In 1952, ten years before my birth, John Wayne and Maureen O'Hara starred in one of John Ford's greatest films, "The Quiet Man". In it, Wayne plays Sean Thornton, and Irish born-American raised prize fighter who returns to the land of his birth after killing a man in the ring accidentally. Having a fortune from his winnings as a pugilist, Thornton wants nothing more than to buy his ancestral home and settle down quietly. This is an outstanding film, and a family favorite. Based on a short story published in 1933, I can say that much of the "Irishness" of the film was what I grew up with.
In my own family, my paternal grandfather was quick to say that he was, "an Irishman who was happy to be born in England". Leave it to an Irishman to say that much, when today he'd be either an Irish-American or simply European. And although he and my uncle Tom would refer to themselves as "Limeys" on occasion, he was Irish through and through. Now, my grandfather wasn't a boxer, and he didn't go back to the old country and buy his homestead, however he did have something in common with Thornton, the Quiet Man.
In the movie, Sean Thornton did not want to talk about, or have everyone to know about the fight that made him walk away from the sport and his adoptive country. In much the same way, my grandfather never spoke about his five years as a stretcher bearer in WWI for unit 1884, Northumbrian Field Ambulance of the 7th Division of the Royal Army Medical Corps of the United Kingdom. It was after he was gone that I was able to find his service record. He won medals for bravery, and was an eye witness to the horror that was trench warfare. Battles such as Ypres, Nueve Chapelle, Festubert, Albert, & Guillemont were just a few that he took part in. What his file doesn't say is how many men died before his eyes? How many were sent home, after he carried them from the front, severely injured, to the first station hospital; while he went back to the front to find more wounded? How did he deal with the ugly problems of trench warfare, like lice and foot rot? He never said. Not to my dad, his only son. Not to his only daughter nor to his wife. No, not to anyone else that we are aware of.
In 1942 my grandfather was already married, with two children, and living in the US. He was employed by the NYC Transit-IRT Division. We know this because his new country asked him to register with, what we know today as, the Old Man's Registration for WWII. To the best of our knowledge, he went to work one day, walked to the registration office, and filled out his papers. When he was done, he returned to work. I often wonder today, as I see our soldiers on the news, how many men in uniform took the train during those days of WWII? I wonder what he thought of the young guys, some laughing, others quiet, all of them heading out in uniform to something they knew nothing about. He did. He had been there and done that as we say today. Did he tell them? Did he wave to them, say a silent prayer? Did he have any time to give those soldiers advice? Did he offer his condolences to those who were returning wounded? What memories must have flooded back? He never said anything to us, not even in his later years. My grandfather was a pleasant, intelligent, hard working, gentleman. He had rough hands and a warm smile. In his eyes were nothing of the horrors they had beheld. He was a quiet man.
17 August 2010
10 April 2010
To the West Virginia Coal Miners, Our Hearts to You
In Montcoal, West Virginia on the day after Easter Sunday, 5 April 2010 which is also known as Angel's Monday in Italy, a terrible explosion ripped through a coal mine and killed what would finally be 29 miners. Men from Massey Energy Co.'s Upper Big Branchwent to work that day, expecting a day as usual as any other, but instead were part of the worst mining disaster since 38 lives were lost in Kentucky in 1970. We, speaking as most Americans, take our energy for granted. Yeah, we all hear about green energy (which doesn't even really exist yet) and some of us recycle and such, but how many really know the whole story behind our electricity?
If I had not pursued our family history, this story may have been just another tragedy to me, but now I have a real connection with the families that lost loved ones in those dark tunnels. As I wrote here in this blog, one of my first in fact, my wife's grandfather came to America as a young Italian immigrant, spent most of his young life in the coal mines of Pennsylvania. He became an American citizen, and went back to the old country to marry his sweetheart. They came back to America to raise a family and have a new beginning in New York, but Natale died soon after his son was born. He died of black lung; he died from the mines, although not in them.
We've been commercially mining coal in America since the 1730's and it's still a dirty, dangerous business. Although there are other ways to mine coal from the surface, 60% of our coal is deep within the earth and that means the need for men and women to dig, make shafts, and physically pull the coal out still exists. Today's miners are highly educated and skilled, producing more coal per year than ever before, while using less manpower than ever before. Even with this modern technology, they still have to deal with the dust, the gases, the dirt, and of course the danger. Mining towns are still close knit areas, still often having families that have generations of miners working in them. Like all jobs of this sort, we don't truly pay our workers what they are really worth, we never can. I mean it makes sense to pay an athlete, actor, or CEO that has a knack for cutting jobs millions of dollars, but whether it's cops, firefighters, paramedics, hospital personnel, our military, teachers, mass transit, or energy workers; we can only pay them what's left over in some top heavy budget.
My wife's grandfather could have been one of those who died in the mines, and then, no wife. Now thankfully, I believe God has a plan and just as thankfully, I have a wife. However, there are twenty-nine individuals that are no longer on this earth. Everything they were to do in this life is done, whether they were new on the job, or had five weeks to retirement. So as we read about this disaster, I ask that you look at two things: Do we appreciate why we should conserve energy and put resources into making it cleaner and easier? I don't think we're killing our planet, but we are killing our people. Let's go back to the goal of reducing pollution and finding ways of making energy that is easier to make and continue. Then, I want you to ask if you live each day like it's your last. Do you know your Creator? Do you have a relationship with Jesus Christ? You may have your own ideas of faith of religion, but are you sure? I think this current administration of ours has said, "never let a tragedy go to waste". This time, I agree.
If I had not pursued our family history, this story may have been just another tragedy to me, but now I have a real connection with the families that lost loved ones in those dark tunnels. As I wrote here in this blog, one of my first in fact, my wife's grandfather came to America as a young Italian immigrant, spent most of his young life in the coal mines of Pennsylvania. He became an American citizen, and went back to the old country to marry his sweetheart. They came back to America to raise a family and have a new beginning in New York, but Natale died soon after his son was born. He died of black lung; he died from the mines, although not in them.
We've been commercially mining coal in America since the 1730's and it's still a dirty, dangerous business. Although there are other ways to mine coal from the surface, 60% of our coal is deep within the earth and that means the need for men and women to dig, make shafts, and physically pull the coal out still exists. Today's miners are highly educated and skilled, producing more coal per year than ever before, while using less manpower than ever before. Even with this modern technology, they still have to deal with the dust, the gases, the dirt, and of course the danger. Mining towns are still close knit areas, still often having families that have generations of miners working in them. Like all jobs of this sort, we don't truly pay our workers what they are really worth, we never can. I mean it makes sense to pay an athlete, actor, or CEO that has a knack for cutting jobs millions of dollars, but whether it's cops, firefighters, paramedics, hospital personnel, our military, teachers, mass transit, or energy workers; we can only pay them what's left over in some top heavy budget.
My wife's grandfather could have been one of those who died in the mines, and then, no wife. Now thankfully, I believe God has a plan and just as thankfully, I have a wife. However, there are twenty-nine individuals that are no longer on this earth. Everything they were to do in this life is done, whether they were new on the job, or had five weeks to retirement. So as we read about this disaster, I ask that you look at two things: Do we appreciate why we should conserve energy and put resources into making it cleaner and easier? I don't think we're killing our planet, but we are killing our people. Let's go back to the goal of reducing pollution and finding ways of making energy that is easier to make and continue. Then, I want you to ask if you live each day like it's your last. Do you know your Creator? Do you have a relationship with Jesus Christ? You may have your own ideas of faith of religion, but are you sure? I think this current administration of ours has said, "never let a tragedy go to waste". This time, I agree.
19 March 2010
Not Just Ancestors; My Own Disappearance
Please accept my apologies for being away. My own disability has interfered with my research and my writing. In fact, it has interfered so much so, I will be having surgery on 26 Mar 2010. It should be three to five days in hospital and two weeks of initial convalescence, followed by months of rehab. The good news is this; My ancestors never would have been able to receive the kind of medical attention that I do today. Even in my pain, I am reminded that I have had foods my family never heard of, education they never attained, and medical care that was only fiction just a generation ago. However, I am also reminded that they had something we are losing; our Irish gatherings.
My paternal grandparents met at such a dance. When I was young, we still had a few, but most of our gatherings of extended family and friends were weddings and funerals; mostly funerals. Our funerals were fodder for great times and stories. A time when relatives and friends from all over came together to wear black, dance green, and sing with voices of the white light of heaven. We not only told stories, but made some as well. We celebrated the dearly departed, maybe even told some of their secrets, and remembered others who had gone before. As a boy in the Bronx, it was usually the only time I saw some of our relatives who left the city for some kind of greener pastures like Long Island, of Westchester, or Nassau, or Duchess Counties, or even New Jersey (we didn't talk much to the NJ folks). It was at these Irish funerals that I learned so much of my family heritage, my sense of humor (obviously dark & dry), as well as who I was and wanted to be. Now, living in the South with only my immediate family, we've lost the gatherings.
When Stefanie and I first married, we would go to any Irish Féile we could find within driving distance. To see the many families that would come with several generations in tow was wonderful. The richness of the music, the dance, the stories, the laughter enjoyed by all--and no one had to die to get together! At home, we enjoyed her Italian heritage, while away we enjoyed my Celtic roots. Now, we only have the stories for our girls, but not the full experience. Sure, we have a local St. Patrick's Day Féile, but it is not ours because I cannot participate like I would wish to due to my disability. I long for the bonds, the sense of belonging that my girls will not know. I miss the old neighborhood, the old ways, the old men and women who have gone before me. It is most probably that longing for the past connections that makes me the family historian. Once this surgery is over and I begin the long road to healing, I will also return to my journey to the past. My present, spent working for the future and searching the past. It is a work I greatly enjoy and look forward to, or is that back to?
My paternal grandparents met at such a dance. When I was young, we still had a few, but most of our gatherings of extended family and friends were weddings and funerals; mostly funerals. Our funerals were fodder for great times and stories. A time when relatives and friends from all over came together to wear black, dance green, and sing with voices of the white light of heaven. We not only told stories, but made some as well. We celebrated the dearly departed, maybe even told some of their secrets, and remembered others who had gone before. As a boy in the Bronx, it was usually the only time I saw some of our relatives who left the city for some kind of greener pastures like Long Island, of Westchester, or Nassau, or Duchess Counties, or even New Jersey (we didn't talk much to the NJ folks). It was at these Irish funerals that I learned so much of my family heritage, my sense of humor (obviously dark & dry), as well as who I was and wanted to be. Now, living in the South with only my immediate family, we've lost the gatherings.
When Stefanie and I first married, we would go to any Irish Féile we could find within driving distance. To see the many families that would come with several generations in tow was wonderful. The richness of the music, the dance, the stories, the laughter enjoyed by all--and no one had to die to get together! At home, we enjoyed her Italian heritage, while away we enjoyed my Celtic roots. Now, we only have the stories for our girls, but not the full experience. Sure, we have a local St. Patrick's Day Féile, but it is not ours because I cannot participate like I would wish to due to my disability. I long for the bonds, the sense of belonging that my girls will not know. I miss the old neighborhood, the old ways, the old men and women who have gone before me. It is most probably that longing for the past connections that makes me the family historian. Once this surgery is over and I begin the long road to healing, I will also return to my journey to the past. My present, spent working for the future and searching the past. It is a work I greatly enjoy and look forward to, or is that back to?
Sláinte!
11 November 2009
Family Veteran Count
I know our family can go back as far as the Spanish-American War, one not taught in school anymore. My great-grandfather Bernard Grogan fought for the US, in both the Navy and Army before he was even an American. He was also the first in the family to come over from Ireland. Others would follow, some would fight before they came over to the US, some fought for the US after coming over.
Two of my great uncles died during the "troubles" in Ireland after Bloody Sunday. They were two of 1,200 that died within the week following that fateful day; while their sister, my grandmother watched. It was not spoken of in the house.
My grandfather, whom I have written about, Thomas B Connolly was a stretcher bearer or medic in WWI for the Royal Army Medical Corps, Territorial Force (UK) with honor and distinction. He then registered for WWII in the US, but was not called upon.
My other grandfather, who was too young for WWI, was not allowed to fight for the US during WWII, because his youngest daughter had polio. He tried everything he could to go and fight, but a three man committee of officers decided his family needed him more. One of those officers was a black man, and he spoke eloquently about how a father's place is with his sick daughter, did more for race relations than anything the sixties ever did.
I did have two uncles, by marriage, fight in WWII. One brother is laid to rest in France, the other came home. My mother-in-law is dating a dear friend who served in the 5th Mountain Division, US Army during WWII, then served the US Navy as a see-bee. A career man, he still carries himself as a military man, and he's 78 years old.
My father was called up for the Korean War, but in truth, he spent his whole time in France. This was not his doing in any way, just his luck in the draw. The Korean War, what we now call the forgotten war, was horrific. After what his father went through in WWI, maybe God spared him from any further battle time.
I served as a medic and nurse in the US Army, both Reserve and Regular from 1980 to 1989. I left the regular Army, 1989, for a family illness, and by the time that was taken care of, Desert Shield started. My wife said, "God got you out to help my dad, who still needs your help, and I will keep you out." I still count it as a shame for not going back in, but as with my grandfather, family had to come first. I served instead with NYC EMS as a paramedic. I think I saw more shooting in the South Bronx!
My brother served a four year enlistment with the Coast Guard, part of his duty was the rescuing of "boat immigrants" during the 1990's.
I have two daughters, and I would be proud if they choose to serve their country. In 1775 our forefathers fought to be free of tyranny, and it has been proven over and over that freedom is still not free. A blessing to all those who have served on this Veteran's Day.
Two of my great uncles died during the "troubles" in Ireland after Bloody Sunday. They were two of 1,200 that died within the week following that fateful day; while their sister, my grandmother watched. It was not spoken of in the house.
My grandfather, whom I have written about, Thomas B Connolly was a stretcher bearer or medic in WWI for the Royal Army Medical Corps, Territorial Force (UK) with honor and distinction. He then registered for WWII in the US, but was not called upon.
My other grandfather, who was too young for WWI, was not allowed to fight for the US during WWII, because his youngest daughter had polio. He tried everything he could to go and fight, but a three man committee of officers decided his family needed him more. One of those officers was a black man, and he spoke eloquently about how a father's place is with his sick daughter, did more for race relations than anything the sixties ever did.
I did have two uncles, by marriage, fight in WWII. One brother is laid to rest in France, the other came home. My mother-in-law is dating a dear friend who served in the 5th Mountain Division, US Army during WWII, then served the US Navy as a see-bee. A career man, he still carries himself as a military man, and he's 78 years old.
My father was called up for the Korean War, but in truth, he spent his whole time in France. This was not his doing in any way, just his luck in the draw. The Korean War, what we now call the forgotten war, was horrific. After what his father went through in WWI, maybe God spared him from any further battle time.
I served as a medic and nurse in the US Army, both Reserve and Regular from 1980 to 1989. I left the regular Army, 1989, for a family illness, and by the time that was taken care of, Desert Shield started. My wife said, "God got you out to help my dad, who still needs your help, and I will keep you out." I still count it as a shame for not going back in, but as with my grandfather, family had to come first. I served instead with NYC EMS as a paramedic. I think I saw more shooting in the South Bronx!
My brother served a four year enlistment with the Coast Guard, part of his duty was the rescuing of "boat immigrants" during the 1990's.
I have two daughters, and I would be proud if they choose to serve their country. In 1775 our forefathers fought to be free of tyranny, and it has been proven over and over that freedom is still not free. A blessing to all those who have served on this Veteran's Day.
02 November 2009
How Hard IS a Hard Candy?
Since I was rather serious in my last posting, one I usually save for my www.blessingsinpain.com for certain moments, I thought I would go ahead with a lighthearted story from the family time in the Bronx, NYC. This happened around 1958, before my parents were married, and in those days, that meant my mom was still living with her folks, oh, and she wasn't my mom yet!
One of the great things about the Big Apple, is that within its Burroughs, each one has its own different smaller neighborhoods that contains a few blocks around. You may have heard of some of these, Little Italy, Hell's Kitchen, Harlem, Chinatown, and Washington Heights to name a few. Not all have names, they just are what they are. We lived in Kingsbridge, but that actually covers a lot of ground in the Bronx. Still and all, within our neighborhoods, it was like its own little village, and everyone knew what was going on with whom. Come to think of it, it's almost like a middle school with all ages and streets. When you would call for someone, you literally called for them. You'd walk to under their window and yell up, "Hey, Joey! Yous cumin out?" So maybe this is why secrets were never all too secret for very long.
OK, so that is how it was, and in some cases, still is. Be that as it may, there was a little guy that almost always seemed to get himself into trouble. No matter what, if trouble was to be had, there you'd find Billy (names have been changed to protect my failing memory). My grandfather, having a similar boyhood, was a sucker for the under-dog. Well, one day it came to my grandpa's knowledge that old lady McGuffey (again, who cares about her name, she was a nasty old Irish woman, better I don't remember her name) claimed that Billy broke her window by throwing a piece of hard candy at it. Certain facts were undeniable, the old lady's window was broken, she lived on the second floor, and a piece of hard candy (butterscotch) was on the floor, and it was trouble-so that meant Billy.
Hearing about this at the watering hole on his way in from the docks, (translation: he went to the local pub after his shift as a longshoreman), my grandpa couldn't believe Billy did it. I mean, how could this kid, not all that big, throw a piece of candy through a window? No one even saw him out on the street. Well, this bothered him all the way back to the apartment, and during dinner. He talked about this with his wife and two daughters, the daughters agreeing readily with their dad, never a day they wouldn't. After dinner, the youngest girl left, and my grandpa and grandma shared a glass of beer while my mom cleaned up from dinner. "I'm tellin' you, you can't throw a piece of candy through a glass window," says he. Up from the table he got and went into the living room and over to the candy dish. Taking a piece of butterscotch candy, he returned to the kitchen. "Tootsie, (my mom's nickname, and I am now out of the will) hold that curtain to the side."
As the dutiful daughter, my mom dried her hands, walked over to the kitchen window and pulled the curtain to the side. Himself stood all the way across the kitchen, wound up and let it rip like Whitey Ford. Sure enough, right through the window the candy went, out into the street, and six floors below. "Well I'll be damned" he says. "Silly ass" is all herself had to say as she lifted her glass of beer to her lips. As my grandma drank only one beer an evening, this was probably one night she thought about having another. My mother, being daddy's girl, could do nothing but hold the curtain with one hand, and her mouth with the other.
As he went about covering and taping the window for the night, before having to go to the super the next day, he still couldn't believe the candy broke the window. Granted he was a bull of a man, but Billy was still a kid, and was probably across the street, since no one had seen him out. How could this young kid possibly throw a candy that hard, and if he had, sign him up with the Yankees.
The next day at the docks, as they were talking about the candy throw, it came to be known by Billy's downstairs neighbor, that young Billy had used a slingshot he got, and did it from his bedroom window. So, if you ever wonder if a hard candy can break a window, remember two things: Either get yourself a longshoreman at somewhat close range, or get any little bugger with a slingshot. It worked for David too, come to think of it!
One of the great things about the Big Apple, is that within its Burroughs, each one has its own different smaller neighborhoods that contains a few blocks around. You may have heard of some of these, Little Italy, Hell's Kitchen, Harlem, Chinatown, and Washington Heights to name a few. Not all have names, they just are what they are. We lived in Kingsbridge, but that actually covers a lot of ground in the Bronx. Still and all, within our neighborhoods, it was like its own little village, and everyone knew what was going on with whom. Come to think of it, it's almost like a middle school with all ages and streets. When you would call for someone, you literally called for them. You'd walk to under their window and yell up, "Hey, Joey! Yous cumin out?" So maybe this is why secrets were never all too secret for very long.
OK, so that is how it was, and in some cases, still is. Be that as it may, there was a little guy that almost always seemed to get himself into trouble. No matter what, if trouble was to be had, there you'd find Billy (names have been changed to protect my failing memory). My grandfather, having a similar boyhood, was a sucker for the under-dog. Well, one day it came to my grandpa's knowledge that old lady McGuffey (again, who cares about her name, she was a nasty old Irish woman, better I don't remember her name) claimed that Billy broke her window by throwing a piece of hard candy at it. Certain facts were undeniable, the old lady's window was broken, she lived on the second floor, and a piece of hard candy (butterscotch) was on the floor, and it was trouble-so that meant Billy.
Hearing about this at the watering hole on his way in from the docks, (translation: he went to the local pub after his shift as a longshoreman), my grandpa couldn't believe Billy did it. I mean, how could this kid, not all that big, throw a piece of candy through a window? No one even saw him out on the street. Well, this bothered him all the way back to the apartment, and during dinner. He talked about this with his wife and two daughters, the daughters agreeing readily with their dad, never a day they wouldn't. After dinner, the youngest girl left, and my grandpa and grandma shared a glass of beer while my mom cleaned up from dinner. "I'm tellin' you, you can't throw a piece of candy through a glass window," says he. Up from the table he got and went into the living room and over to the candy dish. Taking a piece of butterscotch candy, he returned to the kitchen. "Tootsie, (my mom's nickname, and I am now out of the will) hold that curtain to the side."
As the dutiful daughter, my mom dried her hands, walked over to the kitchen window and pulled the curtain to the side. Himself stood all the way across the kitchen, wound up and let it rip like Whitey Ford. Sure enough, right through the window the candy went, out into the street, and six floors below. "Well I'll be damned" he says. "Silly ass" is all herself had to say as she lifted her glass of beer to her lips. As my grandma drank only one beer an evening, this was probably one night she thought about having another. My mother, being daddy's girl, could do nothing but hold the curtain with one hand, and her mouth with the other.
As he went about covering and taping the window for the night, before having to go to the super the next day, he still couldn't believe the candy broke the window. Granted he was a bull of a man, but Billy was still a kid, and was probably across the street, since no one had seen him out. How could this young kid possibly throw a candy that hard, and if he had, sign him up with the Yankees.
The next day at the docks, as they were talking about the candy throw, it came to be known by Billy's downstairs neighbor, that young Billy had used a slingshot he got, and did it from his bedroom window. So, if you ever wonder if a hard candy can break a window, remember two things: Either get yourself a longshoreman at somewhat close range, or get any little bugger with a slingshot. It worked for David too, come to think of it!
30 October 2009
The Basic Question: Why is Family History Important?
Did you know that if you put Genealogy into Google, you get 61,700,000 pages, and it' the fastest growing hobby in North America today? About 60% of Americans are interested about their own family history. That beats the heck out of stamp collecting, which was big when I was a kid. Back then, the idea that a little square had gone around the world was a great wonder, while today we send mail like Star Trek sent people. Even still, that's a lot of interest for people who are mostly dead. So it begs the question, why? Well, as with all things, there is no one answer that will fit for everyone. For some, the skills involved in genealogy can include a level of Holmes-like deduction of clues, Columbo-esque questioning, charting documents like Marco Polo, and writing that would combine the mood setting of Sam Spade and the magic of the Bard himself. So there's a lot of people who are drawn to the puzzle piece intrigue like Agatha Christie into a murder. However, is it just a large group of frustrated detectives that lead to this rise of a popular hobby? I would like to put forth a theory that family foundation, becomes a major point of appreciation, no matter what skeletons you may find in the closet, or cemetery.
I believe that one thing the family gave to each subsequent generation, was a foundation of right and wrong. This foundation, usually of the Judeo-Christian mode, was the measuring stick that families shared. There was good, true, proud, well-done; and there was wrong, shame, guilt, and sin. This was the foundation left by my own Bronx, Irish, Catholic ancestors. However, we have as a people at large and over the last sixty to one hundred years, run away from this foundation of what is right and wrong. We have done so because of the people who enforced or taught these foundations, but did so badly and for their own gain. When those who are progressive, believing themselves enlightened, point to times in history that horrible things were done, and point to the name of the faith it was supposedly done in. That's not where to look though. It was done by bad people, those who accepted the evil they touted against. People also do good things, like all of our civilization's accomplishments were done by people who repelled the evil, and worked for good. So instead of keeping the foundation of faith and showing the faults of these men and women, we left the foundations and now have nothing to show for it.
For several generations, though, their foundation was their faith in God. Whether it was my family in Britain or in Ireland, or whether it was my wife's family in the mountains in Northern Italy, or traveling through the Ukraine and other countries, or whether it was countless other families across the world, it was their faith in God that was their foundation that strengthened them for any weather. They found a grounding in the Bible and faith in God that secured a family, and in turn, a community. No, it didn't keep everyone straight, but even then crooks had limits (at least in my family!) A family in the true sense, has a foundation to it. Like the story in Sacred Scripture, the house built on sand will fall away at the first storm. The house built on bedrock will keep the home steady, dry, and safe in any storm. I believe we are looking for that foundation once again.
We have grown tired of a system that seems to allow for defiance of everything that was once good, and punishes the innocent. We want a time when if something was done wrong, at least we knew where to point to for answers. We felt that most of the time, our government, communities, and our families made sense, common sense, which is not so common. Our biggest mistake, as a people at large, was placing our trust in people who abused that knowledge and power. We should have kept our eyes on God, our faith in our Father. Faith cannot be farmed out, it cannot be left to others. Faith and family must be the responsible of each member, we are all individually responsible to God and to our young ones.
When the storm comes, when the thunder rolls, and the lightning flashes across our lives, are we on a firm foundation; one shared by our family, our community? Do we receive our news so often that it has caused a numbness to the pain of others, or is it that we have just become too selfish to notice or care? When cancer slowly ravages a body, when a child is taken by evil, when Alzheimers takes away a loved one and yet leaves their shell, or when our fight against evil takes the life or limbs of the strong and courageous of us; are we able to stand firm, or do we blow with the wind like a dry leaf, already dead ourselves? Where and what is our foundation?
This is why, in my humble opinion, genealogy has become a hobby, almost an obsession, of so many. When I look back and see what my family has lived through, what they accomplished, it is more than inspiring. Sometimes it was on what we would call "a wing and a prayer". That phrase comes to us from a popular WWII song (later a movie), about a plane, badly damaged, but over the radio the men at the airstrip heard, "We're coming in on a wing and a prayer". There was a lot of prayer during WWII, and in WWI when my grandfather served the UK with the RAMCTF. There was prayer as my dad served his time during the Korean War, and the Vietnam War had its fair share as well, protests or not. I remember a nation at prayer on 9/11, directly after our terrible attack that took the lives friends and loved ones. In fact, prayer has been a part of my family life as far back as I can go, and I am sure beyond that.
I believe that it is time for Truth, time for our own foundation. It is time to stop worshiping ourselves, to stop worshiping our own desires, and, like my Celtic, pagan ancestors did eons ago, time to stop worshiping creation, but to worship The Creator. Only He can give us back the foundation that our ancestors had and enjoyed. It is this foundation I pray I lay down one again, and leave for my children, and theirs, and theirs.
I believe that one thing the family gave to each subsequent generation, was a foundation of right and wrong. This foundation, usually of the Judeo-Christian mode, was the measuring stick that families shared. There was good, true, proud, well-done; and there was wrong, shame, guilt, and sin. This was the foundation left by my own Bronx, Irish, Catholic ancestors. However, we have as a people at large and over the last sixty to one hundred years, run away from this foundation of what is right and wrong. We have done so because of the people who enforced or taught these foundations, but did so badly and for their own gain. When those who are progressive, believing themselves enlightened, point to times in history that horrible things were done, and point to the name of the faith it was supposedly done in. That's not where to look though. It was done by bad people, those who accepted the evil they touted against. People also do good things, like all of our civilization's accomplishments were done by people who repelled the evil, and worked for good. So instead of keeping the foundation of faith and showing the faults of these men and women, we left the foundations and now have nothing to show for it.
For several generations, though, their foundation was their faith in God. Whether it was my family in Britain or in Ireland, or whether it was my wife's family in the mountains in Northern Italy, or traveling through the Ukraine and other countries, or whether it was countless other families across the world, it was their faith in God that was their foundation that strengthened them for any weather. They found a grounding in the Bible and faith in God that secured a family, and in turn, a community. No, it didn't keep everyone straight, but even then crooks had limits (at least in my family!) A family in the true sense, has a foundation to it. Like the story in Sacred Scripture, the house built on sand will fall away at the first storm. The house built on bedrock will keep the home steady, dry, and safe in any storm. I believe we are looking for that foundation once again.
We have grown tired of a system that seems to allow for defiance of everything that was once good, and punishes the innocent. We want a time when if something was done wrong, at least we knew where to point to for answers. We felt that most of the time, our government, communities, and our families made sense, common sense, which is not so common. Our biggest mistake, as a people at large, was placing our trust in people who abused that knowledge and power. We should have kept our eyes on God, our faith in our Father. Faith cannot be farmed out, it cannot be left to others. Faith and family must be the responsible of each member, we are all individually responsible to God and to our young ones.
When the storm comes, when the thunder rolls, and the lightning flashes across our lives, are we on a firm foundation; one shared by our family, our community? Do we receive our news so often that it has caused a numbness to the pain of others, or is it that we have just become too selfish to notice or care? When cancer slowly ravages a body, when a child is taken by evil, when Alzheimers takes away a loved one and yet leaves their shell, or when our fight against evil takes the life or limbs of the strong and courageous of us; are we able to stand firm, or do we blow with the wind like a dry leaf, already dead ourselves? Where and what is our foundation?
This is why, in my humble opinion, genealogy has become a hobby, almost an obsession, of so many. When I look back and see what my family has lived through, what they accomplished, it is more than inspiring. Sometimes it was on what we would call "a wing and a prayer". That phrase comes to us from a popular WWII song (later a movie), about a plane, badly damaged, but over the radio the men at the airstrip heard, "We're coming in on a wing and a prayer". There was a lot of prayer during WWII, and in WWI when my grandfather served the UK with the RAMCTF. There was prayer as my dad served his time during the Korean War, and the Vietnam War had its fair share as well, protests or not. I remember a nation at prayer on 9/11, directly after our terrible attack that took the lives friends and loved ones. In fact, prayer has been a part of my family life as far back as I can go, and I am sure beyond that.
I believe that it is time for Truth, time for our own foundation. It is time to stop worshiping ourselves, to stop worshiping our own desires, and, like my Celtic, pagan ancestors did eons ago, time to stop worshiping creation, but to worship The Creator. Only He can give us back the foundation that our ancestors had and enjoyed. It is this foundation I pray I lay down one again, and leave for my children, and theirs, and theirs.
24 October 2009
A Quiet Hero
In 1942, a quiet man, a devoted husband, a father of two, and a supervisor who was keeping the New York City Transit (Subway) System moving along well, registered for World War II. He was 48 years of age, so the chances of him actually being called to action were pretty slim, even though this is after the bombing of Pearl Harbor. He returned to his job later that day, after filling out his paperwork. This seems pretty usual for the time period, even for a quiet, working man that had petitioned for his naturalization just one year before, wanting to be an American citizen instead of his being an English subject.
His closest friends in the United States, and that would include his own children, knew little of the man's life before his sea trip across the Atlantic. More to the point, they knew little of his work in World War I. During my search into my family history, I came across information that completely changed the way I saw my grandpa. First of all, serving the Royal Army Medical Corps, UK, he was a stretcher bearer, or medic. When I trained for the US Army, I trained as a medic and x-ray technician. My training as a medic happened after I found out about his service to the War. What I found out was certainly unexpected, not because of the man, but because of his quietness.
In January 1915, Thomas B. Connolly entered the RAMCTF (Trench Force) as a private with the 22 Northumbrian Field Ambulance. It was in WWI that the UK decided to keep men from the same area together as to have an automatic comradeship, and they were right. The 22nd was attached to the 7th Division. According to the Great War historian, Cyril Falls, the 7th Division was "One of the greatest fighting formations Britain ever put into the field." They were sent to the front of Ypres, Belgium, a place where trench warfare was the death of too many men. It was where you could receive a package from home and have laugh now and then; and that night you or your mate could be dead. if it wasn't gunshots and shrapnel that Private Connolly was working on, it was helping all the men delouse. Lice were one of the worst problems for the medics and the servicemen they served. To "have a chat" was to sit with your mate and pick off the lice from each other. In April of 1915, the Germans rained down chlorine gas on the allies troops. Somehow it takes the romance and glory out of the old Great War.
My grandfather spent five years in the service of Queen and country. He never attained higher than the rank of Private, but won several medals including for Bravery in the Field with two stars. He never took them out to show, never spoke about what he went through, never used it as an excuse for any entitlement or misbehavior. He even made sure he registered with his new country when "the war to end all wars" turned out to be just another in a long line. He was a beautiful, fun, gentle man; and I had great respect for him before I knew about his war time escapades. Now, I have even more respect; first for his service, and second for his being such a quiet man regarding it.
His closest friends in the United States, and that would include his own children, knew little of the man's life before his sea trip across the Atlantic. More to the point, they knew little of his work in World War I. During my search into my family history, I came across information that completely changed the way I saw my grandpa. First of all, serving the Royal Army Medical Corps, UK, he was a stretcher bearer, or medic. When I trained for the US Army, I trained as a medic and x-ray technician. My training as a medic happened after I found out about his service to the War. What I found out was certainly unexpected, not because of the man, but because of his quietness.
In January 1915, Thomas B. Connolly entered the RAMCTF (Trench Force) as a private with the 22 Northumbrian Field Ambulance. It was in WWI that the UK decided to keep men from the same area together as to have an automatic comradeship, and they were right. The 22nd was attached to the 7th Division. According to the Great War historian, Cyril Falls, the 7th Division was "One of the greatest fighting formations Britain ever put into the field." They were sent to the front of Ypres, Belgium, a place where trench warfare was the death of too many men. It was where you could receive a package from home and have laugh now and then; and that night you or your mate could be dead. if it wasn't gunshots and shrapnel that Private Connolly was working on, it was helping all the men delouse. Lice were one of the worst problems for the medics and the servicemen they served. To "have a chat" was to sit with your mate and pick off the lice from each other. In April of 1915, the Germans rained down chlorine gas on the allies troops. Somehow it takes the romance and glory out of the old Great War.
My grandfather spent five years in the service of Queen and country. He never attained higher than the rank of Private, but won several medals including for Bravery in the Field with two stars. He never took them out to show, never spoke about what he went through, never used it as an excuse for any entitlement or misbehavior. He even made sure he registered with his new country when "the war to end all wars" turned out to be just another in a long line. He was a beautiful, fun, gentle man; and I had great respect for him before I knew about his war time escapades. Now, I have even more respect; first for his service, and second for his being such a quiet man regarding it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
