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The Irish are positively magical at bringing lost causes back to life.”
the sea’s anger disappeared. And wasn’t she, for the rest of the voyage, just like a lovin’ mother gently rockin’ us to sleep that night and safely carryin’ us into Boston Harbor the two days later.”
‘If you’re not a part of the problem or the solution, it’s not yours to tell.’”
‘dimple on the chin, devil within’ is what me mother said of fellas that handsome with the cleft and all,”
they approached a group of boys playing a rowdy game of kick the can in the middle of the street.
from the house where the Mister was out of work, the distinct aroma of poverty-stew: potatoes, onions and water.
“Mary, we’ve got to keep movin’. If we stop to chat, we’ll still be in front of the widow McCormick’s house tomorrow mornin’.”
three-family apartment house, commonly known as a three-decker.
May the roof of your house never fall in and those beneath it never fall out. IRISH BLESSING
His reputation for kindness made the lines at his confessional longest. People were always willing to wait for mercy and grace.
A good laugh and a long sleep are the best cures. IRISH BLESSING
Maybe because she couldn’t hold them in any longer, but probably because the love of her mother was there, Rosemary’s tears fell. And Norah’s tears met them.
“We’ll be thanking God for this fine meal and make the sign of the cross together now.” And so they all did, including the head of the household who most of the time seemed godless. “Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty through Christ, our Lord. Amen.”
May God be with you and bless you. May you see your children’s children. May you be poor in misfortune, rich in blessings. May you know nothing but happiness from this day forward. IRISH BLESSING
The curious crowd parted, creating a path no parent wants to take and sight no mother or father should ever have to endure.
It’s said that God doesn’t give us more than we can bear, but “the tragedy,” as it came to be known, met John Joseph’s predisposition for the drink outside a pint or two after work. It marked the end of family joy, and beginning of drunkenness, violence, and financial strife beyond Norah’s ability to stretch a dollar. Eventually, John only paid the rent, and more times than not, the electricity. The rest: coal, food, clothing, school supplies, medicine, and everything else, was up to Norah and the children.
The water is wide—I can’t cross o’er And neither have I wings to fly Give me a boat that can carry two And we shall row, my love and I. “THE WATER IS WIDE” TRADITIONAL IRISH SONG
Jordan Marsh Blueberry Muffins Preheat oven to 450 degrees. Grease and flour a 12-cup muffin tin, and also the top of the pan (batter may spill over). ½ cup butter (Jordan›s used Crisco) 1 cup granulated sugar 1/2 teaspoon salt 2 teaspoons baking powder 2 eggs 2 cups all purpose flour ½ cup milk 1 teaspoon vanilla 1-½ cups of blueberries, cleaned and rinsed Sugar for sprinkling on top Cream together butter, sugar, and salt for 3 minutes. Add baking powder and eggs and mix well. Add flour, milk, and vanilla, and mix well again. Gently fold in blueberries. Fill cups to the top. Sprinkle sugar on
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Sobriety was John Joseph’s public face, and he was a charmer with a compliment for whoever came his way. Drunkenness and bad behavior were reserved for the pub and family, behind closed doors.
However, Norah’s fatal diagnosis still hung in the room like a wet sheet, heavy and dripping with sadness.
“Miss King, I promise to do everything in my power to see your mother through this with the least amount of suffering.”
Most all the other beautiful things in life come by twos and threes, by dozens and hundreds. Plenty of roses, stars, sunsets, rainbows, brothers and sisters, aunts and cousins, but only one mother in the whole world. KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN
Caring neighbors used their War Ration coupons to provide for the Kings and many prepared better food for Norah’s family than their own. “It pleases our Lord to no end when He sees His children sacrificin’ for the good of others.”
Rita tried hard to hold back her tears, and did, until Sister Veronita said, “It’s a fast-fading tradition Rita, but Sister Agnes and I want to honor your mother’s memory by sitting up with her these two nights. We’ll return later this evening and keep vigil. She’ll never be alone, and neither will you, dear. Your mother will always be watching over you from heaven.”
The astute, old priest silently prayed as everyone regrouped. Dear God, forgive me, but I’ve not a lot of confidence in the father lookin’ after his children. Protect them from harm and please keep each one strong in the faith of their dearly departed mother.
Out of seemingly nowhere, the sad cry of a bagpipe was heard through the downpour, and its sweet refrain took refuge in the hearts of all present. The staff at New Calvary Cemetery often saw Father Francis R. Burke, S. J., or Father Frank, as he was known to his students at BC High School, slowly walking among the gravestones, where he earnestly played his bagpipes, thinking this was a place where no one would object to the noise. And it was there on consecrated ground that God led him to provide musical closure for grieving families, unannounced. This stormy day, for the mother and child, it
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You can shed tears that she is gone, or you can smile because she has lived. ANONYMOUS
Norah’s coat hung right where it belonged, on the third peg of the coatrack by the back door, and more than one family member had hugged it when they thought the others weren’t looking. It still smelled of her favorite fragrance, “soap and water, the best perfume in the world.”
The Callanans were considered “lace curtain Irish” because they owned their own home.
As God is my judge, that’s what I’d say rather than miss what feeds me soul and keeps me heart right. Norah was a saint, and that’s the God’s truth.”
His thin stringy locks constantly fell forward under the weight of too much hair tonic, and he smelled strongly of mothballs, an acrid repellent not only for fabric eating creatures but for discerning humans as well.
led by the strong smell of mothballs, briefly looked over her shoulder then said it all by rolling her eyes. Mr. Schultz lurked close by and pretended to be straightening some flimsy merchandise as he took each pastel colored piece, shook it out and laid it back in place just so, sometimes with a pat, pat. The fact that it was ladies’ panties didn’t occur to the myopic manager, and his fidgety fingering of the delicate under-things made “Al” Schultz look absolutely obscene to the parochial-school-trained young ladies.
think my father is like the Holy Trinity with three people in him, the one in the morning with the paper, the one at night with the stories and the prayers, and then the one who does the bad thing and comes home with the smell of whiskey and wants us to die. ANGELA’S ASHES FRANK MCCOURT
“Hurry. We can use these.” This wasn’t easy, her mother having been gone only weeks, leaving her father’s house without his knowledge or blessing, and taking her younger sister with her. God in heaven, what happened to our family?
“Who do you think you are?” might as well be tattooed into the forehead of certain old Irish Catholics, they ask it so much. “Too big for your britches,” too. Object Lessons by Anna Quindlen
The Aran Isles of Ireland are home to a very distinctive type of sweater. Made from natural, cream-colored wool and hand-knit into combined patterns of knots, ropes, braids, and basket weaves—each island family had their own unique design. In the event a fisherman was lost at sea, once found, he could easily be identified by his “Aran sweater” pattern.
Although her back was to him, John Joseph got what he wanted, what he always juggled for, schemed for, fought for, come hell or high water … the last word. “And never darken my door again.”
Enough is enough. What might have been and if only have been eating her alive for too long now, and that simply won’t do.
the 1940s saw the median age at first marriage for women reach an all-time low of 20.3 years.”
Cordelia immediately picked up the receiver and phoned her brother, her rival, her only sibling, the person in her circle of relationships for whom she had the least respect and a great deal of conflicted love. There was no answer. Wiling the afternoon away with his latest conquest, no doubt.
It had been two years since Norah King passed away, and Rita still missed her more than anyone could know.
Limbo could be called the Catholic Church’s grace land, a spiritual realm between heaven and hell where prayers of petition have the potential to deliver a deceased, unbaptized baby straight to heaven, despite its tiny soul being marked with original sin.
Yes, Edna felt life had shortchanged her, and she was dearly making others pay for it.
‘Only those without a thought of their own find pleasure in discussing other people’s business.’ In my opinion that means dim.”
Pip, handsome, persuasive, enchanting, debonair Pip, was, in a word, a scoundrel.
They both continued to stand and silently stared out a large French-paned window at the falling snow. Cordelia particularly liked the way it collected on tree branches in pristine puffs. “Is it any wonder this room was Mother’s favorite place to be? It’s like having a moving picture of the seasons. Lovely.”
“You’re to be congratulated on such expeditious mismanagement, Pip. What took generations to build you’ve managed to tear down in a mere eight months. Extraordinary!”
May, a time of year when the French customarily purchase a bouquet or plant of Lily of the Valley as a token of love and good wishes for family, friends, and even themselves. The tiny, bell-shaped, white flower is literally known as a porte-bonheur, or “bringer of happiness,” or what some prefer to call “good fortune.”
Cordelia absolutely relished what she came to refer to as fluffing: She made sure water in vases was fresh, pillows on the French Provincial, wood-accented settee and two armchairs of the same design were arranged just so. She
A turn of the burnished brass key in its antiquated lock, and Chandler’s was ready to serve, suggest, and sell.
