Of Clocks and Ireland and Those Who Came Before Me

Philadelphia

The fog surrounding my brain has lifted. I'm back to multitasking, and running. Two very good signs. And sleep? Well, my endocrine system is still confused, but its coming around slowly.

Today, nearly two weeks since I landed at JFK, my monks and English class seem a distant blink of time. I still sit in my rocker in the predawn light and watch the fire, my legs wrapped tightly in a saffron and umber blanket. 

Since I've been spending so much time in the living room near the fire, I have been watching time go by on the elegant old anniversary clock that sits on a shelf all alone, its pendulum silently spinning back and forth to move the large hand slowly around the circle of time.

I wound it yesterday, it's once-a-year wind. And wondered how many years my grandmother did just the same thing before me. It is the only thing of hers that I possess, and I love its delicate face, its wobbly pendulum, the lovely bell jar cover.

I treasure this memory that I have of my grandmother, my father's mother, Catherine Whalen. Catherine was born in Wisconsin, the eldest of several children. Her parents, my great great grandparents came over from Ireland during the 1850 migration of poor,  often starving Irish families left that beautiful country for freedom from British tyranny.

Her mother before her, Mary Holloway, was three months old, the youngest Holloway child, when the family set sail on the ship Odessa for New York. James Holloway came to Wisconsin to help build the railroad, settling near Madison.

I'm named after both women, both full-blooded Irishwomen. I guess it's fitting to remember them this month of St. Patrick's Day, to pay a little bit of homage to their courage. Catherine moved to Iowa with her family, was the postmistress in a little town in northwest Iowa, and eventually married an Englishman ( of all things ). She had eight children, lived in a tiny house across from the Catholic school in Bancroft, Iowa, where all her children attended school. I didn't know her well. She died when I was five but I remember walking down the street with her to church once, and going to the five and dime store ( the Walmart of its day for those of you under 40 ) where she bought me embroidery floss---any color I wanted, she said.

Catherine was small framed, a little over five feet tall, her grey hair neatly tucked in a soft roll, her cotton dress always hung loosely. And she wore "granny shoes" just like grandmothers of her day were supposed to. Oh, and Ben Franklin glasses. 

I can remember her softness, how gentle she was with me. It wasn't her words that stuck out but her presence.  

When my father was born in 1905, she was recovering from smallpox, the scourge of that time.

He was born with smallpox, of course. The country doctor who attended his home birth told her to "let that baby die, Cate. Save your strength.  You've already got six mouths to feed," according to my father's telling the tale. Apparently Cate looked at the doctor and replied:"Well, now I have seven. And I'll breastfeed this boy back to health." And she did.

So, to Catherine Lucretia Whalen, wherever you are, this is a granddaughter's grateful homage. I will remember again next year when I wind the anniversary clock until the key is tightly wrapped, put it on the shelf for the next year and the next and the next.

I wonder who will turn the key after me?

MC