The Old National School
On my recent phototrip to Dundalk with Mairéad I saw this old National School. It made me think of all those in my family who would have taught in similar buildings,going back to the last quarter of the nineteeth century.
My great-grandparents,my grandmother and indeed my father, would all have taught in schools of a similar size.Often they had only two rooms, one for the Junior Pupils,the other for the Seniors.Usually a female teacher taught the Juniors,and a male the Seniors.
The teaching aids were rudimentary, but the will to learn was strong. Many of these old schools have fallen into ruin now, so it was lovely to see this one still in good repair.It is no longer a schoolhouse however: it has in the recent past been converted into a pub, and is now up for sale.
A Belated Split
This split gravestone is another metaphor of our sundering with the past. Old neglected headstones abound in our graveyards. Sometimes it is difficult to ascertain the engraved writing on them. Yet at one time, they were a family's link to the past. The graveyard where one set of my grandparents is buried was hit by a landslide some years ago, and a number of the graves were washed into the local sea inlet. Local people worked exceedingly hard over a period of years and their work resulted in the restoration of the damaged cemetery, drainage improvements in the fields and on the mountains and the repair or replacement of up to 20 bridges, along with roads being repaired.
One of the most impressive and unusual aspects of the restoration project was the erection of steel kinetic fencing behind the graveyard and the houses to ensure the best protection possible. The fences are unique to Ireland and were imported from Austria, where they are used to capture snow during avalanches.
Alice
My maternal grandmother Alice was born in 1879. She had a large family of siblings, most of whom lived and died in Ireland, and one of her brothers emigrated to Australia where his descendants continue to live.
Alice had not an easy life. She became a primary school teacher, a career she worked in until her retirement in her late sixties, when I was a child. She married my grandfather John when they were both in their early twenties and she bore nine children. She saw five of her children go to their graves before her: three claimed in early childhood, two in adulthood. She was widowed in her early forties, and left with a young family, her husband's business and her own career to manage. She did this with the assistance of her extended family,and she was devoted to an elder sister, with whom she spent a lot of time after she was widowed. When she retired she sold the business and moved her home to Dublin, where she lived with one of my aunts for over a decade and a half before she died at the age of 87.
She was a graceful lady, always well dressed, loved good clothes and had a fine selection of earrings and pendants. She spoke with a firm voice, and the teacher in her was always to the fore. My earliest memories of her are of her teaching me to read before I started formal school; her insistence on seeing my music and elocution exam results; her rewards to me in letters of encouragement which might frequently have a ten shilling note tucked inside.
Every year she would make the two hundred mile journey back to our home in the west for a month. She always had two bags. One full of her own clothes for the month, the other full of gifts for us, her grandchildren. New dresses,a jumper, a blazer, trousers for my brother: she never came empty-handed. During the month her days would be spent visiting all her old friends: as if she were storing up conversations and memories for yet another year.
The arrival of television in the early sixties perplexed her. The notion of such instant visual communication in the living room was one she never really came to terms with; yet in her lifetime she witnessed the increasing use of its preceding marvels: the radio and the telephone. I don't think she ever learned to drive: I always remember her in the seat of honour in any car I ever saw her in. She became somewhat deaf in her latter years, and wore a hearing aid, which was always tucked neatly behind her ear, and its string camouflaged by a necklace. We always thought she suffered from selective deafness as she could hear what we didn't want her to hear when we thought she had the hearing aid turned off.
I was in my first year in university when she died, on Christmas Day. It was the strangest Christmas we ever had as a family. We had to rush our Christmas Dinner, then bundle everyone into our car, and head off on the two hundred mile journey to Dublin. The normally-busy roads were almost deserted. When we finally arrived in Dublin we had to scatter ourselves to stay with various family friends, and then prepare for the long journey back in a funeral cortege.
Alice was buried beside her beloved sister Fanny. I still think of her, and am reminded of her every time I see her only surviving daughter, who bears a close resemblance to her.
John
John was Alice's husband. From what I can gather they were close in age. He inherited the family business and turned it into a success. He is described in our 1911 Census documents as a merchant. That would have encompassed the pub or tavern that he owned, the grocery shop, the hardware shop, the undertakers, the properties he rented, the land he owned. He seemed to be able to support a large family of siblings and children, and the people he employed were provided with residence also.
Other than that, I know very little about him. My late mother was only six when he died rather suddenly. His death must have been a crushing blow to all those people who were dependent on his skills and energy.
Alice and John get married
In April 1909 the young primary school teacher and the successful young merchant were married in her home town in the west of Ireland. Her fondness for fine clothes and jewellery was evident in their wedding image. She would spend the next four decades in a small village, rearing her family and teaching generations of children in the local school.
Repairing Alice
I am still going through the relatively small collection of old photos of my grandmother Alice. This one really appealed to me, as it showed her as a young married woman, posing in a studied way for the photographer, with her left elbow resting on a large book. It might well have been a school portrait, but I am not sure if they did school portraits back at the beginning of the twentieth century.
The original image was in woeful condition, as can be seen from the above collage. It was torn, held together with sellotape, had creases in it, and was missing significant elements (like some of her hair), and a section of her right sleeve and hand were badly damaged.
It took a novice like me a lot of time fiddling around in Photoshop to resurrect this image to a portion of what must have been its former glory. As I spent time footling about the edges of the image, her quiet serenity and authority drew me in. Her face was unharmed through all the ravages this image went through, almost as if it were a metaphor for the vicissitudes of her life. It may have been hurt in many ways at the edges, but the centre held firm. Here, I think, was a formidable woman, someone who seemed very comfortable in her own skin.
Julia
Julia is my paternal grandmother. This image shows her near the end of her life, when she suffered a stroke and subsequent paralysis from which she never recovered.
Julia had to endure a lot of suffering and pain in her life. She married in her early twenties, and she and my grandfather Michael were making a living in a tailoring business. She was, as we say here, very handy with the needle, and there were many examples of her crotchet and handiwork in my childhood home. My first ever coat, a red coat with a black velvet collar and buttons, was made by her.
She was widowed when her husband died in a drowning accident when he was about twenty six. At that stage my father, their only child, was still an infant. Family legend has it that she was pregnant with her second child when the tragedy happened, and that in the trauma of her grief she suffered a miscarriage. The young widow and infant son were then dependent on her father-in-law, also named Michael, who had retired from teaching. Life could not have been easy but they survived.
Many years later, when my father had finished his education and was launched on his own life she remarried. Unfortunately that marriage did not work out, and she buried her pride and came back to her home place to live in rented accommodation for the rest of her life.
My father, being her only child, was her pride and joy. He, from a solitary childhood where holidays with cousins provided the sibling experience he needed,was delighted to have had a family of six children, and his sense of family was very strong. We, his offspring, have no aunts or uncles on his side of our family, no first cousins either. As a result, some of our second cousins have become like first cousins to us.
Julia died when I was six. Her stroke deprived her of movement and of her speech. She would have only been a few years older than I am now.
Michael and Julia
This is one of the two photographs we have of our paternal grandparents, Michael and Julia. They were in their mid-twenties, in the middle of the First World War. Julia's wedding ring is just about visible, and I am amused to see that Michael was a smoker. This was a habit his son, my father, also indulged in to the detriment of his health. Michael was also clearly a non-drinker, as the badge on his lapel shows he is a member of an association that promotes total abstinence from alcohol.
The life that this young pair had mapped for themselves must have seemed promising. Michael was a tailor, Julia a dressmaker. Michael's mother and sisters were skilled lace-makers. Such craftsmanship was highly respected and in demand in an era and in an area where people relied on their own skills to provide their clothing needs.
Some of their skills were passed on to my father, who never failed to astonish us in our teenage years by his ability to do invisible mending.
This young couple's dream was shattered when Michael died tragically in a drowning accident while their first child, my father, was still a small infant. He had gone swimming with a companion, who was a much stronger swimmer and who went ahead of Michael rapidly. Michael got into difficulties, was unable to alert his companion, and lost his life.
This is indeed a treasured photo, but it is also a very sad one. So many unrealised hopes. So many dashed dreams for the young woman who would shortly have to face life as a widow with a tiny child.So many hard days, so many lonely nights ahead.
30-NOV-2009
Julia and Michael wedding photo
I think this is a formal wedding photo of my grandparents' big day. The folder in which it was kept bears the name of a well-established local photographer, whose grandson, a fine photographer and a man I know and respect, still runs a successful business in the same town. The inclusion of the priest at the left of the front row is another indication that this was taken at their wedding.
The photo is not in good condition, and will benefit from further work on it.
Michael Senior, P.J. and Julia
This grainy photograph shows the young Julia, dressed in her widow's black garb, her father-in-law Michael, and her infant son Patrick Joseph,known all his life as P.J, my father. I like the way the old man has an affectionate hold on the baby,whose left hand is still anchored in his mother's comforting hands. The baby looks a little disgruntled and is holding a box or a small book, an object that the clever photographer may well have placed in his hands in order to keep his attention. They are all gazing intently at the photographer, in what is clearly a staged outdoor shot. I estimate that this photo was taken sometime during the year 1918.
Michael Senior
This is my great-grandfather. I calculate he was born sometime after 1850 but have yet to find the documents that establish that decisively. He was married sometime in his late twenties to Maria (whose picture is next in this gallery) who died in 1905. The 1901 Census shows that they were both teachers, they had six children ranging in age from 19 to 8 years old, and they employed a servant.
Ten years later the 1911 Census shows that the only occupants of the house are Michael Senior and Sarah his youngest child. Where the five others were at this stage I have yet to establish, though I think that one of them was in America, because in 1915 the Ellis Island records show that Sarah, then aged 22 had arrived in America on the ill-fated Lusitania (which subsequently sank off the course of Cork less than two weeks later, after being torpedoed by a German U-boat, killing almost 1200 people on board). Sarah was claimed by a married sister who was living in New York, but as the records only reveal this sister's marital surname, with no mention of her first name, I am not sure which of her three sisters this lady was.
When Michael Senior's son Michael married Julia I surmise that they lived with the old man. After my grandfather's drowning, Michael Senior was clearly concerned about the education of his orphaned grandson. He was going blind, but he insisted on having his newspaper read to him every day: which is how my father learned to read, and to develop a lifelong interest in politics and current affairs.
20-JUN-2013
Great-grandmother Maria
A recent trip home to the West of Ireland and a conversation with my father’s cousin’s widow revealed to me for the first time this image of my great-grandmother, Maria. She was born in 1854 and died in 1905, so I reckon this photo is over 100 years old. A teacher, who married another teacher, she had six children. Two boys and four girls. Three of them emigrated to America and lost touch with many of the family.
I checked the 1901 Census and found that the whole family were present in their home in the West of Ireland at that stage. By the 1911 Census there remained only my grandfather and his youngest daughter. The elder three had gone to America, another daughter had married and moved elsewhere, and a son, my grandfather, wasn’t there. He married my grandmother Julia a few years later, and was drowned in a swimming accident around the time my father, their first-born, was about six months old.
Maria was very skilled at needlework and lacemaking, a craft she passed on to her daughters and to many others. Her husband, my great-grandfather Michael, outlived her for over three decades.
P.J
P.J is my father. He died 36 years ago, aged 56. He was a dedicated teacher, a devoted dad, a passionate angler, widely read, addicted to crosswords, good at carpentry and invisible mending. I think he would have loved experiencing the technological advances that have been made in the years since he died. He was an innovator in his classroom, and took on board curriculum reform and revision and the introduction of whatever new technology was available in the early seventies. He spoke Irish fluently as a first language, and he was very involved in local politics. When he died suddenly he left a huge gap in our lives. Our mother, like her mother before her, spent a longer period of her adult life as a widow than as a wife.
05-DEC-2009
A young Iris
Early pictures of my mother, with the first dated in 1927 and the last 1948, the year of her marriage to my father.
The middle row contains images of Iris and her younger sister,Jo. Jo was born when Iris was about fourteen months old.
05-DEC-2009
Iris : the final years
My mother Iris was born during the first quarter of the twentieth century and she died when the new millenium was still very young. She was the second youngest of a family of nine, born to Alice and John. She had the reputation of being a bit of a tomboy and a non-conformist, yet shortly after leaving secondary school she decided to join a missionary order of nuns. The rigid life of a young religious in the early 1940s did not agree with her so she returned to her home place and took on the task of helping her mother to run a business that was beginning to ail during the years of the second world war. Over the course of the next decade she stabilised the business, met and married P.J., and started her family. She brought six children into the world, and saw one of them, Alice, go to her grave before her, the year after P.J., her husband, died in the early seventies.
Her home was a busy lively place, presided over by a generous welcoming Iris and her husband P.J. In the early days there were many nights of card games, and she was practically unbeatable at cards and draughts. There was always lively conversation in our home, and one of P.J's oft quoted orders to us children was : "Be quiet and let your mother speak!" She kept a good table, as she always preferred to pay for food than for doctors' bills, and she never skimped in feeding people. Exact measurements were not a feature of her cooking: there was always extra food in the pot in case any one called unexpectedly at mealtimes. There were often extra people for breakfast, dinner or tea in our house.
I have an enduring memory of numerous Christmas cakes being baked in pot ovens before we had electricity, and we all loved the excitement of helping her with the icing. She and P.J. wanted the best for their family, and they sacrificed a good deal to ensure we were all educated well. Books were much respected in our home, and were often a distraction from the more mundane daily tasks we all had to do. Nevertheless, we all grew up to appreciate the value of hard work, and the reward of genuine sharing. Selfishness was not tolerated by either Iris or P.J.
In her own way she kept abreast of modern developments. Before electricity came to our area Iris had tested the efficacy of Tilley lamps and irons, of Valor paraffin cookers and her much used Stanley range. When she sold her farm her first move was to install running water, and a bathroom. She started to drive early on in her married life, and kept it up until shortly before her death.
Underpinning Iris' life was the strong faith which was tested many times, but she always rose to the challenges. When one kindly nun consoled her once that God only sent troubles to those whom He loved she replied that she wished He didn't love her so much.
The last few years of her life were not easy. Her first troubles started with her loss of memory, but that was compounded by the cancer which challenged the peaceful painless demise we would all wish for our loved ones. She showed great fortitude in coping with the many demands the various treatments exacted of her and her sense of humour never faltered. She continued to spar and joke with doctors and nurses and visitors right up to the end.
All of her offspring have a huge admiration for the way she coped with life since P.J.'s untimely death at the age of 56. She had been a widow for 30 years and she was central to the lives of her family for every one of those years.
Her official name is Rose Irene, but everyone knew her as Iris. Before her death someone commented to her that her name represented two flowers : the rose and the iris. Her reply was that they were the wild Irish variety, to be found growing at the side of the road. Our memories of her will never fade as long as the wild Irish rose or the iris on the bog flourish in the fields and hedgerows in the west of Ireland.
25-SEP-2010
The gift that came originally from Great Aunt Maria
Towards the end of the 19th century my great aunt Maria emigrated to America, where I presume she went in to service to work with a wealthy family. When she had saved enough money she returned home to Ireland, sometime around 1910. I have found records for her living at home in our National Census records for 1911.
Around that time my other great aunt Rosie was about to get married, and Maria brought her home this lovely bone china tea set, which is stamped and signed on the base as having been made in Czechoslovakia, as a wedding present. It was this Aunt Rosie who gifted her house, my childhood home to my mother. When my mother's eldest sister Marie was getting married to her husband John, Rosie decided to pass this tea set on to them as her wedding gift to them. By clicking on next you can see a picture of Marie and John on their wedding day, the only image I have ever seen of Marie.
Marie died an untimely death at the age of 36. Her daughter, Alma, is my godmother, a vibrant, intelligent, independent woman who, I like to think, threw some of those gifts into my christening cradle. Yesterday I had lunch with her, and she gave me the most wonderful surprise as I was leaving when she told me she was giving me this tea set as a gift. Now it has pride of place among the special things I treasure.