Gra Im Thu! I Love You!

By Joan Claire Gordon

Two Irish families, with very different belief systems in the areas of religion and politics, both immigrate to Utah and meet there in the mid-1900s. They find themselves wanting to intermarry. But their diversity of thought poses problems. They develop a method to overcome conflict and build harmony in their relationships, and learn to eat peacefully around the table. At that table is Teague Gwynn, a thirteen year old boy, who intuitively knows that diversity and harmony can exist together in the same house!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Dec 7, 2012
• ISBN: 9781300487791

Book preview

Gra Im Thu! I Love You!

Gra Im Thu!

I Love You!

OVERVIEW

Gra Im Thu!

I Love You!

is an

historical novel

about

two Irish families

who use supreme love

to

foster family harmony

as told by

Regina O’Grady Gwynn

in

her 104th year

to

Joan Claire Gordon, Ed. D.

at

Salt Lake City, Utah

DEDICATION

Gra Im Thu!

I Love You!

is dedicated

to all

who learned, or are learning,

to scrub, peel, boil, and mash

their diverse potatoes

into one harmonious dish

of mashed potatoes.

Many thanks to my family

and two more of my personal potato mashers,

Karen Kelley and Joan Provost

Copyright © 2012

by Joan Claire Gordon

All rights reserved

ISBN 978-1-300-48779-1

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Potatoes, photograph by C. Subick, courtesy of dreamstime.com

Diverse Potatoes, photograph courtesy of Agricultural Research Service, and used by virtue of public domain

Potato Flowers, photograph by Keith Weller, used by virtue of public domain

When Dawn Is Come, a tragedy in three acts by Thomas MacDonagh (b. 1878, d. 1916); written in 1908; publisher: Maunsel of Dublin; not in copyright

Let Me Call You Sweetheart, words by Beth Slater Whitson, music by Leo Friedman (1910); lyrics reproduced, in part, by virtue of public domain

Don Juan, portion of the 13th Canto, written 1818 - 1823 by Lord George Gordon Byron, by virtue of public domain

Molly Malone, lyrics based on a saloon song of the 1830s; reproduced, in part, by virtue of public domain

FORWARD

I imagine that you, dear reader, are curious about the potatoes.  Keep in mind that patience is a virtue, and with regard to the potatoes, your patience will be well-honed.  For upon reaching the end of the story, it finally will be perfectly clear what potatoes have to do with anything.

But first things first.  Some background is in order, starting in Ireland.

I have always wondered how my life would have been different if my father, Bardan O’Grady, had supported the British Crown.  But he did not.  Instead, he chose to join the militant Irish Republican Army, known around the world as the IRA.  That choice led to his death.  For it came to pass on Tuesday, May 13th, 1919, a foreboding day which changed my life, and the course of many lives, forever, that Daddy was killed in a bloody shoot-out at our Knocklong Train Station in County Limerick, Ireland. 

Bardan O’Grady’s death set in motion a series of events in our O’Grady family, and in my future husband’s family, whom I came to call the Gwynn kin.  Over the next 90 years, those events were marred, at times, with fierce family feuds, and tainted with sorrow, regret, despair, and sparse living. On the other side of the coin, we also have reaped material wealth, abundant joy, and children a-plenty.

How do I know?  Well, I have intimate knowledge of the saga because, as my father’s daughter, Regina O’Grady Gwynn, I lived through it all.  At age 17, I emigrated from Ireland to Utah with my mother and sister.  I still reside in Salt Lake City and have reached the age of 104.  Recently, the editor of the Salt Lake morning paper asked me to write a series of articles about our family’s story.  He assigned a journalist to help me, which is lucky as I no longer see clearly enough to make notes on paper or to peck on my computer.  I’m dictating instead. … macular degeneration, you know.

Before I get into our story, I want to explain the philosophy which undergirds our way of life.  Over the years of my earthly existence, I have learned that ruptures of any depth can be repaired, gulfs can be bridged no matter how wide, canyons can be scaled, and potholes can be filled.  Giving a smile or a hug, reaching out a hand, speaking words of apology, asking forgiveness, or forgiving others, listening without judgment … these and other restorative methods, to be used in fragmented relationships, are endless. 

The difficulty is knowing where and when to begin. Of the two issues, perhaps when is the most critical.  For time can work against the healing of a broken connection if we are slow to act.  Death needs no invitation and its gloved-hand knocks when we least expect it, perhaps causing us to miss our chance to make amends.  But all may not be lost, even then.  For if we are observant, we may be given opportunities to remedy a misunderstanding, even without the physical presence of the other party.  By that I mean, there may be others involved in the same squabble with whom we can talk and resolve the issues.  In that event, I suspect that the departed soul is busy announcing throughout the universe about the resolution and the coming-together, the healing, as it were.

Earlier, I alluded to my husband.  Let me expand.  Roderick Gwynn and I did not know each other in Ireland.  We met in America, two Irish kids whose families had emigrated from Ireland to Utah, but for vastly different reasons: one to run a mining enterprise, the other to embrace a new religion.  Roderick attended East High School and I went to West High.  The schools hosted common socials which is how Roderick and I were introduced. Predictors pointed to an early collapse of our friendship.  To start with, our economic circumstances were different.  Further, he was Catholic, and I was now Mormon.  Topping it off, his parents and my mother were poles apart on Irish politics.  In other words, we were on opposite sides of the tracks, so to speak.

Against all of those odds, our young love … yes, we were very young and very much in love … and our long, fulfilling marriage, emerged as a strong, enduring thread in the fabric woven by our combined O’Grady-Gwynn families.

However, it was our very combination of personalities which provided the many diverse and often converse threads of the fabric, given our wide-ranging points of view about life.  Those threads wound round and about, sometimes in contradictory ways.

For sure, we had one shared denominator: we were all Irish.  But beyond our love of the motherland, we displayed a hodgepodge of values.  Some flaunted wealth, others preferred a simple existence, largely because there was no other choice.  Some pursued extensive education, others favored life itself as their theater of learning.  Some embraced science and engineering, others cherished the arts.  In the political arena, we had both militant and non-militant Irish nationalists.  On the religious front, we were a mixture of Methodist, Irish Catholic, and Mormon, some having converted from one faith to another. 

Over the years, the varying systems in our lives led to all manner of strife and bellowing, more from a certain few than from others.  However, all of us, the bellowers and the soft-spoken, did a lot of potato gathering, scrubbing, peeling, boiling, and mashing, as will become clear by the end of the story.

Ultimately, a unifying dynamic that helped us build civility and tact within our family appeared as though dropped from a heavenly cloud.  That factor was in the form of a young orphaned boy.  Thence followed a growth of tolerance among and between us. 

We kept at it, but our progress toward harmony was still slow, reminiscent of the pace of delayed time photography.  Our speed was akin to the opening of those sleepy flowers that leisurely bloom on potato vines.  If you have ever observed the fancy flora of potatoes, dressed in their assorted hues of purple, blue, pink, red, or wholesome white, you would remember them, especially their brilliant yellow stamens.  Their aura hangs around.

800px-Potato_flowers.jpg

Our imaginary potato flowers, nurtured by the rich soil of our supreme love for one another, matured into what we called our encounter potatoes, and those became the symbolic foundation of our scheme to forge a forgiving, harmonious family.

This story is a recounting of the healing which evolved throughout the O’ Grady-Gwynn clan, on many issues, but with the most notable being religion and politics.

Just remember, those are two subjects never to discuss at dinner!

CHAPTER ONE

You’re shivering.  Give me your hands, he said to me, gently folding mine into both of his own.  Under the tan, taught skin of his wrists I could see the ripples of his tendons and a few prominent veins.  It was obvious his tennis competitions had made his hands strong, supple.  I felt the warmth of his touch and it sent electric waves up my spine, straight to the nape of my neck. 

It was a night of magic in December 1922 when I first held hands with Roderick Gwynn.  We were standing on the balcony of his family’s mansion in Salt Lake City, Utah with Christmas lights reflecting in our eyes.  Roderick was 18, I was 17, and we were falling in love, more and more each day.

During the previous Fall, Roderick and I had met frequently at school socials, and we talked until the cows came home.  We wanted to know everything about each other, instantly, immediately.  The details were important, even those painful to reveal.  It was especially difficult for me to talk about the circumstances surrounding the death of my father, Bardan O’Grady, in Ireland.

One October day, after school, Roderick surprised my sister, Riona, and me by picking us up in his Nash 695 coupe and driving us to our home on Marmalade Hill.  I wanted to invite him in, but I wasn’t sure if Mama had returned from work.  In those days, young ladies did not ask young men into their homes without a chaperone.

We checked. Mama was not there.  I walked back down the driveway to tell him we could not have him come in, and he asked me to sit and talk.  The conversation worked around to my father.  Roderick was curious about my father’s affiliations in Ireland.  Previously, I had revealed some things, but I had been cautious about telling him everything.

I’m rather bothered, Regina, he said. Since I didn’t meet you until long after your father died in Ireland, I can never know him like you did.  But I’d like to understand his beliefs.  Can you tell me more about him?  What was he like?  I’m getting questions about his membership in the Irish Republican Army in County Limerick.  What led him to join that group?

And so I told the story to Roderick, the whole story, about my beloved father, Bardan O’Grady.

*****

It all began that fateful day my father sacrificed his life for Irish freedom.  We learned the grave details when Seamus Robinson, an IRA organizer, came to our cottage in Knocklong, County Limerick, Ireland, to deliver the awful news that Daddy had been killed.  Mr. Robinson described the scene so vividly we could almost hear shots and smell gun powder.  My mother, my sister, Riona, and I felt like we had been there with Daddy in the last moments of his life.

Arriving at our bungalow after dark that Tuesday night, Mr. Robinson rapped on our back door.  Riona answered his knock and recognized him.  She escorted him into our front room, called Mama and me from our bedrooms, and then scurried into the kitchen to make tea. Riona never could handle bad news and she must have realized all was not well. Mr. Robinson looked very much under the weather, with his clothes greatly disheveled and deep scratches marring his face.

Mr. Robinson! Mama exclaimed.  Oh, your face.  Your cheek is bleeding.  Regina, please fetch a wet cloth.

No, thank you, Mrs. O’Grady.  I’ll be all right.  But I’ve come with sad news.

He drew out a stained handkerchief and wiped his cheek.  Mama motioned for him to take Daddy’s wing chair.  She and I sat close together on the settee.

What happened this morning with the rescue of Sean Hogan? Mama inquired.  Bardan has not come home.  We’ve been tied in knots all day, not knowing how the rescue came off.  Did it not go well?

He stuffed the handkerchief in the breast pocket of his shirt and pulled his cap off with one hand.  Using the fingers of his other hand like a comb, he ran them through the long strands that drooped over his brow, trying to push them back.  They would not stay.  He then leaned toward us, sighed softly, and delivered the ghastly news.

I don’t how to tell you, other than just to say it straight out. Bardan was fatally wounded.

Mama drew in a breath, gasped and clapped both hands over her face.  I wept and Mama pulled me close.  Having overheard, Riona rushed from the kitchen, a towel between her hands.  We three embraced for a long moment.  After a while, we seated ourselves on the settee in preparation to hear what Mr. Robinson would say.  Before he could start, Riona nervously got up to fetch the tea, and returned with a tin service tray, shaking her head, tears shining on her cheeks.

Mr. Robinson, twisting his cap around, repeated his condolences and then began to recount the dreadful drama.

"My deepest apologies for not coming to you sooner but we were getting Sean Hogan safely hidden and I didn’t want to be seen coming to your house.  I’m will tell you how Bardan sacrificed his life in the rescue of Sean Hogan, as best I can.  It happened so fast that my brain may have muddled it, but it will be as accurate as I can remember.

"As you know, Bardan was one of the eight of us involved in this IRA mission.  When we arrived at the train station, we concealed ourselves among the trees at the perimeter of the tracks and tried to remain invisible.  There was a natural cloak of pre-dawn darkness.  We felt lucky with the weather because a rolling fog shrouded our bodies.  Soon after we settled in our hiding place, we noticed a line of fog had formed low over the tracks and was creeping in a forward direction.  It was eerie because it looked like a silent ghost train, only so flimsy it easily could have been commandeered.  It seemed to me like that foggy image was a good omen, meaning it was likely we could accomplish what we were about.

"From our vantage point, we observed all the events, both outside and inside the train carriage.  Precisely at 5:00, Sean Hogan, with hands shackled behind his back, was marched onto the train.  I noticed he wore a red knit cap, pulled over his bowed head.  Of course, the constables viewed Sean as one of our notorious IRA leaders and treated him as such, shoving him into a seat and surrounding him.  The railway carriage was otherwise empty, a condition probably demanded by the masterminds of the covert plan to transport Sean Hogan to Cork.

"I don’t have to tell you those same planners were Irish citizens, loyal to the Crown, and all members of the police agency we know as the Royal Irish Constabulary, or the RIC.  I know for a fact that yesterday on May 12th they had trapped Hogan, like a trophy animal, realizing the capture of an IRA combatant of his caliber was a major coup.  No doubt they spent the rest of the day and night constructing the cloak-and-dagger transfer of their prize prisoner from your Knocklong jail to the secure facility in Cork.

However, as happens in times of war, the plan was not secret for long.  We tapped all underground communication lines for information supplied by informers and sympathizers, some of whom were RIC constables themselves.

Seamus Robinson used his arms freely to punctuate his story, waving his cap in the air.  I stared at his black shoes, with the leather scuffed over their toes, and I wondered if he ever had time to polish them when he went to church.  He was Irish Catholic like we were.  Finally, he placed his cap on the end table, sipped his tea, shifted in his chair and crossed his long legs at the knee.  As he did so, I noticed there was a rip in one pant leg.  I have no idea why I kept observing his clothing and gestures, but I did. I have vivid memories of them, etched in my brain, and sometimes, even today, they project themselves as a shadowy movie playing behind my eyelids as I fall asleep.

He continued.

"We could see everything through the lighted windows.  The constables around Hogan had revolvers drawn, but they clearly had no idea what was about to happen, or they might have cut the interior lights.  I saw the engineer, in the cab, stretch his neck and turn his head around to gander at the man who was regarded as a legendary IRA prisoner.  One of the constables threw his arm forward, signaling to the engineer to begin the journey. 

Just as the engine fired up and jerked ahead, our masked band of eight dashed forward and boarded the train.  In the lead was our organizer, Sean Treacy, a close compatriot of Hogan’s.  Do you know him?

The three of us shook our heads side to side.  We bid him to go on.  He was taking too long to tell us what happened to Daddy.

Time was of the essence and we released a barrage of bullets, randomly spraying the front section where the constables stood, but avoiding Hogan’s seated figure.  His red cap made him quite discernible.  He ducked low, but could not go all the way to the floor because his guards surrounded him.  Then I saw the constables push him further down into the leg space, and drop themselves behind the seats, quickly spreading out to several rows, crawling on their bellies.  You can imagine that guns blazed as we all crouched and fired between the seats.  The engineer slumped at his post and the train stopped dead in the station.

I sensed that Seamus Robinson finally had come to the part about Daddy’s death.  My heart was beating drum-like and felt as if it would burst into my throat.  I didn’t care if everyone heard it.  So what?

I saw Bardan two rows in front of me.  He placed his gun in the crack between the seats, taking aim. I know he caught sight of a constable peering at him. For a split second, I saw that constable’s head and shoulders come above the seat to fire at Bardan, but he shrank down, his gun silent.  Within moments, I realized it was Michael Enright.

We knew that our neighbor, Mr. Enright, was a constable in service with the RIC.  We also were aware that, as the two men faced each other that fateful morning, they did not share equal knowledge.  Daddy was masked, so Enright did not know he was fighting his neighbor.  But more than that, Enright did not even know Daddy was a member of the IRA.  There they were, two Irishmen, both Catholics: Enright loyal to the Crown - Daddy fighting for Irish independence; Enright restraining an IRA prisoner - Daddy helping to rescue that same man.  Both Enright and Daddy were willing to go to their deaths for their political beliefs ... and they did.

I stared at Mr. Robinson’s shoes again and also his tan socks which had loose elastic at the tops.  His pants weren’t long enough to cover them.  I wondered why there was no blood on his socks.  As he spoke, I could not bring myself to look in his eyes.  What he told us was unbearably sad.

"Bardan’s choice was made for him.  He had a clear shot at Enright’s hairline.  I saw Bardan rise to his full height, site his mark, fire, and hit Enright in his mid-forehead.  Just about simultaneously, Bardan dropped his gun and clutched his chest, falling back over the seat.  I’m so sorry to tell you this, but I’m sure he was shot through his heart by a constable who fired from the aisle several rows forward.

Although it seemed like an eternity, I know the battle raged for only a few additional minutes.  In a short time, we overpowered the weakened RIC force.  Three of us picked up Hogan by his arm pits and ankles, while three of our other men carried Bardan out of the carriage through the open door, held by our seventh member.  We had two waiting vehicles which had arrived as the rescue began.  Praise the dear Lord we were cloaked in darkness and the dense fog remained.  We made a clean escape.

Seamus Robinson finished relating the dramatic events and explained where they had taken Daddy’s body.  He made it clear that the IRA would help us with burial arrangements.

After repeated expressions of consolation, he picked up his cap and reluctantly left us, on his way to another town and a new foray in the name of the IRA and Irish freedom.

Riona and I were 14 years old the night we heard the story of our father’s death.  Daddy had sacrificed whatever remaining years he might have had with the family he loved so dearly.  But he also loved Ireland, and Ireland won the toss when he decided to join that band of