In My Bones

Philadelphia

I'm startled at my yearning for Ireland. The music, the countryside, the people, the sounds, the ancient ruins--even the rain.

This morning, I found myself streaming Irish radio, RTE. Yesterday, I finished the Dubliners for the second time. I'm watching Michael Collins on DVD. I'm listening to Delores Keane and learning more about Johnny McDonagh and his bhodran innovations.

Now, dear readers, I always find that I immerse myself in literature, the arts, history of a culture after I return from a trip.

But this is different.

It began almost two decades ago when I wanted to know about the legacy of the women who came before me. I stood in the October rain outside a small town in northern Iowa at my greatgrandmother's grave. Mary Holloway Whalen. Then on to Bancroft to my grandmother's grave, Catherine Whalen Bolster. Mary arrived in America from Dublin in May, 1850, on the "coffin ship", Odessa with her mother, Ann Dwyer, her father, James Holloway, and three brothers and sisters. She was three months old.

Wisconsin and Iowa in the mid 1800s must have felt like home to these Irish peasants from County Carlow--with its rolling hills and small villages. Land was cheap, they knew how to farm, and they weren't afraid of hard work--especially without a landlord levying crippling taxes.

I know they yearned for Ireland; knew they'd never return. I know it because of the oral history, the stories my father told me about the land and its beauty.

Legacy echoes through time; imprinting ancient memories in our DNA. Microscopic video in our bone marrow.

I'm certain of it.

M.C.