I’ve never felt a strong desire to connect with my Irish roots. Kinda odd, considering that I’m 100 proof Irish but it just never meant that much to me. Then the Pats schedule came out and they are playing the Rams in London in two weeks, and the next thing you know I’m going to the British Isles.
So my Dad’s father died when he was 16. Obviously I never knew him. His mother lived till I was 14 but she was an ornery old bird and didn’t ever want to talk about the ‘old country.’ (Kinda strange, as she got older she reverted to Gaelic and I didn’t understand a word the woman said.) My mother’s dad died when I was one. Her mother lived till I was in my 20’s but she was too busy being the curator of the Medford branch of the Vatican Museum to waste any time talking about Ireland. So I never really had a strong feeling for being Irish.
Years ago Al and I went to Ellis Island. I will never forget coming around a corner and seeing a wall sized picture of an Irish family gathered around their home. It shocked me to my soul. At least 20 people gathered around a hole in the ground. That was home. A dirt floored, dirt roofed, hole in the ground. That winter we went to Rome and while she marveled at the Coliseum I kept thinking about my ancestors living in dirt holes while the Romans built an empire.
So I started doing some investigating. Turns out I’m pretty good at digging up that sort of stuff. My paternal grandfather was relatively easy. He had two relatively unusual names. My grandmother was Bridget Duffy. Plug “Bridget Duffy, Ireland 1890” into a data base and your computer may start smoking. But I found him. He was born in Carrick on Suir, in County Killkenny in 1888 and worked as a slate miner. He arrived in Boston on May 7, 1914 with the comparatively flush sum of $69 in his pocket. He was drafted into the United States Army in 1917, went to France with the 305th Battalion, spent 78 days in the trenches on the front, fought in 6 major battles and earned United States citizenship for his troubles.
I’d like to introduce you guys to my grandfather, Maurice Francis Comerford.
After the war he came back to Boston, married, had kids and worked as an iron worker. Maurice was killed building the Tobin Bridge, knocked off the steel by a crane. Last week I found a plaque to him at the Local 7 hall.
I'm going home tonight, to find out who I truly am.
