An Acre memory- St. Patrick's Day

Reunion Booklet, 1920

Saint Patrick’s Day is really one of my favorite holidays. Sure there’s the big three: Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Easter. Even Halloween and Valentine’s Day have their good points. But March 17^th is something special. Once, when landing at Logan, a young business woman who was visiting Boston for the first time, randomly turned to me and asked what it was about St. Patrick’s Day and Americans. Some might say it’s the search for identity. Others might say it’s about the craic. Others might think of it as the Irish form of “Festivus for the rest of us” (a la Seinfeld). Today my family celebrates far differently than my parent’s time. My wife and I took a trip down memory lane and reminisced on how the day was celebrated when we were kids in the 1960s.

Growing up when and where I did in Lowell’s Acre almost made St Patrick’s Day a holy day of obligation. This wasn’t just a religious holy day, it was cultural as well. Much like Advent prepares us for Christmas or Lent for Easter, once the calendar turned to March, arrangements began. Certain foods had to be prepared, special songs were rehearsed and every item of green clothing had to be readied. At Saint Patrick School, the annual reunion show was planned weeks in advance. The show goes back to the late nineteenth century, if not earlier. Records show that the Parish would have entertainments of various sorts put on by the different societies, grade school children, and parishioners. The Parish Archives has copies of programs going back almost 100 years.

When I was attending St Patrick’s, about half the class had Irish surnames. Most of the students were half Irish and half something else, like myself. A few had no Irish in them, but still were required to sing, “Galway Bay.” A friend of mine, with whom I am still friends these many decades later, surprised me when I asked if he remembered the old songs. He confessed that he despised having to wear the green and to this day can’t stand the sound of “Oh the Days of the Kerry Dancing.” I still do not understand that.

The show was the big event of the season. The Sisters would walk the entire student body, about 400 kids, from the School to Market Street to Prescott to Merrimack and to the Auditorium. We walked 2 by 2 the full 2.4 miles. The show was always at 7 pm on March 16^th. If one can imagine the entire Lowell Memorial Auditorium was completely sold out year after year. I’m not sure if it is even there today, but behind the maroon curtain and stage was seating for the entire school chorus dressed in white shirts with green ribbons for girls and ties for boys. The Sisters, wearing a single green ribbon pinned to their habit, stood guard to ensure no shenanigans would besmirch the good name of Saint Patrick School.

The show began the same each year with the pipes and drums of Clan McPherson Band from Lawrence. The drum major in his tall bearskin hat would lead the pipers in with his silver baton flashing in the spot light. The bass drummer wearing the leopard pelt would twirl his drum sticks. You could feel the vibrations of the drum beats, not only physically, but in your very soul. The pipers would all lift their pipes and march into the hall playing “Scotland the Brave.” For you purists, remember we’re all Celts.

School Children Prepare for Show, 1950s

Singers would sing songs from the auld sod like “I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen” or “It’s a Great Day for the Irish.” The audience would frequently chime right in with the singers, after all these were the songs we were raised on. Little did most of us know that many of those Bing Crosby favorites were not from the auld sod and were not even written by Irish-Americans. The genre at the turn of the century was an appeal for Irish type vaudeville music and every musician, no matter the background, penned Irish sounding tunes. Those became the standards heard in every Irish-American home. But the music did its job; it joined the crowd into one communal voice.

Part of the entertainment of the night was seeing the first and second graders do a little song and dance on the stage. What would really tear up Nana and the crowd was that the girls wore little shamrock print skirts with aprons and dust caps. The boys wore green, silk pantaloons with a cummerbund. We had to go on stage and act out Mick McGilligan’s Ball. I remember this well, because I still have my pantaloons. I stole them. But my clearest recollection is how silk pantaloons, that were homemade using a loose elastic band to hold them up, can very easily slide down as you dance around a stage. And, how funny it is to see a 6 year old holding up his silk, green pantaloons in front of hundreds and hundreds of people. Yes, I’m speaking from experience.

The high point of the evening were the Irish step dancers. Step dancing had been a tradition at St Pat’s School for decades. My mother-in-law attended St Pats and took lessons back in the 1920s. When my time came around, it was common for boys and girls to go to the school hall each Saturday with their ghillies (soft shoes) and brogues (hard shoes) and Jim Madden would put them through their routines. Jim was a task master, but his mother (from Ireland) was a bit more brutal. When my own kids took part in competitions, at their first feis (competition) who was there but Jim Madden, a bit older, but still with perfect posture. The crowd at the auditorium always listened to see if the girls made their clicks with their hard shoes. Their green dresses with simple gold braiding seem plain compared to today’s outfits. (One of my daughter’s dresses cost $1500 and had to be imported from Ireland.) At that time, dancers could wear their medals won at feisana (competitions) and to see the medals all lift and fall to the beat of the music was part of the thrill.

Brenda in Step Dance Costume on Suffolk Street

At the end of the evening the pastor would always walk out and declare the news every schoolchild had been waiting to hear- there would be no school the next day. That did not mean you could sleep in the next morning. Mass was at 9 am, not just Mass, but Solemn High Mass. The celebrant wore the gold cope with the embroidered image of Patrick on the back. The opening song was “Hail Glorious Apostle Selected by God” and the closing would be “Hail Glorious St Patrick, Dear Saint of Our Isle.” Every seat in the church was filled. It was like Christmas when folks you hadn’t seen all year would show up. They were coming home.

And then there was the feast, or so some say. Personally I can’t stand corned beef. I want to be very careful here when we talk about corned beef. Every Irish American talks about the sainted grandmother’s recipe for corned beef and cabbage she carried off the boat from Ireland. The debate about this can cause whole families to stop speaking to each other. Corned beef is not the most traditional of dishes in Ireland. At the time of our ancestors beef was pretty expensive. When they came to America beef was more accessible and corned beef fit right into their price range. So maybe Nana’s recipe isn’t so Irish. In my house, corned beef was served, but it was more likely to be a boiled ham shoulder with cabbage, turnips, and boiled potatoes. Hey the Irish have great humor, literature, music, and poetry. No one ever said they had haute cuisine. Then there’s the debate over soda bread. With caraway seeds or without? With raisins or currants? Let’s not forget the green beer too. To round off this Irish meal, my French mother would make cupcakes with green frosting, and then remind me that St Joseph Day was only 2 days away.

Keening

 

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I'm uncomfortable with the term "historian" when it is applied to me. Those are very dedicated individuals who spend much time researching and seeking how and why things happened. Me, I'm a collector of other people's stories- the good, the bad, the happy, the sad, the true, and the....... what we wished really happened. For a number of years I did oral histories with members of the community. It all started because of my Dad. As a kid we'd drive around and he'd tell me the story of the Acre Shamrocks and swimming in the canals, stuff that would make a great oral history. Unfortunately I never gave him the time to do a history with me. I've lost that chance. I recall one story he shared with me.

When he was a kid living on Waugh Street in the Acre, a neighbor passed away. This must have been about 1925 when he was 7 or 8. His mother took him by the hand to attend the deceased woman's wake. He remembered seeing a wreath hanging on the door with a black crepe ribbon to announce to passers-by that the family was in mourning. He had never been to a wake before and had no idea what to expect. They walked into what would be called today the family room. The deceased was laid out in a casket, of course provided by O'Donnell's. The house was mobbed with family and friends. He remembered the gnarled hands of the deceased neighbor with the rosary beads intertwined. Candles burned at both ends of the coffin. His mother and he took a seat. There was no hope of escaping. The table before him had glasses stuffed with cigarettes and a bowl with clay pipes and tobacco. These were meant as tokens of remembrance from the family. The room where the deceased was laid out was quiet and reverent with mostly women whispering and nodding and holding lace handkerchiefs in their hands.

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The kitchen was another story. People who came to the house brought plates of sandwiches or cakes. It overflowed with offerings. Of course there was the whiskey. Jugs of the "water of life" bought at local watering holes covered what empty space there was in the kitchen. This was the male's domain. Smoke filled the room. and the glasses were being passed around again and again. My Dad loaded his plate with food, and his mom quickly escorted him out of this part of the house. He sat in the back of the viewing room while his mother made the rounds with the other ladies. As he was eating off his plate he almost jumped out of his chair. In back of him was a row of old ladies, really old ladies. They were like a chorus from some Greek tragedy. In unison they started high pitch wailing that went on and on. A few other old ladies joined in. "She's gone. She's gone" Then there were a series of lamentations not in any words he could recognize. Followed by, "We'll never see her again." There were intercessions to Blessed Virgin Mary and all the saints. Then the wailing would begin again. Much later he asked his mother who they were and she said they were the keeners. Some were family members, but other were paid professionals whose job was to set the mood and recount the actions of the soul who had passed. It was a practice that had pretty much died away by that time, and maybe he wasn't aware that he was witnessing one of the last grand Irish wakes in Lowell. He told the story a number of times over his life, and said the sound of the keeners was something he always would remember.

Back at the wake, the mourners carried on until the priest arrived and then all the women got on their
knees for the rosary. The sound from the kitchen of the glasses being filled and refilled mixed in with the Hail Marys. This same routine would be carried on for 2 more nights. His mother walked him back home only to turn around and return to the wake. It was her job to "keep watch" the whole night with a few of the other women. They would spend the entire night with the deceased telling stories of her life and struggles and then begin the rosary again. "...... now and at the hour of our death. Amen"

Thomas Nast- Racist or Social Commentator?

It’s hard to believe that the man who pretty much gave us the image of the Santa Claus we all know and love, was the same man who gave us some of the most blatant anti-Irish cartoons of the 19^th century.  So was Thomas Nast a racist?  Some of you may know that I’ve been doing research for a history of Lowell Irish due to come out in March of 2016.  (More about that later.)  When going through the hundreds of articles, it’s clear that there were times in Lowell’s past when our ancestors were not well-liked or wanted in Lowell.  Some of that may have been their own doing.  It’s also clear that there was a more liberal element in Lowell who wanted to support these new people.  

Nast is called the “Father of American cartoons.”  He used his pen to show his opinions on many topics Americans faced at the time and his own political views.  German-born, Nast was educated in American schools.  He was raised Catholic, but at some point converted to Protestantism.  Living in New York City he witnessed how Irish gangs were often involved in some of the worst criminal activity in the city.  The cartoons we know so well show his views towards the Irish.  But was he a racist?  I was only aware of a number of his pieces of work that all depict Irish as monkeys of thugs.  But Nast also drew cartoons that supported Chinese immigration, the abolition of slavery, and opposed racial segregation.  (See Wikipedia for more info on his work.)

More than one piece of research on Nast denies the man was a racist, claiming he was just being a political cartoonist.  He was doing nothing different than any other cartoonist of the time or today.  It just happens we know only his anti-Irish work.  There is also the point that as a political cartoonist his job was to stir up debate and point out the current thinking of the day.  Think of recent happenings in Paris.  Was he just showing what others were thinking?  Was he anti-Irish or anti-Catholic?  In his defense you could hardly find a newspaper in this time period that didn’t run an anti-Catholic article, joke, or even an employment sign saying “No Catholic need apply.” (This was also found in local papers.)  So was he a racist or just reflecting the views of his time in history?  You decide.

Let me return to the book.  Help!  It’s far more work than I ever imagined.  What is it people say when a hobby becomes work?  I’m on a search right now for photos from the different churches and schools.  St. Pat’s is well represented, but the book is about Lowell.  Can you help?  I need pictures from Sacred Heart, St. Mike’s, Immaculate, and St. Peter’s.  The earlier the better.  I’ve got pics of the buildings, but our story is really about people.  The men and women who made up the neighborhoods, the kids in school uniforms, the nuns and priests at work in school and church.  I’d love to get a picture of one of the nuns from St. John’s Hospital.  I think they had the big wings.  Someday I’ll tell you the story of how I gave one a smack across the face.  Hey, I was four, but I remember it. If you've got something to share please get in touch.  dadumc@comcast.net

Lowell Irish - A Family Album

As usual I was looking through some early newspapers and there was an entry that there were plans being made to mark the centennial of the arrival of Hugh Cummiskey and his band of workers walking from Charlestown to Lowell in 1822.  The date was sometime around 1916.  One of the voices to plead for marking the centenary was none other than George O'Dwyer, who would later author The Irish Catholic Genesis of Lowell.  There were plans for a grand parade, a ball, some sort of permanent memorial, and monthly events with speakers from across the country.  They thought it was essential that planning begin that soon so everything would be ready for the date.  Well, sadly, little was done to make that milestone. 

At first I thought that planning so early was a bit over the top.  Then I began to think it over.  What a shame we don't have a record of what could have happened that year.  Imagine the stories and photos that would have been passed on to us!  What did Lowell's Irish community look like back then?  What would they have wanted to leave us?  All lost now.  Gone.  And then I had an idea, a crazy one I admit, but hear me out.

I think we're the generation that sort of breeches the old timers and that next generation. While Lowell's story partly started with the Irish, we haven't done a great job of recording our own past. Sure O'Dwyer and Mitchell did their part, but there is much more. Cummiskey's bicentennial will be coming in a few years. Only the Almighty knows if I'll be around. My thought is to start collecting pictures from any families who would like their names to be recorded for future generations, a kind of giant Lowell Irish family album. What form it could take I haven't gotten to yet, possibly as a virtual album kept on the LowellIrish website, or Center for Lowell History.

Many of you know I'm searching for photos to be in our next publication that will be out in March of 2016.  We've gotten some great photos.  The decision is going to be tough as to which to include.  (We're not even close to the number required by the editor, so look in those old albums and contact me)   There has been a request that we host an exhibit next year as well.  My thinking was wouldn't it be great to have the walls covered with all the old antique photos we've collected, but even greater to have another wall covered with the faces of today's Lowell Irish?

So here's my crazy idea.  I'd like to get pictures from the 1800s to the present. Family has always been at the core of being Irish and I want to show all the events of being in a family (church, politics, education, sports, social organizations). Folks can honor their first generation ancestors right down to their own grandkids. I want to collect hundreds, no hundreds of hundreds.  Just send along the photo with a family name, possible date, and maybe a note about the event. Your photo could end up in the book, the wall of the exhibit, or in the permanent archive to celebrate Cummiskey's bicentennial.  It will honor the past and be a gift to the future. 

The Dunnigan Family

Rosemary K. Nunnally writes about her family, the Dunnigans and their Lowell Irish story.  What's your story?  Be a guest blogger as Rosemary has. Keep your family's story alive!

Balbriggan

According to Lewis's Topographical Directory of Ireland, from 1837, Balbriggan was    “a sea-port, market, and post-village, and a chapelry, in the county of Dublin, containing 3,016 inhabitants. The inhabitants are partly employed in the fishery, but principally in the manufacture of cotton; there are two large factories.”

Perhaps it was the connection with cotton mills that brought the Dunnigan family from famine stricken Ballbriggan, Ireland to Lowell, MA.  Teenagers Margaret and Alisa Dunnigan came to Lowell and worked in the mills.  Their mother Margaret Dunnigan, age 38, along with her children Mary age 12, Philip 9, John 7, Jane 4 and Stephen 3 arrived in Boston on the ship Macedonia on September 20, 1848 and joined the elder girls. Though Philip Dunnigan is listed on the death and marriage records of the children, I did not find reference to him in Lowell and Margaret did not have more children. Perhaps he died in Ireland prompting the family’s emigration.  

The family settled on Market Street and a few years later moved to Salem Street. They lived as the other Irish immigrants of the time.  They worked as mill hands and in the leather industry as curriers.  Eleven year old Philip died of cholera in 1849.  Young Jane died from typhoid fever in 1855.   

As the children got older they married at St. Patrick’s Church.  Fr. John O’Brien married John Dunnigan to Jane F. Jewett in February of 1864. He also married Margaret Dunnigan to William Sullivan, a baker, in December of 1865. Mary Dunnigan wed Michael Garrity and Alisa married Frank Kelly.

USS Albatross

The Civil War began and called many Lowell men to war.  John Dunnigan was 20 years old and working as a currier. The naval ship USS Albatross came to the port of Boston for repairs in 1862.  John enlisted for one year as a landsman on July 24 aboard the Albatross.  He was described as 5 feet, 7 inches tall with a fair complexion, hazel eyes and brown hair. He was discharged the following July 1863 as an ordinary seaman.

Stephen Dunnigan left his job as an operative in the mill and enlisted in the army on April 18, 1864. He was nineteen years old. He was in Company A of the 6^th Regiment of Massachusetts Infantry.  Records show he was promoted to corporal on July 1, 1865.  He served another year and mustered out on July 6, 1866 in Charleston, South Carolina.

Following their service in the War of the Rebellion, the brothers returned to Lowell. Stephen continued to live with his mother on the corner of Salem and Clark Streets.  He worked at the Merrimack Print Works.  At age 25, Stephen died on the 27^th of August in 1873.  His death record listed the cause of death as an accident.  An article in the Lowell Daily Citizen and News on August 28^th reported on the tragic circumstances of his death.  Stephen was at home sick with a cough. His mother brought him the bottle of cough balm from the closet.  Stephen drank a heavy dose and immediately felt a burning sensation and exclaimed to his mother that he was poisoned.  In her haste, his mother had grabbed the wrong bottle from the closet and that bottle contained bug poison.  A doctor was called but Stephen lingered for an hour and died.  The newspaper reported that young Dunnigan had served acceptably in the 6^th and 30^th Mass. Regiments during the rebellion, after which he entered the naval service, in which he continued for some time. Among his companions, he was greatly esteemed.  Stephen was buried in the “Catholic Ground’, St. Patrick’s, in Yard 1 and later in 1879 had a headstone provided for deceased Civil War Veterans.  In 1886 Stephen’s mother was receiving his Civil War pension.

After his war service, John became a naturalized citizen in Superior Court in Lowell on October 30, 1864.  The Lowell City Directories in 1868 and 1870 show John Dunnigan worked as a currier at the corner of Willie and Broadway.  His house was diagonally across the North Common at 34 Common Ave.  He may have walked across the Common on his way back and forth to work.  In the latter 1870’s John moved his family to Salem, MA for a few years. By 1880 he was back in Lowell living on Hancock Ave.  John died from consumption in June of 1882.  His obituary in the Lowell Weekly Sun stated he was a respected citizen.  “He was in the navy under Farragut in the late war and was on the Albatross when she ran by Port Hudson, lashed to the Hartford, and always exhibited great bravery while in the service.”  His funeral was attended by members of Post 42, G.A.R. and six fellow veterans were the bearers.  John was buried in the Catholic cemetery, presumably in the family plot.

St Patrick Cemetery

Following John’s death, his widow Jane Dunnigan was to receive his pension as a Navy Widow by the Act of June 27, 1890.  Jane would receive $8.00 a month and an additional $2.00 a month for each child under the age of sixteen.  She filed a lot of paperwork to explain how she used the name Jane F. when she was christened “Philomene Jane Jewett” and also had to prove that her daughter was Alicia and not “Eliza”.  She had to show that her husband’s middle name was Thomas though he did not use it and he died of consumption caused by disease contracted in the Naval Service and not resulting from bad habits.  One of her witnesses was her brother-in-law Michael Garrity.  Jane died in 1904 and is buried in the family grave at St. Patrick’s, though her name is not on the headstone.

The matriarch of the family, Margaret Dunnigan, lived to a fine old age of 86. She died in Woburn at the home of her daughter, Mrs. Frank Kelly, in May of 1893.  She was interred in the Catholic cemetery, St. Patrick’s in Lowell.  Margaret’s death record revealed her Irish parents were Joseph Fadigan and Eliza Hay.

Lowell Irish- Coming to a bookstore near you!

St. Patrick Choir, 1899

As announced a few weeks ago we will be publishing a book on Lowell’s Irish community in March of 2016.  Rather than an academic history it will be more of a collection of short stories and events from the time Hugh Cummiskey walked his way from Charlestown to the banks of the Pawtucket canal.

I’ve been collecting articles from old newspapers, anecdotes from senior members, and entries from diaries and reminiscences for decades.  Some have yellowed with age and some are actually negative photocopies (I’m dating myself).  If you are of my generation you might understand this next statement. 

Irish culture in Lowell has made some great strides.  In the last few years more research and understanding of our part of the Lowell story has been uncovered with the help of new technology, and teams of volunteers who have worked on the archaeological dig, cemetery work, and hours in libraries. 

Now it is time to collect and record our visual history.  Our purpose is twofold.  Our archives has many photos that can be used in the book.  They only tell one small part of the story of the Irish in Lowell.  Our search now is on collecting family photos of all types.  We’re looking for early photos from the late nineteenth century all the way to today.  Each photo will become part of the archive’s permanent collection and may be part of our Lowell Irish book.

What kind of photos are we looking for?  School photos (parochial or public).  Religious events (First Communions, Confirmations, weddings, May processions).  Family events (birthdays, reunions, outings, formal and informal portraits).  Especially good are outdoor and neighborhood scenes.

You can choose to donate the original, or we can scan it for you.  Older photos will not be damaged by the process.  We will be setting up dates where we can meet and make a copy of your photo or you can contact me directly to set up a time.  dadumc@comcast.net

Unfortunately timing is important.  Though the book is coming out in March of 2016, submissions must be made to the publisher by late Spring of 2015.

This is a sure way to preserve you family’s heritage and for our Lowell Irish story to be preserved for the next generation.

An Acre Memory- Christmas (The Finale)

All during the day and for the weeks before the record player droned out the tunes of the season.  We had a pile of 45’s that we played over and over.  You could stack about 5 records on top of each other and each would drop down onto the player.  The needle arm would move over and play the tune.  I mostly recall the Harry Simone Chorale’s rendition of the new hit, “The Little Drummer Boy.”  My mother loved that tune and when it came on the radio she would reach over and turn up the volume.  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.

My parents explained that Christmas was much different when they were young growing up in the Lowell of the 1920s.  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.  Ice skating on the Merrimack River was something every Acre kid looked forward to.  When he was young there was an annual package delivered from Scotland.  It was something his parents always looked forward to.  Inside were tins of shortbread and oatcakes.  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.  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.  My mother’s memories were more clear.  Gifts were usually very limited.  A scarf or hat.  A small bisque doll.  They used their own stocking to hang for Santa to fill.  In it were wrapped candies, nuts, along with oranges and coins.  A thing like an orange was very precious in this time.  She kept that tradition up with my sister and me.  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.  Their tree was never decorated until Christmas Eve and often was set up by her parents after all 13 children had gone to bed.  Midnight Mass for my mother was at St. Jean Baptiste Church on Merrimack Street.  A behemoth of an edifice it had a triple choir loft that reached to the very rafters of the church.   She recalled the thrill of being so high up in the church and singing the hymn Minuit Chretiens (O Holy Night).  Minuit Chrétiens 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.  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. 

One year we awoke to a scene directly out of a Hallmark card.  Overnight we were blanketed in more than a foot of snow.  Nothing was moving on the streets.  At dinner time I had to make my way down Walker Street to my grandparent’s house to deliver their meal.  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.  The mince pie!  Don’t drop the pie.  My grandmother met me at the door and sure enough the pie was the first thing she checked on.  Memere always had a sweet tooth.  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.  My mother would get on the phone and let my grandmother know she was caught red handed.

What 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.  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.  The church was over a mile away.  We bundled up for the long track.  The four of us hit the streets.  They were still covered in white.  The lights of the candles in people’s windows reflected in the snow piles in front of people’s houses.  I swear that not even one car passed us on the road during our journey.  Looking in windows you could see families celebrating and sharing the joy of the day.  We walked down the middle of the street in the dark since most people hadn’t gotten a chance to shovel yet.  Even Cukoo O’Connell’s bar on the corner of School and Broadway was closed up.  Probably the only day of the year it was.  I imagined the street light turning from green to red were that way to celebrate the season.  Don’t stop.  Keep going.  It’s Christmas.  Just as the last of my energy and heat escaped my body we reached the church.  My Dad grabbed the metal handle of the massive green wooden door.  Locked!  Locked?  Locked!!!  The four figures turned around.  No one said a word.  Maybe it was the sacredness of the moment or the fear of catching my mother’s wrath.  We walked home.  I felt the cold night through my black rubber boots with the dozen impossible buckles.  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.  I look up.  There is my father looking up Broadway Street.  He’s on my left.  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.  On the far right was my mother with her fur lined black boots.  Hat on her head as every good church going lady had at that time.  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.  The crunch of the new fallen snow the only sound to be heard.

It is like a photo in my mind.  The four of us making our way home.  We’re on Broadway Street right at the gate house over the canal.  In the distance I see the candles in the windows of our apartment.  Frost is making its mark on the glass panes, and if I squint the orange glow almost makes the electric candles look like stars.  The street lights cast our shadows before us.  I can see it now.  I am right there.  Our little family was together and we were going home.  In my head I hear,

Silent Night, Holy Night,  All is calm, All is bright.