Ripley Roots Stories / 1858

	Ripley Roots

1858
by theresa m. ripley, writting as patrick sullivan

I turned 19 in the fall of 1858. Life was better. The remaining years of the famine, and those immediately after, tried the soul of Ireland and its people. But we survived. The relief effort orchestrated by the English Government was appalling for our citizens; but our family, and most other families, banded together and made a life for ourselves once again. Let me tell you about happier times.

Honora Creedon and I were married on February 14, 1858. Our marriage was arranged by our parents, that being the custom of the day. My father visited the Creedons between Christmas and Epiphany to discuss the pros and cons of the proposed marriage. Father arranged for the dowry from the Creedons of money, furniture, and utensils. It was the responsibility of the groom's family to furnish the farm, small though it was. The Creedons, I recall, continued to bargain one or two times with my father. Father thought a matchmaker might be needed, but it was done without any such intervention. After the contract was negotiated, my father and Honora's parents walked the land and the contract was sealed. Honora and I were then made aware of our families' agreement. This was how it was done. I had not really known Honora before the arrangement, so love, in the traditional sense, was not a part of our early marriage. This was no different than most other marriages of the time.

The marriage was to take place during Shrovetide, the three days before Ash Wednesday and the official start of Lent. No marriages took place during Lent.

Our wedding day was blessed because we had sun, a good omen, and as you might guess, a rare one in Ireland in February. Honora told me she heard a cuckoo on our wedding morning which was also a promise of luck for a marrying couple. The day before the marriage most of my relatives and the fiddlers for the wedding spent the night at our house. The next morning our small entourage mounted our horses and rode to the Creedon's house. The women rode on pillions behind us. When we got to the Creedons, Honora and I were presented with a plate of oatmeal and salt. Both of us took three mouthfuls to protect us against the power of the evil eye. We all ate a meal prepared by the Creedons. After the meal the priest began the ceremony and ended it by telling me to give Honora the kiss of peace. The wedding cake was brought in and blessed by the priest and everyone ate a piece. It was then the fiddlers' turn and they played and eventually everyone danced with the bride. At the end of the ceremony my brother Jerry gave this toast:

Health and long life to you,
Land without rent to you,
A child every year to you,
And death in old Ireland.

For the first week of our marriage, as was the custom, Honora's mother did not have any contact with us. On the first Sunday after our wedding, which is known as Bride's Sunday, all our friends accompanied us to the chapel. We then felt our full participation in the community. Marriage was the signal by our community that all the rights and responsibility of adulthood were upon us.

I recall these events with a great deal of fondness. The Creedons thought they had made a satisfactory match for their daughter. We Sullivans felt the same. Neither of our families were rich, but we were not the poorest either. Our entire country was poor, though, and we were dwindling away on the increasingly small pieces of land to raise our large families. By all rights, because he was the oldest living son, my brother Jerry should have had our land. He had other plans.

Shortly after the May Day milestone of our marriage, my brother Jerry left for America. I could not have been any sadder, even though I began to suspect it was clearly the right thing for him to do. My father was devastated at the prospect of his oldest son going to America. The rest of the family felt much the same way. Leaving for America, of course, had been common for years, and even more so after the famine for many members of our community. But Jerry's emigration was the first in our immediate family and was strongly felt by all.

Honora and I had a live wake for him.

Killeedy Parish (abbey remains and cemetery) where Patrick and Honora Sullivan baptized their first three children.

What is a life wake, you say? It is a farewell party for those leaving to go to America. From the community's point of view, they would never see the person again, and this called for a ceremony, like a funeral wake, to recognize the departure. The only thing missing is a corpse. We played Horse Fair, Hunt the Slipper, Fronsey Fronsey, and Hot Hands. We kept it up for two days straight with fun and games and drinking. We even laid Jerry out on our kitchen table and covered him in the proper garments of a wake, which for him included white linen and ribbons to signify his being single. We made clay pipes available to all the men and put snuff on Jerry's chest. Every man took a pipe, took some snuff, and took a few puffs. We sang songs of lament over him and I handed out crepes or black bands for the men to wear on their hat. Beneath it all, like a real wake, was the sadness of Jerry leaving. Perhaps if he had married in Ireland he would have stayed longer. Jerry thought his chances for a better life were in America.

I loved my brother dearly and this was a very difficult time for me. I was torn between wanting to follow him right then and there and staying with Honora and the rest of the family on our land in Ireland. I had to think of Honora and what was best for us as a new couple. I was beginning to feel my responsibilities to the community. At nineteen I was an adult.