My father, Michael Patrick Ryan, once told me a story of when he was a boy in Ireland.
On July 13, 1883, when my father was twelve years old, he said goodbye to his grandparents, his parents and his brothers and sisters and boarded the SS Republic at Cobh in County Cork (which was renamed “Queenstown” after a visit by Queen Victoria in 1849[1]) to make the trip to New York City with a cousin and his family.
Prior to making this fantastic voyage, he lived with his mother and father and ten brothers and sisters in a small house in Cobh, on the southern coast of Ireland. Michael was the fifth son and the sixth child. His father Tim went to work every day and his mother Fanny washed clothes for the priests at the local rectory. They all went to Mass on Sundays, and Fanny spent most Fridays with her daughters and other ladies of the parish cleaning the church in preparation for funeral Masses or weddings held on weekends. Here is a story my father told.
“It happened on one such Friday, when my sister Brigit was ill that my mother asked me to help her bring food for a wake of a close neighbor. Mamai had been cooking all the day before and needed help with the many baskets of bread, cheese and meats. I agreed to help, even though I thought this was women’s work.
“There was a black drape hanging on the door and once inside, my mother went directly to the kitchen area with the food. I followed her, but was more interested in getting a look at the deceased. There were many people around, some crying softly and others were telling stories. All the men were drinking alcohol of some sort and some looked as if they had been at it for quite a while. I heard comments. “He was a good man.” “He was a good Da.” “He’s with our Granda now” and so on. I noticed all of the mirrors in the tiny house had been turned to the walls or covered.
I had deposited my basket of food, and while my mother was working with the women in the kitchen, I decided to go into the parlor. What happened there changed my life forever.
There was the body of a man dressed all in white and lying in a coffin on a long trestle table, sitting near the front window. The table had been covered with a white cloth and flowers were placed on it outside of the coffin. Folded material had been placed beneath his head to serve as a pillow and his eyes were closed with copper pennies on them. Women were walking all around the casket, keening and occasionally touching the deceased’s hands, which were folded across his chest. An officious and solemn-looking man slowly approached the coffin and when the women saw him they went to sit down. The man went to the window and opened it. He gave a meaningful look to everyone in the room and then withdrew. The women returned, but stayed only briefly on one side of the coffin before moving away again. I decided to pay my respects too.
I went to the deceased’s side with what I thought of as a respectful mien. As had the women before me, I proceeded to circle the coffin. I noticed everything about the dead man. He looked nothing like he did when he was alive; his skin was the color of paste, as were his lips. He was clean shaven. I touched his hand, which was cold and his skin felt rubbery. He looked artificial, I thought, and as I was pondering this, I continued moving around the coffin. Eventually I found myself directly in front of the open window. I paused there, still looking at the corpse of our friend and neighbor, and was suddenly alerted to a collective gasp going around the room. I thought something had happened, but when I looked up, all eyes were on me!
The stern looking chap that had opened the window came forward, grabbed my arm roughly and moved me away from that spot. I was confused and went to find my mother. The keening in the parlor was now intense and I felt I had committed a crime. My mother explained to me that the window was opened to allow the soul to leave the body. It was not permitted to walk or stand between the deceased and the open window during that time, because that could interrupt the progress of the soul’s departure. After two hours, the window would be closed to prevent the soul from returning to the body. I felt ashamed that I did not know this, being already ten years old, but my mother only touched my cheek and smiled. She said I was probably small enough that any grown man’s soul would likely be able to progress without fear of being prevented from doing so by the likes of me. I took no comfort in this comment.
Mamai said I could leave the wake as she would be sitting vigil through the night with our neighbors wife and his children. The funeral Mass was early the next morning. I did not leave, however, and stayed with them as well. I felt I had disrespected this family and their beliefs and was developing a growing interest in knowing more about this process in which we say farewell to our loved ones.”
It was not long after this that Michael Patrick had the opportunity to go to America. He met others who helped him realize his dream.
It all started with an open window.
[1] http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cobh. The name “Cobh” was restored in 1922.
On July 13, 1883, when my father was twelve years old, he said goodbye to his grandparents, his parents and his brothers and sisters and boarded the SS Republic at Cobh in County Cork (which was renamed “Queenstown” after a visit by Queen Victoria in 1849[1]) to make the trip to New York City with a cousin and his family.
Prior to making this fantastic voyage, he lived with his mother and father and ten brothers and sisters in a small house in Cobh, on the southern coast of Ireland. Michael was the fifth son and the sixth child. His father Tim went to work every day and his mother Fanny washed clothes for the priests at the local rectory. They all went to Mass on Sundays, and Fanny spent most Fridays with her daughters and other ladies of the parish cleaning the church in preparation for funeral Masses or weddings held on weekends. Here is a story my father told.
“It happened on one such Friday, when my sister Brigit was ill that my mother asked me to help her bring food for a wake of a close neighbor. Mamai had been cooking all the day before and needed help with the many baskets of bread, cheese and meats. I agreed to help, even though I thought this was women’s work.
“There was a black drape hanging on the door and once inside, my mother went directly to the kitchen area with the food. I followed her, but was more interested in getting a look at the deceased. There were many people around, some crying softly and others were telling stories. All the men were drinking alcohol of some sort and some looked as if they had been at it for quite a while. I heard comments. “He was a good man.” “He was a good Da.” “He’s with our Granda now” and so on. I noticed all of the mirrors in the tiny house had been turned to the walls or covered.
I had deposited my basket of food, and while my mother was working with the women in the kitchen, I decided to go into the parlor. What happened there changed my life forever.
There was the body of a man dressed all in white and lying in a coffin on a long trestle table, sitting near the front window. The table had been covered with a white cloth and flowers were placed on it outside of the coffin. Folded material had been placed beneath his head to serve as a pillow and his eyes were closed with copper pennies on them. Women were walking all around the casket, keening and occasionally touching the deceased’s hands, which were folded across his chest. An officious and solemn-looking man slowly approached the coffin and when the women saw him they went to sit down. The man went to the window and opened it. He gave a meaningful look to everyone in the room and then withdrew. The women returned, but stayed only briefly on one side of the coffin before moving away again. I decided to pay my respects too.
I went to the deceased’s side with what I thought of as a respectful mien. As had the women before me, I proceeded to circle the coffin. I noticed everything about the dead man. He looked nothing like he did when he was alive; his skin was the color of paste, as were his lips. He was clean shaven. I touched his hand, which was cold and his skin felt rubbery. He looked artificial, I thought, and as I was pondering this, I continued moving around the coffin. Eventually I found myself directly in front of the open window. I paused there, still looking at the corpse of our friend and neighbor, and was suddenly alerted to a collective gasp going around the room. I thought something had happened, but when I looked up, all eyes were on me!
The stern looking chap that had opened the window came forward, grabbed my arm roughly and moved me away from that spot. I was confused and went to find my mother. The keening in the parlor was now intense and I felt I had committed a crime. My mother explained to me that the window was opened to allow the soul to leave the body. It was not permitted to walk or stand between the deceased and the open window during that time, because that could interrupt the progress of the soul’s departure. After two hours, the window would be closed to prevent the soul from returning to the body. I felt ashamed that I did not know this, being already ten years old, but my mother only touched my cheek and smiled. She said I was probably small enough that any grown man’s soul would likely be able to progress without fear of being prevented from doing so by the likes of me. I took no comfort in this comment.
Mamai said I could leave the wake as she would be sitting vigil through the night with our neighbors wife and his children. The funeral Mass was early the next morning. I did not leave, however, and stayed with them as well. I felt I had disrespected this family and their beliefs and was developing a growing interest in knowing more about this process in which we say farewell to our loved ones.”
It was not long after this that Michael Patrick had the opportunity to go to America. He met others who helped him realize his dream.
It all started with an open window.
[1] http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cobh. The name “Cobh” was restored in 1922.