An Gorta Mor: The Great Famine (part 2)

The Great Irish Famine has been over for 160 + years.  But memories are long and bitterness remains.

Besides suffering and dying on their home turf, thousands of Irish died on the voyage to America, and some even after they arrived.  There is an island in the Gulf of St. Lawrence in Quebec, called Grosse Isle.  It was the landing place for tens of thousands of desperate ragged families, many of whom were afflicted with typhus, a companion to severe famine.   5000 immigrants are buried on Grosse Isle, those who were either DOA or crawled off their ship and died.

These dirt-poor Catholic immigrants were shunned in America for their destitution, strange speech and customs, and for their religion.  They were crowded into ramshackle tenements where tuberculosis, history's greatest killer, stalked them so diligently that few entirely escaped its clutches.  At least 3 of my 8 Great-grandparents died of TB too early in life, and my Grandfather, a first-generation American, had the disease.

Within the last 10 years memorials have arisen dedicated to remembering the anguish and misery of the famine victims of so many decades ago.

This haunting remembrance is in Toronto Canada:

The president of Ireland dedicated this 14 foot high Celtic Cross in Portland Oregon in 2008

The Irish Hunger Memorial is located a few blocks from Battery Park, New York City, and was dedicated in 2002

Tomorrow, part 3: an Irish-American success story

An Gorta Mor: The Great Irish Hunger (part 1)

"They buried us without shroud or coffin.  And in August . . . the barley grew up out of our grave." -- Seamus Heaney

famine memorial in Dublin Ireland

My good friend and fellow family historian, Barbara Hovorka, has said, "People did not leave home when times were good." In a historical sense she means that unemployment, lean harvests, famines, epidemics, harsh weather and military conflict were the catalysts responsible for moving individuals and the masses from one land to another. I can say the reason I'm sitting here in my sunroom in Beaverton Oregon writing this blog post is in part due to the Great Irish Famine of 1845-1850. It drove my Catholic ancestors from the emerald land they loved, to strange bustling shores where they struggled to put down roots.

The Great Famine was set in motion hundreds of years before it occurred, when England imposed itself on Ireland because it knew better than the Irish what was good for the Irish. The Irish plight escalated when the crown bestowed on its loyalists, land confiscated from the natives. Most of those English folks did not want to live in a backward primitive papist land so they became absentee landlords, entirely out of touch with the cruelty and deprivation they caused by collecting unreasonable rents on land the Irish had previously owned themselves.

In their cashless economy, the Irish strove to pay the rent with crops and small animals they raised. It was nip and tuck for them because the acreage they could afford to pay rent on was hardly enough to keep the wolf from the door. And if an Irishman improved his dwelling by building a fence or adding a window say, his rent jumped. Valuable animals, the source of rent, were kept safely inside the cottage. And then, the English expressed deep contempt for what they called a filthy lazy good-for-nothing people living in squalid conditions, conditions that the English themselves had created. Landlords had total power over their tenants--they could turn them out and clear the land for cattle with merely a word.

Bearing the cross of near-starvation was bad enough; the Irish also lived with the Penal Laws which were designed to force conversion to the Protestant Church of Ireland. Shortly, they included restrictions on Catholic ownership and inheritance of land, education, worshipping "popery," owning a horse worth more than 5 pounds, and holding public office. Penalties for breaking the laws included loss of goods and home, and at worst, the scaffold.

By the late 1700s the potato, an American transplant, was thriving in Irish soil, and the population thrived with it. Among the native peasants the potato became the central component of their diet. The island's population doubled between 1780 and 1840 to over 8 million. Then in 1845 and 5 subsequent years, the potato crop was almost wiped out by a blight, setting in motion terrible times from which Ireland has never fully recovered. And thus, the Great Famine launched a great migration.

An old Irish folk song, The Wearing of the Green, laments the barbarous yoke England laid upon them, and the English attempt to purge everything that made an Irishman Irish. The last verse admits that refuge in the USA was their only salvation:

I hear whisper of a country that lies far beyond the sea, where rich and poor stand equal in the light of freedom's day.
Oh, Erin must we leave you driven by the tyrant's hand, and seek a mother's welcome in a strange and distant land,
Where the cruel cross of England's thraldom never will be seen, and where thank God, we'll live and die . . . still wearing of the green.

see more maps

Just about half my ancestry comes from the Dingle Peninsula, which is on the lower left side of the map, the 4th peninsula up--the one colored bright red that points almost straight west.

Tomorrow, meet the refugees.

My Baby, My Compost Pile

My compost pile is like a baby (without the midnight feedings!).  I tend it carefully, make sure it's fed and warm, that it has a drink now and then, that it doesn't need changing, and when the time is right--when it has proved itself to be ripe and mature--it is released to do some good (I spread it around the garden).

I started composting in Meridian Idaho--we lived there 1978-1984.   We had a half acre with 12 fruit trees, grape vines, and a very large garden.  I subscribed to Organic Gardening magazine, and read it cover to cover every month.  They often talked about this thing called composting, new to me.   I gave it a go.  Our first compost pile wasn't contained.  It was just the place we piled garden waste.  We weren't religious about putting fruit and vegetable scraps in the pile, but then, we had a 3 very small children to tend and other things to think about.

When we moved to our current home we established a garden spot and the compost pile was still only a pile for our waste, which I would turn once in a while.   I never knew there were actual containers you could use to enhance compost development, until about 25 years ago.  Metro (a local government entity) began selling Earth Machines for about $25.  I have 2.  In theory I would be adding to only one at a time while the other stewed and cooked the compost undisturbed.   But we have a huge amount of waste to add, so they both get fed until once a year--in spring--I back off feeding one of them for a month so it can finished "cooking" and be spread soon.

the earth machine (not my photo)

In the fall I add tons of cut up cornstalks, bean vines, pumpkins, and leaves (mulched or not) along with our regular kitchen waste and weekly grass clippings.   Kitchen waste is more bulky when we have corn cobs or grapefruit rinds, so those I quickly cut up with scissors when they go in the kitchen bowl. Any time of year I add cuttings from plants.

Successful compost requires some balancing between carbon and nitrogen.  Never put in a weeks' worth of grass clippings (nitrogen) without balance from kitchen waste and carbon brown matter.  You'll end up with a reeky mat of slimy grass.  If I'm short of brown matter such as leaves I can tear up paper bags and egg cartons or shred newspaper, and adding a shovel full of soil helps too.  If I have too much grass, some gets stirred into the compost bins and the rest spread between garden rows to keep our shoes from getting muddy.

Never add bread or meat.  Meat will attract raccoons, possums, and worse.  Bread gets gross and mushy.  No branches or heavy woody stuff or weeds.  Just about anything else goes!  I'm such a compost nerd that I have been known to bring empty plastic bags to a picnic and take home the melon rinds or other organic stuff.  I bring compostables home from my son's house.  And I have picked cores, peelings and rinds out of peoples' garbage to bring home to feed my baby,  my compost pile . . .

 Composting is super satisfying for these reasons:

• something from nothing (in other words, you create valuable fertilizer from stuff you would otherwise throw away)
• reduces garbage by a whole bunch
• I become a scientist by balancing ingredients to create the ideal reaction, and watching it change almost right before my eyes
• worms are my new best friends; they eat the kitchen waste and poop out fertilizer

The Mighty Mo

My Dad spent several years aboard the "Mighty Mo," the USS Missouri, or BB-63, during and after World War 2. My siblings and I grew up hearing the stories of the ship sailing through the Panama Canal (with only inches to spare), the big guns firing at the Battle of Okinawa, and the drama of the kamikaze starboard attack in 1945. We knew the treaty with Japan to end World War 2 in the Pacific Theater was signed on board the Missouri, on the very date my brother was born 11 years later. Dad had a scrapbook full of Missouri photos and information that I pored over again and again.

The Missouri was active in WW2, Korea, Vietnam, and the Persian Gulf War. In the mid-1980s the ship was docked up in Bremerton Washington. Early one Saturday morning my family made the 3-hour drive from Beaverton to take a ship tour. We saw the seal planted in the wooden deck marking the spot where the treaty was signed, and the spot where the kamikaze hit. I craned my neck to look at the conning tower from which Dad spied the approaching kamikaze.

In the mid-90s the decision was made to permanently mothball the battleship at Pearl Harbor near the USS Arizona. In 1998 the Missouri made a farewell voyage along the west coast of the US, stopping in various ports for a last hurrah. The day it docked in Astoria Oregon, I took Steven out of kindergarten to watch the ship cross the Columbia Bar and sail upriver to port. I expected all others would head to Astoria for a tour, and thousands did, but out there on the sandy riverbank we had company.  

Dozens of folks occupied camp chairs planted on the sandy bank of the Columbia River, in the area north of Fort Stevens. The thrill of anticipation was in the air as we all awaited the big moment when the Missouri would appear and glide past us. We spotted it downriver and it approached at a decent clip. When it reached our impromptu viewing section, we all stood in tribute as the majestic ship, guns thrusting skyward, passed on its final voyage. What a memorable moment of pride and patriotism for us all.

I plan to visit the Missouri at its berth in Pearl Harbor someday. 

A bit of trivia: the Missouri was selected for the signing of the treaty with Japan, because then President Harry S. Truman's home state was Missouri.

a modern view of the big guns

the "Mo" gliding through Pearl Harbor on its way back to New York after the war ended; Dad is on board there someplace

The famous kamikaze hit

The plane is barely visible at the top of this famous photo, left of center. The Japanese Zero and the pilot's body broke apart on impact; not much damage was done to the ship and no one else was hurt.  Captain Callaghan ordered a military funeral for the pilot. A Japanese flag was made up, and a rifle salute was given as the body was buried at sea. Dad said that not everyone on ship agreed with Captain Callahan's decision to give a military funeral to the enemy. Dad felt the Japanese teenager deserved the respect given. "He was a human being," Dad said.

I believe this is a view of the treaty signing

Dad's gravestone in St. Nicholas Cemetery, Perryopolis Pennsylvania

The Last Frontier: Inside Passage

After Daniel's hospital adventure we flew to Juneau for 10 days of cruising Alaska's Inside Passage on their state ferry system. On that marine adventure we stopped at well-known sites such as Sitka and Skagway, and the lesser known towns Wrangell, Hoonah, Angoon. We changed ferry boats at various ports. Some were roomier and more comfortable than others. We saw whales and porpoises leaping from the sea next to our boat. Ferry names I remember are the Taku, the Malaspina, the Columbia, the Matanuska, and the Le Conte. Yeah, the LeConte. It's the one I remember best and  I'll get to that below.

the Columbia, one of Alaska's ferries

Sitka's Russian roots goes to show that you don't have to go all the way to St. Petersburg to see onion-domed churches, 3-barred crosses, and gorgeous icons.

St. Michaels in Sitka

Tlingits were the original inhabitants.

totem in Sitka area

Skagway's claim to fame is its history as the jumping-off place for prospectors looking to strike it rich in the 1897-98 Klondike gold rush. The town is a re-creation of that era, with frontier-style false-front buildings, gambling parlors, and even dramatic productions portraying the bawdiness of the era. The 100,000 Klondikers were required by the Canadian government to bring 1 years' worth of food to ward off starvation, and they had to transport it all up the Chilkoot Pass. By themselves. And then dig for ore in the permafrost.

The down side and fright of our Skagway stay was that Daniel was reacting to an overdose of the seizure medicine prescribed in Anchorage. We didn't know why he was so groggy and confused, but on calling his doc in Portland, we figured it out, and switched him to the right dose. He doesn't have much memory of Skagway. Except for winning $300,000 in fake money at the Skagway gambling parlor!

Daniel the gambling king with Soapy Smith

At one port where we docked (Hoonah or Angoon) for just quick stop I decided to take a walk in the sun for a half hour. I hadn't got an eighth mile from the ferry when a passing SUV slowed, rolled down the window and a woman said, "ma'am, there's grizzly bears walking around here--did you know that?"  No I did not. I made an about-face and a beeline back to the boat.

what beautiful creatures--from afar  (not my photo)

The SS Le Conte. 4-year-old Steven enjoyed running around the decks of the ferry boats.  One of us would go on the deck with him to keep tabs on his whereabouts. On the LeConte, he ran fast down the side towards the bow, aiming for the point of the bow where he could look out onto the ocean. Neither of us saw the skinny cotton rope stretched across the bow to keep people 10 feet away from the point. Steven hit the rope at full speed across his neck, and was ricocheted backwards, slamming the back of his head on the deck. His neck could have snapped, he could have had a concussion. The horror of what just happened almost immobilized me. The captain had seen the whole thing from the bridge and sent an officer down to bring us up. Steven was ok, just startled and sore. The captain apologized profusely and had us stay on the bridge for a while. He gave Steven a navy corduroy cap with SS LeConte stitched in gold. He let Steven steer the boat. As we approached port Steven is the one who blew the horn announcing our arrival. The captain did everything he could to forestall a lawsuit. I insisted that if the bow had to be roped off that he tie on some red ribbons so this would not happen again.

Highlights of the Inside Passage

• whales and porpoises jumping around our boat
• marvelous views of mountains, fishing ports
• investigating tiny scenic islands, including one that bans gas-powered vehicles
• taking a private plane tour of the glaciers

a breaching whale in Alaska's waters (not my photo)

Alaska's Flag is undoubtedly one of the best state songs:

Eight stars of gold on a field of blue,
Alaska's flag.  May it mean to you
The blue of the sea, the evening sky,
The mountain lakes, and the flow'rs nearby;
The gold of the early sourdough's dreams,
The precious gold of the hills and streams;
The brilliant stars in the northern sky,
The Bear, the Dipper, and shining high,
The great North Star with its steady light,
O'er land and sea a beacon bright.
Alaska's flag to Alaskans dear . . .
The simple flag of the last frontier.

The Last Frontier: the Interior

first day of our adventure

Our best family vacation EVER, was the 3 weeks we spent in Alaska in the summer of 1996. It was Craig's idea to use his month-long sabbatical on a journey to the far north, and he did all the work to create the ideal trip for 6 of us (Blair was serving his mission in Austria).

We flew to Anchorage to pick up an RV that was to be our home for the 10 days we explored Alaska's interior. That's the only way to get around in the oft-frozen frontier of Alaska's mountains and tundra. Traditional lodging can be many hundreds of miles apart. Alaska has created small paved lots adjacent to the two-lane highways that traverse the wilderness. Every time we pulled into one of those for the night, we had plenty of RV company. You wouldn't want to sleep outdoors with a flimsy piece of nylon between you and a furry grizzly mama, or an angry bull moose.

In spending 10 full days on the road we explored only a narrow slice of the state. It's that big. And land features are enormous. The rivers are miles wide, the mountains are counted in tens of thousands of feet, and the broad valleys could hold multiple sprawling metros side by side. We're among the lucky who happened to be looking in the right direction when the clouds parted and Denali made a rare appearance. We enjoyed our time from Anchorage to Fairbanks to Homer and places in between.

Craig and Teresa

the famous pipeline

The highlights of Alaska's interior were:

• wild animals in Denali Nat'l Park (grizzlies from a distance, moose, caribou, and a wolf)
• a bald eagle feeding on fish on Homer's beach
• for Teresa and Craig: traveling to the Arctic Circle
• for the rest of us: cruising the Tenana River out of Fairbanks; Susan Butcher (multiple Iditarod winner) came out to the river bank to greet our boat
• the majestic scenery in every direction--a constant overwhelming marvel
• the unique near 24-hour daylight; one night we comically stayed awake watching for the tidal bore to fill a bay near Anchorage--it must have been an off night because nothing happened

native handiwork near Fairbanks

We stopped at a number of glaciers to stare at the bluest icy blue we had ever seen. Until we actually walked on a glacier I didn't know that the surface of a melting sheet of ice is reduced to sharp ridges, like razor blades. Yeah, we walked on a glacier and will never do again without proper equipment. It's extremely dangerous and the potential for loss of life is not small. One particular glacier was on private property. The dude charged us $10 to drive out to it, and said nothing about the risk. After Daniel cut up his knees from falling on the razor sharp slick ice, I knew it was time to vamoose.  Then I saw the sinkhole. Yeah, a hole in the ice big enough to fall into. You could hear the meltwater rushing underneath the glacier. One slip into that sinkhole and it would be ta-ta to you for a thousand years, Until the glacier melted up to where your body lodged.

after the crisis we waited for a ride to the airport

Our last day in Anchorage didn't go well. We turned in the RV and intended to spend the day in downtown Anchorage until it was time for our flight to Juneau to begin Part 2 of our trip. But in the main square in downtown Anchorage Daniel had a seizure (he had been having mild ones on and off but we had not started him on medication yet (long story)). This one had the appearance of a grand mal. Kind people stepped up to help. We had no transportation, and even if we did wouldn't have known how to get to the hospital. Someone called 911 for us. A woman named Joy Haines sat with our upset girls, and then drove them and me to Alaska General behind the ambulance (Craig and Steven went in it w/ Daniel). The doc there conferred with Daniel's neurologist in Portland, and then dispensed seizure medicine. Only it was the wrong dose which we didn't know for three days, and that will figure in part 2 of this story . . .


Tomorrow:
Part 2: The Last Frontier: Inside Passage

Grandchildren 2013

Our sweet grandchildren!   They're listed youngest to oldest.

our newest--Sterling the super-hero, at about 5 weeks of age

Shiloh the spitfire, almost 3

Paisley, quiet and contemplative, age 4 1/2

Majd the enthusiast, age 5

lovey-dovey Eli, age 6

Meme the teacher, age 8

Jonah the outdoorsman, age 10

Brooklyn the responsible, age 12