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Feedback: Family & Friends
January 21, 2010 -- From Dave McGuire
Polly: You asked for the "kitten" story. You may get other replies that differ (shocking in the Fitz clan) but mine is in two parts:
1. The Letter. Grandpa Fitzsimmons' grandfather Simon Fitzsimons (the "m" was added later) wrote a letter in the late 1890s describing, among other things, the basis for the family migration to the U.S. Seems that during the mid-19th Century years, Ireland had any number of properties owned by English landlords, some of whom had essentially abandoned them, and the local occupants paid an "administrator" in Dublin to look the other way . These families were squatters in the true sense. One such property contained the Fitzsimons clan as well as another named Plunkett (a common Irish name). At some point, the families apparently agreed, with the connivance of the administrator, to forge and file phony deeds to the property. (As Rita used to say, "Typical Irish. Stiff-necked prudes about so many things, but not fraud.")
Enter the kitten. The Fitz cat had a litter, and one wandered over onto the Plunkett holdings. The Plunketts found it, the Fitzes demanded its return, the Plunketts refused and "hard feelings arose". Surprise. It gets a bit murky after that, but at least according to Simon, the Plunketts, who apparently orchestrated the land grab, aced the Fitzs out of their share and ultimately the Fitzsimons clan decamped for America. Hence it might be said that you, I and the rest owe our existence to that wandering kitten.
2. The Visit. In 2001 my son Jack and I went to Ireland, armed with a copy of Simon's letter. After the usual swing around the island, we ended up at a village called Mount Nugent in County Cavan, the place identified by Simon as the scene of the crime. It's a tiny place, and we poked around in the tavern and general store, learning very little. Then the postmistress directed us up the road to St. Bridget's. The priest's family has been in the area for generations, she said, and he might be the most knowledgeable. We found the church and a small bungalow next door, which we assumed was the rectory. We knocked for awhile. No answer.
We were leaving when the door popped open and this apparition clouded in cigarette smoke appeared. Meet Father Francis X. O'Reilly, thin, older and totally disagreeable.
"What do you want?", he snarled. We started to explain. He cut us off.
"Typical Americans. Come wandering around and expect us to find their 'roots' just like that, etc."
Irish priest be damned, I'd had enough. "Look, Father, sorry to consume your precious time. We have a letter that we were looking to authenticate, but we'll go elsewhere".
"Letter? Why didn't you say so? Come on in. Call me Frank."
We walked into a scene that would make a health inspector shudder. "Squalid" would be an understatement. He literally swept aside stuff on his kitchen table, had us sit down and put on a kettle for tea, pulling some cups off the counter. Jack looked at the cups in alarm. I shrugged. "What can we do?"
Frank then studied the letter carefully, mumbling as he read. "Um-hmm. That's right." "I don't think that's the right location." He hauled out the old baptismal register and matched up names. Of course, he was quick to point out that the name "McGuire" was incorrect. "It's Maguire". Finally, he snapped the book shut. "Let's go."
"Where?"
"Out to the old Kilbride cemetery, of course. It's been abandoned for years."
So off we went in his mini-rattletrap, with the windows closed and the inside of the car blue with cigarette smoke. Jack's eyes were actually watering. Anyway, the cemetery was in sad disrepair and we learned little.
When we returned. Frank took one more look at the letter and his brow furrowed. Pointing to the kitten/Plunkett entry, he asked, "Have you shown this letter to anyone else in the area?"
"Nope, you're the only one. Why do you ask?"
"You see, there are still Plunketts living in the area, and they might get angry."
As we left, Jack looked at me. "Dad, that was 150 years ago. He can't actually mean that someone would take offense today, can he?"
"Welcome to Ireland, son." |
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