My wife and I just completed the most glorious vacation of our entire lives.
We have
traveled the highways and byways of Ireland, Northern Ireland and Scotland. We
have gazed in wonder at the snow-capped mountains, we have marveled at the singular
color of the lush grassy pastures; upon which sheep and cattle feed, we have
listened to the mournful sound of the bagpipes, and watched Scottish and Irish
dancers strut their stuff, we have sampled foods which baffle the taste buds,
we have interacted with the loveliest people to grace the planet, we have
walked the quaint lanes and admired the most colorful and interesting of flora
and fauna.
Dublin and
its massive cathedrals and ancient pubs. The stone ruins of a monastic village.
Forty shades of green. 19th century remnants of the “Famine Houses.”
Sea gulls and ocean waves. A Depression-era farm house. Dingle Bay. Massive
castles. The Massacre of the MacDonald Clan. The English Occupation of Ireland,
and the cruelty they exercised. The Potato Famine. The “Trouble” of Northern
Ireland. Sharing “Danny Boy” and “Amazing Grace” with our amazing group of
fellow travelers. The Titanic Museum. Drunken and aimless young adults. Street
Beggars. Waterford Crystal. A mythical, but very real island. Greyfriar’s
Bobby. Sheep shearing. Edinburgh’s pipers. Family roots.
One of the
most poignant, and almost magical moments which I experienced during our trip
to the Old Country occurred at a dinner theater in Dublin referred to as
“Taylor’s Three Rock.” During the course of the evening my daughter and I were
afforded some wonderful food, singing, dancing and comedy. However, as I have
previously implied, one moment stood out from all the rest.
Pt. 2
Almost
without warning, a video appeared on the overhead screen which featured
numerous ancient photographs of 19th century men, women and
children, immigrants all, ships, mountains, rivers, ocean waves, the Statue of
Liberty, and Ellis Island, the proverbial (and literal) gateway to the golden
door which was and continues to be America.
But “what
got me,” what really grabbed me and would not let me go, what struck a
spine-tingling cord within me, and inspired my innate sensibilities was the
music which accompanied the video.
Isle of Hope. Isle of Tears
On the
first day of January 1892
They opened Ellis Island and they let the people through
And the first to cross the threshold of that isle of hope and tears
Was Annie Moore from Ireland who was all of 15 years
Isle of
hope, isle of tears
Isle of freedom, isle of fears
But it’s not the isle you left behind
That isle of hunger, isle of pain
Isle you’ll never see again
But the isle of home is always on your mind
I’d never
heard the song before, but I can so identify with it. While most or all of my
immediate ancestors immigrated to the United States in the 17th, 18th
and 19th centuries, before there was an Ellis Island, they came
nonetheless; in most cases, leaving all they ever knew and held so dear.
Fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, friends, homes and land. And in most
cases, those who boarded those old triple-masted ships were left with mental
images of what was, and would never be again, and they never returned to the
lands from whence they sprang.
As the video
and its accompanying melody continued, tears sprang to my eyes, and, subsequently,
rolled down my cheeks.
In a
little bag, she carried all her past and history
And her dreams for the future in the land of liberty
And courage is the passport when your old world disappears
But there’s no future in the past when you’re 15 years
Isle of
hope, isle of tears
Isle of freedom, isle of fears
But it’s not the isle you left behind
That isle of hunger, isle of pain
Isle you’ll never see again
But the isle of home is always on your mind
Pt. 3
I,
as was my father before me, am an amateur genealogist, and I love and care
deeply for those who have gone on before; though all they left to us were a few
sundry bits of information, and fading celluloid photographs. There was a time
when they lived, and moved and breathed and loved. They were here, and we were
not. And we owe them our very existence, and our own ability to live and
breathe and move, as they did before us. And having dared fate, braved the
elements, and stared down fear, every man, woman and child among them grasped
their providential destinies, and endured ‘til the end.
My
3x great Grandfather Isham McDonald, born in Ireland of Scottish parents, who
left it all behind, including his dear papa and mama, “set up shop” in South
Carolina, and served in the fledgling Continental Army throughout the American
Revolution.
My
3x great Grandmother Mary Elizabeth Stewart, born on the Isle of Skye, Scotland
in the 17th century, who as a young lass dared journey to a place
she knew little or nothing about, and which lay across four thousand miles of
turbulent ocean. Never to return to the island of her birth, nor to friends and
family whom she held so dear. And on those rough-hewn wooden docks, she left a
hundred kisses on their cheeks.
My
9x great Grandfather Daniel Mackhoe, of Edinburgh, a Jacobite; one of Bonnie
Prince Charlie’s men. Old Dan fought at the Battle of Dunbar, and having been
taken prisoner by the British was led on a forced march to a distant stockade;
during which time thousands of his compatriots died. Ultimately, my ancient
Grandfather was involuntary consigned to the ship, “John and Sara” and was
adopted by the most bless-ed country which ever graced this planet.
When they
closed down Ellis Island in 1943
17 million people had come there for sanctuary
And in springtime when I came here and I stepped onto its piers
I thought of how it must have been when you’re 15 years
But the isle of home is always on your mind
But the isle of home is always on your mind
Pt. 4
I brought up
the “Celtic Woman” version of, “Isle of Hope. Isle of Tears” today, and without
notice tears sprang to my eyes, and I could not contain the sobs which rose in
my throat! My wife was standing nearby and uttered an “ahhhh,” and bent down to
hug me. And before she was close enough to extend her sympathetic arms, my
little pooch drew near, and gazed at me like she’d lost her dearest friend. She
just knew I was experiencing one of the most singular moments of my life.
While we
were in Ireland, and Northern Ireland and Scotland my mind was taken up with my
known and unknown grandfathers and grandmothers, as it never was before.
I left a tribute
to each of them in the form of a simple note on the face of a dollar bill;
which recounted their names and lives, and whatever else to which I was privy;
along with my name and relationship to them.
And with
this, I secreted the bill beneath a desk, or bureau, or bedstead in the room to
which we were assigned, and in the applicable country with which my forefathers
were most and best acquainted.
And whereas,
I left a piece of my heart, and a paltry bit of cash behind, my dear
grandfathers and grandmothers surrendered all their heart, and the losses they
sustained cannot be calculated.
And whereas,
these never returned to the peoples and homes and lands they knew and loved so
well, I think, in essence, I have returned in their place.
Isle of
hope, isle of tears
Isle of freedom, isle of fears
But it’s not the isle you left behind
That isle of hunger, isle of pain
Isle you’ll never see again
But the isle of home is always on your mind
But the
isle of home is always on your mind
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