Gratitude and Blessings
Kisses Food Family!
*Book Excerpt*
Don't assume.
That's what life is telling me lately.
"My father's grandfather was Irish.
Very Irish. A very large, jolly Irishman with pale, ruddy skin and very red hair, kept in a low buzz cut. I can only assume this was an attempt to be unobtrusive, but likely in vain considering his neighbors and family were so markedly different. Then again, maybe he just liked it that way. I won't assume!
Well, then. Now, I'm not obligated to explain every nook and cranny of my family tree, or divulge every apple that shakes off a branch. I've said before that my family is very diverse, and meant it. But love is in our genes, a deep love, going very far back - as I am learning. His wife, my father's grandmother, was a dark-skinned woman with very jet black, straight hair she could sit on. She was something else, herself.
For now we'll talk about how I knew of great-grandpa, name of Malloy. I learned about him through long talks with my father. As I reflected this morning on my Irish ancestry and what bits of it I know about, I thought of our extensive chats which permeated my childhood.
Awareness that my father was a good bit older than most Dads colored my dealings in alot of ways. He was a talker. Pardon me, that is an understatement. He was primarily a great sharer. A writer who spoke, he was. My discernment was to cherish every moment, and listen intently when he shared, especially our history - as many of his relatives were leaving us already.
So then, as early as six, I would wake in the late hours to the steady staccato of his Singer sewing machine in the family den. We had a huge wood stove which was kept burning on cold winter nights, and the whining hum of the sewing machine motor ran simultaneously as he pressed the pedal down. It was like the most pleasant music to him. He was a Master Tailor. Other tailors brought their clothes to him for repairs. They often came from the same era, and he'd made a reputation for himself, as they knew his parents also tailored for local dry cleaners. Their time was one in which clothing was always expected to be quality, even for the less wealthy, and one did not simply throw things away over mere wear or tear. Celebrations required brand new, custom-made clothing. They stayed busy, my people.
It was his passion. I could see it in his focus when I crept out of bed and climbed onto whatever stool, crate, or chair was handy and not topped with spools of thread or bits of fabric to watch him. He developed a very slight but permanent curve in the shoulders, from the way he sat at that machine, intently staring at his work, measuring his progress. But his focus and genius did not create snobbery. He was the most patient teacher if one was willing to listen. He'd show me a chain stitch, or basting stitch, or how to draft a pattern (from paper bags!) and tell me stories of life, family, and history - 'Our People's Story'- he was wont to call it.
He was most suave, actually. Of course I'd ask what he was doing and pitch in to help. Being a novice at that age, he was always encouraging. I have no doubt that my tiny 6 year old hands were not straight stitchers to start with, and I was not keen on needles, since none of his thimbles would fit. He gave me the smallest one he had, and it would shimmy and shake all over the point of my middle finger, often sliding off until I grew into it.
"That's it. You've almost got it. Now try it again." A smile would crease his face and eyes, and he'd laugh remembering some anecdote which would transport him to a different time and place, which he remembered with steel-trap clarity. "Did you know, once our..."
I'd listen and work on whatever was fit for my age and experience, until I yawned and wiped watery, sleepy eyes. Then I'd be left to pad back to the comfort of my pillow and he'd go over my work, deciding what my task would be the next time. I apprenticed with him for 15 years - quietly learning our family craft, a couple of languages, and how to cook new things along the way.
Those late nights taught me so much more though, and ended up teaching our family too. For when one opens the gate to the past, all sorts of treasures are apt to walk through.
His grandpa was a rather iconoclastic fellow. It was fair to say my young mind was blown to find that they were a mixed couple, during post-slavery, and had a warm cloud of support around them, to boot. It was actually not uncommon for Irish and African/American to be intermarried at the demand of a slave owner. They were treated like so much cattle to be bred.
But to my surprise, this was somewhat different of a situation. I was a bit older when he told me of this. Alot of their community acceptance was due to grandpa's nature. He would be listed as a Negro. I thought that somebody was mistaken, either the record-keeper or our family oral history. But no. He'd apparently claimed a different race, passing for mixed. The law only knew him this way. The common knowledge was that he was actually Irish. Here my father stopped his work completely, turned and looked down at me with his big, warm eyes and arrested my attention. He seemed awfully keen to make sure I understood something.
"They called him 'The Irishman'. He was Irish. If he'd been mixed he would have had a different nickname. They'd come up with all kinds of silly, stupid names for mixed folk: 'Redbone', 'High Yella', and so on. But he stood out like a sore thumb and they knew he was Irish, and he didn't care a bit what someone else thought. He loved his wife, and he was not a racist. Do you understand what I am saying?" I nodded my head and creased my brow in earnest. My hearing was fine and I still had no clue, but would let him go on until I did. The journalist streak was probably born here. "Alot of fellows didn't mind putting their hands on their wives, sweetheart. No matter what color folks are, a man doesn't hurt his wife. Some people..." his voice trailed off and he shook his head in pity and disgust.
"But my grandpa didn't care a thing about color, he cared about what he loved, and he loved her no matter how much time passed an' how many children they had. When she got sick, they had half the neighborhood passing through their door, offering help, or something to eat, and so on. When folks love right, they create love around them, and teach what it really means.""
And so I think on my father and my forefathers with a smile today, as we cannot choose them, quite the other way around. We don't get a medal for who or how our fathers were or weren't. We merely know them, learn of them, or not. And I am glad to know. I am blessed with great love in my heart, a love that runs in my blood, and in life.
And I wish that blessing for all of you.
So I'll leave you with one that someone left for me.
"May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face;
the rains fall soft upon your fields and until we meet again,
may God hold you in the palm of His hand."
Traditional Gaelic Blessing
*Book Excerpt*
Don't assume.
That's what life is telling me lately.
"My father's grandfather was Irish.
Very Irish. A very large, jolly Irishman with pale, ruddy skin and very red hair, kept in a low buzz cut. I can only assume this was an attempt to be unobtrusive, but likely in vain considering his neighbors and family were so markedly different. Then again, maybe he just liked it that way. I won't assume!
Well, then. Now, I'm not obligated to explain every nook and cranny of my family tree, or divulge every apple that shakes off a branch. I've said before that my family is very diverse, and meant it. But love is in our genes, a deep love, going very far back - as I am learning. His wife, my father's grandmother, was a dark-skinned woman with very jet black, straight hair she could sit on. She was something else, herself.
For now we'll talk about how I knew of great-grandpa, name of Malloy. I learned about him through long talks with my father. As I reflected this morning on my Irish ancestry and what bits of it I know about, I thought of our extensive chats which permeated my childhood.
Awareness that my father was a good bit older than most Dads colored my dealings in alot of ways. He was a talker. Pardon me, that is an understatement. He was primarily a great sharer. A writer who spoke, he was. My discernment was to cherish every moment, and listen intently when he shared, especially our history - as many of his relatives were leaving us already.
So then, as early as six, I would wake in the late hours to the steady staccato of his Singer sewing machine in the family den. We had a huge wood stove which was kept burning on cold winter nights, and the whining hum of the sewing machine motor ran simultaneously as he pressed the pedal down. It was like the most pleasant music to him. He was a Master Tailor. Other tailors brought their clothes to him for repairs. They often came from the same era, and he'd made a reputation for himself, as they knew his parents also tailored for local dry cleaners. Their time was one in which clothing was always expected to be quality, even for the less wealthy, and one did not simply throw things away over mere wear or tear. Celebrations required brand new, custom-made clothing. They stayed busy, my people.
It was his passion. I could see it in his focus when I crept out of bed and climbed onto whatever stool, crate, or chair was handy and not topped with spools of thread or bits of fabric to watch him. He developed a very slight but permanent curve in the shoulders, from the way he sat at that machine, intently staring at his work, measuring his progress. But his focus and genius did not create snobbery. He was the most patient teacher if one was willing to listen. He'd show me a chain stitch, or basting stitch, or how to draft a pattern (from paper bags!) and tell me stories of life, family, and history - 'Our People's Story'- he was wont to call it.
He was most suave, actually. Of course I'd ask what he was doing and pitch in to help. Being a novice at that age, he was always encouraging. I have no doubt that my tiny 6 year old hands were not straight stitchers to start with, and I was not keen on needles, since none of his thimbles would fit. He gave me the smallest one he had, and it would shimmy and shake all over the point of my middle finger, often sliding off until I grew into it.
"That's it. You've almost got it. Now try it again." A smile would crease his face and eyes, and he'd laugh remembering some anecdote which would transport him to a different time and place, which he remembered with steel-trap clarity. "Did you know, once our..."
I'd listen and work on whatever was fit for my age and experience, until I yawned and wiped watery, sleepy eyes. Then I'd be left to pad back to the comfort of my pillow and he'd go over my work, deciding what my task would be the next time. I apprenticed with him for 15 years - quietly learning our family craft, a couple of languages, and how to cook new things along the way.
Those late nights taught me so much more though, and ended up teaching our family too. For when one opens the gate to the past, all sorts of treasures are apt to walk through.
His grandpa was a rather iconoclastic fellow. It was fair to say my young mind was blown to find that they were a mixed couple, during post-slavery, and had a warm cloud of support around them, to boot. It was actually not uncommon for Irish and African/American to be intermarried at the demand of a slave owner. They were treated like so much cattle to be bred.
But to my surprise, this was somewhat different of a situation. I was a bit older when he told me of this. Alot of their community acceptance was due to grandpa's nature. He would be listed as a Negro. I thought that somebody was mistaken, either the record-keeper or our family oral history. But no. He'd apparently claimed a different race, passing for mixed. The law only knew him this way. The common knowledge was that he was actually Irish. Here my father stopped his work completely, turned and looked down at me with his big, warm eyes and arrested my attention. He seemed awfully keen to make sure I understood something.
"They called him 'The Irishman'. He was Irish. If he'd been mixed he would have had a different nickname. They'd come up with all kinds of silly, stupid names for mixed folk: 'Redbone', 'High Yella', and so on. But he stood out like a sore thumb and they knew he was Irish, and he didn't care a bit what someone else thought. He loved his wife, and he was not a racist. Do you understand what I am saying?" I nodded my head and creased my brow in earnest. My hearing was fine and I still had no clue, but would let him go on until I did. The journalist streak was probably born here. "Alot of fellows didn't mind putting their hands on their wives, sweetheart. No matter what color folks are, a man doesn't hurt his wife. Some people..." his voice trailed off and he shook his head in pity and disgust.
"But my grandpa didn't care a thing about color, he cared about what he loved, and he loved her no matter how much time passed an' how many children they had. When she got sick, they had half the neighborhood passing through their door, offering help, or something to eat, and so on. When folks love right, they create love around them, and teach what it really means.""
And so I think on my father and my forefathers with a smile today, as we cannot choose them, quite the other way around. We don't get a medal for who or how our fathers were or weren't. We merely know them, learn of them, or not. And I am glad to know. I am blessed with great love in my heart, a love that runs in my blood, and in life.
And I wish that blessing for all of you.
So I'll leave you with one that someone left for me.
"May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face;
the rains fall soft upon your fields and until we meet again,
may God hold you in the palm of His hand."
Traditional Gaelic Blessing
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