tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49340827762378067212024-03-05T06:50:18.371-05:00LowellIrishThe mission of LowellIrish is to collect and preserve the history and cultural materials, which document the presence of the Irish community in Lowell. As the first immigrant group in a city that continues to celebrate its immigrant past, LowellIrish will serve as an advocate to support a better understanding of the historical, political, religious, and social function the Irish played in the formation of the city. LowellIrishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17581828365206969935noreply@blogger.comBlogger292125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4934082776237806721.post-86401466551513876222018-02-10T20:11:00.000-05:002018-02-10T20:11:09.437-05:00New Book: THE DAYS THAT WENT BEFORE US: stories & accounts of Lowell's early Irish<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbSCRaS7kHDu98YunkAT8hw4L8UseuNstVjZAKrQ9SMBIJi-10XtGLN9soazZp5Fs1fXUcF-TmV2EK98lu9dYY6g9RI_eopEOZclGQRBe3FymKwZtcMd_LamgpK8haPHfRHIqsrEhyFn8V/s1600/cover.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="781" data-original-width="518" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbSCRaS7kHDu98YunkAT8hw4L8UseuNstVjZAKrQ9SMBIJi-10XtGLN9soazZp5Fs1fXUcF-TmV2EK98lu9dYY6g9RI_eopEOZclGQRBe3FymKwZtcMd_LamgpK8haPHfRHIqsrEhyFn8V/s200/cover.png" width="132" /></a><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">From the riot that started
it all, to the rocky road to Boston.
From thousands taking the temperance pledge, to keening at an Irish
wake. <b><i>The Days That Went Before Us, </i></b><i>by David McKean,</i> recounts the trials and tribulations, tears and
joys of the Irish pioneers of Lowell’s first immigrant group. Using the latest research and primary
sources, learn how the Irish became a political, religious, and cultural force. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">$12.95 + $3.50 s&h. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Available from </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><a href="mailto:dadumc@comcast.net">dadumc@comcast.net</a> or at
the book signing on March 8<sup>th</sup> at the Acre Forum</span></div>
LowellIrishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17581828365206969935noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4934082776237806721.post-5013848106845684972018-02-02T13:08:00.000-05:002018-02-02T13:08:08.474-05:00A Few Vagabonds and Scoundrels<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiENi7aYJfGuCog9NZ5Flm8WVfBU4w74rS690TQCNwWaolC8wCxvVtmkCzdho_D5umDFBrago34-7YOEvBX2r92Rya-6bWJUejYbuwcBej7F94fp_wm9YaEy6hL0Tc1_GYTadZQZB10pdUT/s1600/ob.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="318" data-original-width="319" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiENi7aYJfGuCog9NZ5Flm8WVfBU4w74rS690TQCNwWaolC8wCxvVtmkCzdho_D5umDFBrago34-7YOEvBX2r92Rya-6bWJUejYbuwcBej7F94fp_wm9YaEy6hL0Tc1_GYTadZQZB10pdUT/s200/ob.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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One wonders what Father John O’Brien, of patent medicine
fame, expected when he accepted the call to Lowell. Previous to arriving in the city he and his
brother Timothy were stationed in Virginia.
There the two men became widely known for their work among the small,
Southern, Catholic community. The two
brothers’ reputations grew as being spiritual and leaders of the Irish
community who had settled in the Richmond, VA area to dig canals. It was in Richmond that they were responsible
for building St. Peter’s Cathedral, still there today. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Fr. John arrived in Lowell in 1848 but obviously held his
former parishioners quite dear. The
priest also worked in the town of Martinsburg, VA, and that is where he met the
McSherry family. Richard McSherry’s
father had emigrated from Ireland in the late 18<sup>th</sup> century. Richard McSherry became a doctor and was one
of the 50 Irish Catholic families in Martinsburg. The McSherrys were also wealthy landowners
and slave owners. Dr. McSherry’s
daughter, Cecelia, remained a friend of Fr. O’Brien as evidenced by a 4 page handwritten
letter which was just discovered a few weeks ago.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The letter, written by Fr. O’Brien, was written in January
of 1850. He writes that the teachers in
the school had erected a Christmas tree.
This is one of the earliest accounts of this new traditions. They would not be popular for several
decades. He goes on to tell of hearing
180 confessions before Christmas and receiving $149 as an offering. He does say that some members of the
congregation had organized a sleigh ride and questions the money spent on such
an event.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He further says that he had never “had charge of a more
pious people,” but continues by saying “there are more than a sufficient number
to give us a bad name.” It was at that
time that riots broke out within the Irish community of Lowell. He continues by adding that “a few scoundrels
and vagabonds will bring disgrace on a community by their lawless deeds.” The riots of 1849 continued for several days
with bricks and rocks being thrown and having the city constables called out. He credits Fr. Theobold Mathew, the Irish
Temperance priest, who was visiting Lowell with helping to quell the
riots. He finishes his letter by
applauding the fact a young woman who had left the church returned and “had
given up her Protestantism.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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The letter actual opens by asking Miss McSherry about her
health and telling her not to overdo things.
Cecelia McSherry would live 5 more years and die at the age of 39.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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The letter gives us a glimpse into the everyday lives of the
Irish community, their trials and hardships.
It is a rare artifacts where the Irish themselves speak of what was
going on around them rather than their Yankee counterparts.<o:p></o:p></div>
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LowellIrishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17581828365206969935noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4934082776237806721.post-70568057315732228972018-01-23T17:29:00.000-05:002018-01-23T17:29:36.038-05:00The Confederate Soldier & Good Father John<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCLk6XM2SQdpG3PmaTF4__MOfENgvti6gRstRiobjLFZwoP9xSovHNl_UdIQ15m5opAVtW0LAYMDbNJP1VNEe5aRdwXIcGfzmgNaxtZ8ZPVY0RSZf90hr9fKRYMJUj1n37PdkTvOByqq7c/s1600/Dooley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="331" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCLk6XM2SQdpG3PmaTF4__MOfENgvti6gRstRiobjLFZwoP9xSovHNl_UdIQ15m5opAVtW0LAYMDbNJP1VNEe5aRdwXIcGfzmgNaxtZ8ZPVY0RSZf90hr9fKRYMJUj1n37PdkTvOByqq7c/s200/Dooley.jpg" width="133" /></a></div>
Before Fr. John O’Brien, of Fr. John’s Medicine fame, arrived in Lowell in 1848, he spent many years in the Virginia. He and his brother, Fr. Timothy, are given credit by historians for supporting the small number of Catholics and actually building the cathedral before they left to come to Lowell. During his time in Richmond, VA he befriended the Dooley family. John and Sarah Dooley were Irish immigrants and part of Fr. John’s parish. They were part of the small Catholic population, but had become wealthy by becoming merchants. Their son, John, grew to be an ardent Catholic, supporter for Irish freedom, and adherent to Southern secession from the Union.<br />
John originally started his studies at Georgetown, but with the advent of the Civil War he sought to join the Confederacy. He had to wait until he was of age, but eventually signed up with 1st Virginia Regiment. He quickly rose through the ranks and eventually achieved the rank of Captain. He fought in the battles of Bull Run, Antietam, and Gettysburg. It was during Pickett’s Charge the he was wounded in both thighs and taken prisoner to Johnson’s Island, Ohio.<br />
It was while he was a prisoner that he penned a diary of his life in the Confederate army and life as a prisoner of war. His journal is one of the most well-known accounts of the life of a Confederate soldier and life in a Northern prisoner of war camp. The reading is fascinating with details of camp life and the horrid conditions of prison life.<br />
It was during his time at Johnson Island he wrote to Father O’Brien. Evidently the family had kept in close communication once the priest left Richmond to come to Lowell. There were several letters between the two men. Dooley was seeking Fr. O’Brien to intercede with the prison commander to gain his release. In 1863, Dooley received $50 from O’Brien, whom he calls his “generous hearted old friend,” in the hopes of obtaining a parole. The priest pleads with Dooley upon his release to come to Lowell “where I will have everything I may desire.” The plea did not work and Dooley suffers from his wounds.<br />
Another account is when Dooley met a Union soldier from Lowell. The soldier shared that he was a parishioner of Fr. John’s. And the two spoke at length. At some point Dooley asks how the Union soldier can be fighting for the North when it was clear that the South was on the side of freedom. The Union soldier tearfully responds that he joined the army for the money. He returns with blankets for Dooley, and the two never see each other again.<br />
Dooley finally gets word of his impending release and sends a final note to Fr. John thanking him for his kindness and saying farewell. Dooley returns to Georgetown to pursue studies for the priesthood. In 1873 his battle wounds weaken him to the point where he never is ordained, but is still buried in the Jesuit cemetery at Georgetown.<br />
The book is available at: https://www.amazon.com/John-Dooleys-Civil-War-Americans/dp/1572338229
LowellIrishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17581828365206969935noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4934082776237806721.post-77023341622049844322018-01-13T14:32:00.001-05:002018-01-13T14:32:53.912-05:00John Burke's Cane<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj1R4YM-9YpPvxlV2DhWxvhD3cC1lTBggwLdZ9Xk5WPKnHlNg0VlsLBf5dJ9HFOPtJ8IN15wbDv4u6TSbMqqooMat9EaPWGqR_8ZmIgDtbx9-ZypVEuJ8Y3SWt013CM-PcId-FmwnrIifo/s1600/john-m-burke-poster-3c1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj1R4YM-9YpPvxlV2DhWxvhD3cC1lTBggwLdZ9Xk5WPKnHlNg0VlsLBf5dJ9HFOPtJ8IN15wbDv4u6TSbMqqooMat9EaPWGqR_8ZmIgDtbx9-ZypVEuJ8Y3SWt013CM-PcId-FmwnrIifo/s200/john-m-burke-poster-3c1.jpg" width="153" height="200" data-original-width="432" data-original-height="566" /></a></div>On stage he was known as Dublin Dan, the premier Irish comedian of American music halls in the latter half of the nineteenth century. Born as John M. Burke, he was a descendant of the great Guinness brewing family, he left his studies at Oxford to come to Boston to create a troupe of actors, singers, and dancers. This was the very dawn of the vaudeville age. Burke’s was not the only Irish musicale troupe of the time. Among others were MacEvoy’s Hibernicon, Harrigan’s Hibernian Company, and McGill & Strong’s Minstrel Company. Cities like Lowell had their “museums”, music halls, and opera houses. Some were quite legitimate, but most catered to the working class with earthy lyrics set to popular tunes.
Burke’s career began in Boston in the 1870s making the Keith’s Theater circuit which evolved into engagements across the country such as New York City and Philadelphia. He married one of his troupe members who went by the stage name “Mrs. Annie Irish.”
His advertisements which have survived give us an idea of what his show must have been like. For a mere 35 cents, 25 cents for children and 75 cents for orchestra seats, Dublin Dan would transform his audience from their lives of hard labor and meager living conditions to the lakes and fields of Erin. Through a series of hand painted tableaux spectators could see “a fresh and attractive array of novettes” along with the “Beauties of Ireland” and “the Lovely Lakes of Killarney.” A group of musicians and singers accompanied the scenes. Each took on a different character during the performance. “Erin’s Queen of Song, Miss Annie F Irish played the “Banshee Dearg.” There was also Patrick Fay as Shaun the Piper, James Shannon as the Coward Calanny, and B. Murray as the tourist. Of course the producer and director of Tableaux of Erin was John M. Burke as Dublin Dan the Guide. Burke’s advertisement claimed his show demonstrated the best of “minstrelity.”
While Burke claimed to have made a world tour, he was known to have made several visits to Lowell, where he appeared at the Huntington Hall and the Music Hall. A reviewer of one of his performances in Lowell noted the admiration of the audience for Miss Annie Irish for her rendition of Moore’s Irish melodies. (Moore wrote The Minstrel Boy and The Last Rose of Summer.) It also noted the “active Irish boy” with his songs and closing with a “great acrobatic ending” which demanded an encore. The finale of the program was a jig performed by Dublin Dan and Miss Irish.
Burke’s connection in Lowell does not end here. Many years ago in the attic of a house on Mt. Washington Street in the Acre was <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0nI4artm0RrvLTyrqT1sHZgdZAutdFhmQXdCcF5Wus0T-xw3rL8fpmRNXA5mtARGl9alVHn131-vSGhU7uyINwMJ3Q8Z5aEzsww3rz5KfgdOR69zsY7KI4565fMMy4mHzd8MnA1bGj9P6/s1600/Burke+Cane.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0nI4artm0RrvLTyrqT1sHZgdZAutdFhmQXdCcF5Wus0T-xw3rL8fpmRNXA5mtARGl9alVHn131-vSGhU7uyINwMJ3Q8Z5aEzsww3rz5KfgdOR69zsY7KI4565fMMy4mHzd8MnA1bGj9P6/s200/Burke+Cane.jpg" width="200" height="113" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="900" /></a></div>found a gold topped cane. Inscribed on the cane is “Presented to John M. Burke, Irish Comedian, Feb 29th 73 by the Blumenthal Opera House, Prop. .... Wilkes-Barre USA.” The house at one time was owned by a family whose last name was Burke. Coincidence? Family member? No one knows for sure.
Burke died at the age of 30 at the “Sisters’ Hospital” in Philadelphia. His wife quickly remarried another vaudeville performer. She and her children remained on stage for many years continuing Burke’s love of the theater. (Many thanks to Bill Mitchell for finding the cane and asking the right questions.)
LowellIrishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17581828365206969935noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4934082776237806721.post-36094228472729007672017-09-17T13:54:00.000-04:002017-09-18T21:13:31.686-04:00ST. PATRICK CEMETERY TOUR: Saturday, September 30 @ 10 am<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh28Fxeqj8At2fFBjyP6MWEikuUpTHESvN5q_9Cq6JltCPj9L2TTkRp1ZuYRr9eRK8bjQzwyqJ-gKV6SIoYEh6OpEOz8Mw8ARLv_Z-3bs50rxJ3MpzscVm1JUE0o7UZrptDUpmv2qkMH2Yk/s1600/New+Picture+%252815%2529.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh28Fxeqj8At2fFBjyP6MWEikuUpTHESvN5q_9Cq6JltCPj9L2TTkRp1ZuYRr9eRK8bjQzwyqJ-gKV6SIoYEh6OpEOz8Mw8ARLv_Z-3bs50rxJ3MpzscVm1JUE0o7UZrptDUpmv2qkMH2Yk/s200/New+Picture+%252815%2529.png" width="104" height="200" data-original-width="186" data-original-height="357" /></a></div>Our annual tour of St. Patrick Cemetery will take place on Saturday, September 30 at 10 am. The tour will last 90 minutes. Please meet in the chapel area. In the past we've focused on the oldest stones in Yard One.This year we will have an entire new tour and walk the area around the chapel led by Walter Hickey. In the latter half of the 19th century the rising middle class of the Irish was making its mark in business, public service, and politics. Their monuments are testaments to the accomplishments and heritage. LowellIrishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17581828365206969935noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4934082776237806721.post-24873202326507735212017-07-21T18:47:00.000-04:002017-07-23T13:00:09.298-04:00The Sad Story of Brother Bonaventure<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3mkfdhxtcClKZW4Fxw20E1HmUMSr5i-BQC1t6WkNQ9BmS_TOIrxKLd3pswfBxS0A_hT9Jea8hs91lNpB1iMuJn3eeAPqnj04nTBZmCIZErunXWgyDdoQt18fJ53FUIUx7i9A76ifXQf82/s1600/New+Picture+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3mkfdhxtcClKZW4Fxw20E1HmUMSr5i-BQC1t6WkNQ9BmS_TOIrxKLd3pswfBxS0A_hT9Jea8hs91lNpB1iMuJn3eeAPqnj04nTBZmCIZErunXWgyDdoQt18fJ53FUIUx7i9A76ifXQf82/s200/New+Picture+%25282%2529.jpg" width="105" height="200" data-original-width="194" data-original-height="371" /></a></div>The darkened skies and rolls of thunder were a foreboding for the news the messenger was bringing to St. Patrick’s Rectory. The housekeeper could hardly be understood between her sobs and the raging storm. Fathers William and Shaw heard the banging on the door followed by the cries from the maid. Calming her down they finally made out the news- Brother Bonaventure was dead, a victim of drowning.
There was little relief from summer heat in the 19th century. Combine that with the close living conditions in the Acre and the disciplined order of being a Xaverian Brother made for a trying life. The Superior of the Brothers, Brother Dominic, was a true shepherd of the flock of Brothers who taught the boys at St. Patrick School. It was August of 1896. His idea was to give them a respite from the heat, a little vacation at Lake Nabnessett in Westford. Mr. McGlinchey, a local, “thrifty” farmer, arranged for housing for the Brothers. On Monday, after dinner, the Brothers decided to go for a boat ride.
All the Brothers got into the boat, along with the McGlinchey boys and a friend. As the afternoon progressed the rowers became fatigued and the fatal decision was made for others to take up the oars. As the boaters switched positions the boat suddenly overturned sending the group into the water. Panic struck the group. The McGlinchey boys, their friend, and Brother Bonaventure began making their way to shore, 100 yards away. The cries for help made Bonaventure and one of the boys turn around to help the Brothers who were flailing in the water. None of them knew how to swim.
The two rescuers speedily made their way back to the upturned boat and got them to hold onto the edge of the boat. Brother Mark, who was stuck under the boat, was dragged to safety. Brother Eugene was going under for the 3rd time before he was saved. Brother Mark could barely keep his head above water. The entire lot was at the point of exhaustion. Brother Amandus, who was onshore, got another boat and started rowing out to those holding on for dear life. The group heard a cry and saw Brother Bonaventure “the pale face of Brother Bonaventure turn heavenward and then submerged below the surface of the water, a gurgling cry was all the sound he made and he never rose again in life.” The rescue boat could not find Bonaventure and quickly turned to those holding onto the upturned boat who had little strength left.
The storm clouds moved in and the steady rain kept up through the night. Carriages arrived from Lowell including the Superior, Brother Dominic who had arranged the short respite. A number of local residents from Westford and parishioners from Lowell kept up the search. Undertaker O’Donnell also came. About 6 in the morning Brother Bernard found Bonaventure’s body. It was brought to the schoolhouse to lay in state on Suffolk Street. On Monday and Tuesday between twelve and fifteen thousand people came to pay their respects.
“In the world” Bonaventure was known as William Guthrie. A quiet, spiritual boy from Kentucky, he entered the Xaverians at 19 and decided to give his life in service to others. He served as teacher for 7 years. Observers noted those who attended the wake, including many boys from the school, openly wept. He was truly loved by many who knew this gentle soul. The funeral, on Wednesday filled St. Patrick’s Church. As the body was borne from the school to the church his fellow Brothers chanted the De Profundis. The Mass was sung by Bonaventure’s own students. An observer said the only way to count the crowd was to say it was in the thousands.
The funeral cortege wound its way to St. Patrick Cemetery for burial in the Brothers’ Lot. The crowd was so numerous many could not get near the grave. Father O’Brien recited the committal prayers as the body was being lowered into the grave. “Sobs of heartfelt sorrow” muffled the priest’s prayers. An observer noted that his kindly face will be missed and that many will utter a fervent prayer for the repose of his soul.
Sadly the story does not end here. The Superior, Brother Dominic, who arranged for the Brothers’ rest was given the burden of guilt for the tragedy. Though the poor man was visibly moved in grief, he was quickly removed from St. Patrick’s without any notice or reason for doing so. Though nothing was openly said, the pastor, Fr. Michael O’Brien had words with Dominic. And Dominic’s superior in Baltimore openly held him responsible. Dominic went from being the Superior of one of the Xaverians leading institutions to a teacher at St. Mary’s Industrial School in Baltimore. A writer said Dominic carried his burden “quietly and obediently.”
(The Brothers’ Lot at St. Patrick’s has not been located. If anyone knows where it is, please let us know.)
LowellIrishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17581828365206969935noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4934082776237806721.post-16416699683200243172017-06-18T16:13:00.004-04:002017-06-18T16:13:49.187-04:00The Broadway Social & Athletic Club<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivAWW55eMd4WqJDmuN6V6pxXi6t876-V92Kp1u9nYOE1eLVMFfVDxhseAEv_MAQV9K_rPbIftn8md0RNy4s4ZuYQvSzayTVVsprTKWb-pXuf6DifzN-mtGg7je2CnIvFrbK-R_QCMsDiJH/s1600/Happy+Kelly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1063" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivAWW55eMd4WqJDmuN6V6pxXi6t876-V92Kp1u9nYOE1eLVMFfVDxhseAEv_MAQV9K_rPbIftn8md0RNy4s4ZuYQvSzayTVVsprTKWb-pXuf6DifzN-mtGg7je2CnIvFrbK-R_QCMsDiJH/s200/Happy+Kelly.jpg" width="132" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Happy Kelly</td></tr>
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It made the front page of the Lowell Sun in June of
1915. The Broadway Social and Athletic
Club held what would become the first of its annual banquets. The club was formed the year before by a
group of Acre neighbors who wanted a place to get together talk politics and
have a game of baseball. Originally the
club was on Broadway Street itself, near where the White Electric building used
to be. The club soon relocated to what
many will be remembered as the Marine Club or the Firefighter’s Club at the
intersection of Fletcher, Cross, and Willie.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The club, though only a year old in 1915, grew quickly
gathering athletes and politicians alike in its ranks. Though located in not the most prestigious neighborhood
of the city, some of Lowell’s most well-known movers and shakers sought
membership cards. Being a member not
only gave individuals a chance to make contacts with city councilors or job
potentials, but it also mixed different classes. Most of its members resided in the Acre, but
there were many others who lived elsewhere and whose roots began in the Acre. Reading a list of members and attendees to
that banquet in 1915 reads like a page from the Dublin white pages. There were: the McCanns, O’Sullivans,
Murphys, and Caseys; There were the Feeneys, Scanalls, Hessians, and Dohertys
too.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Of that night the Sun said it “to be one of the most
successful affairs of its kind ever held in this city,” and would be the talk
of the town for many years. The rooms on
“upper Broadway” were festooned with streamers of red, white, and blue on the
outside with a large welcome sign.
Inside potted palms and flowering plants filled the hall. The evening started off with the grand
procession by its members into the hall followed by a turkey dinner. Mayor Dennis J. Murphy was in attendance
while Rep. <i>When It’s
Moonlight in Mayo.</i> Francis Connor
sang, <i>Ireland, I Love You.</i> When Frank Clough finished his musical number
the audience requested 5 more encores from him, perhaps to curtail the
speeches. It’s interesting to note how
the speakers encouraged its younger members to seek education by attending
Lowell Textile School. Another speaker
encouraged all to embody, especially the younger members, the goals of the
club; “friendship, fidelity, and community.” There was much talk of citizenship, love of
country, the growth of bigotry in the country and believing in and spreading of
false rumors in the news. Little did
these men know that in a few years many would be called to defend these rights
and liberties in the Great War.<o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3yN56ud6Vve79cHb6anyqxkAOTp3JLDPh8x1He7Gt_RBt3_ygkte248MN-xaCScnDbQ3_m5tc97Y35gu02ljAdplYvYSmrQsSK39BfhjYM0dy8AoBPd7SW5_F7ql928UU8E6Uf9NW3jOl/s1600/Walter+H+Hickey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1020" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3yN56ud6Vve79cHb6anyqxkAOTp3JLDPh8x1He7Gt_RBt3_ygkte248MN-xaCScnDbQ3_m5tc97Y35gu02ljAdplYvYSmrQsSK39BfhjYM0dy8AoBPd7SW5_F7ql928UU8E6Uf9NW3jOl/s200/Walter+H+Hickey.jpg" width="126" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Walter H Hickey</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Dennis A. Murphy, an Acre man himself, was toastmaster. The speeches continued with club President
McCann recounting the group’s mission to provide social events for a few
friends, and how it had expanded, and even just purchased a summer camp
exclusive for its members. In between
the speeches were a number of musical numbers.
James Dowling sang <br />
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Let’s not forget the other title in club’s name-
athletics. The North Common had been
hosting ball games probably since the first days of Abner Doubleday invented
baseball. In the late 1800s the
Columbians of St. Patrick’s Boys School was one of the first teams playing
there. Then the Emeralds and the
Sanctuary Team from St. Pat’s. As the
Sun said in 1916, the Broadway Club boys, many from old St. Pat’s “is going to
uphold the traditional valor of the Acre lads on the baseball diamond.” The traditional rivals of the Acre teams were
those from the South Common. In the
beginning crowds up to 3000 people would come to watch the games. Soon those numbers triples. The rivalry between the North and South
Commons had been going on for 50 years.
A writer commented that those not wanting to watch the game could
observe the 101 arguments that were going on amongst the spectators as to who
had the better team. Baseball wasn’t the
only sport the club engaged in. They
sponsored boxing matches as well.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The competition got so bad that in 1916 it was commented
that the North Common supporters should “learn to be good losers as well as
good winners.” It seems that spectators
from the Club were interfering with the other team’s players. They were warned that other teams would not
want to come to the North Common if such activity continued. It cautioned them to, “curb (your) over
demonstrative partisans and insist on fair play.” They were later described as “the Broadways,
whose habitat is the North Common, are a fighting bunch willing to take on
anything.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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For many decades the group sponsored dances (tickets cost 35
cents), political rallies, minstrel shows, and were active in wider community
events. They were regular marchers
during 4<sup>th</sup> of July festivities.
Members marched wearing dark suits, and straw hats while carrying gold
canes with American flags attached. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibIzH8NvB_qpTmR2BVcdNjMAK6RbcoOXz0uZpZ6WqzyYQYCXzoP7oCQkGNwGJNldLIxZ7cbTQve3jJueZyRrGDJgG1SE7SpdhUaR5fVA1AByNVHtEzgjrPSqT5qfgD7KsCFy20C1tkoA2E/s1600/Patrick+Kearns.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1064" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibIzH8NvB_qpTmR2BVcdNjMAK6RbcoOXz0uZpZ6WqzyYQYCXzoP7oCQkGNwGJNldLIxZ7cbTQve3jJueZyRrGDJgG1SE7SpdhUaR5fVA1AByNVHtEzgjrPSqT5qfgD7KsCFy20C1tkoA2E/s200/Patrick+Kearns.jpg" width="132" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Patrick Kearns, "Big Jack's Bartender"</td></tr>
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By the 1940s the mission of the Broadway Social and Athletic
Club had been reached. Its members were now among Lowell’s educated, political,
and business leaders. Soon the only
mention of the club was in its aged members obituaries. After World War II the club was sold and
turned into the Marine Club.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The Photos: almost 30 years ago someone handed me a group of
aged photos and said if I didn’t give them a home they were being thrown
out. That’s how a lot of things have
come my way. The photos are 3x4 inches
in sepia tone, probably 30-40 of them.
In rough penmanship each is identified.
They are all of members of the Broadway Social and Athletic Club. Probably the only artifacts remaining from a
time long ago. <o:p></o:p></div>
LowellIrishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17581828365206969935noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4934082776237806721.post-42733851883134448732017-04-13T23:21:00.001-04:002017-04-13T23:21:23.962-04:00An Acre Memory- Easter<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGa3ED3_OUk6nMQi4D7VAwWGOGAaJQ7XWmq_UYMhCvr8jIFR7_1mKP6BHFrz4OuB2ITSOH8r5giNgusxdKaxxVCrCpiCkomLGMrww-ZtlnqIJHxEMHVe4rB6Dc9Oe9JR-YpTl-xhDF1B8Q/s1600/Scan0002+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGa3ED3_OUk6nMQi4D7VAwWGOGAaJQ7XWmq_UYMhCvr8jIFR7_1mKP6BHFrz4OuB2ITSOH8r5giNgusxdKaxxVCrCpiCkomLGMrww-ZtlnqIJHxEMHVe4rB6Dc9Oe9JR-YpTl-xhDF1B8Q/s1600/Scan0002+(2).jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;">Easter on Walker St., 1960</td></tr>
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There was a strict rule in my home on the corner of Broadway and Walker that you can’t have Easter without Lent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It all started on Ash Wednesday when the Sisters would march us over to church to receive ashes on our foreheads.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’d stand there comparing who had the biggest smudges like they were badges of honor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t uncommon to see most people in the neighborhood wearing ashes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was accepted that it was something we as a community did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not too long ago after wearing my ashes downtown, a teenage girl asked why I had something on my forehead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her mother shushed her out of embarrassment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How times have changed. </div>
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Before I continue I have to tell you that my mother was a strict observer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As a matter of fact I found out many years later she often made up her own rules.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For example even though I was maybe 8 or 9 everyone in the house had to keep a strict fast for the 40 days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was not the church’s rule, but Ma’s rule which superseded any canon of the church.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Supper on Ash Wednesday and all Fridays of Lent were meatless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was no big deal we were used to that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lunch at school was always white American cheese with butter on Wonder bread.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My friends would have peanut butter and jelly or tuna, but not in our house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was Lent!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was a Sister on duty in the school cafeteria where we ate in silence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If the smell of baloney (or is it bologna now?) wafted across the room, the Sister would make a bee line to the offender and remove the victual before mortal sin could be committed. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A soul was saved!</div>
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Suppers weren’t too different; maybe grilled cheese or tomato soup.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because of my mother’s Canadian background we might have crepes with Vermont Maid maple syrup. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t think there was ever a bottle of Aunt Jemima’s or Mrs. Butterworth’s in our home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Since we couldn’t eat anything between meals I came up with a plan on how to stretch supper out and fill my belly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’d have supper at 5 and then I’d run over to my friend Ricky’s house where they had supper at 5:30.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His Mom would invite me in and I’d sit at the table.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So for 40 days I ate 2 suppers almost every day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some Catholics used the fasting to shed some winter pounds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Me?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I gained them.</div>
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My mother must not have been too good at math because according to her Saturday and Sunday did not count as Lenten fast days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That meant a food free for all on weekends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I recall one time I emptied out my piggy bank and bought one of those giant Hershey bars and ate the entire thing on one Saturday afternoon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was sure the belly ache I had was God’s vengeance for trying to outsmart Him.</div>
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When Passion Sunday would arrive every statue in church was covered in purple.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Palm Sunday was the Gospel that would never end, but it didn’t matter to us we’d be slapping each other with palm branches while it was going on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then on Good Friday there were the 3 hours of silence from noon to three.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve heard others say they had to do the same, but I swear my mother invented it just to keep us quiet.</div>
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Without any exaggeration my earliest memory was of an Easter morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn’t have been more than 3 or 4 but the trauma has strayed with me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m sitting on the living room floor and my sister grabs my Easter basket.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It haunts me to this day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now that I think about it, this could be the reason why I still hide candy around the house.</div>
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Because of fasting regulation we could not eat for 3 hours before Communion, which meant the Easter basket would be in my room when I awoke, but nothing could be eaten until after Mass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(This might have been the last of the Lenten disciplines.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our basket was a straw one from Green’s 5 & 10.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It had this terrible grass on the bottom on which any candy that was unwrapped would stay permanently stuck and you’d end up ingesting cellophane grass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(We often found pieces of grass days later in the cat’s litter box.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t ask questions.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The centerpiece was a giant coconut egg, which some years was consumed on the same day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Read: bellyache)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course there were those gross yellow Peeps, also stuck to the cellophane grass, some robin’s eggs, and to fill in the rest of the basket at least 5 pounds of jelly beans. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One year I found empty peeps cartons in the garbage before Easter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I asked who was eating candy during Lent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mother swore it was not her, then she’d put on her kerchief to go to confession.</div>
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We did not go out for Easter dinner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mother would never spend good money on what she could cook at home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The menu was always the same baked ham basted in Chelmsford ginger ale (seriously, try it!), carrots, cabbage, and mashed potatoes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dessert was a bunny cake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, a bunny cake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two round cakes cut into the shape of a bunny’s face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It sort of looked demonic with its black jelly bean eyes, but it was tradition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The rest of the afternoon was filled with watching Victor Mature in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Robe, </i>Victor Mature in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Samson and Delilah</i>, and Victor Mature in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Demetrius and the Gladiators</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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My mother always received a one pound box of chocolates from Mrs. Nelson’s Candy House.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’d bite the end off each one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What she didn’t like she’d hand to my father for him to finish off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d sit on the rug and sort my 5 lbs of jelly beans watching TV as Nero set fire to Rome and Victor Mature would battle in the Coliseum.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
LowellIrishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17581828365206969935noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4934082776237806721.post-43315993865850177822017-03-14T14:01:00.000-04:002017-03-14T14:01:19.649-04:00The Grand St Patrick's Day Parade in Lowell - 1904<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Hh7cwf_R6AavyH_StaVzLGYQRska6gfClRLEqrOL1TLxsZ8VcXOxX4wA20fqPJIUeJwfLyMFvpgUTFtDFVQUEzACe1RjCVlrT_igqITJT08417R2u2zBPZMLQ1Duwbfar5yrxe_dVzFe/s1600/band.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="151" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Hh7cwf_R6AavyH_StaVzLGYQRska6gfClRLEqrOL1TLxsZ8VcXOxX4wA20fqPJIUeJwfLyMFvpgUTFtDFVQUEzACe1RjCVlrT_igqITJT08417R2u2zBPZMLQ1Duwbfar5yrxe_dVzFe/s200/band.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Edison Film, 1904</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: calibri;">Each year after the opening Mass for Irish Cultural Week a few hardy souls brave the usually, frigid, often snowy, frequently windy weather that March throws at us and parade down Suffolk Street to Merrimac Street to City Hall.</span><span style="font-family: calibri;"> </span><span style="font-family: calibri;">The procession is made up of members of the AOH and LAOH, members of St. Patrick’s Parish, representatives from the Lowell Police and Fire Departments, and some folks who wish to preserve the Irish tradition.</span><span style="font-family: calibri;"> </span><span style="font-family: calibri;">At City Hall, speeches are made, anthems are sung, and the Irish and American flags are raised.</span><span style="font-family: calibri;"> </span><span style="font-family: calibri;">As the years pass it seems the numbers have decreased.</span><span style="font-family: calibri;"> </span><span style="font-family: calibri;">What many don’t realize is that they are carrying on what their ancestors began over 175 years ago in Lowell.</span><span style="font-family: calibri;"> </span><span style="font-family: calibri;">After their arrival in 1822, it did not take long before the Irish began celebrating their patron’s feast day.</span><span style="font-family: calibri;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">As the numbers increased so did the festivities, even causing problems in the mills with Irish taking unpaid leave to celebrate with Mass, entertainments, and toasts reaching far into the night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The day was almost considered a holy day of obligation with every Catholic church having special liturgies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course Saint Patrick’s, being the mother Church, would be filled with parishioners and those who returned to the family roots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mentioned is made in accounts through the 19<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup> century of parades being formed and later more formal processions with bands and social groups being formed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The mother of all these parades was held in 1904.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Days before the newspapers built excitement with posting of the routes and the many organizations that were to take part.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Court was even closed early so all could be part of the day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Individual citizens and groups took it upon themselves to decorate street signs, store fronts, and homes with bunting and cloth flowers.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkQWW5t_69dS8VyqkujD3CcsvsFm2FrAU3ZPkjuuGGR-vReUFxd9n7_YDw89RYn-1_yZPtwrOCZqH07Cy0y_wvA3B39eT07oYMr1XS8BOQnS5dFJzuc6Wzn1DISGbYuPT31YvPAsNefiQ-/s1600/band2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkQWW5t_69dS8VyqkujD3CcsvsFm2FrAU3ZPkjuuGGR-vReUFxd9n7_YDw89RYn-1_yZPtwrOCZqH07Cy0y_wvA3B39eT07oYMr1XS8BOQnS5dFJzuc6Wzn1DISGbYuPT31YvPAsNefiQ-/s200/band2.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Edison Film, 1904</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">We’re uniquely fortunate that there is actually moving film of the parade itself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(The Library of Congress has preserved the film at American Memory </span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mKzcjKDgxHY"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "calibri";">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mKzcjKDgxHY</span></a><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> )<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thomas Alva Edison had begun sending crews around to record American events.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The clip is only 3 minutes long, but says so much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The parade began by St. Michael’s Church down by the mills, hooking onto Suffolk to Broadway to City hall, to Merrimack, to Central, to Sacred Heart Church.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were over 1500 marchers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The city’s fire alarm sounded once to let the citizens who thronged the streets know the marchers were on their way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The City police forces led the way many of them on horseback with the horses festooned with green carnations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was also noted the numbers of bouquets that were carried by many of the marchers, the city had not seen so many flowers before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The officials of the parade rode in carriages.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Three full divisions followed the marshals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Division after division of Hibernians from Nashua, Lawrence, Haverhill, and Chelmsford made up the first division.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bands and fife and drum corps played patriotic and Irish airs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“The Harp That Once Thru Tara’s halls” was a favorite of the crowd.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Drum majors threw their batons in the air stirring the crowd.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Military and veteran groups marched in formation dressed in full uniforms and carrying rifles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mr. McEvoy’s jaunting cart, direct from Ireland, was a must see.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The oldest Irish organization in the city, the Irish Benevolent Society, marched proudly as they had since the first parades in the 1840s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-ZgJ1838b3vylCiXYYfPZ-PqYE-UeKiBbPlojVHuUfNjjcetEafnkd9AuVW3uZ8LmNAmNtvgdnf9fQLi_WHHJVBpuy-8nONx63US0vRqw9bfCsIQKX25__5xaEYjcXKySrdD-df7LC0YW/s1600/parade3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="151" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-ZgJ1838b3vylCiXYYfPZ-PqYE-UeKiBbPlojVHuUfNjjcetEafnkd9AuVW3uZ8LmNAmNtvgdnf9fQLi_WHHJVBpuy-8nONx63US0vRqw9bfCsIQKX25__5xaEYjcXKySrdD-df7LC0YW/s200/parade3.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Edison Film, 1904</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: calibri;">Saint Patrick’s Church’s fire in January of that year necessitated a move to Sacred Heart Church where everyone gathered for Mass following the parade.</span><span style="font-family: calibri;"> </span><span style="font-family: calibri;">(Die-hard parishioners still gathered in the basement of the church to carry on the tradition that began since the first Irish arrived.)</span><span style="font-family: calibri;"> </span><span style="font-family: calibri;">Following Mass, marchers and spectators alike filled every hall and tavern in the city to sing their songs and recite the deeds of their ancestors.</span><span style="font-family: calibri;"> </span><span style="font-family: calibri;">They promised themselves that the tradition would continue year after year.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">When I read the account from 1904, I thought of how Lowell celebrates the Saint’s day today and how our culture will continue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I recalled this year’s flag raising and the hearty souls who showed up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I imagine what it was like 100 years ago and ask myself what our ancestors would say of us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
LowellIrishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17581828365206969935noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4934082776237806721.post-76724691837099227392017-02-25T18:33:00.002-05:002017-02-25T18:34:07.184-05:00Mr. Boott's Irish Gardener <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOSlobwAVhI-maWedXPuKNmBdX-bh7qZ8AhVRHv3GKJVI4BRsZclQHwAmtiExaTRf7wSVSkAvdFwPQLkCCEW67skDSEokICXW2WhJ6ZTu1BxuAmbYp-gEZt0HsGlc6hygTlirelkdbNGka/s1600/Kirk-Boott-House-150x150.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOSlobwAVhI-maWedXPuKNmBdX-bh7qZ8AhVRHv3GKJVI4BRsZclQHwAmtiExaTRf7wSVSkAvdFwPQLkCCEW67skDSEokICXW2WhJ6ZTu1BxuAmbYp-gEZt0HsGlc6hygTlirelkdbNGka/s1600/Kirk-Boott-House-150x150.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;">Kirk Boott's Home (<i>Mill and Mansion)</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">When Kirk Boot was given the task of managing the new mill town being built on the Merrimack, he was leaving behind the family mansion in Boston and the life of the socially elite to which he was accustomed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Back in Boston, the Boot’s were well known for their mansion on Bowdoin Street and its fine art and architecture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The family was also known for its beautiful gardens, greenhouses, and especially for their roses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So it was providential in 1822 that when Mr. Boott was building his Greek-Revival mansion in East Chelmsford, soon to be Lowell, he would include space for the cultivated lawns and landscaping to which he was accustomed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His blueprint for the construction of the Merrimack Manufacturing Company would include a landscaped entrance area to the mill along with plants and flowers placed between the different buildings.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To achieve that end Mr. Boott brought John Green up from Boston to serve as his gardener and steward.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>History does not tell us how the two men met. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps he worked for the Boott family in Boston?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>John Green was born in Aughavading, Co. Leitrim in 1798.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He arrived in Boston in 1823 living there for a short time before settling in Lowell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Green’s name appears in several histories of Lowell being listed as one of the prominent Irishmen of the period.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His first mention in Lowell was paying the poll tax in 1826.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His occupation was regularly listed in the Town/City Directories as gardener working at Boott’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After his death his son, John J Green, reminisced about his father being the superintendent of landscaping at the Merrimack and being part of the planning of the North Common.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">When Mr. Boott died unexpectedly in 1837, Green continued working as a gardener at the </span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhbb-UMXM7PfuNs8MPU6jEqMlzdRU7Fl9k_7UGdEXW7ic8QVJlqJyJfIUdCyox6NST85WOgCc0NceSVuFh-4EqeujBRkMnuI3aVQ02-PrTWAvjlg9F1o8OSJX4eqxzYdXQzB9GjSrGdFDa/s1600/Green.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhbb-UMXM7PfuNs8MPU6jEqMlzdRU7Fl9k_7UGdEXW7ic8QVJlqJyJfIUdCyox6NST85WOgCc0NceSVuFh-4EqeujBRkMnuI3aVQ02-PrTWAvjlg9F1o8OSJX4eqxzYdXQzB9GjSrGdFDa/s1600/Green.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;">Lowell Map, 1850</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"> “Company farm.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In Boott’s will, he bequeathed Green $72 in wages, a very hefty sum for a gardener.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Later Green was listed as “botanic physician.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He became a US citizen and started acquiring property.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He moved into a new home on the corner of Willie and Cross Streets where he lived for the remainder of his days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The 1850 census showed he owned $10,000 in real estate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Few Irishmen of this period had such holdings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the time he reached the age of 60, John Green considered himself a “gentleman.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One can imagine him in his garden on Willie Street, pruning and weeding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then he would stroll through the North Common making his way to Saint Patrick’s Church for Mass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His niece, Anne Flynn, moved into the home to act as his nurse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Upon his death he recognized her help by granting her a small stipend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His will divided his properties among his survivors, but his final hope was that the family would remain together and share the holdings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In 1866 he joined his fellow Irish pioneers in Yard One of St. Patrick Cemetery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His brief obituary, obituaries not even being common practice at the time, testified to his fine character and reiterated the bond he had with Mr. Boott almost 30 years previous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He left Ireland a poor man, but died wealthy in more ways than one.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">His son, John J Green, was a member of the Lowell chapter of the Irish American Historical Society, which attempted to preserve the Irish history of Lowell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unfortunately none of the minutes of the group survive today that recorded the actual recollections of those early Irish pioneers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In 1921 John J Green tried to persuade the city to memorialize the walk of Hugh Cummiskey and the first Irish laborers with parades, lectures, church services, and the erection of a suitable monument on the North Common.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Not many people offer comments to this site. Sometimes I think I'm writing for the cloud. But I have an idea. 2022 will be the 200th anniversary of Cummiskey's walk. How about we recreate the walk! We'll work out a route between Charlestown and Lowell and folks can sign up to walk a mile or 2 of the path! Maybe we could finish with a group walk into Lowell from Belvidere? Maybe we could put up that memorial they never got around to doing back in 1922?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Like John J Green, George O’Dwyer (author of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Irish Catholic Genesis of Lowell)</i>, and others, the Irish Cultural Committee of St. Patrick Parish tries to preserve Lowell’s Irish past.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Please join us this March as we present the 3<span style="font-size: x-small;">8th</span> annual Irish Cultural Week. </span><a href="https://www.facebook.com/#!/LowellIrish"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "calibri";">https://www.facebook.com/#!/LowellIrish</span></a></div>
LowellIrishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17581828365206969935noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4934082776237806721.post-85654334345039613552017-02-19T20:04:00.001-05:002017-02-19T20:04:31.332-05:00The Knights of St. Patrick (One returns home)<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGIJFmMyGqfOhgvREbsV7iYhU8ODI4diewTADhZGLeAVQz1VhJcDbvtoSvBrUYEEfkWGpdeR3C65fexnnoQMl32TqxpoILtV1qVLcOYET5JSyA0pLkWyyPEdjJcpEySnMI8MQM5kaPoEYA/s1600/381962125204_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGIJFmMyGqfOhgvREbsV7iYhU8ODI4diewTADhZGLeAVQz1VhJcDbvtoSvBrUYEEfkWGpdeR3C65fexnnoQMl32TqxpoILtV1qVLcOYET5JSyA0pLkWyyPEdjJcpEySnMI8MQM5kaPoEYA/s200/381962125204_1.jpg" width="194" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Knights sash returned to Lowell</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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In the latter half of the 19<sup>th</sup>
century right into the 20<sup>th</sup> a myriad of fraternal and social groups
sprang up among Lowell’s Irish. Each parish had its own societies to take care
of their poor and to set the young ones on the right path. There were also
organizations outside of the church itself that saw to it that the Irish were
taking care of their own and were passing on their culture. A brief listing
would include: Emerald Associates, Lowell Irish Benevolent Society, Young Men’s
Catholic Library Association, Ancient Order of Hibernians No. 1, No. 2, &
No. 3, Ladies Ancient Order of Hibernians, American Society of Hibernians, St
Patrick’s Temperance Society, Immaculate Conception Temperance Society, Father
Mathew Total Temperance Society, Sargeant Light Guard, American-Irish
Historical Society, The Celtics, Irish Catholic Order of Foresters, The Emerald
Club, and Catholic Young Men’s Lyceum. The list is far from complete as
organizations grew and passed away according to needs, interests, and politics.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One of the longest lasting societies was formed in 1869 and
called the Knights of St. Patrick. It
was “organized for the purpose of encouraging social and manly exercise.” The group had their annual cycle of events; summer
outings at Willowdale, being part of the city parade on the “glorious fourth,”
marching through the city streets on St. Patrick’s Day, and regular meetings
with speakers on numerous topics. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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During the summer the group often played baseball and
football. There were even horse races
where the prizes were horse whips and blankets.
Those attending the banquets on St. Patrick’s Day often numbered in the
hundreds. In the morning they attended Mass then marched wearing black clothing,
tall silk hats, white gloves and the Knight’s sash. The “supper” began at 9 pm and carried on into
the wee hours. Toasts were a regular
feature recalling the heroes of freedom and democracy from their adopted home
and Ireland. Pictures of St. Patrick,
Daniel O’Connell, and Robert Emmet made the backdrop of the head table. Regular suppers were held throughout the year
at locations like the St. Charles Hotel and the Farragut House. American author, Mark Twain, was invited to
speak at one of their suppers, but had to decline. He did write a lengthy letter commending the
Irish and the pursuit of freedom in their new home. On one of their summer excursions in 1871,
the carriage that was bringing them to Tyngsboro overturned near the
bridge. Their commander, who was injured
and strapped onto a chair was drowned along with the horse that pulled the
wagon. Fundraisers were held throughout
the year. One raised almost $300 for St.
John’s Hospital. In 1876 the Knights were the largest Irish
organization in the city.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As the decades progressed the membership aged and began to
wane. There were several attempts to
rejuvenate the group. Notices were
printed in local newspapers reminding the children of Irish immigrants that the
goal of the club was to keep their heritage alive. For most of its life the Knights were a men’s
only group. Near the end women were
invited to join. Soon the only mention
of the group was in members’ obituaries.
Those who remained would wear their regalia to attend a funeral and
accompany him to the grave.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The last mention of the group was made in 1926 for the
funeral of their last commander, Owen Corbett, ages 93, a native of Co. Clare. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>An original Knights of
St. Patrick sash has come home. The sash
will be on display at our Walking Tour on Saturday, March 11 at 10 am. Meet at LNHP Visitor Center on Market
St. (If you have photos, diplomas, or
items that record the history of the Irish in Lowell or the Acre neighborhood. Let us know.
We will give them a good home.
Other items donated this year are neighborhood and family photos and old
St Patrick School report cards.)<o:p></o:p></i></div>
LowellIrishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17581828365206969935noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4934082776237806721.post-21993857647071146072017-02-05T16:14:00.001-05:002017-02-05T16:15:24.547-05:00The Scots in the Mill City<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn4gi9LNTctlutYu4z9ltjR8EF_veHOch_Acet4huNxlt9HrbptBYdT5CThqdqw2sMhuFsz_H4rkjTXor730etbgvFgD__2Q7nrB2cHCg0eRLna7IRepzcbuKuR0YMBlkewa_GQO1aesTF/s1600/Duncan+Rankin_000003+%2528557x800%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn4gi9LNTctlutYu4z9ltjR8EF_veHOch_Acet4huNxlt9HrbptBYdT5CThqdqw2sMhuFsz_H4rkjTXor730etbgvFgD__2Q7nrB2cHCg0eRLna7IRepzcbuKuR0YMBlkewa_GQO1aesTF/s200/Duncan+Rankin_000003+%2528557x800%2529.jpg" width="138" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Duncan Rankin McKean,<br />
in Glasgow, 1880s.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Irish were not the only Celts to help build the city of
Lowell. Before anyone protests, of
course the Irish were Lowell’s first immigrant group. That would make the Scots Lowell’s second
wave of immigration. In one of Lowell’s
early histories an 1833 writer is quoted as saying the Scots were, “the most
intelligent of our foreign population.”
The writer was a Yankee and it might be fair to say not a fan of the
Irish.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To dig a little deeper, Lowell’s existence is partially due
to the Scots. Francis Cabot Lowell
himself had Scottish roots, and it was only after his 2 year stint visiting
England and Scotland with his family that the idea of textile manufacturing on
such a scale as he saw in Manchester and Paisley would come to America. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Scots had been living in the area since the time of the
colonies. Before Lowell was Lowell,
there were farmers and tradesmen from Ulster (Scots-Irish) in Chelmsford and
Dracut. Even the Pawtucketville
Congregational Church once identified itself as Presbyterian. As textile mills were erected professional
workers who knew the secrets of the textile trade had to be imported to share
their knowledge. James Sanderson, a
native Scot, was brought solely because he knew had to dye skeins indigo blue,
a color much in vogue at the time and not easily produced previously in
America.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The major wave of Scots into Lowell occurred in 1828 with
Alexander Wright. “A colony from Refrewshire, Scotland settled in Lowell and
engaged in the manufacture of carpets.
It included many sons and daughters of the Kirk of Scotland and was
reintroduced from time to time by other immigrants.” (ORHA) Soon another group from Lanarkshire, Scotland
joined the group increasing the Scots population and carpet manufacturing. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Like the Irish, many of the Scots chose to live among their
own. One group settled along Market
Street in areas called “Scotch block” and “Scotch Row” according to Lowell
Directories. The tiny district includes
name such as; McAlpine, Bosworth, McOvey, Johnson, McCreck, McArthur, Knowles,
and Wilson.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With the Scots came their faith, Presbyterianism. They were the descendants of the Covenanters.
By the 1860s there were enough to form their own church that was erected on
Appleton Street on the corner of Davis, known as the First Presbyterian. An early account says that those who were
“old school Presbyterians” were forming a society. It continues to say there
were enough like-minded people to have already had a Sunday school. A Rev. Dr. Robertson was the preacher and
succeeded by Revs. Calhoun and Rankin.
That is not to say that there were no Catholic Scots as well. In St. Patrick Cemetery there are a number of
19<sup>th</sup> century graves with Scotland listed as place of birth. And don’t forget St. Margaret’s Church was
actually names after St. Margret of Scotland.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They also brought their customs and traditions. One that continues in Scotland today and was
first celebrated in Lowell in 1833 was Robert Burns Night. Celebrating Scotland’s most famous poet, they
gathered, many of Lowell’s Yankee elite, to toast the bard and to share the
haggis. A Mr. Waugh made the haggis, a
sort of pudding made of entrails and boiled in a sheep’s stomach. The Ode to the haggis was recited and singing
songs like, “O Willie brew’d a pack o’maut.”
The evening ended with the
traditional “Auld Lang Syne.” It must
have been a rowdy evening since the writer commented that the other guest in
the hotel must have appreciated the night coming to a close.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For many years Scottish athletic games were held here in the
city. Mention is made of Scots in their “native
costumes” (kilts) parading through the city with pipe bands and athletes
marching to the athletic fields in Centraville. The local Caledonian Club sponsored the “annual
games of the Bonnie Scots,” which drew athletes from U.S. and Canada
participating in the caber toss and throwing the hammer. A world record for such was made in Lowell.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One of the last vestiges of Scottish culture in Lowell was
Clan Grant 141 OSC (Order of Scottish Clans).
There may have been other such organizations, but Clan Grant appears to
have been the most active and most recent.
Clan Grant held annual Burns Night dinners, dances, lectures, and
gatherings which kept the Scottish tradition alive in Lowell. The last major function seems to have been in
the 1970s with the Kiltie Pipe Band of Worcester and a number of singers entertaining
a huge crowd. The officers of the ladies
auxiliary appeared in their white dresses and tartan sashes. (Members of my own family once held posts in
the organization.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Many Scots who came to Lowell brought their skills to open
shops and become entrepreneurs in the city.
The Nesmith brothers, Thomas and
John, who were Ulster Scots, became very wealthy in business ventures so much
so they had a street names after them in Belvidere. The Bowers family originally came from
Scotland and became owners of farm and dairy land in Lowell. Nineteenth century physician, Dr Shaw was
born in Glasgow. The first ice cream manufacturer
in Lowell, Alexander Cruichshank was born in the Scottish Highlands. Another Glasgow native, Alexander Cumnock,
became nationally famous for his work in cotton manufacturing. A friend of Kirk
Boott, John Waugh, along with fellow Scotsman, James Wilson, became the leading
suppliers of slate roofing in Lowell’s earliest days. Many of these men remain in our history
having had streets and buildings named after them. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One of the last Scots native to be recalled was James Johnston
Mr. Johnston, a native Scot’s speaker opened a bakery on Westford Street. The family occupied the 2<sup>nd</sup> floor
on top of the business. The family kept the
business until the 1980s. In my family
it was traditional at Christmas to go to Johnston’s to buy shortbread. On the day the bakery closed I went pleading
to buy the shortbread molds, but the family rightfully held onto them. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not all Scots would make it into the history books. My own grandfather was born in Milngavie,
Scotland. His family had been working as
calico printers for 3 generations. No
wonder he made it to Lowell. His
Scottish burr (accent) remained with him until the end. He was baptized in the Church of Scotland and
converted to Catholicism to marry my grandmother at St. Patrick’s. He was known to break into, “Roamin in the
Gloamin.” He never told why he left Scotland
and had little contact with his family back in Glasgow except for a box at
Christmas that contained dulse (seaweed), shortbread, and oatcakes. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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LowellIrishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17581828365206969935noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4934082776237806721.post-5039891800771707752017-01-12T19:41:00.000-05:002017-01-12T19:41:17.424-05:00Chasing my Family Tree or What You Can’t Learn from DNA<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirvFm6k3S2U-o1cdrV9D9TnOuS9_NIKIiOvZRmiDlm4bWasbv2XhCvxeqVWIwjHf45DCeGI32h-TfwBDox_N-Vcm7DiI9OxfQleK_Anm4YBThtQKwf6fXUc68M-C0tL-cCfNvVNMrA4bmJ/s1600/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirvFm6k3S2U-o1cdrV9D9TnOuS9_NIKIiOvZRmiDlm4bWasbv2XhCvxeqVWIwjHf45DCeGI32h-TfwBDox_N-Vcm7DiI9OxfQleK_Anm4YBThtQKwf6fXUc68M-C0tL-cCfNvVNMrA4bmJ/s200/download.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image from Pintrest</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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My grandparents all passed before I became interested in genealogy.
Since I never got to speak to them about
our past, maybe that’s why I’ve searching all these years. Now my French-Canadian side was a
no-brainer. Within a few hours I was
able to trace my line back to the 17<sup>th</sup> century. Those French knew how to keep records. That’s how I found our 7<sup>th</sup>
great-grandparents murdered their son-in-law.
(But that’s another blog entry.) My Celtic side is a whole other story.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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My father’s parents were both born in Glasgow,
Scotland. His father, Duncan Rankin
McKean, was a proud Scotsman. I recall
him telling me, “Never let anyone know you’re part Irish.” My dad’s mother was Jenny Sweeney. Though born in Glasgow, her parents were born
in Ireland, but emigrated to Scotland during the Great Famine. A number of years ago I paid a research group
in Scotland to research the two lines.
What I found was that Scotland did not require birth certificates or a
census until the mid-nineteenth century.
That left little to find out about the McKean line. The Sweeney line did not do much better. There was such a massive migration of Irish
into Scotland during this period churches and the government could not keep up
with the numbers. So after spending a
few pounds I ended up knowing little more than I had before.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Then those awesome commercials started appearing on
television. You know the ones where
people send a swab of their DNA and they find out everything they wanted to
know about their lineage. I thought this
was the Holy Grail. This is what I’ve
been waiting for. Before I forked over a
couple of hundred more dollars, I checked in with Walter. Walter worked for decades with the National
Archives, and he and wife Karen are top of the line genealogists. When I asked Walter about DNA testing he said
to hold off. The whole thing is based on
how much data each company has. Though
hundreds of thousands might have swabbed their cheeks, how many of those share
your DNA? His advice was to hold off
until hundreds of thousands more add their data. Only then will the results show what I was looking for.
Needless to say I ignored his advice.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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Just before Christmas I got the results by email. Because I have the Y chromosome, the advertisement
said my results would be deeper. I chose
the Y-37 test, not the cheapest and not the most expensive, smack in the
middle. I was really excited. The first
page was a map of the world. It reminded me of something I drew for Sr. Agnes
Mary, my 7<sup>th</sup> grade social studies teacher. My line
starts tens of thousands of years ago in Africa. Wait, I’m African? Not really.
The line moves into Asia. Wait, I’m
Asian? No, the line moves to Europe and
then Western Europe. I’m European! Eureka!
Wait, I knew that. The next page
was another map. It was of Western
Europe with a large circle over Great Britain and Ireland. That was it.
So I’m part Scot and part Irish.
Whew! The code had been
cracked. Not! There was one more page. It was a list of thousands of potential relatives
that shared my DNA profile. According to
the document each name shared a part of my genetic code. Each one was a potential cousin, or cousin of
a cousin, twice, three, or even four times removed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Each week since then I have received an email encouraging me
to continue testing to find more results.
I joined every forum I could to ask advice. Each response has encouraged me to continue
testing to find more results. “Try the
Y-64. If that doesn’t help go to the
ultimate, Y-111. It’ll bring you right
back to Cro-Magnon man.” Okay, that’s
another exaggeration, but not too far from the truth. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />
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So my search continues.
Maybe one of my potential 10,000 cousins will hold the key. Or maybe I’ll take Walter’s advice and wait a
few decades and try again.<o:p></o:p></div>
LowellIrishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17581828365206969935noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4934082776237806721.post-82796362963896705292016-12-20T23:08:00.002-05:002016-12-20T23:08:38.068-05:00The Shepherd of the Flock was Born from the Carmina Gadelica<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih6i9Fx5itZkmF_aBDgixDJbbd0vQnYmHXozmz0mSYcN8b9G_YX11GABuMADxut4AqMKXl13Ehurv2rSAcH2oXCH7NX_wLwvQEg2kYbtxmqqKCP27uXHKpDY4cBPJxvr_j22QqUoKWb6gT/s1600/celtic-art-nativity.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih6i9Fx5itZkmF_aBDgixDJbbd0vQnYmHXozmz0mSYcN8b9G_YX11GABuMADxut4AqMKXl13Ehurv2rSAcH2oXCH7NX_wLwvQEg2kYbtxmqqKCP27uXHKpDY4cBPJxvr_j22QqUoKWb6gT/s200/celtic-art-nativity.jpg" width="138" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fr. guyradcliff.com</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">In the mid-nineteenth century, Alexander
Carmichael went about the far regions of Scotland collecting ancient blessings,
prayers, and poems of some of the last Celtic speakers in the area. He published <i>Carmina Gadelica</i> in 1900.
Some are so old their source is
unknown and may go back to pagan times.
To read more from the collection visit: <a href="http://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/celt/cg1/">http://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/celt/cg1/</a>
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><i>RUGADH BUACHAILLE NAN TREUD <o:p></o:p></i></span></b></div>
<h3 align="center" style="text-align: center;">
<i>THE
SHEPHERD OF THE FLOCK WAS BORN</i><o:p></o:p></h3>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">That night the star shone</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Was born the Shepherd of the Flock,</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Of the Virgin of the hundred charms;</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> The Mary Mother.</span></div>
<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">The Trinity eternal by her side,</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">In the manger cold and lowly.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Come and give tithes of thy means</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> To the Healing Man.</span></div>
<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">The foam-white breastling beloved,</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Without one home in the world,</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The tender holy Babe forth driven,</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Immanuel!</span></div>
<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Ye three angels of power,</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Come ye, come ye down;</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">To the Christ of the people</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Give ye salutation.</span></div>
<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Kiss ye His hands,</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Dry ye His feet</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">With the hair of your heads;</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">And O! Thou world-pervading God,</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">And Ye, Jesu, Michael, Mary,</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Do not Ye forsake us.</span></div>
<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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LowellIrishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17581828365206969935noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4934082776237806721.post-63947722401512926732016-12-16T21:05:00.004-05:002016-12-16T21:07:24.097-05:00An Acre Memory - Christmas<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwW3P-ikwoMbyiSI1Gn1IEUio1BtpmZM6BLQvsL3zlWtT58n4eVFGwq5p7K5Mi5rcDKm8IS7T0wy8fHQ30kyTSmQdqW0D8AjkYCJMDRogU-yOAoudLpOXZwT_TtMzsKpmD-N_gkOUKiLQk/s1600/Christmas+195__+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="128" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwW3P-ikwoMbyiSI1Gn1IEUio1BtpmZM6BLQvsL3zlWtT58n4eVFGwq5p7K5Mi5rcDKm8IS7T0wy8fHQ30kyTSmQdqW0D8AjkYCJMDRogU-yOAoudLpOXZwT_TtMzsKpmD-N_gkOUKiLQk/s200/Christmas+195__+%25282%2529.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My sister, Donna, and me. 1950 something</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: 24px;"><b>T</b></span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">he weeks before Christmas the record player droned out the tunes of the season.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had a pile of 45’s that we played over and over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You could stack about 5 records on top of each other and each would drop down onto the player.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The needle arm would move over and play the tune.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mostly recall the Harry Simone Chorale’s rendition of the new hit, “The Little Drummer Boy.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mother loved that tune and when it came on the radio she would reach over and turn up the volume.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was always Bing Crosby’s I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas, Perry Comeau’s Do You See what I See?, and other songs and hymn whose singers mostly dating from the 1940s.</span><br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">M</span></b><span style="font-size: 11pt;">y parents explained that Christmas was much different when they were young growing up in the Lowell of the 1920s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My father said he remembered very little except the deep snows of the seasons and actually seeing horse drawn sleighs still in use on Broadway Street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ice skating on the Merrimack River was something every Acre kid looked forward to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When he was young there was an annual package delivered from Scotland.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was something his parents always looked forward to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Inside were tins of shortbread and oatcakes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He also remembered letters from cousins in Glasgow who asked for money to be sent home and requests for sponsorship so they could come to America.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He also recalled the throngs at Midnight Mass and how people would keep warm for the long walk to church by having a few drinks on their way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mother’s memories were more clear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gifts were usually very limited.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A scarf or hat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A small bisque doll.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They used their own stocking to hang for Santa to fill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In it were wrapped candies, nuts, along with oranges and coins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A thing like an orange was very precious in this time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She kept that tradition up with my sister and me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t until a few years ago that I found out reading in a history book that since the earliest days Canadian children were given fruits and coins to wish them health and wealth in the New Year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their tree was never decorated until Christmas Eve and often was set up by her parents after all 13 children had gone to bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Midnight Mass for my mother was at St. Jean Baptiste Church on Merrimack Street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A behemoth of an edifice it had a triple choir loft that reached to the very rafters of the church.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She recalled the thrill of being so high up in the church and singing the hymn Minuit Chretiens (O Holy Night).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Minuit Chrétiens</span> c'est l'heure solennelle; Où l'homme Dieu descendit jusqu'à nous. Pour effacer la tache originelle; Et de son père arrêter le courroux.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Right into her final years at some point in the season she would break into song, you could see her eyes fill as she returned to the joys of her youth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">O</span></b><span style="font-size: 11pt;">ne year we awoke to a scene directly out of a Hallmark card.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Overnight we were blanketed in more than a foot of snow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing was moving on the streets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At dinner time I had to make my way down Walker Street to my grandparent’s house to deliver their meal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the freezing cold my mother warned me to hurry not so I wouldn’t get frostbite, but so that the meal could remain hot by the time I got there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The mince pie!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t drop the pie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My grandmother met me at the door and sure enough the pie was the first thing she checked on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Memere always had a sweet tooth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mother would often catch her sneaking a brown paper bag home from the store which must have contained black and whites or maybe even a napoleon or a bismark.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mother would get on the phone and let my grandmother know she was caught red handed.</span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">W</span></b><span style="font-size: 11pt;">hat was a perfect day was ruined when my mother announced that in the subfreezing Arctic cold snow laden blizzard we had to go to Mass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She knew there was a 5:30 Mass and it was a holyday of obligation which meant the fires of hell were promised to us who committed a mortal sin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The church was over a mile away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We bundled up for the long track.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The four of us hit the streets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were still covered in white.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The lights of the candles in people’s windows reflected in the snow piles in front of people’s houses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I swear that not even one car passed us on the road during our journey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Looking in windows you could see families celebrating and sharing the joy of the day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We walked down the middle of the street in the dark since most people hadn’t gotten a chance to shovel yet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even Cukoo O’Connell’s bar on the corner of School and Broadway was closed up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Probably the only day of the year it was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I imagined the street light turning from green to red were that way to celebrate the season.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t stop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Keep going.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s Christmas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just as the last of my energy and heat escaped my body we reached the church.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My Dad grabbed the metal handle of the massive green wooden door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Locked!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Locked?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Locked!!!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The four figures turned around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one said a word.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe it was the sacredness of the moment or the fear of catching my mother’s wrath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We walked home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt the cold night through my black rubber boots with the dozen impossible buckles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My thoughts now are of the drum set waiting for me in the good room and the candy cane that hangs on the tree that’s ready to be eaten.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I look up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is my father looking up Broadway Street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s on my left.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Next to me is my sister with her white rabbit fur muff to keep her hands warmed, probably thinking of attacking those same candy canes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the far right was my mother with her fur lined black boots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hat on her head as every good church going lady had at that time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was probably saying her prayers for missing Mass knowing that dragging her family out on this special night was the right thing to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The crunch of the new fallen snow the only sound to be heard.</span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">I</span></b><span style="font-size: 11pt;">t is like a photo in my mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The four of us making our way home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’re on Broadway Street right at the gate house over the canal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the distance I see the candles in the windows of our apartment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Frost is making its mark on the glass panes, and if I squint the orange glow almost makes the electric candles look like stars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The street lights cast our shadows before us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can see it now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am right there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our little family was together and we were going home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In my head I hear,</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Silent Night, Holy Night,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All is calm, All is bright.</i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i>
<div style="text-align: left;">
A little Christmas challenge- where is your Christmas photo from your childhood?</div>
</div>
LowellIrishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17581828365206969935noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4934082776237806721.post-2448462947817787352016-11-27T13:55:00.001-05:002016-11-27T21:25:59.082-05:00Make a Joyful Noise- the organ at St. Patrick's<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlK7okdjrseQ1UGOs7yQ-5wIM6_bkqez75QNy9I0oUIQxCKDqFlXjZC2L9cN_-xQ2yfbdOawbrlrn3T-Nk0bDmuAmMu0RuI8MyF9YJ6xaSmE08kzYn8rWRXE1iIxENEAnHE-K-T3eXhBXE/s1600/IMG_3032.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlK7okdjrseQ1UGOs7yQ-5wIM6_bkqez75QNy9I0oUIQxCKDqFlXjZC2L9cN_-xQ2yfbdOawbrlrn3T-Nk0bDmuAmMu0RuI8MyF9YJ6xaSmE08kzYn8rWRXE1iIxENEAnHE-K-T3eXhBXE/s200/IMG_3032.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1906 Woodbury organ at St. Pat's</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Music has
always been at the core of Catholic worship.
Hey, even the Bible tells us “Make a joyful noise unto the Lord.” That joyful noise is often associated with
the organ. In the 1830s Bishop Fenwick
of Boston wrote in his diary that 2/3 of Catholic churches had little or no
singing, just the sound of the organ. He
even complained that one immigrant church in Lowell (guess who) had what he
considered “bad” singing. (One historian actually says it was not the Irish
immigrants’ fault since they had been forbidden to openly worship in their
homeland, and thus never had much practice in communal singing.) To help the situation, the Bishop, an amateur
singer and musician himself, wrote a book of songs with lyrics to be used in
the Diocese of Boston. (We weren’t big
enough to be an Archdiocese yet.) Our
parish archives actually hold an original 1830s copy of Fenwick’s work.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">At St.
Patrick’s we know that the original wooden church of 1831 had an organ. It was
a second hand organ purchased from a Protestant church and was made by local
musician Ebenezer Goodrich. In his
year’s accounting of church expenses in 1840, Father James McDermott paid the
church organist $40 for his services. Fr.
McDermott bought another organ in 1847 for the cost of $1400. That one was made by George Stevens. It had 22 registers (or stops) which refers
to the pipes that produce the notes.
Ever hear of “pulling out all the stops?” There you go.
It means to give it all you’ve got.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When the
present church was opened, a grand building such as it is, it needed a grander
organ. The E. & G. G. Hook organ installed
in 1859 cost $3000, quite a sum for the time, and had 33 stops. There is a possibility this organ was powered
by water to pump the bellows. The organ
was in place right up to the fire in 1904 when it was destroyed. Some pipes were salvaged and put into a
Chelmsford church. The organist at the
time, Professor Johnson, actually entered the church during the fire to save
some church music. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When the
church was rededicated in 1906, the organ that was installed was considered one
of the finest in New England, with no exaggeration. It is called a divided organ with the pipes
being separated on each side to make a clear view of the grand stained glass
window of St. Patrick preaching to the Chieftains at Tara. A February 1904 entry in the Lowell Sun
described its installation. The Jesse
Woodbury Company of Boston designed the organ to fit exactly in this
space. The organ is of 4 parts; the
choir organ with 11 stops, the pedal with 10 stops, the great with 11, and the
swell with 15. A special addition was a
sanctuary organ that was installed that was connected to the grand organ in the
choir loft. Viewing from the floor, the
organ’s pipes reach almost to the ceiling.
What most people don’t recognize is that the grand round, gold-painted
pipes they see are fake. The sound
actually comes from the pipes behind those.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Taste in music has
changed greatly over the decades. Many
of my generation recall organist Charlie McGrail blasting out Holy God We
Praise Thy Name. As soon as the priest
intoned “Ite missa est.” (Go the Mass is ended) and the congregation responded,
“Deo gratias.” (Thanks be to God.), Mr.
McGrail would blast the life out of the organ with a grand recessional. You could feel the vibrations of deep tones
hitting you as you left church. Today,
the organ is not in condition to be played, but not for long. Father Crahen continues with his undaunting
efforts to restore the church to its original beauty. Now that the interior painting, mural
restoration, window re-leading, and other repairs have been completed or in
stages thereof, the organ is the next task.
The pipes are filled with dust and debris. Each of the dozens of pipes is labeled with
its particular note and needs to be removed and cleaned and then artfully
replaced. The massive bellows, which
pump air into the pipes, have dried out and need to be replaced. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Many were
filled with emotion at the school’s recent reunion when they saw Fr. Charles
McGrail, former organist, now priest, celebrating Mass. Fr. McGrail spent many years at the keyboard
leading the different choirs through the annual cycle of music of the
church. Many wished they could hear the
grand organ once again. Father Crahen
has contacted many professional restorers who have given their assessments of
what has to be done. They all tell the
same story. It desperately needs work. But they also all tell another story. The Woodberry organ at St. Pat’s is a true
treasure. There are few left of this
quality left and needs to be revived and played once again to the glory of God.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Please
contact Father Crahen at St. Patrick rectory if you are interested in the
project. To the right of our blogspot
you will see a list of YouTube videos.
There are a couple of the organ being played in former daays.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
LowellIrishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17581828365206969935noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4934082776237806721.post-64835310468181932912016-10-29T08:59:00.003-04:002016-10-29T08:59:19.914-04:00The Rites of Fall in the Acre<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The best rite of Fall was Halloween itself. I don't remember
buying a costume. I think I was a hobo from ages 5 to 11. When I
turned 12, I revolted and was a vampire. I thought I was cool with a
cape and blood dripping from my mouth. That's when I learned not to use
red Magic Marker as fake blood. It was also a let down when a friend
pointed at me and said vampires never wore glasses. So I took them off,
and then looked like a blind vampire tripping on stairs and walking
into doors. That was my last year of trick or treating.<br />
<br />
What
I remember most is getting my paper, orange, trick or treat bag from
Greens in downtown Lowell. I think it cost a nickel. It was nothing
more than an orange paper shopping bag, but by night's end it would hold
a bounty of cavity producing treats. My Dad was often given the chore
of walking with us. It often became a history of the Acre lesson.
Being an Acre Boy himself, he'd tell me this is where he helped light
the gas lanterns when he was a kid. Or this is where the Keyes sisters
lived and he'd run errands for them. We'd walk by Lovejoy's mansion
where UMass is now. Everyone knew it was haunted, and I'd walk a little
closer to him. He'd pretend to see ghosts in the broken windows. One
year right in front of Lovejoy's it started raining, hard, and my little
trick or treat bag got soaking wet and broke. I was in a panic. Do I
stop and pick up my candy, or do I let the ghosts drag us in to
Lovejoy's basement and my mother would never see us again? I did what
any 6 year old would do. I cried. My father said another prayer to
Jesus Christ Almighty, put as much candy into my little hobo hands as
could fit, picked me up, and walked me home.LowellIrishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17581828365206969935noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4934082776237806721.post-67018541405700573742016-10-16T16:40:00.000-04:002016-10-16T16:40:31.792-04:00A Sunday in the Acre- 1876<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYXCKu9NlGffUd0s2sT78C_ti7KlXux8uMU21FWdLMmUOxUaIKbSJ43GExeVHiVaxQRM9WK5bdI2wPeQ7zKaD52e1-pZFiEePrIxmQ-bLNtECQ_ZP1LonNYabnI6mXiZDtQyY0571qjREd/s1600/Pig+in+the+Acre.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="96" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYXCKu9NlGffUd0s2sT78C_ti7KlXux8uMU21FWdLMmUOxUaIKbSJ43GExeVHiVaxQRM9WK5bdI2wPeQ7zKaD52e1-pZFiEePrIxmQ-bLNtECQ_ZP1LonNYabnI6mXiZDtQyY0571qjREd/s320/Pig+in+the+Acre.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ad in Lowell Citizen, 1860</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Sunday, the day of rest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How we observe the Sabbath today is quite different
than our 19<sup>th</sup> century ancestors did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Or is it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today a Sunday
afternoon might be watching the Pats with a Bud Lite (okay, personal preference
here).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the 19<sup>th</sup> century
liquor laws were quite severe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Having a
libation might put you before the magistrate if you were caught.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In 1876 , a young Irish “lad” by the name of
Caroline was found drunk by the seizure police (sort of a Sabbath police who
checked on liquor imbibing on Sundays).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He told the officers where he was served in his alcoholic delirium.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once he sobered up he swore he was only given
birch beer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even though he was only 16
he was kept in jail until his court date later in the week.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Over at P & J O’Rourke’s on
Gorham St. they “found five buffers who looked as though they were having a
good time and improving the Sabbath.” They also found a young man concealing a
deck of cards (another breech of the law).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>At Tom Murray’s establishment he refused the officers entrance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were about to leave when someone inside
tripped over a dog causing the officers to force their way in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They took away quantities of gin and
whisky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On a good note at Peter McSorley’s,
when the officers checked on him they found him “pleasant and polite as usual”
and no violations.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Meanwhile in the Acre: “The</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">seizure</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">officers</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">accompanied</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">by two</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">
</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">from the regular</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">force,</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">
</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">made a descent Sunday forenoon on a vacant
tenement in Mack's yard, off Market street. There were more than 50 men in one small
room, the officers say, drinking from a washtub of ale, which was being served in
schooners as fast as it could be ladled out. Such a panic as seized the crowd the
officers have rarely witnessed. They blocked the doorway, jumped through five windows
and a trap door in their eagerness to escape, and in doing so prevented the officers
gaining an entrance until the proprietor of the liquor also had escaped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The officer found a barrel of ale, fixtures, the
washtub full and four schooners full which had been left untasted in the crowd's
panic to get away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The place was being run
by a man who did not get a license for his saloon, nearby, and he had chosen the
unoccupied tenement to ward off suspicion.” (Lowell Citizen)</span></div>
LowellIrishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17581828365206969935noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4934082776237806721.post-20978462394676799512016-09-25T20:07:00.002-04:002016-09-25T20:07:38.215-04:00St Patrick School Alumni Reunion - A Reflection<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjenfhK7KlRLptWw9mJmGaPJPEHltwh1v7PVRpvQOB1aKBYxtpJb31kL7sAPWwOHP0lT6H7MPmpa0JMJQOL2MZpIcjm0RxXNpfBzd_hAZDgOHF5p0uiprmWieQmfwI-xcn6yHyJALkfLvKH/s1600/IMG_5198.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjenfhK7KlRLptWw9mJmGaPJPEHltwh1v7PVRpvQOB1aKBYxtpJb31kL7sAPWwOHP0lT6H7MPmpa0JMJQOL2MZpIcjm0RxXNpfBzd_hAZDgOHF5p0uiprmWieQmfwI-xcn6yHyJALkfLvKH/s200/IMG_5198.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
When I was a kid attending school at St. Pat’s, each
March we’d learn Irish songs we’d sing at the annual reunion show.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh
the Days of the Kerry Dancing.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Part
of the lyrics goes like this:</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh, the days of the Kerry dancing</i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh, the ring of the piper's tune</i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh, for one of those hours of gladness</i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gone, alas, like our youth, too soon!</i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">When the boys began to gather</i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">In the glen of a summer's night</i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And the Kerry piper's tuning</i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Made us long with wild delight!</i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh, to think of it</i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh, to dream of it</i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fills my heart with tears!</i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
As alumni left Mass concelebrated by Fr. Frank Silva
(alum) and Fr. Charles McGrail (former church choir director) they were greeted
outside the school by step dancers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Later the young girls were joined by some slightly older dancers from
the 1960s reliving their Kerry dancing days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>As I looked on the crowd of over 150 alumni and friends, the words of
the song hit home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here we were, some of
us decades later, returning to the place we called home for 8 years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sun was lowering across the North Common
as alumni from the 1940s, 50s, 60s, 70s, 80s, 90, and even the millennials made
their way up the front steps of the school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Just as the song says, for some of us our youth has gone too soon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stood there watching as graduates from each
decade were called into the school. The most senior of us walked up slowly
using the handrail, while the last group, representing the future, walked in
taking 2 steps at a time.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
There is something unique about St. Patrick’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A fact that you may not know, St. Pat’s is
one of the oldest continuously operating<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>parochial schools in the country,
starting in 1852.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As Sr. Joanne stated,
many colleges and high schools have alumni groups, but not elementary schools.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then why does St. Pat’s?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not sure, but I have a thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As each group entered the school I thought of
the paper chains we made when we were kids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We’d cut paper and glue them together making these long continuous
lines.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seeing those in their eighties,
sixties, forties, and twenties all mingling and sharing stories united us into
a special union, that long line into the past.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
When I attended St. Pat’s, tuition was $1 a week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was a lot for many families in the
Acre.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many of us lived in the housing or
tenements along Broadway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even then the
Acre had a reputation, but maybe that is where we found our strength.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Sisters and lay faculty who taught us
held us to a high standard and wouldn’t accept anything less. Maybe that’s why
so many who were there last night can today count themselves among Lowell’s
politicians, lawyers, government service workers, caregivers, educators,
financial officers, skilled professionals, and on and on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(On a side note, I did notice a very high
number of teachers in the group.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Coincidence?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And a high number of
police and correction personnel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another
coincidence?)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Folks who had not seen
each other since graduation day greeted each other as if time had not passed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
That link, that chain, had not broken.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our time at St. Pat’s was built upon what the
previous generation had left us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A major
reason for the school being<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>there today
is because of the chain built by the Sisters of Notre Dame de Namur and those
alumni and friends who give of themselves today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The chain continues.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
One of the lines in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kerry
Dancing</i> talks about the tears of recalling days gone by.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>More than once that evening I saw women and
men wiping their eyes as they saw their old friends, either in person or old
black and white photos.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
A last thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As
I was helping to set up a few hours before the start, a young man, maybe 20
wearing a white t-shirt and arms covered in tats came to the door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I told him we weren’t open yet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He simply said, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">please.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>About 15 minutes
later I encountered him again as he was leaving the building.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I asked how his visit went.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was wiping tears from his eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His said, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">memories.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I asked, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Good
ones?</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He replied, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">All good, all good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll be back someday.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who said, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You
can’t go home again.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
LowellIrishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17581828365206969935noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4934082776237806721.post-77019088724733431612016-09-01T19:25:00.000-04:002016-09-01T19:25:31.186-04:00The Dutton Street Mural<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDWAR4PeciuAbuwQO_YBJV2CQ13JehsFgwRojsLB2AZo5zDtlK1jmNbe47V0Bhe-XDMfQPMwtQ2AT5vylhtUIol3goY1jUcKuXFtajP2V2_R1NrPOYcisd3JlSxiTRzcxi8hXtJxFEMp9B/s1600/mural.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="135" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDWAR4PeciuAbuwQO_YBJV2CQ13JehsFgwRojsLB2AZo5zDtlK1jmNbe47V0Bhe-XDMfQPMwtQ2AT5vylhtUIol3goY1jUcKuXFtajP2V2_R1NrPOYcisd3JlSxiTRzcxi8hXtJxFEMp9B/s200/mural.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<i>From the Folks at Community Teamwork. I'm sure many of you will recall the mural or the image it brings back.</i><br />
<br />
<i> </i>Our Youth Build program, together with local artist Don Maker, is currently undergoing the restoration of the Dutton Street Mural across from the Worthen Restaurant in Lowell. In this mural you can see the Irish brick layer and the Nuns leading the children at St. Patrick’s. Work is currently underway. We have repointed all the bricks and created a blank slate to work from. Everyone has been hard at work. Once it is completed, a light installation will be included which will highlight the mural and light up the Worthen Restaurant Parking lot. Like all such projects, the restoration is costing Community Teamwork a large sum of money (over $35k). We are reaching out to people for help. Anything you could do to spread the word about this restoration would be much appreciated. There will be an unveiling of the completed project on September 28th – complete with food from the Worthen! You and your associates are cordially invited – time is 5-6:30ish. Below there is a link to a great article the Sun recently wrote and some information about how people can donate.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKs4MwObTgNr1qhoPJXXEbu_pEnm9Sh2PTFkgg8oGwErxe-zg0BesLtb8DU_O1wKFK47XP2BZSRP2ETnVcLLIlp84NDtU3aKlN4D_HHZ98zI8CYP5NBtTHRBXcZWYHhLetSGZN-ppP_8So/s1600/cti.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKs4MwObTgNr1qhoPJXXEbu_pEnm9Sh2PTFkgg8oGwErxe-zg0BesLtb8DU_O1wKFK47XP2BZSRP2ETnVcLLIlp84NDtU3aKlN4D_HHZ98zI8CYP5NBtTHRBXcZWYHhLetSGZN-ppP_8So/s1600/cti.png" /></a></div>
<br />Dutton Street once housed Community Teamwork’s Headquarters with the mural above gracing the Worthen Street side of the building. In 2011, when the agency relocated its headquarters to the Bon Marche Building on Merrimack Street, the agency’s Youth Build of Greater Lowell program moved into the Dutton Street location.<br />
<br />The Dutton Street Mural was designed by Leo Panos of the University of Lowell (as it was called at the time) and created in the late 1970’s as part of a larger project to install ethnic-themed murals around the city. In celebration of the immigrant heritage of the city, other murals including Franco-American, Portuguese-American, and Polish-American were painted in different locations.<br />The original painting of the mural was done by summer workers in the Neighborhood Youth Corps. Later, in the 1980’s the mural was repaired and repainted with the design changing somewhat. Now more than 30 years later, under the artistic direction of Lowell artist Donald Maker, the students of our Youth Build Program will assist in the restoration of this visual record of Lowell’s rich cultural history.<br />The Irish-Acre mural facing Worthen Street is one of the last, if not the last, remaining mural from this era. The project is underway and will be completed by mid-fall. You can be a part of revitalizing this piece of our community’s history! Your gift of any amount will help support the cost of this project. <br />Follow the restoration on Twitter and Instagram. #DuttonStMural<br />
<br />Have a memory or picture of the mural? Share it with us!<br />
<br />Check out this great article and video : <a href="http://www.lowellsun.com/todaysheadlines/ci_30251971/students-join-local-artist-repaint-iconic-mural-lowell">http://www.lowellsun.com/todaysheadlines/ci_30251971/students-join-local-artist-repaint-iconic-mural-lowell </a>that recently appeared in The Sun!<br />
<br />Folks can donate online: <a href="http://www.commteam.org/you-can-help/donate/">http://www.commteam.org/you-can-help/donate/ </a><br />By texting: COMMTEAM to 41444<br />
<br />By mail: Please send your check (payable to Community Teamwork) to 155 Merrimack Street, Lowell MA 01852, ATTN: Development Dept.<br />
<br />Thank you for reading all of this and considering our effort and passion about restoring this mural. Your help is so appreciated!<br />LowellIrishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17581828365206969935noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4934082776237806721.post-34934335852623098272016-08-18T20:14:00.001-04:002016-08-21T20:29:21.924-04:00An Acre Memory- A Summer Story<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnaacVRYzaEw7KkRmRVdl887KI5hFaswcGpJSY97CyrS3oGBglhVts1XEKDkUgVVWc2C3Eqo2RW7458_mdqci18qM0IIs6MS_nac2_8Znrtwl1_3nX34BuF0dU8SmRHWDnYExICJJWE7W5/s1600/lr2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnaacVRYzaEw7KkRmRVdl887KI5hFaswcGpJSY97CyrS3oGBglhVts1XEKDkUgVVWc2C3Eqo2RW7458_mdqci18qM0IIs6MS_nac2_8Znrtwl1_3nX34BuF0dU8SmRHWDnYExICJJWE7W5/s200/lr2.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Little Rascals" Google image.</td></tr>
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The dog is man’s best friend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well that’s what we’ve been told.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Scruffy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Rover. Lassie. Rin Tin Tin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Snoopy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When you hear names like
that you think of sweet little puppies and doggie heroes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To some when they hear the bark of a dog it’s
like hearing a voice say, “Hey I’m over here. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Let’s play fetch.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A wagging tale
means, “Gee, I like you.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To me a
barking dog has the same effect as the open jaws of a great white, or the
tell-tale rattle of a rattle snake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why
you ask?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, let me tell you.</div>
<br />
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Mike’s Field was the place to play when I was little.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was the only piece of grassland in my
neighborhood of close 3 story tenements.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It had tall grass and the only trees that you could climb in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In order to get to Mike’s you had to walk up
Broadway Street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t far, but you
had to pass the Goons house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t
know if anyone knew their real name so we just called them the Goon
family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>2 boys who were in their 20s and just sat on
their porch with their old haggard mother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>If they were on the porch, you ran by their house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And if they weren’t, you looked in the
windows often to see one of them looking back at you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like an added incentive to get past the house
as quick as you could there was a dog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Not some sweet little pup.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not a
fancy looking poodle or a friendly retriever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>No the Goons owned the biggest, meanest, most ornery German shepherd you
ever met.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Its fur was the color of coal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Its paws were big enough to make indents in
the ground where it stalked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you
looked in its eyes you became hypnotized like a cobra does with its prey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The one thing that separated us from the Goon
dog was a six foot fence that surrounded their property.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was no way for the Goon dog to get
out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or so I thought.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was July.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The locusts
were making that sound they make when it gets hot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sun was high in the sky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were all playing army.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was Ricky, Johnny, Harold, Ricky’s
brother Ronny and FraFra.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>FraFra was
crazy and would eat anything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He once
swallowed a quarter and would proudly show it off after it made its way
out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Later that summer he ate a live
hornet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s another story.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As soldiers we were planning our attack on the enemy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were leading a charge to bomb their
headquarters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Between the yells of the
attacking forces there was another sound.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was deeper than the rest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
others heard it too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Time stopped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Without turning around I knew it was behind
me- the Goon Dog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My friends saw him
before I did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I saw fear in their
faces.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>RUN<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>someone commanded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fear took hold of my feet I couldn’t go
anywhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt his breath before I
felt the pain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Goon Dog had me on the
ground and stood over me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He outweighed
me and I lay there like a opossum.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
growl came from deep with him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His teeth
were bared and drool dangled from his mouth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next thing I remembered was the sound of the locusts and
staring into the sun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was still there
lying on my back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My friends had
deserted me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I looked around and Goon
Dog was gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I looked to my left and
there was one of the Goon Boys standing by the 6 foot fence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All I could see was his outline with his
hands leaning on the fence but I knew he was looking at me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Did he unleash the dog on us?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or had he saved me from the beast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d never know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But when I hear a barking dog once again I’m
a little kid in Mike’s Field with <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the
hot breath of killer beast breathing down my neck.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
LowellIrishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17581828365206969935noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4934082776237806721.post-5896404852568594102016-08-05T11:42:00.002-04:002016-08-21T20:30:04.262-04:00Joseph Smith's call to the Irish of Lowell, 1916<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuR8JS_mtbAPoqhyniL6UZL-kRsXwzu7zS-8wnWhV7_Zz2l7tlQYLIKRbPDlbwrJWt7i54rpuVrxkHOc3tpj-z1NT1tKf3A6bFIZ8QXpH09zxzYESFGal9r9KigJDt2iRS1d3hF5jZK854/s1600/20160805_092455.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuR8JS_mtbAPoqhyniL6UZL-kRsXwzu7zS-8wnWhV7_Zz2l7tlQYLIKRbPDlbwrJWt7i54rpuVrxkHOc3tpj-z1NT1tKf3A6bFIZ8QXpH09zxzYESFGal9r9KigJDt2iRS1d3hF5jZK854/s200/20160805_092455.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Smith's grave at the Lowell Cemetery</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“God save Ireland,” he shouted out to the crowd.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Repeat it!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And they did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every seat on the
floor and in the gallery of Jackson Hall was filled to capacity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The crowds even poured out into the
streets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The one who had stood up and
shouted out to the crowd causing them to stand in unison was Lowell’s own
Joseph Smith.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Former Congressman
O’Connell and Lowell’s Mayor O’Donnell had just concluded a night of speeches
and resolutions calling on Lowell’s Irish-American population to come to
Ireland’s defense and aid once the execution of the “rebels” of 1916 had begun.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Lowell, like much of the rest of the world, did not
immediately side with what would be called the Easter Rising of 1916.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But once the executions began the tide
turned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In Lowell mass Indignation
Meetings took place beginning in May of 1916.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Groups such as Lowell’s branch of the Clan na Gael and the newly formed Padraic
H. Pearse branch of the Friends of Irish Freedom held regular meetings to call
on the British government to cease the executions and to raise funds to support
the people of Dublin who lost homes and livelihoods due to the bombing of the
city.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Joseph Smith was already in his 60s when his passion for
his native Ireland brought him into the limelight of the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Born in Dublin he came to America as a young
man and immediately enlisted into the U. S. Army.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He ended up fighting in the Mexican War,
followed by extensive travels in Arizona, New Mexico, and throughout South
America.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He spent time working at
various jobs including the Merrimack Print Works and J C Ayer. He became
interested in city politics beginning with the election of William F Courtney
as mayor in 1895.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Writing was the man’s
true vocation and at this time he took it up as his occupation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He wrote articles for many Lowell papers magazines
including <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Life, </i>and was known for his
sarcasm and quick wit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though a
Protestant, he came to the immediate defense of the Church when confronted by
anti-Catholic writing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Many groups across the country began collecting funds
when they heard of women and children begging for food and fire wood in
Dublin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In Lowell, Smith even organized
a “tag day” where the ladies Auxiliary of the Ancient Order of Hibernians
solicited funds from downtown shoppers. Smith made many passionate speeches on
behalf of his native Ireland and spoke words such as. “The men who fought and
failed in Dublin have passed beyond the stage of criticism; they are now among
the immortals; stars in the firmament of freedom, and their names will be the rallying
cries of the lovers of liberty as long as the grass grows and water runs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The epithets and slanders hurled at the men
who loved liberty better than life are as harmless and useless as the barking
of dogs that bay at the moon; the dead of Dublin have nothing to gain from the
verdicts of time and posterity; it is the living of Ireland and America who
must keep watch and ward and to have and to hold what we posses of liberty
against the English plotter.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One can
imagine the white-haired man with the large mustache standing before the crowds
rousing everyone with his words.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each
speech he gave is filled with the language of a poet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A writer of verse he also wrote, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“There is blood on
the stones of Dublin,</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">There are dead in
her ancient streets;</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">That stare with
blind eyes at the ancient skies;</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">And are deaf to
the war drums’ beats.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">As one of the national directors of the Friends of Irish
freedom he and Mr. & Mrs. Thomas Hughes<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Kelly of New York were elected to bring $50,000 collected by the
organization and churches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The money was
to be given to the Cardinal of Dublin to see that it was used for aid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When their ship arrived in Liverpool, England
the group was detained and then refused admittance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For days the newspaper kept the story
going.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Calls were made to the British
embassy and to President Wilson demanding a reason why they were not allowed to
continue their journey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The British
government’s response was that Americans were free to enter, but a “member” of
this group seemed “hostile” and thus they were barred.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Upon his return to the States, Smith attained near
celebrity status, even touring with Nora Connolly, the martyred James
Connolly’s daughter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In no way did this
deter him from his goal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When he
returned to Lowell, he continued his speech-making and had the OMI Cadets give
out pledge cards asking those in attendance to keep up pressure on the British
for a free Ireland.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">He soon left Lowell to write for Boston papers and often
wrote for Boston’s catholic newspaper, the Pilot where he became friends with
John Boyle O’Reilly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mayor James Michael
Curly of Boston hired him to be his “publicity agent,” where he used his
writing skills to great advantage.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">He and his wife made their home on Beacon Street in
Boston where he remained until his death in 1929.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His funeral in Boston was attended by many
from politics and the newspapers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His
wish was to be buried in the Lowell Cemetery alongside his wife and young
daughter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though he had been gone many
years the chapel was filled with old acquaintances as the priest from St. Ann’s
conducted the committal prayers. A moving inscription in part reads, “The day
of death is done.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They have gone out
beyond the stars… where their souls are united.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Where peace and happiness are eternal and the everlasting God
abides.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Upon the reading of his will, large donations
were made to Lowell General Hospital and Boston College.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">In one of his speeches he wrote, “As God lives, these men
shall live to inspire generations yet unborn, to dwell in the hearts of men,
and the songs of singers for the blood of the martyrs is the seed of liberty.”</span></div>
LowellIrishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17581828365206969935noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4934082776237806721.post-34107222923887126012016-07-12T22:26:00.000-04:002016-08-21T20:31:23.704-04:00An Acre Memory - Summertime<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivfbVUgVBsrs8rOUkpQsDNYAqPKjI0fZy40W5FTUuKCeO8WTflGfjfGaxp5CJcmS158Ai3JxMfUC91J2ciSKrXnZDYSk16aOMNALYgO8dqWsU6paNg04snuhRlQRtMArkfZ7dlhoVzYKj8/s1600/David.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivfbVUgVBsrs8rOUkpQsDNYAqPKjI0fZy40W5FTUuKCeO8WTflGfjfGaxp5CJcmS158Ai3JxMfUC91J2ciSKrXnZDYSk16aOMNALYgO8dqWsU6paNg04snuhRlQRtMArkfZ7dlhoVzYKj8/s200/David.jpg" width="89" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;">Me in my<br />
Rifleman t-shirt</td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I never got to operate a lawn mower until I was in my 30s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Growing up on the corner of Broadway and Walker didn’t give much opportunity to do so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What we did have was the blacktop in back of the blocks that ran along Broadway Street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In-between the blocks were alleys that were inches thick with pigeon dropping.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At dawn and evening, the dozens of pigeons that made the roof their homes would serenade the inhabitants of the blocks with their cooing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes young fledglings would fall from the roofs, and my humane father would take them into our cellar where he would hand feed them and then bring them outside to exercise until they would take wing on their own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A summer ritual was the annual scraping of the dung in the alleyway with massive quantities of creosote.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I later found that this substance was regarded as highly toxic and potentially carcinogenic, but my parents thought cleaning the alley a neighborly duty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The smell of the chemicals would permeate the backyard for days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mother explained it away by saying it was better than pigeon smell.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">There were no air conditioners or even a fan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lying on the cool linoleum might alleviate some of the heat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Opening and closing the screen door let in hordes of flies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We often left doors open overnight, never fearing anyone would walk in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The flyswatter was ever at the ready and if that didn’t work there was fly paper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mother would keep one above the kitchen table and more than once a wing or a leg would be pulled off some poor insect and land on a supper plate.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">There was little you could do to alleviate the heat of the summer especially when it radiated off of the blacktop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One refuge was Mike’s Field in back of the Lovejoy estate—today, the parking lot for UMass on the corner of Wilder and Broadway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The estate had been in disrepair decades before I was brave enough to make my way up there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everyone knew a madman lived in the basement (or was it the attic?) and if you got close enough he’d use a hatchet on you. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the time I was old enough (or brave enough) to get close to the building there was just enough glass left in the windows to make a crash and then run away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were a few apple trees that had gone rogue on the property and if it was warm enough, we’d climb up and pick a few, always wary of potential worms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mike’s Field was a 10 year-old’s dream.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have no idea who Mike was or what the land was used for, but it was dotted with massive trenches dug out by man or machine that had to be 6 to 8 feet deep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was the 60s and playing War was how we spent most of our days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Combat</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Twelve O’clock High</i> were necessary TV viewing for many families.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The trenches of Mike’s Field were our foxholes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’d fill penny candy bags with dirt and hurl them as sort of grenades into the other holes where the enemy was hiding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you did it correctly, the bag would open over the heads of the enemy and cover them in dirt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though it would be terribly politically incorrect today, we were all armed with plastic helmets and very life-like rifles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our fathers had served in WWII and the Cold War was on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We knew what those yellow CD signs on buildings meant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We heard the sirens every Friday that were tested in case the Russians attacked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mike’s Field was our battleground and we were there to defend it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">When we got bored with war, we might walk down Walker Street and make our way to Gage’s Ice</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5W1o09jQ_3_1WVNPASmAsToi9jR60frjzn0q7gy8NOoQ_DA6tC1ySsNqxRoeaeRQOrgfa403cqrTKrqCBxAPqhkgBudAchs3RhLRDffQDNp2iwCwqQc-mUGD8UBoUcc1rmfU0sRYFYypg/s1600/New+Picture+%252822%2529.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="185" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5W1o09jQ_3_1WVNPASmAsToi9jR60frjzn0q7gy8NOoQ_DA6tC1ySsNqxRoeaeRQOrgfa403cqrTKrqCBxAPqhkgBudAchs3RhLRDffQDNp2iwCwqQc-mUGD8UBoUcc1rmfU0sRYFYypg/s320/New+Picture+%252822%2529.bmp" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;">Google Maps. corner of Broadway & Walker Streets</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">House.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If we were fortunate enough to go to the beach, my Dad would come down to Gage’s to buy a cube of ice, and I mean <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A</i> cube.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’d put your money in the slot and one huge block of ice would slide down a chute.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’d then have to take it home to break up with an ice pick to put in the heavy metal CocaCola cooler.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On super hot days we’d check out Gage’s and see if any ice chips had fallen onto the straw where the giant cubes would land at the end of the chute.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Odd how we never got sick from any of this.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">If we were really lucky, we’d go to Burbeck’s Ice Cream on Pawtucket Street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was really rare.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is also where my friend Ricky taught me a trick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’d order an ice cream cone, eat half, drop it on the ground, and they’d give you a new one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He used that ploy several times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first time I tried it, the teenage clerk just walked away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guess I didn’t look sad enough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">There was one thing to which we were all sworn to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mother made me swear on a stack of Bibles, a real stack, and that God would personally punish me if I broke the promise- that I was to never go to the river or in the canal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had good reason to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those who lived by the canals in Lowell knew that each summer a number of daredevils would jump in the canal and be dragged under.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each time it happened she made me read the article.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I do recall watching the police, or firemen, along the Pawtucket Canal dragging a large rope, which we volunteered to help.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was later told that at the end of the rope was a grappling hook looking for a body.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That wasn’t the only occasion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once my cousin Armand brought me to see a similar scene along the Merrimack canal, and yet another was when we ran out of a friend’s birthday party after the news had spread someone drowned at Francis Folley on the Pawtucket.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were sure to return in time for cake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These events must have made their mark, as to this day I still do not know how to swim.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Since we lived on the corner of Broadway and Walker it was a great place to set up a lemonade stand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The city bus would disembark people on the corner, and they’d get off the bus all hot and sweaty from the ride and the long day’s work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sales were slow until Ricky’s brother started crying that he wanted some lemonade, but had no money.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A kind bus rider pinched his cute little face and gave the nickel for the lemonade.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hmmm, if it worked once…..<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From then on each time the bus pulled up Ricky’s brother would turn on the tears and out would come the nickels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We must have made a fortune, or at least enough for a Mr. Softee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We knew a good thing when we saw it and set up the stand the next day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The same riders disembarked, but once our ploy was recognized we were put out of business.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">After much pleading, we might get a nickel and go to Dostaler’s Market on the corner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The penny candy display had all the good stuff: squirrel nuts, peach stones, mint juleps, sugar straws, flying saucers (that served as hosts when playing Mass), and black licorice records with the red dot in the middle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another favorite was a candy necklace that you could bite of a piece as the day wore on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wearing the necklace then eating it after a game of tag or Red Rover often gave the candy a sweaty flavor, but it didn’t faze us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On those super hot days, the only thing to work was a cool orange Popsicle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Grape and cherry were good, but orange had a greater cooling effect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There would be 2 sticks so you could break it in two and share with a friend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then you’d stick your tongue out to be sure it was orange.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was part of summer too- sharing with friends.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">My fondest memory of summer was Thursday night after food shopping at the Giant Store, my dad and I would go down to the river to fish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’d dig up worms along the riverbed and stick them on a hook.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I only had a drop line, but it worked just fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only thing I remember catching was hornpout, black catfish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those whiskers could really inflict damage so my dad would take the hook out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He got stuck more than once and let out a string of curses each time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We didn’t talk much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was his way, but we’d sit along the river wall tugging at the drop line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’d watch the orange sun set along the curve of the river.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had fished that same spot in the river when he was my age.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the last rays of light departed we’d gather our gear and turn up Walker Street to home.</span></div>
LowellIrishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17581828365206969935noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4934082776237806721.post-11599284161102529292016-06-30T19:46:00.001-04:002017-07-01T15:36:27.723-04:00A Date to Remember- July 3, 1831
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;">St. Patrick Church, 1831 in <i>Irish Catholic Genesis of Lowell</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
From Bishop Fenwick’s Diary<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">: The Bishop this day performs the ceremony of dedication of the catholic Church in Lowell, under the auspices of St Patrick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Very Rev Dr O'Flaherty preaches on the occasion & the Rev Mr Mahoney celebrates Mass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An immense concourse of people attend of all denominations, as also many Catholics from Boston.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The large open space around the Church is literally covered by those unable to obtain place in the Church.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Choir is conducted by singers chiefly from Boston who volunteered on the occasion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the afternoon the Bishop administers the holy sacrament of Confirmation to thirty nine persons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The weather is excessively hot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Church at Lowell is 70 feet by 40 & is neatly finished in the Gothick style.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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July 3<sup>rd</sup>, 1831.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dedication of Lowell’s first Catholic church (only the third in all of New England) received but a single sentence in the Lowell Mercury.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>More space was given to elections in Kentucky or rowdiness of certain boys in the city.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Other cites’ newspapers gave more space to the event than did the Mercury.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">The day was exceptionally warm. Dr. O'Flaherty who gave the sermon was the preeminent Catholic speaker of his day. The Catholic Miscellany (the forerunner of The Pilot) stated that the Catholic population was about a thousand people in 1831, and 2 to 3 thousand showed up for the dedication. The church was likely constructed by the Irish workers who made up the Paddy Camps. It was made of wood with a stone basement. The top of the steeple was surmounted by a gold orb and cross. (The top of the cross is among the prized artifacts in the parish archives.) Surely the steeple was one of the tallest buildings in the town of Lowell and made a bold statement to the Yankee population. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">In the afternoon the bishop confirmed 39 candidates. It was a busy day for the Bishop with Benediction and Vespers rounding out the day. The Miscellany concluded by saying, "May Lowell enroll it among the happiest days of her history."</span></div>
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Interestingly, just weeks before the Mercury gave detailed accounts over several days of the troubles in the Acre while the church was being constructed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In May of 1831, several groups of trouble makers (some say unemployed men, others say out-of-towners) made threats upon the Paddy Camps with threats of burning down the church which was under construction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Father Mahoney of St Mary’s church in Salem MA had been assigned as the visiting priest prior to the church being built. Poor Mahoney had a wide circuit, probably on horseback, of riding through different towns during the week to celebrate Mass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bishop Fenwick made him pastor in Lowell to the disappointment of those in Salem.</div>
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When the church was opened in July of 1831 it was already too small for the growing congregation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People traveled as far as Nashua and Groton to attend Mass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If Mahoney knew what was in his future he may have told the Bishop no thanks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Within a short time, trouble within the Irish community brewed to the point of in-fighting between those who came from different counties in Ireland, problems with his new curate, and problems with fundraising for extensions and paying workers.</div>
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It’s good for us who claim Irish roots to remember this date and to remember those who went through trials and tribulations so that we can be here today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For 185 years St. Patrick’s has been a landmark in the Acre continuing the mission of those who started our story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>May they be remembered.</div>
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LowellIrishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17581828365206969935noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4934082776237806721.post-87834811858760044032016-06-18T16:55:00.000-04:002016-08-21T20:33:49.767-04:00Cemetery Inscription Update - New Data Added<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh69hJTE_j50LBcRf-5e0dqLrP0_2woVwGOEN8yFU-FpdKHibGSxILR-AiTj8MPssUAkogQ-E7fBbjuS-Kxhtx4JFc2jA3qKu-3rR3LKjW8EhD6zA3p925gLMJssHSGHpfBWKrqjB_9bEl6/s1600/record-image_S3HY-DY43-3PC.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh69hJTE_j50LBcRf-5e0dqLrP0_2woVwGOEN8yFU-FpdKHibGSxILR-AiTj8MPssUAkogQ-E7fBbjuS-Kxhtx4JFc2jA3qKu-3rR3LKjW8EhD6zA3p925gLMJssHSGHpfBWKrqjB_9bEl6/s200/record-image_S3HY-DY43-3PC.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
Many people who go to St. Pa't Cemetery are disappointed to find that record keeping doesn't start until 1895. Sure there are city vital records and other sources that can be checked, but basically looking for early or mid-nineteenth century information on Lowell Irish it's scattered at best. <br />
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All the way to 1995 a project began in the cemetery to help close the gap. A team of volunteers began uncovering dozens and dozens of slate stones that had lain buried for generations. Those stones are inscribed with the names of the early pioneer Irish who came to Lowell. They often include dates of birth and death, county of origin, sometimes causes of death and if you're lucky epitaphs left by family members. From a genealogist point of view, the stones can be a gold mine. <br />
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As the project has evolved the stones have been uncovered, data collected, the stones cleaned and photographed. We've been releasing data as we have recorded it, and I can now say we are done. The inscription list on our website is the final work done on this project. We just added dozens of more family names. There are now almost 1300 names dating from the 1830s-1860s. If you see that a stones has a photo, I'd be glad to send it to you. Right now we don't have the storage to put all the jepgs on the site.<br />
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To access the information go to LowellIrish.com. The far right hand tab says <i>more </i>and look under I<i>nscription Yards 1, 2, & 3. </i>I hope this work benefits researchers now and in the future. LowellIrishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17581828365206969935noreply@blogger.com0