back to the real world of today. This one is of all of my nieces and nephews at the family gathering on Christmas at my brother’s house. There are six boys in our family of eleven children. We all have a lot of fun when we are together, but I am always struck by how close my brothers are. Every Christmas we open presents for hours and for most of that time my brothers are making us laugh.
Christmas is an intimate gathering of 40 now that most of us are married with children and even two grandchildren, so the gifts go on and on. Until a few years ago, we all still bought each person a gift. We would gather at my Mom and Dad’s, and the presents would run from one end of our 20’ family room to the other, waist high. Opening the gifts took so long that we had to take breaks. Friends think I am joking when I tell them that for years, as we took a break to grab a plate of cookies or pour a Kahlua and Cream, my Mom would raffle off afghans she’d made that year.
By the time we finally decided to pick names so the number of gifts would be reduced, we had waited too long. What with marriages and children being born, the number of people had increased, so somehow we were still basically stuck with the four-hour ordeal.
The thing that keeps this bearable is that we all sincerely enjoy being together. And as the afternoon fades into evening, we are silly with laughter. My brothers are dangerously funny one on one, but when they get together it is an experience. My son Tim still talks about one wedding dinner when he was seated with five of the brothers. He laughed so hard, for so long, that his stomach muscles hurt for days.
It is a joy to watch them crack each other up. They know each other so well that they move seamlessly from straight man to funny man to unwitting victim to slapstick expert. Their competitiveness feeds the fire, each trying to outdo the other. And while they don’t mind that others are there to watch, they are doing it for their own pleasure. They are playing now, as they did when they were small, and having as much fun. I watch them as someone makes a comment, there is a sudden glint in their eyes and there they go - like horses running a race, except these horses are running together and daring each other to keep up.
I am looking once more at the picture of John A. and his brother, my great grandfather. I notice a familiar look in their smiling eyes.
The man behind the camera better watch out. I have a feeling his stomach will hurt tomorrow.
I have another picture of him that is in pretty bad shape, but I love to look at it. This one comes from my Grandmother’s album, and it shows John A. sitting on a bench in his three-piece suit. I can see his shoes in this one, they are the tall ones that lace up and again he wears a bow tie.
He is not alone; there are four other men with him. I know one of them is his brother, my great grandfather. I wonder if the other men were also brothers and brothers-in-law. They are sitting on a fake log cabin set of some kind, two of the men standing inside the cabin and poking their heads out of the window and three of them sitting on this log bench. A white paper tag hangs from a string on each suit coat – maybe an admission ticket. They are smiling easily, not a care in the world have these guys.
Another picture brings me back to the real world of today. This one is of all of my nieces and nephews at the family gathering on Christmas at my brother’s house. There are six boys in our family of eleven children. We all have a lot of fun when we are together, but I am always struck by how close my brothers are. Every Christmas we open presents for hours and for most of that time my brothers are making us laugh.
Christmas is an intimate gathering of 40 now that most of us are married with children and even two grandchildren, so the gifts go on and on. Until a few years ago, we all still bought each person a gift. We would gather at my Mom and Dad’s, and the presents would run from one end of our 20’ family room to the other, waist high. Opening the gifts took so long that we had to take breaks. Friends think I am joking when I tell them that for years, as we took a break to grab a plate of cookies or pour a Kahlua and Cream, my Mom would raffle off afghans she’d made that year.
By the time we finally decided to pick names so the number of gifts would be reduced, we had waited too long. What with marriages and children being born, the number of people had increased, so somehow we were still basically stuck with the four-hour ordeal.
The thing that keeps this bearable is that we all sincerely enjoy being together. And as the afternoon fades into evening, we are silly with laughter. My brothers are dangerously funny one on one, but when they get together it is an experience. My son Tim still talks about one wedding dinner when he was seated with five of the brothers. He laughed so hard, for so long, that his stomach muscles hurt for days.
It is a joy to watch them crack each other up. They know each other so well that they move seamlessly from straight man to funny man to unwitting victim to slapstick expert. Their competitiveness feeds the fire, each trying to outdo the other. And while they don’t mind that others are there to watch, they are doing it for their own pleasure. They are playing now, as they did when they were small, and having as much fun. I watch them as someone makes a comment, there is a sudden glint in their eyes and there they go - like horses running a race, except these horses are running together and daring each other to keep up.
I am looking once more at the picture of John A. and his brother, my great grandfather. I notice a familiar look in their smiling eyes.
The man behind the camera better watch out. I have a feeling his stomach will hurt tomorrow.
Walking Her Home
Remember walking someone home?
It is a sweet old concept that you don’t hear much anymore. Now we drive, drop off on our way, or catch a lift.
Walking someone home was a softer, gentler activity. First of all, you walked, so the pace of the leave-taking was slower. When you got to their home, you left your companion and make the return trip alone, giving you time to reflect. There weren’t cell phones, so the walk back wasn’t disturbed. You thought about your friend, of things you’d both said, and things you wanted to say when you met again.
When I was young, I walked people home frequently. Many times it was my brothers and sisters and I was picking them up from a ball game or swimming lesson, or a friend’s house. Picking up isn’t the same as walking home. I had to pick up my siblings to keep them safe and make sure they didn’t get distracted and end up at a friend’s house or stop to play in the park. Walking someone home is a choice, and in a way, a silly one. Because, after dropping off your friend, you had to walk home alone.
The walks I remember best were with my friends. They would come to my house after school, and when it got close to supper time I would walk them home.
Because these walks were the end of our visit, we dragged our feet. We didn’t want the afternoon to end and be forced to go on to our homework and chores and the like.
I remember walking my friend Mary home. She used to live a few blocks away from me but had moved across town. I would usually walk her half way home. Looking back on it now I think we argued a lot on our walks. I think we didn’t want the day to end, and the arguing gave us an excuse to stand on a streetcorner half way between where we’d been and where we were going and postpone the goodbyes.
I thought of this recently when my sister-in-law’s mother passed. Leane’s mom wasn’t an easy person and theirs wasn’t an easy relationship. But I watched Leane care for her mother during her long last illness. Sometimes she would be understandably frustrated and angry at her mother. It seemed like whatever she did wasn’t enough for her mother and they argued, or they sat in silence.
And, at the end, she never left her mother’s side. That’s when I had the image.
Leane had walked her mother home. Their time together was over, and they knew it. They’d fought on the streetcorner, not wanting it to end. And finally, they had to part.
Now, and for awhile, Leane will be walking alone and reflecting on her mom, on their relationship, and remembering things she wanted to say.
But always she will be able to remember that in the end, she gave her mother that sweet, loving gift. She walked her home.
It is a sweet old concept that you don’t hear much anymore. Now we drive, drop off on our way, or catch a lift.
Walking someone home was a softer, gentler activity. First of all, you walked, so the pace of the leave-taking was slower. When you got to their home, you left your companion and make the return trip alone, giving you time to reflect. There weren’t cell phones, so the walk back wasn’t disturbed. You thought about your friend, of things you’d both said, and things you wanted to say when you met again.
When I was young, I walked people home frequently. Many times it was my brothers and sisters and I was picking them up from a ball game or swimming lesson, or a friend’s house. Picking up isn’t the same as walking home. I had to pick up my siblings to keep them safe and make sure they didn’t get distracted and end up at a friend’s house or stop to play in the park. Walking someone home is a choice, and in a way, a silly one. Because, after dropping off your friend, you had to walk home alone.
The walks I remember best were with my friends. They would come to my house after school, and when it got close to supper time I would walk them home.
Because these walks were the end of our visit, we dragged our feet. We didn’t want the afternoon to end and be forced to go on to our homework and chores and the like.
I remember walking my friend Mary home. She used to live a few blocks away from me but had moved across town. I would usually walk her half way home. Looking back on it now I think we argued a lot on our walks. I think we didn’t want the day to end, and the arguing gave us an excuse to stand on a streetcorner half way between where we’d been and where we were going and postpone the goodbyes.
I thought of this recently when my sister-in-law’s mother passed. Leane’s mom wasn’t an easy person and theirs wasn’t an easy relationship. But I watched Leane care for her mother during her long last illness. Sometimes she would be understandably frustrated and angry at her mother. It seemed like whatever she did wasn’t enough for her mother and they argued, or they sat in silence.
And, at the end, she never left her mother’s side. That’s when I had the image.
Leane had walked her mother home. Their time together was over, and they knew it. They’d fought on the streetcorner, not wanting it to end. And finally, they had to part.
Now, and for awhile, Leane will be walking alone and reflecting on her mom, on their relationship, and remembering things she wanted to say.
But always she will be able to remember that in the end, she gave her mother that sweet, loving gift. She walked her home.
Lucky
Some of my brothers and sisters may think of the "old house" as the one we lived
in the longest, 1008 Pendleton, in Mt. Prospect. But for me, the old house will
always be the bungalow at 2937 N. Parkside in Chicago, where we lived in the
50's.
Mom and Dad didn't own the house, they rented the first floor. There were two bedrooms, a back porch, living room, dining room and kitchen.
It's the first house I remember and we left there when I was ten. I think the quality of attention I paid to everything around me was much greater then, so I remember things very clearly. (At least I think I do. Others may remember it differently, but that's ok, that would be their memories.)
By the time we left that house, there were six of us kids, with one more on the way. (Actually there were five more on the way, who knew?) By this time the back porch had been turned into a bedroom to take the overflow from the kid's bedroom.
I am not sure how long she did it, but for awhile around 4:30 or 5 every day, after she made sure we had taken all of the toys out of the living room and dining room, Mom would stop making dinner for a few minutes and change her clothes. Then she would put on lipstick. And sometimes, she would put on a record of one of the shows that had recently come out. King and I, Flower Drum Song, My Fair Lady. I loved the music of King and I, but the cover of My Fair Lady always gave me the creeps with the god character in the clouds with the strings attached to the humans. Anyway, when Mom changed her clothes and put on the music, it felt like magic. I always thought Mom was revealing what she was really like, not just a Mom, but a beautiful woman who loved music and theater and talking and laughter.
Then Dad would come home and we would all eat dinner. Dad would talk about his day at work. One time he talked about someone getting fired and I thought it was terrible that they would put a man in an oven just for not working hard enough. My idea of the nice office Dad worked at was altered to a terrible dark furnace room. My father was a HERO to go there every day!
As I look back, they were so young. Not just compared to them now, but compared to ME now! I remember Dad on the floor, playing with us, letting us crawl all over him, telling us story after story.
The main feeling I have about Dad back then was that he was sure that he was lucky. I don't know if it was the Dale Carnegie course, or his success at work, or his family or all of it. But he acted as if he felt he were lucky - good things were on the way. He made me feel that way too.
On summer evenings, I remember Mom giving us baths and us getting into our pajamas. I can remember what a great feeling it was to be clean and fresh, ready for bed with the sun still up. As I remember one night, Mom was giving someone a bath when a big pink car pulled up in front of the house. We didn't have a car, Dad took the bus to work. (He also walked huge bags of stinking dirty diapers down the block to the laundromat.) The driver of the pink car was honking and it took me a few minutes to see it was Dad leaning out of the car, saying, "Go get your mother!" We tore into the bathroom to tell Mom. I think this was one of Dad's classic surprises.
The bungalow had cement stairs leading up to the front door. However old I was, and however big, the stairs were too deep and I was not allowed to take them one by one. Eventually I wanted to go down the "grown-up way".
Of course I fell, and got a gash above my eye. Dad was right there, it must have been a weekend day. After the cleanup and the bandaid, Dad sat next to me on the couch. He said that the cut had come very close to my eye. And then he looked and me and smiled and said, "You were very lucky." I remember thinking yup, that 's us. We are very lucky.
I look back now at our family's life. I look at Dad watching his great grand-daughters playing and flash back to that young man rolling around the floor with us, tickling us and telling us stories. I look at Mom's beautiful face, that still reveals who she really is.
No doubt we all have all had our challenges, disappointments and even tragedies. But I still think Dad was right. We're very lucky.
Mom and Dad didn't own the house, they rented the first floor. There were two bedrooms, a back porch, living room, dining room and kitchen.
It's the first house I remember and we left there when I was ten. I think the quality of attention I paid to everything around me was much greater then, so I remember things very clearly. (At least I think I do. Others may remember it differently, but that's ok, that would be their memories.)
By the time we left that house, there were six of us kids, with one more on the way. (Actually there were five more on the way, who knew?) By this time the back porch had been turned into a bedroom to take the overflow from the kid's bedroom.
I am not sure how long she did it, but for awhile around 4:30 or 5 every day, after she made sure we had taken all of the toys out of the living room and dining room, Mom would stop making dinner for a few minutes and change her clothes. Then she would put on lipstick. And sometimes, she would put on a record of one of the shows that had recently come out. King and I, Flower Drum Song, My Fair Lady. I loved the music of King and I, but the cover of My Fair Lady always gave me the creeps with the god character in the clouds with the strings attached to the humans. Anyway, when Mom changed her clothes and put on the music, it felt like magic. I always thought Mom was revealing what she was really like, not just a Mom, but a beautiful woman who loved music and theater and talking and laughter.
Then Dad would come home and we would all eat dinner. Dad would talk about his day at work. One time he talked about someone getting fired and I thought it was terrible that they would put a man in an oven just for not working hard enough. My idea of the nice office Dad worked at was altered to a terrible dark furnace room. My father was a HERO to go there every day!
As I look back, they were so young. Not just compared to them now, but compared to ME now! I remember Dad on the floor, playing with us, letting us crawl all over him, telling us story after story.
The main feeling I have about Dad back then was that he was sure that he was lucky. I don't know if it was the Dale Carnegie course, or his success at work, or his family or all of it. But he acted as if he felt he were lucky - good things were on the way. He made me feel that way too.
On summer evenings, I remember Mom giving us baths and us getting into our pajamas. I can remember what a great feeling it was to be clean and fresh, ready for bed with the sun still up. As I remember one night, Mom was giving someone a bath when a big pink car pulled up in front of the house. We didn't have a car, Dad took the bus to work. (He also walked huge bags of stinking dirty diapers down the block to the laundromat.) The driver of the pink car was honking and it took me a few minutes to see it was Dad leaning out of the car, saying, "Go get your mother!" We tore into the bathroom to tell Mom. I think this was one of Dad's classic surprises.
The bungalow had cement stairs leading up to the front door. However old I was, and however big, the stairs were too deep and I was not allowed to take them one by one. Eventually I wanted to go down the "grown-up way".
Of course I fell, and got a gash above my eye. Dad was right there, it must have been a weekend day. After the cleanup and the bandaid, Dad sat next to me on the couch. He said that the cut had come very close to my eye. And then he looked and me and smiled and said, "You were very lucky." I remember thinking yup, that 's us. We are very lucky.
I look back now at our family's life. I look at Dad watching his great grand-daughters playing and flash back to that young man rolling around the floor with us, tickling us and telling us stories. I look at Mom's beautiful face, that still reveals who she really is.
No doubt we all have all had our challenges, disappointments and even tragedies. But I still think Dad was right. We're very lucky.
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