St. Patrick's Missionary Society, Kiltegan Fathers

Courtesy of Saint Patrick's Missionary Society, "Our Work."

When Myles' family lived in Africa (circa 1960-1980) they were friends with some Catholic missionaries, both in Kenya and later in Nigeria. They called them the "Catholic fathers."  I was always a little surprised by this because father-in-law Brian was fairly rigid on his Church of Ireland theological doctrines. But he also enjoyed a good debate, so I expect he welcomed a discussion on the finer points of Biblical exhortations.

They maintained contact over the years through Christmas cards, phone calls, and even a few visits. Since Brian passed away last year Myles has been gently closing the various chapters of his father's life, and this was one that cried out for closure. So on a recent visit to Ireland we made it our mission (pun partially intended) to seek them out.

Idyllic countryside

Saint Patrick's Missionary Society maintains a retirement home for these missionaries in beautiful Kiltegan, County Wicklow. It's probably not accidental that it is located not too far from the ancient monastic city of Glendalough. After a long and winding drive through the gentle hills we arrived at what seemed to be a campus, and indeed, this is where they had all been schooled by the Saint Patrick Missionary Society. I like this concept and hope that someday the University of Massachusetts at Amherst will have my cohorts and me back for retirement, perhaps giving us our old rooms back!

Poor Father Lawler at first was puzzled as to why we were there. He was humble and honored by our visit and showed us around. Since we arrived half an hour before lunch he invited us to join him. They have a fine, efficient cafeteria and we enjoyed a healthy meal together. Father Lawler pointed out a few other priests that had served with him and Myles vaguely remembered them, too. A few of them joined us at our table. I loved seeing them perk up as the memories started to flow. They became quite animated and stood a little straighter by the time we left.

Reconnecting

Remembering Africa

It looked just like any other retirement home, but I had to marvel at the collective global experience of those men as I scanned the room. They have seen a lot of suffering, probably endured it themselves. And they've done a lot of good as well.

Well cared for in their old age

Of course as a genealogist I was drawn to the cemetery. The uniformity of the markers was striking but it seems a suitable resting place.

Row upon row of identical cross grave markers at the cemetery of the Kiltegan Fathers

As I sat among them I fervently hoped that they had been untouched by scandal, but sadly there was one case where a man was associated with another who had abused a young girl. These guys were once young, idealistic and brave, and I hate to think of all the good they have done being ruined by the corrupt, but that's the story of today's church. 

There are no more missionaries being trained here. The seeds these men planted 50 years ago have come to fruition and now missionaries hail from the very countries they served in--Nigeria, Kenya, Malawi, and more. 

Woman's Relief Corps

"We hope that in the years of the future, some historian may glean from these pages many evidences that the Woman's Relief Corps of Massachusetts honored the brave men of the Grand Army of the Republic." [1]

Soldiers' Home, Chelsea, Massachusetts, where "Men, crippled, paralyzed and
penniless, as a result of their war service, are tenderly cared for under the roof
of this home which shelters 330 veterans of the Union Army." [2]

The only officially recognized auxiliary to the Grand Army of the Republic was the Woman's Relief Corps, the first Department of which was organized in Massachusetts on 12 February 1872. [3] This was a group of patriotic women, mothers, sisters, daughters, wives, and friends of Civil War veterans who found a way to contribute to the welfare of those men in a very significant way. They raised money for soldiers homes, for gravesite maintenance, but they also used their domestic skills to create beautiful quilts and items for the soldiers to use on a daily basis. They tirelessly held bazaars and solicited donations from the public in order to supply bibles, flags, food, and clothing to those in need.

Many towns in Massachusetts had their own corps, and Scituate was no exception. Even today there is still evidence that the ladies cared for graves. Back in June I went on an exploration of the Merritt Cemetery in Scituate with my second Cousin, Charlie Hollis. I posted about that here. While we were mucking around we found a flag holder apparently left by the Women's Relief Corps! The gravestone was missing or covered with growth (see photo at end of post), so we couldn't even tell which grave was decorated. The marker says: Mass. Dep'm't. Womans Relief Corps, Corps 121 W. R. C.

Here is a little blurb about the GEORGE W. PERRY CORPS No. 121, Scituate, Massachusetts.

On April 5, 1889, through the earnest efforts of Mrs. Marion L. Bailey, Corps 121 was instituted by Mrs. Elizabeth V. Lang, Department Inspector, with nineteen charter members. The officers were publicly installed in the evening in the presence of the members of the Post and other interested friends.

A Relief Fund was started which has received additions from time to time, and although there are not many calls for relief in the quiet little town of Scituate, assistance is always cheerfully rendered whenever necessary.

The Corps takes great pride in appropriating funds to make the Grand Army Hall attractive and comfortable. The Post is assisted by the Corps each Memorial Day in preparing garlands for the fallen comrades, and both organizations unite in a memorial service for those who sleep in unknown graves.

Membership, fifty.

PRESIDENTS 

Mandana C. Morris........1889, 1890 

Mary F. Prouty...............1891,1892 

Martha W. Pierce............1893 

Annie M. Soule..............1894 [4]
These were the officers of the Scituate Corps 121 in 1902:
Clara A. Osborne, President
Martha W. Pierce, Senior Vice-President
Annie Patterson, Junior Vice-President
Past President, Mary F. Prouty
Delegate, Lizzie L. Dalby
Alternate, Rachel N. Burrows

Polly Kimmitt, digital photograph of unidentified graveside flag holder,
Kilburn Merritt Cemetery, Scituate, Massachusetts, taken 18 June 2013.

_________

1. Women's Relief Corps, Department of Massachusetts, History of the Department of Massachusetts Woman's Relief Corps, Auxiliary to the Grand Army of the Republic, from date of organization, February 12, 1872, to January 1, 1895 (Boston: E. B. Stillings & Co., Printers, 1895); Archive.org (http://www.archive.org : 22 Oct 2013), Preface.

2. Ibid., 60.

3. Ibid., viii.

4. Ibid., 255.

5. Women's Relief Corps, Department of Massachusetts, Journal of the Twenty-Third Annual Convention of the Department of Massachusetts, Woman's Relief Corps, Auxiliary to the Grand Army of the Republic, Boston, Mass., February 11 and 12, 1902, (Boston: E.B. Stillings & Co., 1902), 33.

Tombstone Tuesday - Animals!

Browsing around in my husband's photos folder tonight, I came across this photo. We took it in June of 1989 when we were newlyweds touring across Ireland. We were at Powerscourt Estate near Enniskerry, County Wicklow, Ireland. It is an absolutely stunning estate, dating back to the 13th century, and though they had had a fire a few years before we visited, it was still lovely in its opulence. This whole cemetery was for pets. I remember being annoyed at the time that animals would have an entire cemetery to themselves while my own ancestors were lost in a maze of unmarked graves covered by brambles.

EUGENIE

Jersey Cow

Died 1967 aged 17 years

She had 17 calves and produced

over 100,000 gallons of milk

PRINCESS

Aberdeen Angus Cow

Died 1972 aged 11 years

3 times Dublin Champion

I browsed the web a bit and found this more recent photo which shows just how much moss and dirt it has gathered in the 21 years since we photographed it. 

Killed

March 16th 1905.

JYP & TIM

Irish Terriers

Faithful friends for

12 years.

Yup, I know it's a class thing, but it still rankles to have my "bog Irish" great-grandparents lying in some unknown spot whilst Jyp & Tim get the timeless memorial.

Tombstone Tuesday - A Rabbit-Proof Fence at Shocklach

My father-in-law, Brian R. R. Kimmitt ("Grandad") lives in Malpas, Cheshire, England. It's a beautiful place – low, rolling hills dotted with great trees who, never having been obliged to share the sunlight with their brethren, spread majestically across the misty backdrop, daring you to don your Wellies and wander among them.


My mother-in-law, Rosemary Kimmitt ("Granny"), née Ida Rosemary Churton, passed away in 2001. She is buried in an isolated church yard called St. Edith's in Shocklach, Cheshire. Some say the church belonged to a village which was burned after one of the many bouts of plague which swept England, but others say this is a myth and there is no evidence of other buildings on the site. In any case, there is no longer a Shocklach village – only the tiny Norman church remains.


St. Edith's lies hidden behind hedgerows off the main road, about half a mile from the River Dee. It was built in about 1150 by the Lord of the Manor, Thomas de Shocklach. It is constructed of irregularly shaped red sandstone blocks held together with mortar. The nave is almost entirely 12th century and the chancel is 14th century. Against the west wall are two large buttresses. The south door archway dates from about 1150 and is a good example of Norman work. The baptismal font is unusual in that it is seven-sided. The church registers date from 1538 and the churchwardens' accounts from 1725. ["Photographs of Shocklach, Cheshire," webpage; (http://www.thornber.net/cheshire/htmlfiles/shocklach.html : accessed 6 Oct. 2009); citing Raymond Richard, Old Cheshire Churches, with a supplementary survey of the lesser old chapels of Cheshire, completely revised and enlarged,  (Didsbury: E. J. Morten, 1973, first published in 1947.]

I was utterly charmed by this place when I was first taken there in 1986. Approached via tiny lanes through pasture land tastefully decorated with grazing animals, the spot remains hidden until the road turns abruptly just before you arrive, revealing this unexpected relic. You feel as if you are intruding and the gravel crunches loudly underfoot as you walk from the carpark to the church yard gate. Conkers (horse chestnuts) litter the ground and become playthings for any Brit under 75. They can't help themselves. The ancient gravestones tilt at awkward angles and evoke black and white visions of Scrooge on his knees begging for a last chance at redemption. Birds twitter, cows low, wind lifts the grasses, gravestones lean darkly. It's just beautiful.


My father-in-law has served as a lay minister at St. Edith's for many years, so when it was time to christen our first son, we chose to take him to England and have the ceremony performed at St. Edith's. We took advantage of the unusual seven-sided font, and Grandad assisted. And when my mother-in-law passed away, she was of course buried at St. Edith's.


Herein lies my trauma. Along with the grief of losing Rosemary, I felt sad at the realization that her final resting place was not going to be romantically set amongst the leaning stones, but rather at the other end of the yard. Today's gravestones are straight and polished, with (gasp) san serif type! Still, I thought at the time that she was lucky to have such a glorious spot in which to rest her bones for all of eternity.


However, that wasn't the end of it. Granny was a fantastic gardener. She loved flowers, was a master flower arranger and spent much of her free time in the garden. Yet the charm of the pastoral setting interferes with the rite of leaving flowers at the grave. The bunnies eat them! Grandad vowed he would prevent the bunnies from running amok, so he built a chicken wire fence around Granny's stone. I don't like the fence. It feels contradictory that in such a peaceful and natural setting, she should be caged. It is as if she's in a detention camp or something. I think he saw it as his final way to protect her. His grief softened visibly after that ugly fence went up, so I decided I could cope. Nevertheless, just for the record, I don't want a rabbit-proof fence around my gravestone! RIP rabbit-free, Rosemary.

Tombstone Tuesday – The American Cemetery in Normandy

Last summer we took the boys to England to visit relatives and friends. From there we embarked on a 10-day holiday in northern France. When they weren't whining about missing their friends and championship sporting events, they really enjoyed being tourists. Despite themselves, I think they may have also learned a thing or two.

One of our most moving stops was Normandy, site of some of the most brutal fighting in World War II. In a bizarre parallel of the Invasion of Normandy, we traveled by ferry from Southampton to Cherbourg. It was a smooth sailing, and as we dined comfortably on breakfast, we tried to evoke images in their young minds of what it must have been like for those soldiers en route on 5-6 June 1944. We had watched a few movies before setting off, like The Longest Day(for Myles and me) andSaving Private Ryan (for the boys, too gory for me. I can imagine evisceration without it being graphically depicted, thank you), and this made a convenient reference for certain parts of the battles.

We drove along the still very sparsely populated coast, through tiny but familiarly named towns like Pointe du Hoc and Ste Mère Eglise. We stopped there to to glance around, imagining the horror of war, and even saw the effigy of the poor parachutist who got stuck on the church tower (see above). We were there just a few days after the celebrations of the 64th anniversary of D-Day, and I noticed the boys casting sidelong glances at some elderly gentlemen, obviously veterans, who were also touring the countryside. I wanted to invite them to come along with us. They are precious.

The locals were all very friendly and welcomed us with smiles and a courteous attempt to understand the boys' (and my!) French. You can see that even people who were not alive in WW2 still recognize the contributions the Americans, British and Canadians made. We were glad we had skipped Paris – this time, at least.

Next day we motored over to the American Cemetery in Colleville Sur Mer. Most people have at least seen it on television, as we had, but there is nothing like being there. It is set in a most splendidly glorious spot on a bluff overlooking Omaha Beach. When you first arrive, you admire the setting, noting how beautiful the world can be. It is so still that you hear the birds, even with 3 boys in tow. The museum is strategically placed so that you visit it before entering the cemetery. I think it serves both to educate and to prepare people for the experience.

BOOM, there you are, transported back in time, watching scratchy black and white films of wave after wave of seasick and petrified soldiers jump off the boats to almost certain death. Relentless Nazis gun them down. "They are all so young," I tell the boys, "That's you, next year, Ry." You see bits of their uniforms, photos of old French peasant women running down the tiny streets, waving and smiling, offering loaves of bread to soldiers. Young girls kissing them. All the while the sounds of guns and waves and death screams meander in and around the speeches of leaders lending hope and inspiration.

Then BOOM again. You emerge, blinking, into the bright sunshine. Echoes of the battle din reverberate in the stark silence. Perfect weather mocks their memory. All is calm and serene. You stand there in a bit of shock. Now you're ready to visit the cemetery.

Row upon row upon row of symmetrically placed crosses stand at attention in military precision overlooking the beaches, bearing witness to the horrors of war. I sent the boys off on a mission so I could enjoy the peace. I was moved by the occasional Star of David marker, and when I came upon the one below, of Sam Rubin, I stopped to photograph it.

SAM RUBIN

PVT 358 INF 90 DIV

MO JUNE 15 1944

As I took my face away from the camera, one son came along and said, "Oh, somebody left dirt on this one," and swiftly brushed it away, before I could let out a yelp of alarm. For Jews it is an act of respect to continue in the "mitzvah" of marking a grave by placing pebbles or dirt on the stone. It is a way to indicate participation in the mitzvah of erecting a tombstone, even if only in a more symbolic way. It shows that someone has visited, someone remembers.

After a brief lecture by Mom, suitable replacement stones were laid with great ceremony, accompanied by an apology to Private Rubin.

We looked at hundreds of stones that day, came across makeshift flower memorials that get cleaned up every evening by the staff. We found Medal of Honor winners and all sorts of funny names and things to spark the imagination of boys. But the one we remember most will always be Sam Rubin.

Barnes/Vinal Tomb, North Scituate, MA

This is the infuriatingly mysterious Barnes/Vinal tomb in Scituate, Mass. It is across the street from the Barnes ancestral home where my family lived when I was really young. My older siblings all played in the woods around it, and were lucky enough to be able to explore inside. My brother tells me that there was nothing left inside when it was bricked up sometime in the mid-1900s.

The only printed reference to a burial here that I could locate is that of Polly (Vinal) Barnes (1784-1868), for whom I am named. The reference is made in a newspaper article about 35 years after her death, and says she was the last to be entombed there. I have to assume that her husband, Joseph Barnes is also there beside her, along with other relatives. I just wonder if some of them aren't also buried in the area around the tomb, since it is marked off.

Tombstone Tuesdays

In honor of my genealogy blog brothers and sisters, I'll celebrate Tombstone Tuesday. Here's an image of the gravestone of Thomas H. Kemble, his wife Hannah (Pease) Kemble and their young son, Thomas. They are buried in Mt. View Cemetery, Shrewsbury, Massachusetts. All three died of consumption at the home of Hannah's father, Capt. Levi Pease, within the course of a year. Thomas H. and Hannah had one other child that we know of, Abigail, who only lived to be 21. She did not marry, and also died from consumption.

Erected in Memory of

Mr Thomas H Kemble

who died March 4th 1800, Aet 28

Mrs. Hannah Kemble

his wife died May 6, 1800

Also

Thomas Kemble

son of Mr Thomas H & Mrs Hannah

Kemble died April 4th 1799

This is some lovely tombstone artwork, not primitive in design, and on a good-sized stone. The three urns represent the young family: two larger ones and a small one. In this time period, the first half of the 19th century, there was a heightened interest in and awareness of the ancient world. The United States was a new republic, and references to ancient Greece and Rome were plentiful. The urn represents the soul. The willow, sorrow.

I am going to portray Hannah Kemble in a Cemetery Tour next week. I get two or three minutes to talk about her life (and early death).