By now we have settled into what my yoga teacher termed “a new neutral”, creating personalized rhythms to our days. I have shared particular things on other digital platforms, and feel drawn to continuing that here. As I haven’t taken up any kind of journaling throughout this time, perhaps this is a means for me to recall and mark some details in place for myself, hoping that others might also find them helpful.
The Guardian and Politico are my primary trusted daily news sources, combined with Heather Cox Richardson’s Letters From An American, which continues to be a steadfast anchor in parsing the ever-evolving events. (Thank you, Nicole, for turning me on to her!) I limit my reading these days to the morning and have stopped listening to NPR until dinner prep time, finding that I need otherwise to fill the days with all that can support my “new neutral” apart from fretting about what’s going on in the “outside world”.
There are certainly beautiful moments and soulful connections, and I am happy to find that my skills in sewing have been dusted off for a new purpose. I’m using up a large stash of fabric saved over many years, trying to make as many face masks in a day as possible to send out to my long list of loved ones and close friends. One has also already gone to our greatly valued postal worker who has been on the front line with very limited protection day in and day out. It was sobering to see her behind suspended clear plastic shower curtains last week, as she explained her happiness in finally having received plastic gloves that she had ordered online (HERSELF, for protection doing her government job).
Here are links I have found most helpful in relation to our current great need for making face masks. They, obviously, are not medical grade, but can at least keep us from breathing on others, remind us not to touch our faces, and for general protection when we must go out to essential places. Otherwise—stay home and enjoy cooking, cleaning, being creative, being supportive and building your own resilience!
Billette’s Baubles is the design I use, but no longer w/elastic. I don’t have flannel, but I do make the center piece, with another layer of fabric. There is a front, back and center piece.
I do the ties based on the video by Jenny Doan, Missouri Star Quilt Company, however, I sew them to the sides, not to the long ends. I also turn and close off the ends of the ties. It is necessary to cut long 2.5” strips and sew them together to get enough for two forty-inch ties for each mask. I’m finding bed sheet material to be useful for this.
Here are tips from Billette’s Baubles re washing your mask:
In this extreme time, which seems to have been coming for a while, I feel drawn to posting outside the loose theme of this blog. I’d like to share some links and recommendations that I hope those who read this may find uplifting or interesting.
March 17* was the day our university sent students home. With that, life shifted into a new type of awareness for me and the individuals and groups with whom I am in regular contact. Over the last weeks the news has become increasingly dire and changes have taken hold that feel like beginnings of a “new normal”. The changes are difficult to bear for many thousands of people, particularly those without homes and those working in gig or by-the-hour economies. The meme that hit to the heart of what I had been feeling was: “The Earth has sent us to our rooms to think about what we’ve done.”
It was striking to me how relatively quickly improvements in the planet’s climate became apparent when people stopped living irresponsibly. As individuals and groups rise to the occasion in every crisis, heroes in every walk of life have been shining forth and making a difference now. I feel directly indebted to those who work in the medical and grocery fields and to the vitality of honest, factual news sources. I am grateful for all who ensure that basic needs can be maintained as possible.
Those of us who became aware in the era of the first Earth Day will recall learning about the Native American concept of acting with the benefit of the next seven generations in mind. Indigenous groups around the world— including the ancient Irish—lived in harmony with the seasons, revered and were intimately connected to their lands. Now so much of those lands have been long lost and polluted. We know that the Industrial Revolution, combined with big business in developed and developing countries and individuals’ lack of care for the environment, began the slippery slide that shifted us into a new human-caused geologic epoch, The Anthropocene. Within our lifetime an unprecedented amount of animal and plant life has gone extinct, and human health has been adversely affected by manufactured and addictive substances.
The intricacy of opposites and the razor’s edge we walk between them becomes more clear in times of crisis. The otherworldly experience caused by this world-shared virus has made glaringly obvious the interconnectedness of every aspect of life. Spiritual traditions have taught this concept over millenia. Perhaps we will learn it again. Our individual efforts will determine the possibility of balance and sustainability going forward. While each of us weathers this time in our own ways, I am heartened by the creativity and openness that enforced social distancing has inspired across the globe, bringing all that truly matters into high relief. I am grateful that my family and friends are currently safe and grateful for so much, in general.
Good health practices for ourselves and our community may guide us to positive change and the possibility for course correction. This is likely our final warning as we careen into the early years of the Sixth Extinction, about which Elizabeth Kolbertalerted us in 2015. May those of us who survive this pandemic emerge from it with a heightened simplicity and attitude of appreciation. May we behave accordingly forever forward, living more respectfully as guests on our beloved four billion year old planet.
Rebecca Solnit interview with Krista Tippet, On Being. This was one of the first links shared with me during this time. I welcomed hearing it at that moment. Rebecca Solnit is one of my heroes and I read as much as I can of her work.
Sacred Land Film Project, Hopi Messenger, elder Thomas Banyacya (1909-1999) . When I was at Four Corners many years ago I was not aware of its sacredness as a site. I wish that I had, though I’m glad for this deep memory, like Monument Valley—one of my favorite places in North America (seen in the beginning of Part 1, above).
The Overstory, Richard Powers. This novel accompanied me through the first weeks of the pandemic and couldn’t have been more fitting. Initially, each chapter seemed like a series of perfectly crafted short stories, all sharing the common theme of trees. Almost halfway through one character arrived and all the threads began to connect into a masterful tribute to the importance of trees in our world. This may be my favorite book, ever.
Amplifier Foundation.I became aware of this organization through the amazing posters that were available for the January 2017 Womens’ March on Washington. Through the sharing of artists’ works regarding numerous important issues they are an important support for teachers and activists. Currently, all proceeds from their clothing line “will go towards [their] sending free art and uplifting remote learning resources to K-12 families facilitating at-home learning through the remainder of the 2020 school year.”
For Those Who Follow This Blog for the Ireland-Oriented Content:
A History of Ireland, Peter and Fiona Somerset Fry. This was a serendipitous find in a great used bookstore in Westerly, Rhode Island, at the early stage of the pandemic. I’m only a quarter of the way through, but am finding so much helpful information about this complex history. My ongoing quest to understand the ancient history of the country of my ancestors to which I feel so connected continues.
* Update 3.30.20: I had noted “coronavirus” in my engagement calendar on March 10, before we went out of town for a few days. Initially I had this date in my post. The following Tuesday, March 17, St. Patrick’s Day, was the correct day that the university closed and students were sent home. I learned of the closing when my friend and I showed up for our regular Zen Meditation in a longstanding group. We adults suddenly were made aware that we might be in danger of contracting the virus from students who had just returned from Spring Break (given the confusing and incomplete information going around). With time shifting dramatically it is strange to think this is now only Day #13 in what looks to be a long and difficult time ahead.
“It’s not what you become in life but what you overcome.” (Matty Maher)
The past year has been one of immense transition on levels beyond what any of us might have imagined. We continue to reel from the daily news in this ecological and political whirlwind. Many souls have left the planet before the fan regulating the health of humankind has been splattered beyond repair.
As my husband and I prepare to head north for the celebration of life for the passing of yet another dear longtime friend, I am grateful that my brother alerted me to the passing of one of the most legendary Mahers — Matty Maher (Matthew Dennis), owner of the 166 year old McSorley’s Old Ale House in New York City. New to Maher’s legend myself, articles immediately available from a quick search intrigued me, and Matty was easy to spot in photos via his undeniable Maher eyes! Learning about him has been a welcome distraction, and I cheer him from afar while his friends and family celebrate the great man at his funeral events today.
The story of Matty Maher brought back memories of the seventies and my first venture into New York City as a tentative adult with art peers on a field trip from college. In recommending places to visit, our teachers told us that by the end of the afternoon they could be found at a very cool Irish pub – McSorley’s – and we were welcome to stop by. Whether or not they knew that women were not yet (or only barely recently) welcome, at that point in time the mere thought was beyond possible for me. Shy as I was to even speak to my seemingly all powerful and quite intimidating male teachers in class, the odds of my showing up there were nil, bars not yet being part of my universe. The trip was wonderful, nonetheless, and through the years New York, and the world itself, became ever smaller and less terrifying to wander through as I have claimed various parts as homes along the way. The next time I’m in NYC I’ll be sure to have a pint in honor of this very important Maher at New York’s oldest bar (established in 1854). Maybe I’ll even get to meet and toast a Sláinte to one of his five daughters.
Several articles (linked here) round out the story of a man who was deeply loved over many decades and whose life was directed as if by the angels to immigrate from his Threecastles, Kilkenny, homeland and build a charmed life in America. (Of particular note is an essay from Kilkenny that includes a great photo of Matty Maher and a timeline history of McSorley’s.) Maher’s work from 1964 onward ultimately transformed a simple beer bar into a destination. His former employees shared loving memories of him, recalling his generosity of spirit. Michael Brannigan explained, “People’d always ask him, ‘You own the bar?’ ”…“He’d say, ‘No, you own the bar.’ The customers own it.”
My brother described McSorley’s as “a museum really…Every inch of the place is covered in pictures…and there’s only beer and only two choices—black or tan—and crackers and cheese and onions…that’s it…and shoes alleged of Joe Kennedy.” New York Times and New Yorker Magazine articles described a sawdusted floor and particulars among the treasure trove of memorabilia, including a collection of “holy relics” in the form of turkey wishbones left behind on an ancient chandelier by soldiers in World War I to safeguard their return before heading off to battle. According to Maher, the bones came to represent those who were lost in the war and thus treated reverentially. More were added in honor of individuals in relatively recent conflicts. For artists and writers in the fifties and sixties John McSorley’s “The Old House at Home” must have been akin to the Cedar Street Tavern, which was originally in Greenwich Village. John Sloan depicted a scene inside McSorley’s in a painting that had been exhibited in the Armory Show of 1913.
As the energy of this Matthew Maher, son of one other Patrick Maher, joins all that is good in the universe and those who knew him are filled with the joy of having shared his life, may the energy of our own friend, Noah Totten, find and join his like-energy, and may our world be strengthened by this powerful addition of spirit. “May it be its own force field / And dwell uniquely / Between the heart and the light.” (John O’Donohue)
[Update: 16 January 2020 — See @IrishTimesNews on Instagram for a great photograph by Lauren Crothers that captured the honor canopy of raised hurling sticks as pallbearers carried the great man’s coffin. The funeral of Matty Maher took place at Holy Trinity Church, Whitestone, New York.]
Dan Barry, The New York Times, “Dust Is Gone Above the Bar, But A Legend Still Dangles,” April 6, 2011
Chang, Sophia, Gothamist, “Longtime McSorley’s Owner Has Died, Bar Will Stay In the Family, ” January 13, 2020
Sean Keen, Kilkenny People, “Matty Maher Passed Away This Morning With His Family By His Side, Wonderful Kilkenny man who owned McSorleys in New York has passed away, Kilkenny and Irish People in New York Lose A Great Friend,” January 11, 2020
Joseph Mitchell, The New Yorker, ‘The Old House at Home,” April 14, 1940
In the first week of August, my sweet friend, Ruth Conlon McGarty, crossed the veil at age ninety. Her home was that in which my brother and I spent our early years, part of my own memories, as was the Conlon family. My mother re-introduced me to Ruth before her own death when Ruth had invited us to lunch during one of my visits home. Ruth became close to me after her husband Lenny’s death, increasingly so as she began to turn the corner toward her last chapter. Ruth enthusiastically embraced her Irish lineage and shared many stories with me as I researched my two books. She invited and expected me to stay with her on several research trips, and later simply to visit as often as possible. We shared many lovely times chatting, catching up with news, eating together, talking about her life and mine, our memories, the Irish of Waterbury, and she cheered my ongoing efforts. She contributed four of her historic photographs to my second book, later donating several photographs to the archive collection of the Mattatuck Museum. I was privileged to be asked to give the eulogy at her funeral, some of which I excerpt and recompose here.
Ruth Conlan McGarty was like a version of Mary Tyler Moore in my mind. She was good, wholesome, smart, strong, elegant, classy, gracious, funny, cheerful. She was a professional, the executive-secretary to the vice-president of Connecticut Light & Power for forty years. A “people-person” with a fully open heart and open mind, Ruth embodied a brightness that made her seem much younger than she was.
Her beloved Lenny devotedly cared for his mother, as did Ruth her own parents. After Mrs. McGarty’s passing, she and Lenny were free to marry, and Ruth explained that he made sure they could do so in the way they wished. Frustrated with the restrictions at her now local parish, they spoke with the pastor of the Immaculate Conception who openly listened to their plan to simply show up in the side chapel with a couple of friends when they could get away from work. Although he would have allowed this, he suggested they reconsider. Having waited so long to marry, with Ruth’s parents still alive, mightn’t Ray and Pauline appreciate the thrill of watching their daughter walk down the aisle? Agreeing to a version of that, Ruth and Lenny picked a convenient as-soon-as-possible date and invited friends to show up. Despite the relatively short notice the Immaculate was packed. Ruth explained that the party following at the Elks Club went on practically all night, though they slipped away, leaving their many friends who were thrilled to the core to continue celebrating Ruth and Lenny’s having finally tied the knot.
Ruth and Lenny were mad about each other and did everything together for thirty-five years, including taking many vacations, especially throughout Ireland. They were a solid team, always looking out for each other, happiest in each other’s company. Ruth recalled Lenny’s having set a habit in retirement that they would wake by seven o’clock every morning and be sure to do something out every day. They began the day by walking to Bunker Hill Pharmacy to buy the daily newspaper, then came home to read it and talk about whatever was going on over breakfast. Later they would engage with the outside world amid family or friends or in their favorite places. They loved to dine out, and fully enjoyed their well-earned quality time and experiences after less affluent years as children and young adults.
Having gone from a being a child in her parent’s home, to living with her parents in Bunker Hill, then becoming Lenny McGarty’s wife, Ruth had never experienced living alone until 2008. The loss of Lenny created an incredibly deep loneliness that accompanied her own declining health. She placed on the wall of her hallway the photograph I took of them not long before Lenny died and he remained in that way an image at the soul of their home. Thankfully, her wonderful neighbors, friends at church, and members of her extended family stepped in as Lenny would have hoped, each playing significant roles in their own ways. Ruth appreciated every inclusion, every invitation to a gathering, every meal, every performance at the Palace or Seven Angels Theatre and every attendance at a child’s event. She loved her nieces and nephews and spoke often about missing her two brothers and sister. She was devoted to her great grand-nephew whom she came to completely rely upon.
Reminiscent of like times with my own mother, visits to Ruth became part of any opportunity that led me to Connecticut. I, or my husband and I, would take her places she and Lenny used to go, or that I remembered and hadn’t seen in a while, or that none of us had ever visited before. We’d drive through Litchfield to enjoy the country roads and stop in at a potter’s studio, or watch the ducks near a restaurant we’d heard about, wander through peonies in bloom at a farm in Torrington, or walk throughout the downtown Green and Bunker Hill Park, both having been so much a part of my own young life. Ruth enjoyed re-visiting the church where she was married and finding the names of her and Lenny’s families inscribed on a plaque at the entrance. Sitting in her den at night in our respective two reclining chairs watching television with white wine and snacks before going to bed at ten or eleven, I would imagine her and Lenny having done this very thing, as the “two old crows” who lived there, like their lawn ornament proudly announced outside the front door.
I’ll never forget our watching various stages on cable of the lead-in to the 2016 presidential election and how refreshing it felt to me that we were politically aligned. When I would call she’d always ask how soon I could come back, and it saddened both of us that my living so far away (and my full time job) didn’t allow me to visit as often as either of us would have liked. I would make hopeful promises for several months ahead, when school was out or in-between semesters as possible.
Although I remain deeply connected to friends from elementary and high school, Ruth was the last familial-type of tie to my hometown. Her parents and my grandparents had been great friends, and my parents grew up and attended school near her and her siblings. My father was friends with her brothers. I recall the Conlons as part of my family’s sphere of connections and annual holiday visits when I was just a child, before my grandparents moved away. As her guest in my former home decades later I could be easily in the present with her. As I learned about her early life and common events through her perspective, she provided me the gift of being able to re-frame my own memories and release them. Through Ruth I was given an intimate insight into what it is like to grow old alone in a house after most everyone one loves has gone, along with one’s abilities and independence. With Ruth I could be a younger friend somewhat like a non-existent daughter for a period of time. As she began to decline her great grand-nephew and I got to know each other and his attention started to become ever more necessary.
I still like to think of Ruth rushing around, wanting to do or get something for me like a perfect hostess, and as one of her friends noted, with an ever-present bounce in her step. Ruth’s pure enjoyment of being with people is captured in my mind like a series of snapshots in which she is smiling, waving, laughing and quietly at peace in beautiful settings – all the many aspects of a person fully alive, fully herself. She made so many people happy through her presence that we who have loved her can now be happy for her. She is at rest, at peace, her spirit joined with that of her husband’s, her ancestors’ and everyone whose life she has touched.
It is fitting that the enormous number of people who came to the funeral home, representatives of organizations to which she belonged, friends of a lifetime, family from far and near, and those who drove to the church and the cemetery seemed more akin to what might be expected in honor of a much younger person or a local celebrity. That so many individuals showed up made me happy for her amid my sorrow imagining her last months. I thought of her smiling over every aspect of the day in which the fullness of her life was revealed.
Ruth remains within all who continue to remember her and hold her in our hearts along with all others who have come into ourselves. May we feel Ruth’s energy guiding and helping us spiritually as we continue to move forward in our own journeys, and may we face our own deaths as gracefully and nobly as she did.
This has been another tumultuous year globally, and I am surely not alone in having said farewell to important people within my personal sphere. One such loss was my cousin, Alfred Edward Sullivan, whom some knew as “Sully”. Al was a strong, enthusiastic and loving spirit who lived an emotionally rich and fully engaged life. His quick, irreverent wit and sharp memory accompanied a deep knowledge about a wide array of topics. At ninety years old, Al was my last family elder. Having served as the Connecticut clan’s official genealogist, Al shared information with me about our Sullivan family line which linked my Maher side of things from Tipperary, Laois and Kilkenny into County Kerry. My husband and I made a point to visit some of his favorite places on our first trip to “the Ol’ Sod”, though even into my fifth visit I was reticent to try to meet all the people Al had urged me to “look up”. Al’s parents and one set of my great grandparents are among the members of the Sullivan family depicted on page sixteen of Waterbury Irish: From the Emerald Isle to the Brass City.
A lifelong Democrat, Al Sullivan was proud to have been named after the first Catholic presidential candidate, Alfred E. Smith, upon his birth on Election Day in 1928. Trained as a medic, Al served post-World War II in the United States Army, primarily in Japan and the Philippines. A proud “Fighting Irish” alumnus of the University of Notre Dame, his degree in Commerce led to a productive career, extensive travel and a fully-enjoyed retirement. His devoted wife, children, grand and great-grandchildren, nieces, nephews, extended family and friends around the world are better for having been graced with his presence in our lives. We will always remember that conversations in person and on the phone with “Cuzzin” Al invariably included laughter and often invoked a forgiving roll of the eye. May Al Sullivan’s spirit continually remind us to take ourselves lightly and never forget the importance of caring about those we love.
My long hiatus in writing may be over, if only to share in stages some glimpses of my fifth pilgrimage/journey to Ireland. Although so much of my scholarship in relation to this place did not neatly fit into a conventional academic trajectory, it nonetheless led directly to teaching for one month in this most special and beautiful place. My science colleague/friend and I began a new study abroad program! Since life does not always wrap up chapters of our lives fluidly, I am especially grateful that my sense of true north that prevailed over the years transitioned me in this way to a point of great change.
Returning to Ballyvaughan, not as an artist-in-residence this time, but as a professor bringing students to share experiences and learn in a deeply meaningful way felt somewhat to me not like being in Ireland initially. We group of Americans doing a certain kind of work, albeit in a different place, seemed strangely familiar, as every new semester is accompanied by its own sets of uncertainties. Without benefit of a car or solitude I needed to be in this familiar area in a new way and dispel the transformative memories that continually arose seeking attention I could not afford to give them. It was necessary to pare down my expectations and become utterly patient. Perhaps after another very intense year of work this was what all of us needed. Extraordinary leaders of our field trips, however, revealed in their own ways aspects of the magic that wasn’t perceptible to me at first, and allowed my friend and me to share new and direct experiences along with our students. I so appreciated the time and poetic, eloquent sharing of information that many individuals, especially Patrick McCormack, Gordan D’Arcy and Eddie Lenihan offered us.
I explained to my friend, who was visiting Ireland for the first time, that when in this place I tend to feel as if I am a character in a fairy tale. Practical difficulties must be dealt with at first as I search for my bearings. I must shed much of the drive and focus that brought me to the first leg of the journey. Once begun, it then takes on a life of its own. I must ask directions, follow instructions strangers provide and pass through one challenge after another, each seemingly more complex and unexpected. There is a learning or re-learning of even simple things—bus and train systems, denominations of money, making it through a shortcut path in the woods without getting lost and figuring out SIM cards and hotspots. With each challenge passed the reward seems greater, the emotional impact is stronger and eventually it becomes possible to feel present and comfortable. This time it was necessary to perform a role within the unanticipated restrictions and complexities that, thankfully, came to a truly satisfying and successful result. Four weeks went by very quickly and a new group of individuals were embraced by the resident community, experiencing more and different things than any of us might have imagined.
During one week more my friend and I became tourists and transitioned into the kind of free-form wandering that I love best to do. This is how I feel most spiritually at home in Ireland. My cells and soul had recognized a deep connection to the midlands from my first visit. My intellect finally caught up with emotions and sensations about all of Ireland and her history. All of myself now works together there. I have walked and driven over so many miles that I can envision a web created over years that a tracking device might have been able to illuminate. (Perhaps someday I will draw some version of this, like delicate crochet.)
Deep and wide research, digging, seeking multiple sources for every fact, acknowledging doors that might never wish to open was necessary in exploring my mysterious ancestral history with its many Irish surnames. Being in contact with living people has been utterly necessary in order to fully perceive what my quest has been about. With each detail of the possible stories that have come into focus a calm, settled feeling has taken hold in me—and even miracles have occurred! I have felt that the ancestors dropped sequential clues, made themselves slightly more clear in stages as if acknowledging my effort paid forward while trying to learn about them. With this visit my visible and invisible teachers provided a true treasure!
With only two days left, my friend and I found ourselves driving along a winding road in Kilkenny that led higher and higher up a mountain to what we expected would reveal the small townland in which one of my great-great grandmothers had lived pre-immigration. Before leaving America someone had already confirmed my research. The Internet had provided the location of the ancient cemetery associated with her parish. The road, however, led instead to a farm at the top of the world, looking out over the other counties between which my questions had continually been weaving back and forth. Suddenly we were being invited into my ancestor’s former home! The joy of the current owner’s family regarding an American relative’s return deepened this gift exponentially, and my friend’s presence allowed me to fully feel the profundity of our visit. She had the wherewithal to take notes and snap photos while I was overcome and could only concentrate upon conversing with these gracious individuals as best as I could manage. Feeling entirely blessed by them it appeared that this portion of my quest had come to an actual fairy tale ending. I am thrilled to know that I now have a new family of friends to add to the dear ones we also visited on this trip.
It is about the people with whom and within the places in which I’ve had soulful experiences that my interior world has been created. As with friends and relatives in America, the return to a person and a place is a constant. What we do together, combined with our solitary explorations, continues to build upon the truths we’ve shared. When apart a psychic web remains.
Ireland is no longer a foreign place to me. I continue to study her history and pose new questions about her with as much curiosity and excitement as ever. Actual friends are there, even if I do not see them often. One has visited me in America. I hope that others will. Through my immersion in the homeland of my ancestors my experience of the world has grown and deepened. The awareness of connections held in energetic space has made it more possible for me to trust that the Universe provides what I need, moment after moment. I feel that our last week in Ireland provided the firm grounding from which the rest of my life will proceed.
Having not mentioned “Maher” at all yet, I’ll share that when handing over my passport and answering the airline worker’s questions before our departure, I habitually spelled out my always mispronounced and unfamiliar last name, then my friend’s. The attendant smiled and pleasantly replied, “There’s no need to spell those names here!” Laughter and joy, we belonged!
It is with excited anticipation that my friend and I are now preparing our Loyola University Maryland courses for a paired Art and Science experience in County Clare, Ireland. Our students and we will be at the Burren College of Art from the end of May through the end of June! We will use Instagram primarily to post aspects we wish to share. I intend to also post here, hoping that those who follow this blog will find the images and text to be interesting, even if not directly Maher-related. Looking through digital photographs from my artist residency three years ago at the College, I found two of Maher graves at Corcomroe Abbey (above). Maher references never fail to find me in my extensive journeys within Ireland and Connecticut. Sometimes a hovering spot appears in an image, as on the Patrick Maher grave here. Perhaps I’m superstitious, but I interpret this phenomenon as a spirit visitation, making its support of my continued search for illusive answers known!
That the rabbit hole of my Irish research and in-depth genealogy work since 2006 has brought me to this point in time feels astonishing. The many years of following my instincts as an artist, continually evolving my teaching, and allowing myself to veer onto a path of research that seemed (to some) to have led my decades of artwork trajectory astray has beautifully come full circle to the present! This new Study Abroad opportunity for Loyola creates a collaboration between Fine Arts and Biology — and will also be the culmination of my teaching career. I am thrilled that it also brings me to Ireland for a fifth time! Until our adventure begins, please enjoy my various Ireland boards on Pinterest and enjoy Mother’s Day!
In this time of world strife, let us remember the open hearts and hospitality of our Irish ancestors, who had initially been treated as poorly as all non-WASP immigrants that arrived in America in the early centuries. Let us not forget that the Native and Indigenous tribes had populated the world continents before colonization against their will and their genocides, much as the Irish had been disenfranchised of their ancient ancestral homelands through the process of religious discrimination. Even in Waterbury, Connecticut, the topic of my 2015 publication, Waterbury Irish: From the Emerald Isle to the Brass City, the arrival of Italians and other nationalities had been historically met with discrimination, including by the Irish.
My childhood friend, Dave Manzo, contributed this important photograph to Waterbury Irish that represents an evolved time when the Irish and Italians got along so well that Irish-Italian marriages had become quite common. Dave’s dad, of Italian descent, is included in the photo riding in a horse-drawn coach full of his Irish friends at a Saint Patrick’s Day parade circa 1937. Not only could Mr. Manzo quickly list every county in Ireland, but his very best life-long friend was Irish — the owner of Waterbury’s former Wacki Grill.
As I concluded in Waterbury Irish, “Irishness remains in Waterbury like the currents that flow beneath its Green, blended through the blood streams of many generations. Waterbury’s heart beats strongly in a community that continues to change and rebuild itself from hopes, dreams and hard work. May the stories continue, the dreams be realized and people of every nationality thrive there.”
I still have paperback copies of the first edition of Waterbury Irish, should anyone wish to purchase one. You can contact me through my website (troll safely typed here — janetmaher dot com), or please leave a comment, all of which are first approved by me before they are posted here.
All good wishes on this day and always, with special prayers on behalf of those suffering persecution of all kinds in New Zealand, North America and throughout this endangered planet.
Today, January 11, is auspicious, I hear. I intend to be meditating when 1:11 p.m. comes ’round. Wishing health, love, safety, wisdom, and kindness to all in this turbulent time. May positive change come this year.
It has been an extremely long time since my last post, and for that I apologize. After the intensity of completing my second book while working full time and trying to still keep my artist self alive, I needed a big break from this type of research. Thank you to those who, meanwhile, have been subscribing and posting comments (which I recently answered).
Thinking that I was “finished”, I had arrived at a point where it seemed that nothing more could be found, and I had no more energy to keep trying. Hypotheses needed to remain as they were. While I had unearthed so much material about and for other people, my own direct connections remained where they lay. That my mother had a “junk man” haul off the materials of our basement in 1967, which accidentally included my father’s personal boxes in storage (even containing their letters back and forth across the ocean while he was in two wars), has always meant that I would not have the evidence and mementos he once had about our Mahers. Her telling me that I would never be able to learn more, that there was no information available (having tried to find some herself) only made me want to prove that one day I would, in fact, find it. She left a handwritten list of names and dates and references to Saint Francis Cemetery and to northern Tipperary on papers I found after her death. This is where I began, with breadcrumbs and mostly unlabeled photographs.
I have snippets of memories, stories my father told me, small details he shared, and the memory of reading typed information about the Mahers of New Haven, this having been given to him due to his familial relationship. It was there that I first learned of a “sleeping porch”– a question about which I recall asking with the strange clarity of learning other odd facts in grammar school having to do with the relative temperature of water in a bathtub, for example, or washing the backs of plates when doing the dishes. My father was a quiet man, so conversations with him, precious as they were, have remained permanently seared into my memory. He had thought this Maher story that seemed to have come from out of the blue was something I would want to read.
While my Maher research remains on hold, it has suddenly become possible to learn more about others within the many Irish surnames in my lineage. In the past few months individuals have gotten in touch with me who have used my first book in the way I had intended — to fill in gaps or help begin their own personal research. This time, however, lines have cycled back to my own family! Hallelujah! I appreciate that the acts of paying forward through the years of sharing research that was so time consuming, labor intensive (and expensive) to gather, making some kind of sense of it and putting it out for the world to receive, has cycled back bringing gifts in kind to me.
Recently I met someone who has not only validated aspects of our information, but has given me a treasure — a handmade 1934 graduation album in tribute to my great great aunt, Josephine, principal of Salem School, Naugatuck, Connecticut, in the year she retired. (Some day I intend to publish a book primarily about her, including all the articles and clippings found in scrapbooks my cousins have shared with me.) Quoting from my introduction to her in relation to early Catholic schools in Waterbury, Connecticut in From the Old Sod to the Naugatuck Valley, page 107:
Patrick and Anne Maher’s daughter, Josephine Agnes Maher, born in 1861, graduated from Notre Dame Convent in 1878, after which she became a teacher herself, in Naugatuck. She was principal of Union City School, the first school in Naugatuck to give grades, and of Salem School. She had a fifty-six year long career in education, and an academic scholarship is still awarded annually in her name. (More information and photographs appear on pages 247-254.)
With gratitude to my new friend, I share some Naugatuck history through details from this beautiful artifact, typed with handmade covers, a two-hole string-tied binding with an actual photograph of Josephine included in the beginning, secured with photo corners. This same image was in one of our family’s photo albums. Enlarging the detail of “Josie” standing on the balcony of Salem School, I included it in From the Old Sod on page 252. Now I know the photo was made on June 20 of that year. Then she was waving to whomever took the picture, yet in less than two months, her beloved nephew who had lived with her most of his life died. Her wave, instead, now seems prescient of good-byes that would be said to her students and colleagues only a few weeks after that. Josephine resigned from her long-held position on September 5 and entered retirement with the weight of Joseph Martin’s loss upon her.
Josephine signed both that page and a page at the end, underneath which were signatures of all the teachers, followed by another page of signatures from all the graduating eighth grade students.
Honor Roll student Franklin E. Bristol, Editor-in-Chief of the publication, one of the Josephine A. Maher awardees and speaker at the graduation ceremony upon which this album was likely presented, included an eloquent editorial in the album, a portion of which I include here:
In our first eight years of training, Salem School has…provided us with spacious classrooms, an excellent library and numerous other advantages. Our teachers have cooperated with us in such a way that our studies have been most interesting. Our associations here have taught us to have a sense of security among people and a confidence in ourselves … it matters not what [profession] we choose, providing that it be done sincerely and honestly. Then, undoubtedly, we shall have reached our ultimate goal and our footprints…will be left on the sands of time.
Josephine continuously stressed to all her nieces and nephews how important education and toeing the line was. She certainly left her footprints on the sands of time in our family, famous even to those of us who never actually knew her. A few people with whom I have corresponded regarding our mutual research, however, were proud recipients of her prestigious grade-based award themselves. It is thrilling to meet someone who has memories of or ties to any deceased relatives, akin to walking along the same ground that earlier ancestors might have also stepped upon in Ireland.
When I began to do research about Josephine Maher I naively presumed I could simply walk into Tuttle House or the Naugatuck Historical Society and find a wealth of materials already in place about her. There were some, but not nearly the amount I already had within our scrapbooks. Little did I know it would be up to me to definitively and formally reintroduce her as an historic figure to the town in which she deeply left her mark and influence. That’s a project for another time, but this album will be a very important component of it. For now it will serve to remind me of the generous good spirit in others and of further work that needs doing.