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Ripley Roots |
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Ripley
Genealogy Moschel
Genealogy
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1849
My name is Patrick Sullivan. The years around my 10th birthday were probably the worst I ever experienced. As I reflect back on them now in 1915, they still seem horrible. Imagine the worst of how people can live without dying, and you might have a picture of Limerick during and after the potato famine. Now it surprises me any of us survived. But before I tell you of that, let me tell you a bit about my father, Jerry, and my mother, born Mary Calbert. Father was born in the parish of Monagay in County Limerick. Father lived with his father and mother and two brothers and three sisters on a three-acre farm. The farm was big enough to support all of the family. One of the acres was put into oats. The grain from that acre was used to pay the rent. The second acre was in pasture and kept the cow which in turn gave them milk, cream, and butter. The third acre grew potatoes which fed the family for the entire year. They also kept a pig and poultry and the manure from both fertilized the farm. Around 1810 my grandfather gave one acre to each of his sons, with the landlord's permission. My grandparents then lived with one of my uncles and his family. My father, Jerry, married Mother in 1812 when they were very young, as was the custom of the day. Mother and Father could not produce anything for sale from their one acre and devoted the entire land to raising potatoes because they knew this was the only crop that could feed the family for the entire year. The family was getting larger, usually one new child every year. Not all of my brothers and sisters lived, but four of us grew to adulthood. The one you are most familiar with is my brother, Jerry, because he, too, moved to America. I know my father was very concerned about the future. He could see a time ahead when he would have to divide our one acre even further for his own sons. His other major concern before the famine years was paying the rent. Because he had no cash crop, he travelled to work in England every year for a few months in order to earn rent money. During father's absence our mother Mary was in charge of us and the farm. We lived in a peasant cabin that had been built by Father, his friends, and family. The walls of the cabin were stone for the bottom three feet, but turf the rest of the height because there was no mortar. The rafters were branches from trees. The rest of the roof was filled in with turf. We had no window or chimney, but we did have a door. Except in the worst of weather Mother cooked outside. She cooked potatoes which were our only staple food. The potatoes were always boiled in their jackets. I remember fondly the food being served out of a basket or kish. The basket would be on top of a 3-legged pot of boiling water and it kept the potatoes from cooling. The family would gather around the basket on low stools and we could feel the steaming warmth of the pot. We would peel the potatoes with our fingernails and dip the potato in hot salted milk. Lumpers was the variety of potatoes people raised. They were large ugly potatoes with little flavor, but they kept well for a full 12 months. That was very important because it was the only food we had until the next year's crop of potatoes. Even though
the description of our house and food might sound dismal to you, it did
not feel that way before the famine. In the family we had each other and
a sense of daily purpose and ritual. My brother and I attended school
and all of the family worked together. I remember our small cabin quite
well. There was a picture of the Holy Family on the wall. There was a
dresser in the kitchen and we had blue willow pattern dishes. I remember
teacups that were special to Mother. I also remember that we ended the
day by Mother leading us in the rosary. It seemed to bring each day to
a perfect ending. I remember being quite happy until 1846.
Starvation came first. In a way, looking back on it now, it was the people who first succumbed to starvation who were best off. Even though starvation was awful, it was the diseases which followed that were most horrible. Famine victims got typhus, relapsing fever, dysentery, or scurvy. Most people in Limerick who became ill had relapsing fever. Mother was one of its many victims. The first onset of mother's illness was severe vomiting lasting 5 days, followed by profuse sweating and exhaustion. We thought mother was better, but in our hearts we knew differently because of seeing the illness take others. A week later the fever reoccurred and then occurred again, and again, until Mother died. One of my sisters, Mary, also died of fever. I might sound unfeeling as I describe this to you now, but it was such a profound experience that we just had to go on. The entire community structure was destroyed by this experience. A friend became the person who would give you a morsel to eat. We no longer took in strangers who came along the road because of fear of "road fever." Neighbors from houses where fever was prevalent were also shunned. We were forever different people after being victims of the famine. At the time I hid every feeling and reaction I had. I did not cry. I did not seek comfort from others. I just tried to make it through each day. This is what most of us did. As I relate this story to you now in 1915, part of the world is in the midst of a Great War. I read about the soldiers in the trenches and the awful experiences they are having. I feel their suffering, know their pain, and comprehend their families' grief. Understanding suffering came early to me. I'm sorry to give you such an awful account of my early years, but the truth is what I am telling you. This is the sod I came from and that place is forever in my bones. I loved my mother and sister dearly. It was impossible to mourn them as they died. There were too many. About half of the people I knew died in the four years of the famine. The wakes and funerals were abbreviated. Coffins had hinges on the bottom panel. Coffins were lowered into the graves, the hinges unlocked, and coffins raised be used again, probably several more times in the same day. Even worse, I can remember cabins being pulled down over the bodies inside and then burned. The worst memory I have is of my friend John, wheeling his dead parents in a wheelbarrow to the large burying pit. There was no time for mourning. You just survived. The time for mourning, I found, has come years later. The mourning is also unfinished as I try to understand why this occurred to my Irish people, the lovely Irish people. The rest of the British Isles did not suffer so. As I became a student of history in my later years, I was angry at the English and the way they treated the Irish before and during the famine years. They were very bad landlords of our lands, and after the Union of 1801, they were equally bad to us in the political and education domains. It is hard for me to believe that when I was 8, and in a school established by the English government, I daily recited this verse: I thank the
goodness and the grace At 10 I was not happy. I wondered if all life held was suffering and more suffering.
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