I have not heard this at all. I sure hope that my dollar is good for the tourism I'm sending over. You should be fine. Keep us posted! I've only heard of this bank gouging in France. Ginger Aarons- Garrison, CTC, Director Time Travel P.O. Box 4427 Wilsonville, OR 97070 503-454-0897 tollfree and fax 877-787-7807 cell 503-421-0029 _www.timetraveltours.com_ (http://www.timetraveltours.com/) MEMBERS OF : ASTA, ICTA & CLIA In a message dated 4/2/2009 9:05:37 P.M. Pacific Daylight Time, jeanrice@cet.com writes: Hi - A new e-mail friend of mine in England has recently published a little book of her mother's poems and she said that her post office told her when she mailed it on to me yesterday that they weren't sure that her bank would accept my American dollars I would be sending her in return. Is that the case now? Would an American check work? A money order? Traveler's check? (I don't have credit cards.) I want to pay her back; doesn't sound like she has much of anything. Alternatively, I could send her something from the USA for a collection, I suppose? Ideas? Jean ------------------------------- To unsubscribe from the list, please send an email to IRELAND-request@rootsweb.com with the word 'unsubscribe' without the quotes in the subject and the body of the message **************Lose weight like TV’s Biggest Loser finalists. Start w/ a FREE Weight-Loss Plan! (http://pr.atwola.com/promoclk/100126575x1220200127x1201334384/aol?redir=http:%2F%2Fad.doubleclick.net%2Fclk%3B213622551%3B35099622%3Bc)

----- Original Message ----- From: "Jean R." <jeanrice@cet.com> To: <IRISH-IN-UK-L@rootsweb.com> Cc: <IRELAND-L@rootsweb.com> Sent: Thursday, April 02, 2009 8:37 AM Subject: [IRELAND] Query re: pounds/dollars > Hi - A new e-mail friend of mine in England has recently published a > little > book of her mother's poems and she said that her post office told her when > she mailed it on to me yesterday that they weren't sure that her bank > would > accept my American dollars I would be sending her in return. Is that the > case now? The cost for most Europeans is pretty heavy, 30% isn't unusual, and there's a minimum needed. Right now, the exchange rate is about $1.46 per Pound, and you can get an International Money Order at most banks. Something in exchange would probably work too.

SNIPPET: Author Jim HERLIHY is considered an expert on the military history of Ireland and has published several books in years past to include: 1. "The Dublin Metropolitan Police" A Complete List of Officers and Men, 1836-1925." 2. "The Dublin Metropolitan Police: A Short History and Genealogical Guide." 3. "The Royal Irish Constabulary: A Complete Alphabetical List of Officers and Men, 1816-1922." 4. "Royal Irish Constabulary Officers, A Biographical and Genealogical Guide, 1816-1922."

My ggrandfather joined the Revenue Police in 1850. it appears to be a family tradition and I believe there is a Robin McLain on the force today. I am looking for information on the McLains (various spellings) from Fermanagh. Anyone who can help me with information I would greatly appreciate it. Thank you. Lynn McLain - Administrative Assistant John Deere Credit - Johnston 515-267-4995 MclainLynn@JohnDeere.com -----Original Message----- From: ireland-bounces@rootsweb.com [mailto:ireland-bounces@rootsweb.com] On Behalf Of Jean R. Sent: Thursday, April 02, 2009 8:03 AM To: IRELAND-L@rootsweb.com Cc: IRISH-AMERICAN-L@rootsweb.com Subject: [IRELAND] Michael CORCORAN (1827-63) - Irish Native, Influential In Irish America SNIPPET: Michael CORCORAN was the son of an Irishman who had made a career in the Royal Army. He was born in "Carrowkeel," Ireland.* In 1845, at the age of 18, CORCORAN joined the Revenue Police, which, along with the Irish Constabulary, was organized along military lines. He was posted to Donegal to help suppress the trade in illicit liquor. The advent of the famine heightened the role of the constabulary and the army in Ireland, already the most policed and garrisoned part of the British Isles. By 1848 their combined total was at an all-time high of forty thousand - almost twice the size of the expeditionary force that the British government would soon send to the Crimea at a cost nine times what it spent on famine relief in Ireland. Whether CORCORAN, a member of the Revenue Police, was called to the support of the army or constabulary is unknown. Both forces were active during the famine, especially in the areas like Donegal. They helped distribute relief as well as guarantee the all-important rights of property. In the latter capacity they not only assisted in mass clearances but guarded the convoys that carried grain and beef to England throughout the famine. The image of those convoys became a touchstone of Irish bitterness in later years, alleged proof of the charge leveled by the Irish nationalist John MITCHEL that "the Almighty indeed sent the potato blight, but the English created the Famine." Over the course of the famine, more grain may have entered Ireland than left. But often the imports didn't reach the most distressed parts of the country, or were spoiled by the time they did. Unfamiliar with processing or cooking the yellow corn imported from America, people were made sick by it. The memory of soldiers and police guarding precious stores of food from the starving wasn't an invention. Mrs. Asenath NICHOLSON (an American temperance worker from NY) testified to the sight of well-fed, well-armed soldiers and "haggard, meagre, squalid skeletons ... grouped in starving multitudes around them." In 1847 ("Black '47") the Irish called it - two thousand people were transported to Australia for cattle stealing. On Spike Island, in Cork Harbor, three hundred adolescents were imprisoned for "taking bread while starving." Whatever CORCORAN witnessed or took part in as a policeman may have been part of what led him to break his oath to the Crown. In August 1849 he was "relinquished" from his duties on suspicion of belonging to one of the secret agrarian societies that were violently resisting evictions. Before he could be arrested, he slipped aboard an emigrant ship and escaped to New York. There was little to distinguish him from his fellow immigrants when he landed in October 1849. But he quickly made a name for himself. He got work in a tavern and became a district leader for Tammany Hall, which was just awakening to the potential of the Irish vote, and he was an early member of the Fenian Brotherhood, the secret Irish revolutionary society fueled by the burning intent to revenge the famine and overthrow British rule in Ireland. Five years after he arrived, he was elected a captain in a heavily Irish militia unit, the 69th New York. Not long afterward he was commended for helping defend the quarantine station on Staten Island, which a mob had attempted to burn. In 1860 the Prince of Wales (the future EDWARD VII) paid the first visit by a member of the royal family to the United States. The militia was ordered to parade in the prince's honor; CORCORAN, now the colonel of the 69th, refused to march his men for someone they called the "Famine Prince." He was court-martialed for what in many eyes confirmed the worse suspicions of Irish disloyalty to American institutions. The outbreak of the Civil War saved CORCORAN from being cashiered. He returned to his regiment, which he commanded at Bull Run, where he was badly wounded and captured. Freed a year later in a prisoner exchange, he returned to service as head of his own "Irish Legion." He again fell under an official cloud when he shot and killed an officer who had not only assaulted him, CORCORAN said, but had called him "a damned Irish son of a bitch." Before any official judgment could be reached, CORCORAN died - partly as the result of his wounds - and was given a hero's funeral in New York. As with generations of immigrants to come, Irish and otherwise, CORCORAN was eager for the opportunities that America had to offer and grateful when they proved real. He readily took on American citizenship and showed no hesitation about defending the Union. Yet he was equally unwilling to turn his back on the culture and people that had formed him. Fiercely loyal to his new homeland, he had no intention of abandoning his religion, disguising his ancestry, or detaching himself from the struggles of his native land. No one who observed Michael CORCORAN could doubt that a powerful new element had been added to the American ix. -- Excerpts, Peter QUINN, "The Tragedy Of Bridget Such-A-One," December 1997 issue of "American Heritage" magazine. Mr. QUINN is also the author of "Banished Children of Eve," a novel about the Irish in New York during the 1860s, published by Penguin in 1994. Quinn's latest book, "Looking for Jimmy: A search for Irish America," (2007), comprising 22 essays in which he reflects upon Irish American history. (*My note - it is believed that CORCORAN was born in Carrowkeel, near Ballymote, Co. Sligo. Apparently there are more than one locations in Ireland with that name and some literature gives his birthplace as Carrowkeel, Co. Donegal). ------------------------------- To unsubscribe from the list, please send an email to IRELAND-request@rootsweb.com with the word 'unsubscribe' without the quotes in the subject and the body of the message

Hi - A new e-mail friend of mine in England has recently published a little book of her mother's poems and she said that her post office told her when she mailed it on to me yesterday that they weren't sure that her bank would accept my American dollars I would be sending her in return. Is that the case now? Would an American check work? A money order? Traveler's check? (I don't have credit cards.) I want to pay her back; doesn't sound like she has much of anything. Alternatively, I could send her something from the USA for a collection, I suppose? Ideas? Jean

SNIPPET: Michael CORCORAN was the son of an Irishman who had made a career in the Royal Army. He was born in "Carrowkeel," Ireland.* In 1845, at the age of 18, CORCORAN joined the Revenue Police, which, along with the Irish Constabulary, was organized along military lines. He was posted to Donegal to help suppress the trade in illicit liquor. The advent of the famine heightened the role of the constabulary and the army in Ireland, already the most policed and garrisoned part of the British Isles. By 1848 their combined total was at an all-time high of forty thousand - almost twice the size of the expeditionary force that the British government would soon send to the Crimea at a cost nine times what it spent on famine relief in Ireland. Whether CORCORAN, a member of the Revenue Police, was called to the support of the army or constabulary is unknown. Both forces were active during the famine, especially in the areas like Donegal. They helped distribute relief as well as guarantee the all-important rights of property. In the latter capacity they not only assisted in mass clearances but guarded the convoys that carried grain and beef to England throughout the famine. The image of those convoys became a touchstone of Irish bitterness in later years, alleged proof of the charge leveled by the Irish nationalist John MITCHEL that "the Almighty indeed sent the potato blight, but the English created the Famine." Over the course of the famine, more grain may have entered Ireland than left. But often the imports didn't reach the most distressed parts of the country, or were spoiled by the time they did. Unfamiliar with processing or cooking the yellow corn imported from America, people were made sick by it. The memory of soldiers and police guarding precious stores of food from the starving wasn't an invention. Mrs. Asenath NICHOLSON (an American temperance worker from NY) testified to the sight of well-fed, well-armed soldiers and "haggard, meagre, squalid skeletons ... grouped in starving multitudes around them." In 1847 ("Black '47") the Irish called it - two thousand people were transported to Australia for cattle stealing. On Spike Island, in Cork Harbor, three hundred adolescents were imprisoned for "taking bread while starving." Whatever CORCORAN witnessed or took part in as a policeman may have been part of what led him to break his oath to the Crown. In August 1849 he was "relinquished" from his duties on suspicion of belonging to one of the secret agrarian societies that were violently resisting evictions. Before he could be arrested, he slipped aboard an emigrant ship and escaped to New York. There was little to distinguish him from his fellow immigrants when he landed in October 1849. But he quickly made a name for himself. He got work in a tavern and became a district leader for Tammany Hall, which was just awakening to the potential of the Irish vote, and he was an early member of the Fenian Brotherhood, the secret Irish revolutionary society fueled by the burning intent to revenge the famine and overthrow British rule in Ireland. Five years after he arrived, he was elected a captain in a heavily Irish militia unit, the 69th New York. Not long afterward he was commended for helping defend the quarantine station on Staten Island, which a mob had attempted to burn. In 1860 the Prince of Wales (the future EDWARD VII) paid the first visit by a member of the royal family to the United States. The militia was ordered to parade in the prince's honor; CORCORAN, now the colonel of the 69th, refused to march his men for someone they called the "Famine Prince." He was court-martialed for what in many eyes confirmed the worse suspicions of Irish disloyalty to American institutions. The outbreak of the Civil War saved CORCORAN from being cashiered. He returned to his regiment, which he commanded at Bull Run, where he was badly wounded and captured. Freed a year later in a prisoner exchange, he returned to service as head of his own "Irish Legion." He again fell under an official cloud when he shot and killed an officer who had not only assaulted him, CORCORAN said, but had called him "a damned Irish son of a bitch." Before any official judgment could be reached, CORCORAN died - partly as the result of his wounds - and was given a hero's funeral in New York. As with generations of immigrants to come, Irish and otherwise, CORCORAN was eager for the opportunities that America had to offer and grateful when they proved real. He readily took on American citizenship and showed no hesitation about defending the Union. Yet he was equally unwilling to turn his back on the culture and people that had formed him. Fiercely loyal to his new homeland, he had no intention of abandoning his religion, disguising his ancestry, or detaching himself from the struggles of his native land. No one who observed Michael CORCORAN could doubt that a powerful new element had been added to the American ix. -- Excerpts, Peter QUINN, "The Tragedy Of Bridget Such-A-One," December 1997 issue of "American Heritage" magazine. Mr. QUINN is also the author of "Banished Children of Eve," a novel about the Irish in New York during the 1860s, published by Penguin in 1994. Quinn's latest book, "Looking for Jimmy: A search for Irish America," (2007), comprising 22 essays in which he reflects upon Irish American history. (*My note - it is believed that CORCORAN was born in Carrowkeel, near Ballymote, Co. Sligo. Apparently there are more than one locations in Ireland with that name and some literature gives his birthplace as Carrowkeel, Co. Donegal).

SNIPPET: A besom was a roughly fashioned, short-handled sweeping brush which was reserved for use in the hearth area of the kitchen. It was most effective on uneven flag floors, and in more recent times found its way into the garden where it proved a useful for effectively lifting leaves off the lawn. The head of the besom was generally fashioned from a handful of birch cuttings, which was then attached to a handle. It was a skilled operation necessitating a lot of careful practice. The craftsman, known as the besom-maker or broom squire - always chose his own materials, ear-marking a birch plantation was a least seven years established. He organised cropping cutting) and bundling, and had the bundles stacked for seasoning behind his workshop. The stack was then given a roof of hay to carry away the rain and snow, both of which could be detrimental to the birch cuttings. This was an autumn job and the period of seasoning lasted until the following March. The birch cuttings were then removed as required and the essential job of stripping them down commenced, when unwanted material was removed from each bundle and sold off a 'bavins' or faggots for firewood. Handles of ash were then prepared, though hazel and lime was preferred in some instances. The craftsman shaved each one until it was even and smooth 'to the eye.' One end of each handle was given a blunt point, the other a gradual taper. The head was assembled on a 'besom-horse" - a foot-operated device. Willow binding was then fastened around the 'handful' of cuttings until it was drawn as tight as it could be. A few besom-makers were happy with strong but supple briar binding. A knot similar to that used by farmers when binding corn sheaves was used to secure the head, which was then fixed to the handle. The head was prevented from parting company with the handle during use with the help of a small peg pushed into a hole drilled through the handle. In recent times besoms, which are still occasionally made for domestic use, are often fashioned with factory-made handles and wire bindings, which do not have the same texture as the traditional ones. THE BESOM-MAN Did you see Paidin, Paidin, the besom-man, Last night as you came by Over the mountain? A barth of new heather He bore on his shoulder, And a bundle of whitlow-grass Under his oxter. I spied him as he passed Beyond the carn head, But no eye saw him At the hill foot after. What has come over him? The women are saying. What can have crossed Paidin, the besom-man? The bogholes he knew As the curlews know them, And the rabbits' pads, And the derelict quarries. He was humming a tune -- The "Enchanted Valley" -- As he passed me westward Beyond the carn. I stood and I listened, For his singing was strange: It rang in my ears The long night after. What has come over Paidin, the besom-man? What can have crossed him? The women keep saying. They talk of the fairies -- And, God forgive me, Paidin knew them Like his prayers! Will you fetch word Up to the cross-roads If you see track of him, Living or dead? The boys are loafing With game or caper; And the dark piper Is gone home with the birds. -- Joseph Campbell (1879-1944) Besom=broom Oxter=arm

MY WILD IRISH ROSE If you listen I'll sing you a sweet little song Of a flower that's now dropped and dead, Yet dearer to me, yes than all of its mates, Though each holds aloft its proud head. Twas given to me by a girl that I know, Since we've met, faith I've known no repose. She is dearer by far than the world's brightest star, And I call her my wild Irish Rose. My wild Irish Rose, the sweetest flower that grows. You may search everywhere, but none can compare with my wild Irish Rose. My wild Irish Rose, the dearest flower that grows, And some day for my sake, she may let me take the bloom from my wild Irish Rose. They may sing of their roses, which by other names, Would smell just as sweetly, they say. But I know that my Rose would never consent To have that sweet name taken away. Her glances are shy when e'er I pass by The bower where my true love grows, And my one wish has been that some day I may win The heart of my wild Irish Rose. My wild Irish Rose, the sweetest flower that grows. You may search everywhere, but none can compare with my wild Irish Rose. My wild Irish Rose, the dearest flower that grows, And some day for my sake, she may let me take the bloom from my wild Irish Rose. -- Chancellor John "Chauncey" Olcott, (1860-1932) born Buffalo, NY - singer, actor, composer.

Re-posting my family search information. Parents Michael and Bridget (nee uk) Nicholson Born c.1815-20 Location unknown. Children include Patrick, John, Michael, Mary,?James (my gggrandfather) born 1839, Owen?other siblings mentioned older. Children all born in Ireland location unknown.?Children listed in 1850 US Census living in Roxbury (Boston). Census records arrival in US in 1848. Parents may have died at sea. Gggrandfather James?married in St Francis de Sales Roman Catholic church in Roxbury 1864 but don't know for sure if the family were Roman Catholic. Ggrandfather's sons were not in adulthood.?Marriage information obtained from church records through Archdiocese of Boston archives before it was shut down for a year. Griffith Valuation records both a Bridget and a Michael Nicholson in Donegal but that was 1957 nine years after arrival in Boston. Gggrandafter James served in the Federal navy in war. I have his pension records but no references to Ireland birth place. S! ame with marriage and death certificates. David Springfield, MA

I have added a new section to my website for County Monaghan. It is still being configured and designed but I wanted to get the Ballybay Civil Parish tithe apploments online so have connected it today. These tithe applotments were huge with over 900 names. It was conducted in 1829 and it gives a good idea of who was living in the area at the time. Much like the Griffith's Valuation, however, it only list head of households. -- Pat Connors, Sacramento CA http://www.connorsgenealogy.com

Thomas Gallagher. From his book, 'Paddy's Lament' (New York, 1982), Dublin, Poolbeg Press, 1988. The story is based on the account by Rev. S. Godolphin Osbourne in his book, 'Gleanings from the West of Ireland', London, 1850. The starving were everywhere and could not be avoided, even by veteran travellers like the Reverend S. Godolphin Osbourne. He and his English travelling companion were on their way to Westport, in a cracked old coach with the paint worn off, a dingy harness, and a driver wearing the inevitable top hat and coat and swallow-tailed frieze coat, when they became emotionally involved, against their will, with another seeker of food. This one, though, absolutely refused to lose self-respect in order to obtain it. The countryside between Limerick and Westport was wild, beautiful, hardly cultivated, with the green mountains tinged with yellow and brown rising everywhere in the background. The brightly variegated plain seemed ideal for grazing purposes, but there were few animals and even fewer farms. Suddenly a barefoot girl about twelve years old appeared - from nowhere, it seemed, for there were no trees and no cabins close to the road. Dressed in a man's old coat closely buttoned to conceal the fact that she was otherwise naked, she began running beside their coach, keeping pace with it whether it went very fast, as it did when the road was straight and level, or slowly, as it did around turns or up slippery grades. She did not ask for anything but with fists clenched kept running, matching her speed to the horse's so that she was always directly beside the two seated English gentlemen in the car and just behind the driver on his high seat. Osbourne and his friend had by now reached the point where they refused all mendicants, including even those who, like this girl, were obviously not professional. From experience they had learned that by relieving them with the value of no more than a meal, they would be subjected to an eloquence of gratitude, spoken in every feature and gesture, invoking every office of Jesus Christ and the Virgin Mary, every pleading of the saints, to bless them throughout their lives and on into eternity. Osbourne especially was firmly against giving alms to this barefoot girl in the threadbare coat, whose long blonde hair bounced against her back as she ran, as though she was astride a trotting horse. He kept urging his friend to resist while they both kept telling her, again and again, that they would give her nothing. But she never asked for anything, and in time they became astonished at her concentration, her stamina, the stoical expression that held in thrall her lovely features. She was a magnificent creature with a fine, expressive face going back to what had once been an Irish aristocracy, a face whose beauty now almost appeared improper in the daughter of a peasant. At any other time in Ireland, when singing and dancing and poetry reading in a warm commingling of families were weekly occurrences, the people watching such a girl in a jig would have said something like, "Faith, but that one mixes her legs well. Sure, while your back was turned, she could walk up your sleeve and build a nest in your ear." She was that pretty, slender, and agile, but now her every feature showed such controlled determination that the two silent travelling companions grew more and more attentive to this unexpected and unwelcome contest. Osbourne, as he himself could plainly see, was much more irritated than his friend by her silent, wearying importunity. The friend kept shaking his head at her in refusal, but with every quarter-mile travelled he did so with less and less conviction. His heart finally began to soften at the sight of her, asking for nothing but refusing to be denied, gasping for breath but clinging to some irreducible minimum of pride, literally running her heart out so she could go back to her mother and father (whose old coat she was wearing because hers had been new enough to pawn) and surprise them and her brothers and sisters with some food, or the money to buy some. "The naked spokes of those naked legs, still seemed to turn in some mysterious harmony with our wheels," Osbourne said. "On, on she went, ever by our side, using her eyes only to pick her way, never speaking, not even looking at us." It was not until she had run at least two miles, a distance she would have to retrace on bleeding feet, that she won the day. Soaked with sweat, her eyes burning with salt, her mouth open and gasping for breath, she became very hot, coughed, and buckled over as if from stomach cramps. Still she ran with undiminished speed, absolutely determined to match the speed of the horse and remain parallel with the two Englishmen sitting in the carriage. Finally Osbourne's companion, fearful that her determination would destroy her, gave in. "That cough did it," Osbourne said. "He gave her a fourpenny piece: I confess I forgave him - it was hard earned, though by a bad sort of industry." The girl invoked neither the office of the Saviour nor the grace of the Virgin nor the pleading of the Saints to bless the English gentlemen. She took the money from them as she might have taken an apple from a tree or a fish from a lake, and walked slowly back with it along the road towards home. The fourpenny piece, equal to roughly half a day's pay for the lowliest worker, would buy enough meal to keep the family fed for another day or two. With it held tightly in her fist, she would enter, like sunlight, the darkness of the cabin and somehow reconcile everyone to it.

FYI: Passing this along from another Irish e-mail list: "Irish Times" newspaper archive (beginning March 1859) is available online for free until April 6, 2009. www.irishtimes.com/150

GNAT DANCING On one of those days between the end of summer And fall's beginning, When the afternoon sun has come to rest On the brown-shouldered corn, the gnats rise up, Rise up and swarm in the stillness of the air, Once more before the coming of the cold, Just as they have always done. My neighbor leans against the old tractor, A Co-op E3, made in Canada, 1947. The gnats are crowding around his head, Luminous in the late sunlight, Every detail of their giddy movement clear at a distance, Until he lifts his hand to brush them away, Saying with mild exasperation, "They're awful thick!" I suppose we also fly in the face of things, Gnatlike, not always knowing why. We plant the crop or breed the best of the stock and wait, Parting the tassels of the corn, Palpating swollen bellies in expectation of the day. Something ancient drives a man to gamble with a seed, In the pitch of the dirt or the dark of the womb, Engaging gnats, always the gnats, Persistent, without apology, Rising to their separate splendor. -- Thomas A. Orr, "Hammers in the Fog," Restoration Press Indianapolis, IN (1995), posted with permission. Tom was born in Bangor, ME, and grew up in the hill country of western MA. He moved to Indianapolis in 1972, spent 20 years in human services, since 1986 has lived on a small farm in Shelby Co, where he raises rabbits and poultry. He is a member of the Writers' Center of Indianapolis. His Scotland to Northern Ireland ancestors have a connection to Orr Island off the coast of Maine.

BLACKBALL You can still hear them talking, The old-timers, between dusty midsummer innings, Looking, always looking, For some young kid whose style Can conjure up the magic of Moses Ruggle. Holy Mose hurled a legendary season For a backwater club in Gary, And then went East in 1910 To break into the majors By pitching a perfect game Before a wild Brooklyn crowd, Whereupon the owners met and sent him home, Promising to call and telling the press The league was open to any colored boy Who was qualified to play. Holy Mose was never called, Of course, leaving like summer's end Every mound and bullpen on earth. His ancestors, people say, Were the first black farmers In the State of Indiana, where the red men Told them a thing or two kept from Europeans, Truths about nature, the story goes, That were hidden in Ruggle's rising fastball (Whose sting on a cold day Broke the sound barrier over The inside corner of the plate) And in his hanging curve (By the way it sailed into the strike zone And dropped out of sight). He never threw junk, you hear people say, Every ball he ever pitched Had some iniquitous hitter's name on it. Next year, maybe, next year, Some rookie will throw like Mose, The difference being that Holy Mose Was never a rookie, And his mound was like a mountain, His stuff from on high, But he just couldn't find The Jim Crow section of the ball diamond. -- Thomas A. Orr, "Hammers in the Fog," pub. 1995, Restoration Press, Indianapolis, IN, posted by permission. Thomas Orr's Scottish ancestors emigrated to Northern Ireland and then to Orr Island, off the coast of ME in Casco Bay. Tom was born in Bangor, ME, grew up in the hill country of western MA, moved to Indianapolis, IN, in 1972. Tom, who spent 20 years in human services and work force development, has lived on a farm in Shelby Co. since 1986, raising rabbits and poultry. He is a member of the Writers' Center of Indianapolis.

SUMMONING THE DEAD 'Blow the wind southerly, southerly, southerly ...' Kathleen Ferrier's crystal dictation is perfectly preserved after almost fifty years - not even a scratch on a shiny CD, her chaste photograph reminiscent of so many black and white films: 'Brief Encounter,' Celia Johnson and Trevor Howard hesitating with out-moded restraint on the edge of adultery; John Mills fighting the Battle of Britain with a clipped accent. 'Blow the wind south o'er the bonny blue sea ...' I can remember the age before I was born, a childhood montage of newsreel clippings, silent films, Hollywood musicals, War movies, and Westerns: John Wayne almost single-handedly defeating Red Indians, Germans and Japs; Busby Berkeley's geometric human sculptures; the set-piece extravaganzas of Cecil B. DeMille; Charlie Chaplin suffering the fate of the small man; ordinary people walking jerkily along busy streets - a monochrome world where the powerful knew their place: Queen Victoria in an open carriage acknowledging the cheers of a silent crowd; King George V and Queen Mary enthroned under a giant canopy receiving the homage of India's princes; the Tsar and Tsarina strutting in a court procession - a society captured at the point of collapse: enthusiastic young men queuing to enlist; mud-covered troops going over the top; dead bodies strewn across a Russian square; Lenin haranguing the peasants. 'Blow the wind southerly, southerly, southerly ...' I am listening to a singer who fell silent whilst I was still in the womb. We need no longer risk the journey to the land without a sun: the dead will visit us whenever we please; imprisoned on film they are compelled to come at our bidding, without sacrifice or imprecation we may summon their shades, but they will not meet our gaze nor answer our questions. Without substance or feeling, they are condemned to a cellulose imitation of their lives. 'Blow bonny breeze my love to me ...' -- Jeremy YOUNG. Born in Birmingham and educated at Cambridge and London Universities, Mr. Young has been in Dublin since 1994 and in 1998 was Director of Pastoral and Practical Theology at the Church of Ireland Theological College. He has been widely published in Ireland and Great Britain, including "Poetry Ireland Review" and "Books Ireland."

SNIPPET: Elizabeth KENNY was born on September 20, 1886, in Warrialda, New South Wales. An Australian nurse, she developed a special method of treating poliomyelitis and became a nurse in the bush (frontier) country of Australia. During an epidemic of poliomyelitis, Miss KENNY could not get medical help. This led her to work out her own methods of treating the victims. She found that prompt application of hot woolen packs relieved muscle spasms and often kept the patient from becoming crippled. Sister KENNY, as she was called after she became a head nurse, served as a nurse in the Australian Army during World War I. In 1933, she set up her own clinic in Townsville (Queensland). Her treatment was accepted for use in Australian hospitals by 1939. She lectured and demonstrated the method in the United States in 1940, and secured funds to set up the Elizabeth Kenny Institute in Minneapolis, MN. She wrote much about polio and an autobiography, "And They Shall Walk," in 1943. -- Excerpt, "World Book" encyclopedia

MEMORY LANE: Brid O'REILLY, Annagh, Ballyconnell, a native of Gorvagh, retired teacher from Greaghrahan NS and member of the Erne Writers Group, reminisced.... "One of the first sounds my childish ears learned to discern was the eerie, lonely whistle of the train as it travelled through the countryside near our home. Although his sound registered on tiny ears, it was some time later before I realised that if I ran quickly to an upstairs window on hearing the whistle, I would actually see this 'monster.' It huffed and puffed as it moved along laboriously like a great black dragon. Then, the wheels ground painfully to a halt, there was one last huge puff of smoke and suddenly all was quiet. I knew that something was happening at the trainstop. Ghostly shapes (carrying lanterns after dark) could be seen moving back and forth in the near distance. One could only imagine what was going on and it was exciting to weave stories around these ghoulish figures. Later, on reading, 'The Railway Children', I could dream that perhaps many exciting adventures took place at our local railway station at Adoon also. After much shuffling back and forth the 'dragon' would start hissing once again, smoke would start from his nostrils and with much groaning and moaning, off he would go again.... Left behind were shadowy figures who made their way to horse and trap or to the local hackney cars to be conveyed to their mysterious destinations. A slam of the waiting room door and then all was silent again. My journey to primary school took me past the railway station. Occasionally, when I, with my brother and sister, reached the railway gates, which opened across the road, they were closed against us. We knew that a 'special' was approaching bringing cattle to or from a fair, or perhaps wagon loads of coal from Arigna... As we grew older there were trips to Mohill on the train and these added to the excitement of the day's shopping. Sometimes, we went further afield to the great city of Dublin to savor the sights and sounds of the metropolis. By this time, of course, we realised that our local train was not as great as we had first thought. It was a 'poor first cousin' to the big train we had to board at Dromod for the ongoing journey to Dublin. My lasting memories are of the brave little 'narrow gauge' which proved a great amenity in its short reign, to the counties of Leitrim and Cavan. Travelling to boarding school in Monaghan by train bring back many unhappy memories. I dreaded to hear the sound of the whistle of that train as it neared our little station each September on the date I was due to go back to secondary school. As the tears flowed freely, I boarded the train and it set off towards Belturbet. There I had to change to the widegauge train to continue the journey. I had to make sure that my luggage was transferred from one train to another. Trunks and cases had to be watched over carefully as they contained bed linen and other necessities and a prevailing nightmare was that one would arrive in Monaghan station minus one's belongings... In later years I was once again to make use of the narrow-gauge train as I made my way home from Ballyconnell to visit my family at the weekends. I remember the kindness of John McCAFFREY and his family as I waited at their station house at Ballyheady... Until the line closed in the late 1950s, I must have travelled on that train hundreds of times... I also remember the welcoming smile and good humour of Michael WISLEY who acted as Guard on the train for many years.... On one of my last trips on the narrow gauge, my only companions were one old lady and a box of day old chicks. So I can understand that the line was no longer profitable and its days were numbered. Contrasting the poem 'From a Railway Carriage' where the landscape flew past 'Faster than fairies, faster than witches' - our little train allowed us to enjoy the beauty of the countryside as we jogged along... The workers in the fields and meadows had time to wave and smile as the train passed. Gatehouse keepers became familiar faces as the railway line criss-crossed the numerous narrow roadways in the countryside. Many of the gatehouses and station houses are still in excellent condition and now house factories, etc. At Dromod the station house has been restored and houses a museum. Part of the old line has also been restored and work on the old Station at Belturbet is almost completed. So the history of the narrow-gauge will be kept alive for future generations." -- Excerpts, "Leitrim Guardian" periodical (2001)

SNIPPET: County Cavan is in the Republic of Ireland, part of the province of Ulster. It was created by Elizabeth I of England, and is bordered by Cos. Monaghan, Leitrim, Longford, Meath and Westmeath in the Republic and Fermanagh in Northern Ireland. The O'REILLY family (still a very common surname in the area) established a castle in Cavan town in the late 13th century. A Franciscan monastery was also established at around that same time. In the 15th century the local ruler Bearded Owen O'REILLY set up a market which attracted merchants from Dublin and Drogheda. In 1610 the English king James I granted the town a charter. In the early 19th century the Lords FARNHAM, a local landlord family, built a new, wide street. This was lined with comfortable town houses, church and public buildings. In the late 19th century it became an important rail junction between the midland and western lines and those of the Northern Railway. A procession of fascinating sandstone Iron Age heads were discovered in the 19th and 20th centuries -- the mysterious Corleck Idol head was carved with three faces; by viewing it from three different points, the head gazes out at you with a young face, a middle-aged face and an old face.

I have transcribed the tithe applotments for the Ballyadams Civil Parish (1824) and they are on the County Leix section of my website. This is a large tithe applotment with around 300 names, and includes many Whelans, Brennans, Dunnes, Fennells, Greenes, Kellys, Lalors etc. -- Pat Connors, Sacramento CA http://www.connorsgenealogy.com

I have added the following County Kilkenny tithe applotments to the County Kilkenny section of my website: Ballycallan Civil parish, 1833 Ballybur Civil parish, 1828 The tithe applotments are much like the Giffith's Valuation, in that they only mention the head of the household, but they can give you an idea if you family lived there at that time period. -- Pat Connors, Sacramento CA http://www.connorsgenealogy.com