How I Brought a Total Stranger Back to Life

While visiting with friends during dinner, the subject of genealogy and family history came up. Jim, our host, told me about a project he’d been working on; then he ran off to his library, returning with a white, one-inch binder which he handed to me.

“That’s a copy of a book I’m writing about Nora Kennedy, my great-great grandmother on my father’s side.”

I thumbed through the work, impressed by Jim’s research. Maps and charts filled in the blanks between paragraph after paragraph about Nora’s life- from her early days in Ireland to her move to the United States, and on through the retirement years.

So much work. Surely this would be something his immediate family and relatives could cherish for years to come. As I handed the binder back to Jim, he continued.

“But I’m sort of frustrated. I can’t get anyone to read it.”

“Really? This seems like a labor of love. You put a lot into it.”

“Yes. But nobody’s interested in the book. They say it’s boring and-”

“I tried to read it,” his wife interjected, “but it put me to sleep after twenty minutes.”

Jim looked askance at her but had to admit that others were saying the same thing.

“I’m pretty frustrated now. The thing is full of facts and details about this fascinating woman, but no one wants to read it. Now, Dan- you’re a writer, aren’t you? Could you do something with this?”

Telling Jim I’d try, I took the book off his hands, but wondered what I’d gotten myself into.

Back home, I sat down, opened the binder and tried to make my way through Nora’s history. And yes, it was boring. But it didn’t seem right to dismiss it quite yet. So I kept reading…

Nora seemed to be a woman in full, having lived a life teeming with accomplishments and hard-won insight. And that facts were all there. But something was missing.

Then an idea popped into my head. What if I interviewed Nora?

Grabbing a composition book and a pen, I pretended that Nora Kennedy was sitting across from me at my kitchen table.

Already she was scowling at me- the idea of a total stranger asking about her life. Ultimately she agreed to answer my questions, though I found her heavy Irish brogue and penetrating scowl a bit off putting.

Nora took a deep breath and began…

And so it befalls me to tell you of my life, for if not I, who else could or would dare tell it to yah?

At 86 years, ’twas a long life and a full one I had, and looking back, I have to say I have no complaints. Times were good and times were bad- oh, but there I go, jumpin the gun. I better start at the beginning…

I was born Nora Kennedy on October 31, 1854 to John and Mary Kennedy, the facts recorded in a leather-bound ledger by our parish priest. What was not recorded was my actual birthplace, though it would have been somewhere in -ah, I don’t remember anymore. What’s certain’s that it was located amongst those beautiful hills and towns of Southern Ireland. The best place on earth, in my estimation.

I was the youngest of eight children, and having been born into a good Catholic family, adopted and adhered to the beliefs of my parents all my life. Of my early years not much is known, a condition I would readily remedy, could I but remember them. My parents raised us all to be hard workers and honest in our dealings with others.

Aside from that, though, I must have been a trial for them, at times, for I was an impetuous lass, giv’n to risk-takin’ and more than my share a pranks. Some may say it was just part of my character, ingrained in me from the start. But as any of you who are the last-born in your tribe would attest to, being called the “baby” of the family can get under one’s skin.

And so it was with me, having to constantly prove I was NOT a baby, and could stand up for meself. And if it meant having to show my older siblings what I was about and capable of from time to time, so be it.

Now, if two a my older sisters say I maliciously dumped them off a pony cart one day, in front of the populace at the public market… well, that was probably just an accident. Though I am an accomplished horse handler, sometimes the beasts have a mind of their own and will behave contrary to my commands. But if it happens that my sisters needed to be taken down a peg or two, Providence must’ve had a hand in the affair.

As for me upbringing, I discovered early on that I had a gift for working with horses. While many could not tame or train them or calm them down due to ignorance on the part of the human (not the animal), I seemed to know what these marvelous creatures were thinking and what they wanted. So it was that they obeyed me, once we came to an understanding- that I was the boss. Driving a cart, pulling a plow or providing rides- it was all the same to them once they knew who was in charge.

THE TRIP TO AMERICA

One day in early June of 1873, and some three years after the passing of my father, brothers Timothy, Michael and I said goodbye to family and friends, loaded our bags into a pony cart, and began our journey to Queenstown. It was a narrow, rocky road we traveled, bound first for Cork, some 25 miles distant.

As we bounced along I thought of all my countrymen and women, the ones my parents had always told me about, who considered this road their escape route from poverty to a better life. For me, though, it was not one of escape as much a forced departure. I hated to leave my dear Ireland. But sometimes there’s things you’ve got to do to survive, regardless of the cost.

We passed through Rathcormac and Watergrasshill. Memories of those once-beautiful places that once belonged to the Irish, blotted out now by the estates and grazing land that had replaced them, and at the hands of foreigners, no less. Scenes like this taught me about the importance of owning land. As I told one of my grandsons many years later, “Always get real estate, because real estate is the only estate that’s real.”

As we neared Cork some hours later, our little road became filled with many, many other travelers, mostly single women on foot or in carts and wagons, heading the same place as us. All too soon we converged along the small roads running through Cork, the thoroughfare unprepared to handle our large numbers.

Out of Cork and on to Queenstown we went, my heart beating faster in anticipation of what lay ahead of us, less known than unknown. Soon the docks came into view, ship masts, the funnels of steamships, blue sky just beyond. Finding the line for our ship, Timothy, Michael and I joined the throng. “The ships are come here from Liverpool,” I heard others say as questions and answers flew back and forth, everyone excited or anxious about every little detail they could gather. I looked at the words “S. S. BATAVIA” painted in large, tall, white letters on the side of our ship, and marveled at the decision my brothers and I were making.

Up the ramp we finally went, none of us as surprised as I about the size of this boat we were boarding. But though I usually had a keen eye for detail, the trip from Fermoy and the endless handling of the bags had worn me to a nub. It was all the three of us could do to find our rooms and settle in. Not being well-heeled, we couldn’t afford first-class lodgings, but tired as we were, third-class was just fine- especially after the horror stories we’d all heard about the way the ships used to be. It seems that the British Admiralty- bless its blighted soul- had finally bowed to the pressure of the World, and made their ships fit for habitation. Much safer and more comfortable in the year of Our Lord, 1873.

# # #

Traveling at sea, I’d heard how the motion of a ship- even one as big as the Batavia- would make a person dreadfully ill, and for days on end. But for me, thank the Lord, there wasn’t a sick minute the entire voyage. The Captain even went so far as to compliment me on how well I did, for there were many others not so blessed.

The ship was a wonder to behold. Spanking brand new, it sported one funnel and two masts rigged for sail, if needed. And she was a big vessel: 327 feet long with a 39-foot hull, from what I was told. She seemed to cut through the seas with ease, her 2.553 tons getting up to 12 knots. She could accommodate 950 people, 150 in First Class, the rest of us in Third. I marveled at the ship’s size and its ability to carry us all safely, and for such a long ways.

# # #

After some six weeks, the sight of our destination seemed truly a miracle. And my brothers and I could scarce take it all in. We sailed through a place called the Ambrose Channel, between the islands of Staten and Brooklyn. Then a small vessel- a tug- pulled up alongside our ship. Its captain came aboard, and used his wealth of experience to guide the Batavia through some rough waters called The Narrows.

Soon we were into Upper New York Bay, its waters much calmer, the beauty of the surrounding hills filling me with peace and a sense of safety that had been sorely missing since I began my journey to the United States. By the same token, I was startled and amazed at the activity in the harbor. Scores and scores of boats, skiffs, tugs and ocean liners were everywhere, crisscrossing each other’s wakes.

As I finished writing, a feeling of peace and gratitude washed over me, coupled with a thrill I’d not felt in a while. For though I’d not “known” Nora long, it was as if she’d spoken to me from the spirit world- a place apparently much closer than I’d imagined.

Printing a copy of what I’d come up with, I handed it to Jim. And he was thrilled.

When he asked how I did it, I said I pretended I was talking to Nora. And that her words just spilled out. Jim was amazed.

And in the end it seems the only thing missing from Jim’s writing was Nora’s voice…

Comments and questions are required welcomed. Ask me anything about memoirs, journaling or personal histories.