Beth
and I had so much fun writing back and forth about our visit to northern
Vermont and its three cemeteries where some of our ancestors lie! See this
link:
So,
Beth pulled out some of her writings from her last trip to Ireland. Here are
two more cemetery visits which stuck with her:
This makes me think of other emigrants from Derry,
that I found out about only after coming across this blissfully calm, very
small, graveyard off to the side on the city walls. I ducked through the
doorway simply because I could see a tiny expanse of green, and colorful,
delicate flowers. It was like a secret garden towards the end of the walk along
four-hundred year old cobblestones, among cannons and cannon balls and views of
the surrounding countryside seen from slits in the defensive walls. Once
inside, I could see very old grave slabs but the odd thing was they were not
upright at the head of each grave, as they always are in cemeteries, but had
been lined up, leaning against the churchyard
walls. Apparently, I found out, they had been arranged this way so they would
not be damaged by cannon fire during the sieges. This small, enclosed space was
beautiful but haunted, after I read that.
Derry Cemetery
Now, I’m a
Kinsella, I grew up taking walks in graveyards, reading the gravestones, often the ones in Perth, after a visit to the
Dairy Queen across the street. The dead in cemeteries don’t bother me. But this
did. Unsettling me further was the plaque outside the entranceway I had missed
on my way in. It said this was the first Presbyterian church in Derry, and I
knew from my reading, that the Presbyterians would be almost as persecuted as
the Catholics in Protestant-controlled Ireland. The Penal Laws, that so
viciously and diabolically discriminated against the Catholics, were also used
against the Presbyterians, whose only crime was that they were not the right
sort of Protestants (not Anglicans). I learned on this trip to Derry that most
of the emigration from Ireland in the 18th century was from this port, and most
of it was people we call the ‘Ulster Scots’ and they, to my vast surprise, were
the Presbyterians fleeing poverty and discrimination. That majority of signers
of the Declaration of Independence that we are taught are Ulster Scots? They
were this group, who were leaving a place for a second time, and going to a
country where they would fight to make a different kind of place.
When I was at the Yeats Summer School in Sligo, we
all went to an Eavan Boland poetry reading which was one of the highlights (she
had been my Yeats teacher one semester in Dublin and I had loved her). One of
her most moving poems was about the ‘famine roads,’ that went nowhere, that you
can happen upon today, still. But she has another of hers that described a
certain spot in Dublin I had noticed and had wondered about, when I was in
Dublin for a few days before the summer school. The poem captures as well,
the depth of loss and displacement and fear that I come across in so much
of my reading about the sixteenth century, but also what was felt by those
leaving Cobh, and Derry (which I hadn’t known was a Famine port) and Dun
Laoghaire (which was just up the road from me my year in Ireland), and the
Highlands -- for foreign soil.
The
Huguenot Graveyard in the Heart of the City!
It is the immodesty we bring to these
names which have
eased into ours, and
their graves in
the alcove of twilight,
which shadows their exile:
There is
flattery in being a destination.
There is vanity
in being the last resort.
They fled the
Edict of Nantes –
hiding their shadows on the roads from France
–
and now under brambles and granite
faith lies low with the lives it
dispossessed,
and the hands it emptied out,
and the sombre dances they were joined in.
The buses turn right at Stephen’s Green.
Car exhausts and sirens fill the air. See
the planted
wildness of their rest and
grant to them the least love asks of
the living.
Say: They had another life once.
And think of
them as they first heard of us:
huddled around
candles and words failing as
the stubborn
tongue of the South put
oo and an to the sounds of Dublin,
and of their
silver fingers at the window-sill
in the full moon as they leaned out
to breathe the
sweet air of Nimes
for the last
time, and the flame
burned down in a
dawn agreed upon
for their heart-broken leave-taking. And,
for their sakes,
accept in that moment,
this city with its colours of sky and day –
and which is
dear to us and particular –
was not a place
to them: merely
the one witty
step ahead of hate which
is all that they could keep. Or stay.
Huguenot Cemetery Gate
I had just about reached the limits my body and mind
were willing to go when I came upon a small, dark enclosed space. It was there
on a main street, but was set back and guarded by an old-fashioned black iron
gate, almost lacy in design. I suppose it is impossible that the sounds truly
stopped and that in this corner silence reigned, but that is what it felt like.
I didn’t go in because I could see it was a graveyard and I didn’t want to
disturb them, whoever they were. It felt an ancient place to me, though, and I
did wonder who, in Dublin’s skyrocketing real estate prices, had earned this
undisturbed rest. I felt the strength and grace of the place and did not find
out until much later, after reading an utterly moving poem by Eavan Boland,
that this small, held back place was a graveyard for the Huguenots, who had fled
France to a country they had not longed to go to, but which was instead, “the
one witty step ahead of hate which / is all that they could keep. Or stay.”
As
January runs its course, I think back to a year and a half ago, when we said
goodbye to Uncle Harold on that cold October morning at the Waterloo Cemetery.
We stood shoulder to shoulder, family and friends, listening to the tones of
Taps resonating so beautifully. We prayed and laughed and cried together as we
remembered our Harold Baker Taylor. One of the many things cemeteries and walks
around them are good for—to pass on the stories of the family who came before
us. Again, we thank our ancestors for their rich stories and memories they
passed on to us.
5 comments:
Thank you Beth!
Mom/CB Says:
Through my tears I say “thank you” also! I admit, I do love to walk in cemeteries! Looking for past relatives on a genealogy hunt of just walking and praying for those who rest there. The one in Perth, referred to by the girls here was a favorite, as we knew beloved neighbors who resided there and met new friends, thru their “different” headstones. We looked for each every year!
And glad to know that Beth has found a port of “rest” for Presbyterians as well as Catholics. We Presbyterians are tough and those who came to USA were heard from! [and still are!} Thank you so much, Beth and Pat for this!
Pam and I also love to walk cemeteries. We have even had picnics at two of them. One in Rochester at my Great-grandfather's ( Civil War Veteran) gravesite and one in Johnsonville( Goldie Taylor's ancestors).
It was at the latter's ancestor, Arthusia Calkins where we read an epitaph to remember: "She did the best she could."
Evelyn
I've got to think on my epitaph. Maybe "He tried hard."
Dear Pat... Beautifully written family story of the Carson family, and of the cemetery walks. Thank you. I had never heard of the reason Edward never bought Rural View, but then I was just a tyke. Grandma Spencer was the reason. My Dad told me years ago, in the 1970s when Mom and Dad were investigating cemeteries for my published Spencer Genealogy, that the church at West Bethany, now a Baptist church, has or had a plaque attached to the front of the building commemorating a past pastor named Rev. Manter. He was the pastor of the Baptist Church in Springville for quite a number of years during WW 2 and after. I also remember visiting a farm at West Bethany with my folks when I was very small, but I remember being impressed with the farm and a grand lady named "Aunt Jennie." Who could this be? And could the farm have been Rural View? This would have been before WW2, perhaps 1940 or before.? Oh, for not asking questions of those now gone!!!
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