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I'm uncomfortable with the term "historian" when
it is applied to me. Those are very dedicated individuals who spend much time
researching and seeking how and why things happened. Me, I'm a collector of
other people's stories- the good, the bad, the happy, the sad, the true, and
the....... what we wished really happened. For a number of years I did oral
histories with members of the community. It all started because of my Dad. As a
kid we'd drive around and he'd tell me the story of the Acre Shamrocks and
swimming in the canals, stuff that would make a great oral history.
Unfortunately I never gave him the time to do a history with me. I've lost that
chance. I recall one story he shared with me.
When he was a kid living
on Waugh Street in the Acre, a neighbor passed away. This must have been about
1925 when he was 7 or 8. His mother took him by the hand to attend the deceased
woman's wake. He remembered seeing a wreath hanging on the door with a black
crepe ribbon to announce to passers-by that the family was in mourning. He had
never been to a wake before and had no idea what to expect. They walked into
what would be called today the family room. The deceased was laid out in a
casket, of course provided by O'Donnell's. The house was mobbed with family and
friends. He remembered the gnarled hands of the deceased neighbor with the
rosary beads intertwined. Candles burned at both ends of the coffin. His mother
and he took a seat. There was no hope of escaping. The table before him had
glasses stuffed with cigarettes and a bowl with clay pipes and tobacco. These
were meant as tokens of remembrance from the family. The room where the deceased
was laid out was quiet and reverent with mostly women whispering and nodding and
holding lace handkerchiefs in their hands.
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The kitchen was another story. People who came to
the house brought plates of sandwiches or cakes. It overflowed with offerings.
Of course there was the whiskey. Jugs of the "water of life" bought at local
watering holes covered what empty space there was in the kitchen. This was the
male's domain. Smoke filled the room. and the glasses were being passed around
again and again. My Dad loaded his plate with food, and his mom quickly escorted
him out of this part of the house. He sat in the back of the viewing room while
his mother made the rounds with the other ladies. As he was eating off his plate
he almost jumped out of his chair. In back of him was a row of old ladies,
really old ladies. They were like a chorus from some Greek tragedy. In unison
they started high pitch wailing that went on and on. A few other old ladies
joined in. "She's gone. She's gone" Then there were a series of lamentations not
in any words he could recognize. Followed by, "We'll never see her again." There
were intercessions to Blessed Virgin Mary and all the saints. Then the wailing
would begin again. Much later he asked his mother who they were and she said
they were the keeners. Some were family members, but other were paid
professionals whose job was to set the mood and recount the actions of the soul
who had passed. It was a practice that had pretty much died away by that time,
and maybe he wasn't aware that he was witnessing one of the last grand Irish
wakes in Lowell. He told the story a number of times over his life, and said the
sound of the keeners was something he always would remember.
Back at the
wake, the mourners carried on until the priest arrived and then all the women
got on their
knees for the rosary. The sound from the kitchen of the
glasses being filled and refilled mixed in with the Hail Marys. This same
routine would be carried on for 2 more nights. His mother walked him back home
only to turn around and return to the wake. It was her job to "keep watch" the
whole night with a few of the other women. They would spend the entire night
with the deceased telling stories of her life and struggles and then begin the
rosary again. "...... now and at the hour of our death. Amen"
