Amongst my earliest childhood memories are my mother's stories of Lehid. To a youngster, these tales were both epic and mystical. The old memories were conjured whenever members of her family came visiting from abroad. As the tea leaves steeped in me mum's favorite pot, it was time to reminisce. And within a few moments, out it poured like a genie emerging from a long slumber in the latern. First came the depictions of Galway Bay’s splendor as vocal intonations were embellished with a melodic luster and then it awoke - Lehid.
Lehid referred the old family farm tucked away in an obscure corner of the Connacht, yet it represented much more. It was home to my great grandparents Michael and Mary, and their many children. Michael is said to have left Lehid for America and later traveled to Manchester, England where he married Mary in the early 1870’s. It appears they returned to Lehid by the early 1890’s to continue raising their children. Lehid became a nexus for the Murphy's of Manchester thus allowing them to remain connected to their Irishness as they sought prosperity in northern England. Lehid was a place of gathering, fellowship, song, and stories. It hosted the occasional Irish wake and it was a place where the banshees still wailed. In my mind, it was magical.
June of 2016 was the time for my personal quest for Lehid. I was just been granted Irish citizenship thanks to my grandmother Mary Ann of Ballyhaunis and I was keen to explore my newfound Celtic infusion. I had no concept of the geography of Lehid other than it being in County Galway near the town of Tuam. Thankfully, our whirlwind holiday began in the north of England. This provided a chance to visit my Murphy cousins, some of whom were fortunate to have their own childhood experiences at Lehid. Unfortunately, nobody could provide me with a street address to plug into my iPhone, yet the richness of their remembrances lifted my heart.
Cousin Pat shared a wonderfully controversial story about my mother and the Bishop of Tuam. Golf was a family passion especially for my grandfather Patrick (Ted). However, in Ireland it was forbidden for women to play the game. Apparently the bishop was a family friend and provided the needed protection for my mother at the Tuam country club although it still caused quite a stir. I didn't realize the significance of her action until we saw an exhibition at the Galway City Museum highlighting 100 years of struggle for women's rights in Eire. I never realized my mother was an agent of social change and was proud of her. I also learned that there was a family gravesite in nearby Kilconly and I could actually find that little village as a tiny insignificant point on my map.
We jumped into our trusty rent-a-car to find a market and purchase some flowers. We found traffic in sleepy little Tuam snarled in gridlock. I veered off the suggested path and intuitively triangulated the back streets. We emerged from quite a meander to find an old fashion pedestrian funeral procession blocking our path to the market. Our only option was a quick left turn toward the cathedral and we inadvertently guided the ambling parade into the parking lot. I awkwardly joined in offering respects for the departed soul and then nonchalantly skipped across to the market. Ironic?
Soon enough, we proceeded on a pleasant drive north toward Kilconly along Ballinrobe Road before turning onto Chapel Road which traversed this tiny village. Sadly, its only pub and potential source of information had long since served its last pint and was boarded shut. We had little trouble finding the Murphy family plot in the back left corner near the Catholic Church. The cemetery was also adjacent the ruins of the imposed Church of Ireland. I was deeply chilled as I remembered this exact image from a reoccurring dream, dumbfoundedly I gazed. We reverently transplanted the blooming sunflowers as dusk turn to darkness. I sensed vigilant eyes peering from the closed post office/general store across the street. I realized we must have offered quite a spectacle to this forgotten hamlet. At this point, all I wanted was to know was the location of this ethereal Lehid without comprehending that I was already fully immersed.
The only other public building in town was a small community center with a full parking lot and a marquee indicating that the monthly bingo session had been called to order. I could not resist this National Geographic moment and waltzed in to a packed house. I felt somewhat overwhelmed by the collective gaze cast upon me and one of the event’s organizers approached to hear my story with the customary Irish manner of openness and concern. He invited me to enter as he resumed the ceremonial reading of bingo coordinates.
Soon the gaming furry subsided and I was embraced with a 'welcome home' by winners and losers alike. Incredible warmth permeated the room which was packed with a beautiful assemblage of well-dressed hard-working earthy souls. It seemed that everyone wanted to know my story. One of the group’s elders, who was quite long of tooth while still possessing bright twinkling eyes, told me her remembrance of my Uncle Henry. She said that he was a considerate man who had the first motor car in the area. However, nobody was aware of any surviving Murphy’s and my heart sank. Then a solid gentleman of upright stature emerged and he indicated that he lived in Lehid and was happy to take us to the old farmhouse. If this were anywhere else, I would have declined for reasons of self-preservation, but there was such a strong sense of connection that I could not resist, for we were on a mission.
As we followed winding country lanes, my internal compass was confounded. Somewhere along the way, we rumbled across an old railroad track. Luckily google map was plotting our way so we could follow our breadcrumbs back to the main road. As the trail ended, we had surrounded by a cluster of 3 or 4 out buildings along with the old two-storied farmhouse. We stepped from the vehicles to relish the view illuminated by a moon approaching fullness. We saw a prefabricated building directly before us. I recounted one of my cousin’s stories about the caretaker brothers who lived there. Sean, our guide, countered with a story about those lads cutting peat down at the bog. Apparently, one was overheated on a hot summer day and dove into the bog only to have his head sink deeply into the soft bottom. Apparently his brother had to pull him out by his flailing legs. As we returned to our immediate surroundings, we noticed that the door of the farmhouse was unlocked. Taking one last gasp of crisp country air, we cautiously entered through a mist of trepidation.
Armed with our iPhone torches we illuminated the entryway to find complete abandonment. We cautiously entered into a disheveled living area with a once grand fireplace. I caught the vision of a story about one of my great-grandmother Murphy daily rituals. My mother told that Granny Murphy would sit in front of her cozy fireplace and push a cast iron poker into a deep bed of coals. When the poker was red-hot, she would plunge it into her mug of stout. This was her medicine and I dare say that she never suffered an iron deficiency. Our group fanned out to investigate while my inner scientist remained somewhat skeptical that this was the fabled home.
We poked about the shambles amidst crumbled plaster, unraveled wallpaper and abandoned animal nests. After determining the staircase was sound, we ascended one-by-one as the steps creaked beneath our weight. Acting as sleuthing archeologists, we searched through the rubble for clues projecting forth from their bygone days. We occasionally found interesting remnants such as a rosary, antique bottles or a rusty door key.
The last unsearched room emanated a creepy odd sensation which may have just been the musty moldy air that permeated the deepest recess of this once lively abode. This room possessed the remnants of a straw bed and it seemed to be the room most recently occupied. Then, out of the quietness, came a shriek from my daughter Sophie who had uncovered a treasure trove of documents. A stack of papers gnawed around the edges appeared to have fallen down from the attic where a patch of ceiling had caved in. We quickly found documents bearing the name Michael Joseph Murphy and all shadows of doubt we're lifted, we had miraculously managed to find our way to Lehid, hallelujah.
We had fun organizing the motherlode of documents and reconstructing life at Lehid. We learned that sugar beets had been their cash crop which was transported by rail to Tuam. Their farming endeavor was supplemented by the shearing of their sheep and the raising of pigs. There were also horses and a donkey that were occasionally reshoed. We found receipts for building materials indicating that they managed the odd construction project.
From a historical perspective, it was interesting to see the property records which documented the rents paid to the Congested Districts Board of Ireland. Apparently, the CDB was an attempt by the British to pacify the Irish home rule movement. Although my perspective is somewhat naive, it appears that small parcels of land were allotted to Irishmen from the greater English landholding, and in Lehid’s case, it was the Misses Redington Estate of Co. Galway. However, after independence was won, a land title was issued to Michael Joseph which must have been a proud day indeed.
Also in the stack of papers were store receipts which included the occasional case of Irish whiskey, cask of stout and bottles of red wine. No doubt it was for a large family gathering. I can’t help but imagine at least one of these receipt was for a good ole fashioned Irish wake. My mother used to tell tale of the coffin being propped up in the corner and the departed soul’s life was celebrated with song, dancing, food, and libations. The coming together of family and friends was an antidote to grief as the deceased was carried off to heaven with the remembrance of their good deeds. I certainly hope that I should be remembered in this way.
I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that receipts of Uncle Henry’s auto repairs begin in the mid 1920’s which included a broken axle presumably from heavily rutted horse and carriage paths. Unfortunately, all these documents were of a business nature and lacked any personal correspondences which would have provided a window into their personal lives and family history.
Bail ó Dhia ort,
John
No comments:
Post a Comment