Can the listers please advise if I need a postal code for an address > in Ireland or is CoCork,Ireland sufficient after the address. Carole > in Canada. Carole, Go to the following page and click on "contact us". Look for the approiate email addy and ask the Irish post office directly :) http://www.anpost.ie/ MaryMc

unsubscribe -----Original Message----- From: IrelandGenWeb-D-request@rootsweb.com <IrelandGenWeb-D-request@rootsweb.com> To: IrelandGenWeb-D@rootsweb.com <IrelandGenWeb-D@rootsweb.com> Date: Thursday, 20 December 2001 22:01 Subject: IrelandGenWeb-D Digest V01 #276

Pt. 2 ..."It wasn't easy dragging that tree home. They were handicapped by a boy who ran alongside yelping, "Free ride! All aboard!" who'd jump on and make them drag him along. But he got sick of the game eventually and went away. In a way, it was good that it took them so long to get the tree home. It made their triumph more drawn out. Francie glowed when a lady said, "I never saw such a big tree!" The cop on their corner stopped them, examined the tree, and solemnly offered to buy it for fifteen cents if they'd deliver it to his home. Francis nearly burst with pride although she knew he was joking. They had to call Papa to help them get the tree up the narrow stairs. Papa came running down. His amazement at the size of the tree was flattering...Papa pulled in front and Francie and Neeley pushed in back and they began forcing the big tree up the two narrow flights of stairs. Papa started singing, not caring that it was rather late at night. He sang, "Holy Night! ." The narrow walls took his clear sweet voice, held it for a breath and gave it back with doubled sweetness. Doors creaked open and families gathered on the landings, pleased and amazed that something unexpected was being added to that moment in their lives. Francie saw the Tynmore sisters, who gave piano lessons, standing together in their doorway, their gray hair in crimpers, and ruffled, starched nightgowns showing under their voluminous wrappers. They added their thin poignant voices to Papa's. Floss Gaddis, her mother and her brother, Henny, who was dying of consumption, stood in their doorway...They set the tree up in the front room afer Mama had spread a sheet to protect the carpet from falling pine needles. The tree stood in a big tin bucket with broken bricks to hold it upright. When the rope was cut away, the branches spread out to fill the room. They draped over the piano and some of the chairs stood among the branches. There was no money to buy decorati! ons or lights. But the great tree standing there was enough. The room was cold. It was a poor year, that one -- too poor for them to buy the extra coal for the front-room stove. The room smelled cold and clean and aromatic. Every day, during the week the tree stood there, Francie put on her sweater and stocking cap and went in and sat under the tree. She was there and enjoyed the smell and dark greenness of it. Oh, the mystery of a great tree, a prisoner in a tin wash bucket in a tenement front room!" -- Excerpt, from "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn," Betty Smith

"Christmas was a charmed time in Brooklyn in 1912. The spruce trees began coming into Francie Nolan's neighborhood the week before Christmas. Their branches were corded to make shipping easier. Vendors rented space on the curb before a store and stretched a rope from pole to pole and leaned the trees against it. All day they walked up and down this one-sided avenue of aromatic leaning trees, blowing on stiff ungloved fingers. And the air was cold and still, and full of the pine smell and the smell of tangerines which appeared in the stores only at Christmastime and the mean street was truly wonderful for a little while. There was a cruel custom in the neighborhood. At midnight on the Eve of our dear Saviour's birth, the kids gathered where there were unsold trees. There was a saying that if you waited until then, you wouldn't have to buy a tree; that "they'd chuck 'em at you." This was literally true. The man threw each tree in turn, starting with the biggest. Kid! s volunteered to stand up against the throwing. If a boy didn't fall down under the impact, the tree was his. If he fell, he forfeited his chance at winning a tree. Only the roughest boys and some of the young men elected to be hit by the big trees. The others waited shrewdly until a tree came up that they could stand against. The littlest kids waited for the tiny, foot-high trees and shrieked in delight when they won one. On the Christmas Eve when Francie was ten, and her brother, Neeley, nine, Mama consented to let them go down and have their first try for a tree. Francie had picked out her tree earlier in the day. She had stood near it all afternoon and evening praying that no one would buy it. To her joy, it was still there at midnight. It was ten feet tall and its price so high that no one could afford to buy it. Its branches were bound with new white rope and it came to a sure pure point at the top. The man took this tree out first. Before Francie could sp! eak up, a neighborhood bully, a boy of eighteen known as Punky Perkins stepped forward and ordered the man to chuck the tree at him. The man hated the way Punky was so confident. He looked around and asked, "Anybody else wanna take a chanct on it? Francie stepped forward, "Me, Mister, me and my brother, we're not too little together." ....Francie saw the tree leave his hands. The whole world stood still as something dark and monstrous came through the air. There was nothing but pungent darkness and something that grew and grew and rushed at them. She staggered as the tree hit them. Neeley went to his knees but she pulled him up fiercely before he could go down. There was a mighty swishing sound as the tree settled. Everything was dark, green and prickly. Then she felt a sharp pain at the side of her head where the trunk of the tree had hit her. She felt Neeley trembling...blood was coming from scratches on Neeley's face. The tree man screamed, "And now get the h! ell out of here with your tree." Such phrases could mean many things according to the tone used in saying them. So Francie smiled tremulously at the kind man. she knew that he was really saying, "Good-by--God bless you.'" -- Excerpt, "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn," Betty Smith

Can the listers please advise if I need a postal code for an address in Ireland or is CoCork,Ireland sufficient after the address. Carole in Canada.

BIO: Per Summer 1998 issue of "The World Of Hibernia," Denis Mulcahy (then 54) was founder and chairman of "Project Children" as well as a detective for the NYPD Bomb Squad. The Irish in America have always had an inclination toward law enforcement, yet the stereotypical image of the Irish cop walking the beat, twirling a night stick and whistling a happy tune has given way to a more modern picture. Detective Denis Mulcahy, buffered with 70 lbs. of protective gear and a bomb-sniffing robot has investigated both the World Trade Center bombing in 1993 and the Oklahoma City Federal Building bombing in 1995. Mulcahy is respected for his expertise in the area of detecting and disposing of explosives. (I have heard about this respected gentleman for years and hope this note finds him safe from the events of 09/11). Mulcahy also runs "Project Children," a charity he founded in 1975. The Cork native started the group during one of the bloodiest years of the Troubles. What began with the opening of his and some friends' homes to six children from Belfast has blossomed into the short-term placement of 13,000 Northern Irish youth for safety into homes throughout the United States. As well, the children are helped to learn about tolerance and respect for others and life free from secterian violence. Mr. Mulcahy freely admits to be exhausted much of the time, but states he wouldn't change places with anyone else.

BIO: The Mount Stewart Gardens in County Down are widely regarded as among the greatest in the British Isles. They renowned not only for their superb layout but for their unrivalled collection of rare and exotic plants. All statuary and baustrades in the gardens were made by local craftsmen after designs by Edith, Lady Londonderry, nee Chaplin. Edith was the granddaughter of the Duke of Sutherland, Britain's largest landowner. She was brought up in Dunrobin Castle in Scotland and, in 1899, at the age of 20, married Viscount Castlereagh, a descendant of the Foreign Secretary who led the British delegation at the Congress of Vienna when a peace settlement for Europe was mapped out, following the fall of Napoleon. Mount Stewart House, which dates from the 18th century, contains the table and chairs from the congress. Edith's husband was heir to Lord Londonderry, and, when he succeeded to the title in 1915, he became the owner of both Londonderry House in London's Park La! ne and of Mount Stewart on the Ards Peninusula. The vast London residence was visited often by the rich and powerful as well as writers, artists and musicians, especially between the wars when up to 2,500 guests attended eve of State Opening of Parliament receptions. In 1915, Edith hosted Wednesday evening dinner parties for those who were engaged in war work and so the Ark Club was born. She founded the Women's Legion, which carried out vital work during WWI, and, in 1916, became the first woman to be awarded the Military DBE. Edith Londonderry was a fighter for women's rights and, helped by the demands of war and her skill with the pen, she demonstrated that women were perfectly capable of carrying out work that had formerly been the preserve of men. By 1915, Londonderry House had been turned into a convalescent hospital for soldiers, which Edith supervised, but it remained Ark Club headquarters and each member had to adopt the name of a creature, real or mythical. Edith was "Circe the Sorceress" and early members included "Winston the Warlock" Churchill, who was Lord Londonderry's cousin, and "Harold the Hummingbird Macmillan." Edith's husband, the Marquess of Londonderry, known as "Charlie the Cheetah," served in France during the First World War. . At the end of the war, the Londonderrys made Mount Stewart their main home. With an interest in gardening, she recruited 20 ex-soldiers for restoring the gardens, who were happy to swap the noise and destruction of the battlefield for the peace of creation. Gertrude Jekyll, the celebrated landscape gardener, was consulted on a design for an English sunken garden and submitted a plan; Edith had her own ideas but she did develop elements of Ms. Jekyll's scheme. The Mairi garden, with its central fountain depicting the contrary maiden, was laid out in the form of a Tudor rose, the emblem of the Women's Legion. The Dodo terrace near the house with its stone ark and enigmatic stone animals depicting the membership of the Ark Club is a most striking feature. One of Edith Londonderry's gardening mentors was Sir John Ross of Bladensburg. Lady Londonderry collected plants and seeds from every continent and she was supplied with many rare speciments by other gardeners and plant hunters. An unusual tree, the Metasequoia glyptostroboides, was thought to have been extinct for 20 million years until rediscovered in a remote area of China. Mount Stewart has had many important visitors including the Duke and Duchess of York, who later became King George VI and Queen Elizabeth, who stayed there shortly after their marriage. The king's own interest in landscaping and especially rhodondendrons, would have been reinforced by his visit. Lady Londonderry, not content to be a society hostess, landscape artist and writer, was also an able pilot. She died at the age of 80. The formal gardens at Mount Stewart are perhaps the finest now in the care of the National Trust. Mount Stewart is located about 15 miles SE of Belfast. -- Excerpts, "Ireland of the Welcomes"

This is too thought-provoking not to share...thank you, Gus! I am adding one of my own: Last Christmas we could only see our differences. This Christmas we see only our common humanity. ----- Original Message ----- From: "Gus Ellis" <aj204@adelphia.net> To: <IRELAND-L@rootsweb.com> Sent: Thursday, December 20, 2001 11:58 AM Subject: [IRELAND] DIFFERENT THIS CHRISTMAS > DIFFERENT THIS CHRISTMAS > > Last Christmas we were thinking about all the things we didn't have; > this Christmas we are thinking about all the things we do have. > > Last Christmas we were placing wreaths on the doors of our homes; > this Christmas we are placing wreaths on the graves of our heroes. > > Last Christmas we were letting our sons play with toy guns; > this Christmas we are teaching them that guns are not toys. > > Last Christmas we were counting our money; > this Christmas we are counting our blessings. > > Last Christmas we were lighting candles to decorate; > this Christmas we are lighting candles to commemorate. > > Last Christmas we were digging deep into our bank accounts to find money > to fly home for the holidays; > this Christmas we are digging deep into our souls to find the courage to > do so. > > Last Christmas we were trying not to let annoying relatives get the best > of us; > this Christmas we are trying to give the best of ourselves to them. > > Last Christmas we thought a man who could rush down a football field was > a hero; > this Christmas we know a man who rushes into a burning building is the > real one. > > Last Christmas we were wondering how to give our children all the things > that money can buy; this Christmas we are wondering how to give them all > the things money can't (peace, security). > > Last Christmas we were thinking about all the pressure we are under at > the office; > this Christmas we are thinking about all the people who no longer have > an office to go to. > > Last Christmas we were singing carols; > this Christmas we are singing anthems. > > Last Christmas we were thinking how good it would feel to be affluent; > this Christmas we are thinking how good it feels to be alive. > > Last Christmas we thought angels were in heaven; > this Christmas we know they are right here on earth. > > Last Christmas we were contemplating all the changes we wanted to make > in the new year; > this Christmas we are contemplating all the changes we will have to make > in this new reality. > > Last Christmas we were complaining about how much of our earnings went > to taxes; > this Christmas we comprehend that freedom isn't free. > > Last Christmas the people we idolized wore sports uniforms; > this Christmas the people we idolize wear police, firefighter and > military uniforms. > > Last Christmas peace on earth is something we prayed for on Sunday > morning; > now it's something we pray for every day. > > Have a Healthy, Peaceful, Holiday > > Gus >

THE MOTHER I do not grudge them; Lord, I do not grudge My two strong sons that I have seen go out To break their strength and die, they and a few, In bloody protest for a glorious thing. They shall be spoken of among their people, The generations shall remember them, And call them blessed; But I will speak their names to my own heart In the long nights; The little names that were familiar once Round my dead hearth. Lord, thou art hard on mothers: We suffer in their coming and their going; And tho' I grudge them not, I weary, weary Of the long sorrow -- And yet I have my joy: My sons were faithful, and they fought. -- Padraic Pearse (1879-1916) wrote this poem for his mother just before he and his brother went out to fight in the Rising of 1916.

BIO: Captain Edward R. Bowen, 114th Pennsylvania Infantry, Graham's Brigade -- Near the Sherfy farm buildings, the exotically-garbed soldiers of the 11rth Pennsylvania, "Collis' Zouaves," met Barksdale's yelling Mississippians head on. But the Zouaves gave way with the rest of the Federal line and the Peach Orchard prominently fell to the Confederates. Per Bowen's report: "Capt. Fix afterwards stated that when we left the Emmittsburg Road, which was covered with our dead and wounded, and where he was laying, a battery of the enemy came thundering along it, and that when the officer (enemy) commanding it saw our dead and wounded on the road, he halted his battery to avoid running over them and his men carefully lifted the dead to one side and carried the wounded into the cellar of a house, supplied them with water, and said they would return and take care of them when they had caught the rest of us. This they had no opportunity to do, for they themselves were driven back! and the house containing our wounded remained within our lines and our men received the care and attention of our own surgeons." Bowen rose to the rank of major before being mustered out of the service in 1865. -- "Excerpt, "Voices of the Civil War," Gettysburg, a Time-Life Book.

BIO: In a diary entry written in prison after his capture, Lieutenant William Peel, 11th Mississippi Infantry, Davis' Brigade, recorded the bravery of colorbearer George Kidd. The author (Peel) died in prison in February 1865. To the left of Pickett's Virginians, the men of Pettigrew's and Trimble's commands rushed toward an angle in the stone wall. "Four brave men had already fallen under the colors of our Reg/t, & now the fifth bore them aloft, & rushed boldly forward, to embrace, if need be, the fate of the other four. The flag staff was now cut in two midway the flag, but without one moment's pause, the never-flinching Irishman (Kidd), his flag now dangling in graceless confusion from one corner, still pushed fearlessly, upon the stone fence." The battle flags of the 28th North Carolina, James Lane's brigade, and the 11th Mississippi, Joseph Davis's brigade, were both carried to the stone wall that marked the height of the Rebel advance on July 3. The Federal II Corps captured 33 Confederate colors. -- Excerpt, "Voices of the Civil War, Gettysburg," Time-Life Books.

BIO: Per Summer 1998 issue of "The World of Hibernia," Michael Foley, then 49, and president of Heineken USA with headquarters in White Plains, NY, has a deep connection to the Ireland as a native of Co. Wexford. His yacht has been christened "Loch Garman." As longtime resident of Cork, where he served as managing director of Murphy's Irish stout prior to joining Heineken USA in `1994, Foley has been recognized for his contribution to his adopted county as Corkman of the Year in 1996 by the University College Dublin in 1971, and he continues to support that institution's social and academic efforts as a board member of the UCC Foundation. He is also on the board of the Ireland-U.S. Council for Commerce and Industry and a major player in Ireland's economic re-invention. His activities in this area include serving on the board of directors of Agincourt Capital, which manages a $200-million "Celtic Tiger Fund," focused on boosting Ireland's high-tech sector and increasing ! the country's exports to the United States. A true leader among Irish executives in corporate America, Foley, whose name in Norwegian apparently means "plunderer," would perhaps prefer to be known as an honorary publican, having served both Murphy's stout and Heineken to satisfied customers worldwide.

BIO: Per Summer 1998 issue of "The World of Hibernia," Bill Flynn, then 70, and Chairman of Mutual of America, is a figure of huge importance throughout Irish and Northern Irish affairs. The son of a Northerner, whose relations back in Co. Down grow mushrooms on the family land, Flynn has contributed immeasurably to peace in Northern Ireland. Flynn has used his extensive business contacts and influence to encourage parties on both sides of the conflict to come together in NY, he has also lectured frequently on the problems in the North, educating Americans about the causes of this centuries-old conflict. Like the legendary giant Finn MacCool of Irish lore, Flynn has proven himself a giant among men. Bill Flynn has first-generation connections to Ireland, his family names Flynn and Connors, their counties of origin Mayo and Down.

BIO: Per the summer 1998 issue of "The World of Hibernia" magazine, Senator Christopher Dodd entered the Senate office in 1981, the youngest man so elected from his state as well as the only Connecticut senator whose father once held the same position. Dodd has a third-generation connection to Ireland, the family having emigrated in the 1820s. Their families surnames were Murphy, Daley, Higgins and O'Sullivan, their counties of origin Clare, Kerry and Cork. "My father once said that public service gives one the greatest opportunity to help the greatest number of people," recalled Dodd, "I believe that." The son of Thomas and Grace Murphy Dodd, who was 54 in 1998, has paid more than lip service to that message. Beginning in 1966, he spent two years in the Peace Corps in the Dominican Republic, followed by six years in the U. S. Army Reserves. His passionate devotion to his Irish roots was never more apparent than when he proudly presented the North Irish Resolution t! o Congress in April of 1998 -- a moment of patriotism and cultural pride. Of interest, a portion of Senator Dodd's Washington's office was once the wine closet of Daniel Webster of NH (1782-1852) one of the best-known American orators, lawyers and statesmen of all times.

MAIRE, MY GIRL Over the dim blue hills Strays a wild river, Over the dim blue hills Rests my heart ever. Dearer and brighter than Jewels and pearl, Dwells she in beauty there, Maire, my girl. Down upon Claris heath Shines the soft berry, On the brown harvest tree Droops the red cherry, Sweeter thy honey lips, Softer the curl Straying adown thy cheeks, Maire, my girl. 'Twas on an April eve That I first met her; Many an eve shall pass Ere I forget her. Since, my young heart has been Wrapped in a whirl, Thinking and dreaming of Maire, my girl. She is too kind and fond Ever to grieve me, She had too pure a heart E'er to deceive me. Were I Tyrconnell's chief or Desmond's earl, Life would be dark, wanting Maire, my girl! Over the dim blue hills Strays a wild river, Over the dim blue hills Rests my heart ever. Dearer and brighter than Jewels or pearl, Dwells she in beauty there, Maire, my girl. -- John Keegan Casey (1846-1870)

THE INFINITE The Infinite always is silent: It is only the Finite speaks. Our words are the idle wave-caps On the deep that never breaks. We may question with wand of science, Explain, decide and discuss; But only in meditation The Mystery speaks to us. -- John Boyle O'Reilly (1844-1890)

ODE We are the music-makers, And we are the dreamers of dreams, Wandering by lone sea-breakers, And sitting by desolate streams; World-losers and world-forsakers, On whom the pale moon gleams: Yet we are the movers and shakers Of the world for ever, it seems. With wonderful deathless ditties We build up the world's great cities, And out of a fabulous story We fashion an empire's glory: One man with a dream, at pleasure, Shall go forth and conquer a crown; And three with a new song's measure Can trample an empire down. We, in the ages lying In the buried past of the earth, Built Nineveh with our sighing, And Babel itself with our mirth; And o'erthrew them with prophesying To the old of the new world's worth; For each age is a dream that is dying, Or one that is coming to birth. -- Arthur O'Shaughnessy (1844-1881)

BIO: Frank McCourt was born in 1931 in Brooklyn, NY, to Irish immigrant parents -- his mother, a Sheehan from Limerick, and his father, a McCourt from Co. Antrim. Frank's autobiography, "Angela's Ashes" won the coveted Pulitzer prize in 1997. He is also the author of "The Irish...And How They Got That Way", 1998, and " 'Tis, A Memoir," about Frank's later experiences on his return to NY, published in 1999. Although born in Brooklyn, Frank was to grow up in squalid poverty in the Limerick slums upon the family's return to Ireland; sadly, he lost several siblings to malnutrition and illness. For over thirty years Frank McCourt has taught in various NYC high schools, including Stuyvesant, and at city colleges. He has lived with his wife, Ellen, in NYC and CT. Frank's younger brother, Malachy McCourt is an entertainer and author in his own right. Malachy noted, "A man could never receive enough honors, prizes, paludits, and degrees to make up for the pain of the early years." Frank might answer, as he writes on the opening page of his tender "Angela's Ashes" -- "It was, of course, a miserable childhood: the happy childhood is hardly worth your while." On the last pages of "'Tis," he writes: "When your mother is dead you can't be sitting around and looking mournful, recalling her virtues, receiving the condolences of friends and neighbors. You have to stand before the coffin with your brothers Malachy and Alphie and Malachy's sons, Malachy, Conor, Cormac, link arms and sing the songs your mother loved and the songs your mother hated because that's the only way you can be sure she's dead, and we sang... "A mother's love is a blessing No matter where you roam, Keep her while she's living You'll miss her when she's gone" - and "Goodbye, Johnny dear, when you're far away; Don't forget your dear old mother Far across the sea, Write a letter now and then And send her all you can And don't forget where'er you roam That your're an Irishman." Frank wrote, "Visitors look at each other and you know what they're thinking. What kind of mourning is this where sons and grandsons sing and dance before the poor woman's casket? Don't t! hey have any respect for their mother? We kiss her and I place on her breast a shilling I had borrowed from her long ago and when we walk the long corridor to the elevator I look back at her in the coffin, my gray mother in a cheap gray coffin, the color of beggary." Frank recalled that his father at one point had left them with high hopes of sending the family money from England, he had remembrances of his mother by the fire waiting for the money that never came and having to beg from the St. Vincent de Paul Society and memories of his brothers asking if they could please have one more cut of fried bread. In August of 1985, Frank's father died and was buried in Belfast. Frank brought his mother's ashes from NY to her last resting place, the graveyard at Mungret Abbey outside Limerick City. "We took turns dipping our fingers into the tin urn from NJ crematorium and sprinkling Angela's ashes over the graves of the Sheehans and Guilfoyles and Griffins. We said a Hail Mary and it wasn't enough. We had drifted from the church but we knew that for her and for us in that ancient abbey there would have been comfort and dignity in the prayers of a priest, proper requieum for a mother of seven." "All this was your doing, Dad, and even if we came out of it, your sons, you inflicted a life of misfortune on our mother," wrote Frank about his father's funeral. "I could only kneel by his coffin again and recall mornings in Limerick when the fire glowed and he talked softly for fear of waking my mother and brothers, telling me of Ireland's sufferings and the great deeds of the Irish in America. We buried him the next day on a hill overlooking Belfast. The priest prayed and sprinkled the coffin with holy water, even as shots rang out somewhere in the city. "They're at it again," someone said."

Trying to verifiy Co. Leitrim connection: Per my Ford cousin, Doris Ford, who lives in Tunbridge Wells, Kent, England, my dad's family's surname was Forde in Ireland and that the E was dropped when they emigrated to England. She said that the family was from "Drumshanbo," Ireland. There are two "Drumshanbo" place names that I know of - one in Co. Leitrim and one in Co. Tyrone. Since my cousin also thought the family "was from Sligo," I have concentrated on the Drumshanbo in Co. Leitrim. I have lots of leads but nothing definite. Red-headed, Catholic Patrick Ford/e and son Michael (?M) Ford/e apparently lived in "Drumshanbo" area at the time Michael was born in late 1863/early 1864. I have no knowledge of another surname in Ireland, i.e. mother's name. At the time Michael was married in Liverpool, in 1892, his father, Patrick Ford, a farmer, was deceased. One of the witnesses at the wedding in the West Derby Register Office was L. Ann or E. Ann Hooley, who may have been a friend/relative? Michael Ford married Britisher Sarah Ann George (parents John George and Theresa Ann Hancox) in Liverpool and they lived at 50 New Road, Tue Brook, Liverpool for 30 years. Michael was a bricklayer/brick setter, slaterer, and jobber; he fell off a defective ladder in Liverpool in 1922 and broke his neck. Michael seems to have been a "nonpracticing Catholic," his wife Sarah, attended the Church of England; their oldest children went to Catholic schools, their younger children to non-Catholic schools. At the time of his marriage in 1892, Michael Ford gave his address as (?78) Saxony Road, Kensington, which is outside of Liverpool. Most of the Ford family emigrated from Liverpool, a few at a time (prior to, and post Michael's death) to initially join some George uncles who lived in Milwaukie/Oak Grove, OR, area just outside Portland. Son Albert Ford lived in Seattle, WA,. his wife and stepchildren's surname was Keenan. Two of Michael and Sarah Fords' sons stayed in England, Herbert F. in the London area and Alfred, in Tunbridge Wells. Alfred Ford married Ethel Saunders. The names of all of Michael Ford's children were Albert Edward, Alfred E., Bernard Michael, Harold Dennis, Charles Ernest (my dad), Herbert F., Winifred Rosita ("Pat"), Theresa May Harriet. Dennis was married/divorced (?to whom) and died in a mental hospital in Salem, OR. "Tessie" married a Lindeman and lived outside Portland. "Pat" (Winifred) was married to a Kelly and a Reed, lived much of her life in California. Bernard was a successful Portland, OR realtor, never married, lived in Milwaukie, OR with his aunt and uncle George. Charlie Ford married a Sweany. Herbert Ford who "died in London" may have been a bachelor. Their mother, Sarah (George) Ford was very close to her sister Harriet George who married Hugh Ernest Jones. Am also interested in learning more about Drumshanbo, have never been there. Jean

THE BANSHEE Green, in the wizard arms Of the foam-bearded Atlantic, An isle of old enchantment, A melancholy isle, Enchanted and dreaming lies; And there, by Shannon's flowing, In the moonlight, spectre-thin, The spectre Erin sits. An aged desolation, She sits by old Shannon's flowing, A mother of many children, Of children exiled and dead, In her home, with bent head, homeless, Clasping her knees she sits, Keening, keening! And at her knee the fairy-grass Trembles on dun and barrow; Around the foot of her ancient crosses The grave-grass shakes and the nettle swings; In haunted glens the meadow-sweet Flings to the night wind Her mystic mournful perfume; The sad spearmint by holy wells Breathes melancholy balm. Sometimes she lifts her head, With blue eyes tearless, And gazes athwart the reek of night Upon things long past, Upon things to come. And sometimes, when the moon Brings tempest upon the deep, And roused Atlantic thunders from his caverns in the west, The wolfhound at her feet Springs up with a mighty bay, And chords of mystery sound from the wild harp at her side, Strung from the heart of poets; And she flies on the wings of tempest With grey hair streaming: A meteor of evil omen, The spectre of hope forlorn, Keening, keening! She keens, and the strings of her wild harp shiver On the gusts of night: O'er the four waters she keens -- over Moyle she keens, O'er the Sea of Milith, and the Strait of Strongbow, And the Ocean of Columbus. And the Fianna hear, and the ghosts of her cloudy hovering heroes; And the swan, Fianoula, wails o'er the waters of Inisfail, Chanting her song of destiny, The rune of the weaving Fates. And the nations hear in the void and quaking time of night, Sad unto dawning, dirges, Solem dirges, And snatches of bardic song; Their souls quake in the void and quaking time of night, And they dream of the weird of kings, And tyrannies moulting, sick In the dreadful wind of change. Wail no more, lonely one, mother of exiles, wail no more, Banshee of the world -- no more! Thy sorrows are the world's, thou art no more alone; Thy wrongs, the world's. -- John Todhunter (1839-1916)