Mayo Alive - February
1998
(My aunt, Mary Ellen Foster lives in Worth, Illinois. Though well over 90 years of age, her intellect and her memory belies her years. Here, she details part of her memories of childhood in her native Mayo)
Mayo Memories
By Mary Ellen Foster (1904- )
I was born in Mayo in the west of Ireland. I grew up on a farm. My folks raised cattle, pigs and sheep also grew turnips, oats, cabbage and other crop- a typical Irish farm. I attended a country school for eight years. I migrated to the US in 1921. In 1923, the Irish Free State was born and Ireland got a measure of freedom, which was accepted by the majority of the Irish but, rejected by the Sinn Feiners who went underground. The conflict continues to this day.
In 1978 I returned for a visit to my homeland with my daughter.
The village I grew up in could be compared to Goldsmith's "Deserted Village", only two families remained. The well-kept hedges and fences of former years were sadly neglected and broken down, bushes were overgrown. What happened to the poultry and farms? The horse-powered equipment, ploughs, harrows, mowing machines etc. had receded into the past. The thatched houses had just about vanished, which was gratifying to notice as I strongly believe they were, at least in part, responsible for tuberculosis, or "consumption", and other respiratory diseases. During my visit I noticed that booze is still a sizeable entity in Irish life. The Irish still like their "drop o' the crathure". Booze and drugs are a big problem in the US also. Without booze and drugs, it would be a nice world to live in.
Ireland is still the land of ghosts, fairies and leprechauns. There is a wilderness close to the village where I grew up, partly on a hill with a small lake at the bottom of the hill, which contained a large quantity of pike and perch. Cloughwilly, as this wild area is called, had an abundance of wild fruit; blackberries, blueberries and hazelnuts. Paddy Hyland had a farm at the edge of Cloughwilly. One day one of his cows strayed onto Cloughwilly and Paddy spent the day searching for her. He came to a spot on a small hill and looked around. Suddenly, the scenery changed and what seemed like a farm appeared before him. He saw a man clipping his hedges in front of a neat, thatched, whitewashed cottage. There were cows and sheep in the fields. Everything seemed so peaceful. Then suddenly a rough looking man in a red coat came around from the back of the cottage and pointed a gun at the hedgeclipper, who threw his clippers in the air and screamed as he found himself looking down the barrel of the gun held by the merciless redcoat. Then everything returned to normal. Paddy's cow was waiting for him; she had found her own way home. Could this story be a flashback to former days? In Penal Times many Irish families were driven from their homes by the English tyrants whose only aim was to leave the Irish destitute and homeless. Could this have been the fate of Cloughwilly? Remains of flagstones, parts of flagged walks and the remains of stone foundations give credence to this story.
And thy mountains so fair,
Did she ever intend that a tyrant should print
The footsteps of slavery there."
There are many other personal events, which took place in my youth that Í have not included.
On March 5th, 1919, I suffered a heart-breaking loss, my beloved Aunt Bridget died. She raised me and took care of my childhood needs as if she was my own mother. I love her dearly. She died of apoplexy, a condition in which a blood vessel bursts and floods the brain. She died within a few hours, after lapsing into a coma. I was grief-stricken; she was my life and was loved by all that knew her. The day of her funeral was a March day, dark and cloudy. She was waked in a room at her home. Suddenly the room lit up as if a burst of sunshine entered. Somebody called out, " What was that?" I believe she was saying 'goodbye' and that her spirit was in that light.
I remember that when I was about 7 years old, I had a severe earache. I cried and bawled. She tried to soothe me and reminded me of how Jesus suffered for us and of the nails driven through His hands and feet. I kept saying, "But, He was God and He didn't feel it." The pain got worse and she got a small glass and poured a little whiskey in it and said, "Turn your head over." and threw the whiskey in my ear. I haven't had an earache since that memorable night. I have many wonderful memories of my revered Aunt Bridget. May God rest her soul and the soul of her daughter in the beautiful peace of Christ. On my return to Ireland I visited both their graves. She was only two when her mother died. She herself died at 60.
Life is a mixed bag; I have had many happy times, simple events and also sad ones in my childhood and adolescent years. As the poet says;
The calm eves of our night give me back! Give me back!
The wild freshness of morning. Her clouds
And her tears are worth evening's best light."
Now, at 93, I realize how true those words are that I let in one ear and out the other in the distant past.
Memories of childhood in County Mayo, Ireland
