by Mary Fahey
All I ever knew of my
mother’s parents stare at me from a grainy portrait taken around the latter
half of the 19th century. Grandfather Mathew McGuire, a fisherman
off the coast of Newfoundland, sits in a chair; his knobby hand rests on the
arm. His tie lays slightly askew, testament to the rarity that he wore it. He
fastened the top button of his coat but the other buttons lay open. His bushy mustache
completely hides his mouth. His eyes, probably blue since all my family members
have blue eyes, gaze out of a benign face. I think I would have liked him if
I’d met him. My grandmother Mary Ann McGuire stands beside and slightly behind
her husband. She’s a small bird-like woman with a beak nose and tightly closed
mouth that suggest some missing teeth. Her dark hair parted in the center,
pulled tightly to the back of her head gives no clue to its length. The black dress she wears completely covers her
body up to her prominent chin.
She
looks like a formidable woman but I’ve been told she spoke softly and had a
mild manner. By contrast, my grandfather looks pleasant and approachable but my
mother said he ruled as master of the house in all things. They lived the
customs of mid to late 19th century where they began life, married
and reared ten children in the small village of Tor Bay, Newfoundland.
In
1984, in search of my history, I traveled to Newfoundland with my sister,
Dorothy. We rented a car and drove to the Tor Bay Catholic Church to view
their records. A pleasant ruddy faced Irish priest greeted us and hailed a nun,
Sister Winifred, to help with our research. Her black and white Wimple swished
around her as she moved. We poured over church records of baptisms, marriages
and deaths.
“Frank Ryan will know more about your family. He’s lived
here a long time I’ll call him,” the nun said.
Frank graciously agreed to meet us and show us the
McGuire old homestead, now without an existing house. Only bare grassy ground
fills the area. He took us to meet the Murphy’s, a couple in their 80's. “Come
in, Come in,” they coaxed.
“We’re
sorry to disturb you. Thank you for meeting with us,” I said.
We sat at the kitchen table as Mr. Murphy regaled us with
stories of his youth. As a boy, he had a crush on my Aunt Nora. In the winter,
the teacher expected all the students to bring a stick of wood each day for the
pot-bellied stove in the one room schoolhouse. He told us the kids pulled slats
of wood from picket fences to bring to school and he pulled an extra piece for
Nora. Every spring the farmers had to set about mending their fences until the
following winter when the process started all over again.
“This table was a wedding gift from your grandmother.”
Mr. Murphy said, knocking a knuckle on the pock marked and scared kitchen
table.
“Really?” I said.
“Yup, she gave it to us the day we got married. I guess
she got a replacement for her own kitchen.”
It felt gratifying to touch the wood my grandmother
prepared food upon and at which my young mother ate. It brought me closer to my
roots. We bid the Murphy’s and Frank goodbye and returned to our hotel.
Mary Ann (Doody) & Matthew McGuire
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