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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"
Your story triggered a memory! Noticed in a couple of my maternal family obituaries while doing research that my grandparents home on Agawam St. in the Grove was frequently the designated wake location if the relations passed. Remember my grandmother & later my mother wanting to keep one room in the house where possible reserved for company, probably from tradition of family wakes. Mom also spoke about the women wailing that she did not like at the wakes.
ReplyDeleteTom
My father's grandfather lived on Agawam St. When he died in 1943, my father was a young boy. Dad remembered women coming up Barrington St. to the house, keening as they walked, and continuing into the house.
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