A Lifetime or Two

By Nancy Kennedy Lawrence

Ireland’s An Gorta Mór (The Great Hunger), beginning in the year of 1845, is well chronicled in history books, as is the centuries-old persecutions upon the Green Isle.

The story A Lifetime or Two is a heartwarming peek into the lives of Maddie and Finn, who are trying to survive in the year following 1845. During this time, the potato blight and ensuing crop failure ravaged the country and resulted in thousands of Irish countrymen dying of starvation and disease.

Maddie, an old woman of seventy-seven and in ill health, constantly prays her beads and trusts in the Divine that Finn, sixteen, will come to see that he must leave his homeland and go to America. Maddie fears that Finn will succumb to the great hunger plaguing the poorest of the Irish, whose sole means of sustenance is the potato, if he stays in Ireland. Finn valiantly defends his position to remain with her, as Maddie cannot travel with him, and he fears for her ability to care for herself.

The story traces the events of Finn and Maddie and all those who impact their lives in meaningful ways, leaving a timeless legacy traveling down through the ages to another generation. A Lifetime or Two is as revelatory today as it was in the year 1846.

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9781646549788

Book preview

Maddie

How was she to tell him? With a sudden chill, she pulled the wrap more tightly about her as she watched him sleep, storing the image in her heart. Tucking the covers here and there as she did when he was a child, the beads dropped from her hands. Motionless, she waited. The soft clatter hadn’t disturbed him. Relaxing, she cradled them in her palm, listening to his steady breathing, knowing he was worn out from the daily struggle. There wasn’t much time and he must be told, soon. Tucking the covers once more before leaving the room, she was mindful of the years they had been given. Closing the door softly, she paused, thinking of the past, wondering about the future. It was a cool March night in 1846, but how she wished it was still 1832, the year he had come to live with her and Malachi. Making the sign of blessing over his door, she turned with a heavy heart, awash with melancholy in the sure knowledge that the sun was setting on those treasured days and the best years of her life.

The full moon cast its golden glow upon the field just beyond her door. The night’s beauty was a welcome diversion from her troubled thoughts. Peering through the glass, she marveled at the view illuminated by the night’s bright orb. No stroke of the brush could ever capture the land’s unveiled rugged beauty, magic and mystery, beguiling the eye, stirring the heart. It was like a page out of a storybook, but it was her story and the story of all who cultivate the earth, plant a seed, pray for fair winds and just enough mist to coax forth the green bud. The raw material had been given, but the work of human hands exacted the produce. All the yesteryears of aching toil and persistent struggle could not deny the land’s unparalleled vibrancy or allure. It had been her whole life.

A sudden motion distracted her, streaking through the heavens like lightning, one brief moment, and then it was gone. Making a wish, she turned her attention to the guiding star of the Yeoman. Few things in life gave her such comfort. Her eyes watered as she lingered on a memory. The luminary hovered above the byre further up the hill, the silhouetted outline reminding her of midnight birthings and the caring for livestock that had once filled her days with meaning and purpose. All that remained now were old farm implements and bales of straw, vestiges of a time long past. Stepping outside, she heard the recurrent hooting of an owl. Below, the dark woods echoed the sounds of howling dogs. Most of the neighbors were gone, unable to take their poor creatures with them, thus the abandoned animals were left to fend for themselves. Running wild, the marauding pack took food wherever they could find it.

The times were uncertain. Every sunrise was met with apprehension and angst. Twilight was welcomed with quiet relief and the peace of knowing they were still here, together. Reaching into her pocket Maddie rolled her fingers over the worn beads. At the top of the hill beyond her view were the graves. Slowly, deliberately, she made the sign of blessing toward those of her family, who now slept in the dust.

Interrupted in her musings, there seemed to be a lot of commotion as the barking drew closer to the house. The dogs were in pursuit. Displaced peasants trod the road daily, seeking food and shelter. Some would take a momentary rest along the way, their limbs weak and weary, dust clouding their eyes, their bodies too worn to rise again. The unpleasant task fell to her poor grandson to dig a trench narrow and deep, safe from birds of prey and the scent of the hounds.

But the woods concealed their dark secrets of those who turned aside seeking shelter beneath the green trees, never to emerge, their remains hidden and unknown to all but the prowling scavengers. The gruesome thoughts were chilling. Pulling her shawl tighter for comfort more than warmth, she returned inside the cottage. Looking out again at the beauty of the land, it was difficult to fathom that these times were responsible for the terrible decision she had been compelled to make.

Along the road, a man with his cart stopped to listen, gauging the distance between himself and the creatures. Perhaps they sensed death, for surely they were a hungry lot. The sounds coming from the forest this night made his stomach churn with acridity. Talking loudly to deter them, he hastened his steps, knowing he could not last much longer. Pausing momentarily to catch his breath, he watched in wonderment and awe a star plunging through the heavens. How he yearned to lie down and rest, gazing at the beauty of the night, but he had to keep on. The sounds drew closer to the road as he rounded a bend. The bright sky illumined a dwelling with a byre above, at the top of the hill. A sliver of light shining through the cottage window beckoned with its inviting warmth and glow. Someone was still awake at this late hour. It was but a moment and the light went out. The weary traveler began the arduous climb up the long steep lane. There was no face at the window when the man with his cart passed the small cottage. The old woman was now taking her rest and lay reposed. The beads fell soundlessly through her fingers as the silent utterances upon each one winged their way to another realm, far and beyond the temporal and mundane. Snatches of sleep would be her lot, broken by frequent disruptions of a heart’s rapid fluttering. Despite the declining years in a body that was failing, there was no doubt that in one thing she would prevail no matter the storm clouds nor how vast the storm.

The man continued his steady climb, the howls a distant refrain as the pack retreated more deeply into the woods. Assiduously approaching the byre with faltering steps, he was at the door. Mustering all his waning strength, he pulled the wagon inside, did what must be done, and then collapsed into unconsciousness.

Finn

He was in the field, slowly walking behind the plough, the grazing livestock pastured just beyond. Nibbles, the cow, was watching over the fence, mooing and chewing. He laughed gleefully at how funny she looked. Opening his eyes to morning light flooding his bedroom, Finn was dismayed to find it was only a dream. He had no desire to get up and face another day of drudging uncertainty. He would much prefer to remain sleeping, dreaming of Nibbles. How he missed that old cow.

Reluctantly he dressed in the same clothes he had been sporting all week, each night tossing them in a heap on the floor, each morning struggling into the faded pants, stiff with dirt from the field. The crop failures had taken the only means of sustenance upon which thousands depended. Although he and Maddie continued to manage from what they had in storage, the reserves would not last forever. Hope had faded months ago that he would find any viable seed with which to plant, yet he was not ready to concede defeat despite the hard winter. Anything he would find this spring would have been destroyed by freezing. Why did he bother with this endless toil? But what else was there for him to do? Working the ground in the spring was all he had ever known. But since last year, there was nothing but an empty field. Gone were the years of preparing, planting, and tending the field, producing a plentiful harvest in the fall. It was the way of the farmer, and he could not give up. He couldn’t sit all day and carve; he needed to be moving and active. All he had was time, but as the days wore on and their reserves dwindled, it seemed even time was against them. Would he even know when to quit? Lightheaded, he had to sit down. His empty stomach rumbled. He needed to eat but was rationing what they had for fear of running out too soon.

Grandmother was always up early, so he was not surprised to see her there by the fireplace, rocking in her chair, beads in hand. They had been a gift on her wedding day from her mother, a family tradition passing from generation to generation. Many times broken from constant use, reinforcing string had been threaded through the links with multiple tiny knots binding them together. According to her, these beads had special graces attached, and she was determined her grandson would be the blessed beneficiary of each and every one. This would be the means by which Finn would make his way out of Ireland. An answer would come; she just knew.

Acknowledging her without interrupting her prayer, Finn briefly touched her arm as he slipped past. This morning she would not allow him to escape so easily, clutching his arm, saying, Finn, you have been all week in the field. You are working hard and growing too thin. You must eat before you go out or you will be dropping like a stone. We have enough to see us through and a considerable amount put away, now sit and eat. The appeal in her eyes was enough. It was true. He was hungry, and she didn’t need to ask twice. If he got sick, what would happen to her?

It was a wonder he hadn’t succumbed to the deadly fever before now with the number of pits he dug each week. It was a recurrent ordeal, the responsibility falling to him to bury those who perished along the way.

Okay, Grandmother, he conceded. Yes, I will have but a little. Serving himself, he ate slowly, savoring the nutrient-rich gruel.

Putting the empty dish in the basin, Maddie made another appeal. Come in at noon. I will have something prepared for you. Promise me.

Planting a kiss on the top of her gray head, he assured her, I promise. With a wave and an I love you, Finn was out the door. Shuffling to a window, Maddie watched as he headed to the field. It would be long hours of raking before he returned to the house. They both knew it was futile, but it was the only thing that satisfied his restless soul. Soon, even this would be taken from him. The winds of change would descend upon them later this day. She needed to prepare as she resumed her prayers, her beads falling gently, silently, faithfully.

The mist was lifting, and the small birds had woken up, the morning doves, warbler, and finch. How he loved the sounds of nature and the twittering of the birds. Breathing deeply, he took solace from the beauty of the hills, basking in the crisp March air.

Unearthing a number of small lumpers, he dared to hope. Picking them up one by one, his fingers sunk into the cool brown ooze, the odious smell making his stomach churn. Nauseous from too little food and the smell of potato rot, a bilious fluid rose up, scorching his throat, causing him to cough and gag. Pitching the useless tubers far into the field, he shook his head dismally as his quest for healthy seed was as unrealistic as finding a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. The lingering odor persisted. How well he remembered the overwhelming stench of a field of diseased tubers in ’45. Hours of muscle-wrenching labor finally saw the last of them carted up behind the byre, where they were dumped into a huge pit. It had been a devastating loss.

His bandaged hand began to throb and ache. Peering across the road, he could see the rubble of charred timber still there on the ground, a painful reminder of what happened to those less fortunate than he and Maddie. Life had been forever changed for his friends when they could not meet their rent. A few weeks back, Maddie had sent him early to bring bread to some neighbors. Within minutes of returning to the byre, where he had been fashioning a new seat for Maddie’s rocker, long plumes of billowing smoke filled the air throughout. It was the McBurney place. With bucket in hand, he raced down the hill, shouting to his grandmother. On his way past the cottage, she was there calling out to him, No, Finn, no. They have gone.

Breathless he stopped, exclaiming with great urgency, Grandmother, their hut! Their hut is on fire! I need to help.

No, Finn, she repeated emphatically.

Confused he asked, But why?

They were here earlier, Finn, to say goodbye.

Goodbye? Where did they go?

Maddie explained as gently as she could, They could not make rent and so are going to a workhouse.

Then why is their hut burning?

With a deep sigh, Maddie replied, The land agent was here. The McBurneys did not have enough to make the rent. They begged for more time, but the agent refused. They had no choice but to leave, allowed only to gather what they could carry, stopping here briefly on their way. Perhaps it was just as well you were not here. The landowner has taken the land back, and the agents have just now set their place afire so that the McBurneys can never return.

Remembering that day, Maddie had reached into her pocket, withdrawing a small package, handing it to him, saying, Liam and Daniel asked me to give this to you.

His sadness far surpassed any delight in receiving a gift from his old friends gone without goodbye, yet he was glad they had remembered him. Taking the package from her with a subtle nod, he despondently returned to the byre. It made him laugh when he saw the roughly hewn slingshot with the scribbled note, Made this for your birthday, not as nice as yours. Don’t forget us, Liam and Daniel.

His birthday was not until December, so he suspected they were likely unable to finish the small catapult as they wanted. Their carvings always reflected refinement and definition, while he struggled with a straight edge and a faltering hand. However, when he was twelve and with Malachi’s help, he had carved fine slingshots for the three of them. Setting rocks and tins high on old fence posts, they would spend hours firing small projectiles at the targets, honing their skills, improving their aim, having been repeatedly warned not to turn their weapons on anything that moved or there would be severe repercussions. Finn was tempted, but knew he would be found out and would indeed suffer the dire consequences. The McBurney brothers had learned the hard way, and remembering it brought a rueful smile. How he missed his childhood friends, their amiable nature and good humor. Never would he forget their adventurous escapades and jaunts. Would he ever see them again?

It wasn’t their fault the crops had failed. How could the agents do this? The McBurneys had been hard workers, profiting from an abundant yield, always meeting their rent until now.

Knowledgeable of his country’s rich history, Finn laid these present-day horrors to the savage events of the 1600s. His was a fervent belief that those times attributed to the calamity of these times, that even now, after two centuries, Ireland continued to suffer the terrible consequences of a tyrant’s barbaric march. The perfidious ghost of an English marauder haunted still the green meadows and rising hills where once thrived a productive farming culture, strong and prosperous upon the land despite England as their head. The march of terror throughout Ireland with the horrific bludgeoning of men, women, and children resulted in the takeover and confiscation of agrarian lands, the graphic images forever emblazoned upon Ireland’s collective memory. Laying this present-day carnage at Cromwell’s ghostly boot, he raised his fist in fiery indignation, bashing the door lintel like a hammer, shattering the flimsy wooden framework, incurring a long ragged splinter deep into the tender side of his hand. Unable to remove it in its entirety, he had to confess his misdeed to Maddie.

Removing the splinter without admonishment, she urged Finn back to the byre with, "You need to repair the lintel. They will be here soon enough collecting the rent and assessing for damages. As soon as you make the repair, you need