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A Cottage In Donegal

Mary Doherty’s Story

Eva Doherty Gremmert

Illustrated by
Rosie Doherty Gremmert

A Cottage In Donegal, Mary Doherty’s Story

By Eva Doherty Gremmert

Copyright 2011 Eva Doherty Gremmert

Smashwords Edition

ISBN 978-1-4658-3499-7 EPUB format

This book is available in a print edition.
ISBN 978-0-578-08012-3


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Authors Note to Reader
I have included resources located at the end of this ebook
that have been a help to other readers. Check out the Irish
Herbal Medicinal Remedies, the Family Group Record for
The Dohertys, Local Map of Carndonagh and Ballyloskey,
Map of Inishowen and Derry and the Glossary.

To my dad.
You took me to Ireland for the first time.
I miss you.

Contents

Acknowledgements
Foreword
Chapter 1 – Paddy Is Gone – 1919
Chapter 2 – I Write My Story – 1929
Chapter 3 – My Birth – Spring 1847
Chapter 4 – Good Times Begin – 1851
Chapter 5 – My Childhood
Chapter 6 – Cutting Turf
Chapter 7 – I Enjoy Walking
Chapter 8 – Making Clothing
Chapter 9 – Thatching
Chapter 10 – Harvest – 1859
Chapter 11 – Musical Instruments
Chapter 12 – The Decision – 14 April 1869
Chapter 13 – Our Wedding –15 May 1869
Chapter 14 – Expecting Our Baby – 1870
Chapter 15 – Horses – 1874
Chapter 16 – The Shirt Factory – 1880
Chapter 17 – The Stations – Spring 1885
Chapter 18– The Music Left – 1890
Chapter 19 – I Become A Granny – 1894
Chapter 20 – Anne’s Wedding – 1896
Chapter 21 – Our John Leaves – 1898
Chapter 22 – A Fair Day – 22 May 1899
Chapter 23 – St. Mary’s School – 1900
Chapter 24 – The Railroad Came – 1901
Chapter 25 – Photographs – 1903
Chapter 26 – Eugene Left – Summer 1905
Chapter 27 – My Father Died – 1905
Chapter 28 – A New House – 1909
Chapter 29 – The Last Weans Leaving – 1911
Chapter 30 – Rosie’s Drawing – 1912
Chapter 31 – Kate Visiting – 1914
Chapter 32 – Nora Drowned – 1916

Chapter 33 – Women Suffragettes – 1918
Chapter 34 – Our Fiftieth Anniversary
Chapter 35 – Independence –1920/21
Chapter 36 – A Letter From Rosie – 1924
Chapter 37 – Final Comments – 1932
Epilogue
Bibliography
Irish Herbal Medicinal Remedies
Family Group Record for The Dohertys
Local Map of Carndonagh and Ballyloskey
Map of Inishowen and Derry
Glossary




Portraits of Paddy and Mary Doherty
taken in 1903, they hang on Eva’s front room wall.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

It would be impossible for me to mention everyone
who has helped me with the research for this book. I am
eternally grateful to each and every person who has guided
me.

First I must mention my wonderful husband Arden,
who carefully helped me prepare the final manuscript with his
exacting proofreading. If you find anything, you must tell
him. I mention with gratitude the time and patience shown
me by three cousins: Josie “Paul”, Susan from Pendleton, and
Liam “Derry Bill”. Throughout their lives, they kept our
history. While they were still with us, they were patient with
me as I wrote down everything they were telling me. I miss
my visits with them and think of them fondly still.

Cousin Roger from Blackhorse was the first to
mention that ‘someone’ should write the family history back
in 1976 and challenged me to do it. Thank you Roger, it has
been a great journey. His sister Martha still continues to
collect pictures, stories and artifacts so that we can be
connected to our Irish history and family heritage.

Cousins in Ireland, Oregon, New York and California
have assisted me in gathering the stories. Here’s to all the
Dohertys, including, John and Moira “Saddler”, Joe “Paul”
and Mary, Mary Christina and Luke, Rosemary “Paul”, John
and Gemma, and many others. The Book Shop, Carndonagh
has the best collection of Irish books, including many hard to
find ones. I appreciate their help and the gentle suggestions of
other books I might want to look at. I have gathered a fine
collection. My reading inspired my writing.

Irish historians and academics have been very
encouraging, especially Sean Beattie, historian and editor of
the Donegal Historical Society Annual. Irish storyteller and
author, Hazel McIntyre, taught me valuable lessons about the
creative process and the discipline of writing.

Over the past year, I invited several close friends to
read the manuscript before publishing. The insight I received
from each reader has been invaluable. I am grateful for their
time, thoughtful comments and suggestions.

The photographs are from our many family trips to the
auld sod. My sister Rosie is a very talented artist. Her
drawings of the cottage, the ship and the woman spinning are
incredible. I know that you will enjoy them.

Most of all, I want to thank Mary herself for the legacy
that she has passed on to all of us. Her story needed to be
told.

FOREWORD

This book, “A Cottage in Donegal,” is a work of
historical fiction. It is the story of Mary Doherty, my great-
grandmother, who lived her entire life in the same townland in
County Donegal, Ireland. In my own childhood home, the
large portraits of Mary and her husband Paddy, taken in 1903
hung on the wall of the front room. Mary has always
intrigued me. After I married, my father gave me the
portraits. Now they hang on the wall by my own front door.

This book, written in memoir form, is from Mary’s
perspective. There are no surviving letters or journals from
Mary herself. I have created an entertaining, historically
accurate story of the life of a typical woman in rural Ireland in
the 19th century from family stories and the remaining
artifacts from Mary’s life. Over the past 25 years, I have made
multiple trips each year to Ireland for research. Many people
are intrigued with Post-Famine Ireland. As I reviewed my
own extensive library, as well as the collections of others, I
discovered that there were not many books written from a
woman’s perspective. I decided to write a book about the
time period in which Mary Doherty lived. During her
lifetime, Ireland changed dramatically and my story reflects
those changes.

My great-grandparents posterity now numbers over
600 people. Their legacy circles the globe, from Ireland,
England, Wales, Scotland, Canada, and the US, including
New York, Washington DC, Nevada, Colorado, Alaska,
California, Oregon, and Washington. Over the years, as I
have met each of my cousins descended from Mary and
Paddy, I have come to recognize the common values of
family, hard work, and integrity that have been passed down
through the generations regardless of the different cultures in
which we have lived. I have self-published five family
history books. This is my first work of fiction.

Eva Doherty Gremmert – March 2011

night, he turned his face toward the sound of my moving about
the room.

Sighing almost in a whisper, he called out my name,
“Mary, come on over here to me.”

I stepped closer and took his hands in mine. Although
blind, his eyes seemed to seek my face.

“I am so very, very tired Mary, bone weary and cold.”

I tried to make light of it.

“The weather has been that bad this last while, a good rest
is what you need.”

He got very quiet and I barely heard him say, “I think that
very soon, I will have a long, long rest. This evening after our tea
while you and Paul’s Mary were cleaning up, I heard the banshee.”

I told him not to speak thus, that it had been the wind
whipping around the corner of the house. He again sighed, settled
down into the bed and I thought he had fallen asleep.

As I brushed the floor, prepared the fire coals for night and
turned down the lamp I thought about the traditions and legends
surrounding the banshee. She is a fairy woman, an omen of death.
She is thought to be an ancestral messenger appointed to forewarn
members of the five major ancient Irish families. Since all
O’Dochartaighs are descendants of Niall of the Nine hostages,
we are eligible to receive this warning.

The banshee’s appearance is not always the same. Usually
she appears as an ugly, frightening hag, but she has been known to
appear as a stunningly beautiful woman of any age. The hag can
also appear as a washer-woman, seen washing the blood stained
clothes of those who are about to die. She will wail around a house
if someone in the house is about to die. This is what Paddy said
that he heard. I dismissed my growing fear as nonsense and made
ready for bed.

As I carefully climbed into our bed, he startled me when
he spoke.

“I want you to know that I have had a good life, Mary.
You have been a good wife to me for all these many years.”

Never before had I heard such talk from my husband. Then
I snuggled down into the place that had been mine since the night of
our marriage.

I patted his cheek and said,

“Aye Paddy, we have had a good life together. Good night
to ye.”

Those were the last word we spoke to one another. When I
awoke in the morning, he was already cold. I had missed his
passing. I sat on the edge of the bed, with my back to him, silent
tears streaming down my face and falling onto the bedclothes. I had
yet to call out to Paul and Mary, to give them the sad news.

I took these few moments for my own, alone in my grief,
the loneliness overwhelming me. I knew that as soon as it was
known the busy-ness that surrounds death would start.

Paddy and I had lived through so much together. I had
birthed our twelve children and we had buried two of them as
weans. We watched over and loved the remaining ten and mourned
them in turn as they each left our home and hearth to travel to
America. We rejoiced with the two who returned to rear their
families near and felt heartache for the rest of our grandchildren
who would never know our voices.

I waited until the tears stopped, and taking a deep breath,
I stood. Turning to look back, I noticed that he looked at peace.
Tenderly I kissed his brow, smoothed the bedclothes around him
and went to find my son Paul.

Within a few hours, Mary Ann McGuinness, the handy-
woman from over the road came to help Mary and me wash his
body and shave his face. Paul moved the kitchen table into the
upper room and placed chairs around the house. With Paddy
dressed in his best clothes, he was laid out on the table. The mirrors
had been covered and the clock stopped indicating the time of
death. The door to the cottage was opened which signaled to the
neighbours that all had been made ready.

The wake was on for Monday and Tuesday with the funeral
on Wednesday. During that time the coffin was prepared.
Friends and relations kept coming to the house at all hours and

we welcomed them as was customary, with tay and bread, pipe
tobaccy and poitin.

Paul’s Mary took care of all the arrangements. My job
was to sit in the upper room next to Paddy and accept the kind
words of those who arrived. Since our bedroom was just next to
the upper room where Paddy was laid out, Mary would send me
|upstairs to the weans room to have a wee rest when I appeared
tired.

Over the two days of the wake my rosary was never in its
usual place hanging on the wall next to the St. Brigid’s cross. It
was to be found either in my hands or in someone else’s, and
every so often one of the family would lead us all in a decade of
the rosary.

Sometimes my mind wanders when I say the rosary. I
mind when I was wee, Father William McCafferty, our Parish
Priest, scolding me and telling me that I should be prayerfully
meditating upon the mysteries of faith.

It was before my First Communion, and I was kneeling in
the chapel next to Mammy. I remember him standing there so
tall and imposing, in his long black robe, his stern face turned
toward me, shaking his finger rhythmically as he spoke,

“Traditionally, reciting the Rosary means praying the full
five decades while meditating on a particular mystery of faith.
These mysteries are organised into three groups that are tied to
certain days of the week. The “Joyful Mysteries” are recited on
Mondays and Saturdays, the “Sorrowful Mysteries” are recited on
Tuesdays and Fridays, the “Glorious Mysteries” are recited on
Wednesdays and Sundays. What day is it wee Mary?”

I was so overcome that I could not mind the day. No
answer came. Of course it was Sunday, that is the day we went to
the chapel for Mass, but I could not speak. I was so shy and in
awe of the Priest.

“See that you remember, wee Mary, see that you remember,”
he said, as he continued to the front of the chapel and into his
chamber to prepare for the celebration of the Mass.

The set pattern of the Rosary has always been a comfort
to me, especially “The Ave Maria” or “Hail Mary” prayer as it
reminds me of the Blessed Virgin, Our Lady. Although when
formally reciting the Rosary we say the prayers in Latin, when I
am on my own, I pray in English.

Hail Mary, full of grace,

the Lord is with thee;

blessed are you among women, and

blessed is the fruit of thy womb.

Holy Mary, Mother of God,

pray for us sinners now and

at the hour of our death.

Normally I prefer the “Joyful Mysteries”, even if it is not
the right day. But during the wake, I found comfort in the
“Sorrowful Mysteries.” I could not see any joy in front of me at all.

It seemed I was saying the same things to everyone who
came to the wake,

“Yes, he will be missed.”

“Oh, he did have a good long life.”

“Other than the blindness, he was very healthy.”

“What a blessing that he passed so quickly and did not
suffer.”

These are the very same words that I had said myself to
others before, in other homes, at other wakes, only this time it
was my Paddy who was gone. My Paddy who would not be there
that evening to discuss who had been at the corpse-house. My
Paddy who would not be there to share in the gossip of the
neighbourhood. The words might have been the same, but the
day was so different. I found meself wanting to turn to him and
share a story or a secret smile. I wondered if I would ever laugh
again.

Our Curate, Father Daniel Reid, came up on Monday
evening to pay his respects. He is a kind man who has worked in

the parish for some time now. He probably will become Parish
Priest some day. He mentioned to Paul that the Parish Priest
would come up to the house the next evening to go over all the
arrangements for the funeral.

Our Parish Priest Father Philip O’Doherty did come up on
Tuesday evening. He arrived with great pomp and ceremony.
There is such a spirit about him that he seemed to fill the entire
space of our upper room.

“The remains,” he said, “should be prepared to leave the
house by half ten. The pall-bearers will carry the coffin down
Ballyloskey Road to the chapel with the funeral following behind.
The mass will begin about 11 o’clock with the burial just afterward
in the graveyard. Does that sound all right to ye”?

I wanted to shout that there was nothing all right about any
of this, but I just nodded while Paul shook his hand and thanked
him for coming. Many times in the past, I have noticed the grieving
widows in the front of the chapel, flanked by their sons.

I never understood until now how much you can lean on the
strength of your children when you do not feel like you can stand on
your own.

Everyone said the funeral mass was beautiful. I agreed with
them, of course, although I do not seem to mind any details from the
mass. The weather was so very cold and blustery as we walked
down to the chapel, the rain soaking my hat and coat.

The chapel was already filled with people and I do
remember the smell of incense as we entered the chapel doors
following the coffin. As was custom, I stopped at the Holy Water
receptacle just inside the doors. Leaning my left hand on the cold
stone wall for strength, and dipping my finger in the water, I made
the sign of the cross with my right hand. The temperature of the
water, normally a shock to my hand and head, barely registered.
I walked numbly up the aisle toward the altar rail.

They set Paddy down at the front of the chapel and the
Priest directed me to sit in the front pew to the left. I do not mind
ever sitting so close to the altar before. The pews at the front of

the chapel with the doors on the sides were reserved for the
benefactors who had paid money to the church.

We always sat at the back, the women on the left side,
the men on the right. I know that during the mass, my son Paul
was on one side of me and my brother-in-law Willie Marley on
the other. I do mind sitting there at the front of the church thinking
that it had been many long years since I had Paul by my side for
mass.

The last time was just after his First Communion. Paul
still sat with the girls and me until one Sunday, Paddy’s brother,
Big Shan, stopped in the aisle just beside us, leaning across me,
he whispered to Paul, “I see that you are still sitting with the
women.”

He then walked up a few rows, genuflected and went into
his seat on the right. I remember that Paul hunched himself
forward, grabbed his hat, and without looking me in the eye,
quickly joined his uncle on the other side. That was the last time
Paul was by my side until during Paddy’s mass.

It was about a year later in the spring, after many a Sunday
of looking longingly across the chapel at his older brother Paul,
Eugene left me. He joined the men on the right side, even though
he was still a couple of years shy of his First Communion.

From the time of my First Communion so long ago, I
have always enjoyed looking towards the front of our chapel
which was built in 1826. But during Paddy’s mass, I wanted to
look everywhere else except at the pine box set on the supports in
the middle of the chapel.

The beautiful ornately carved wood that made up our altar
and sacristy always commands my attention. I think that it is the
perfect combination of ornate decoration that inspires worship
and functional simplicity of design that inspires humility. That
lovely altar was the centerpiece of our worship. The white linen
cloth covering, which symbolizes purity of thought and action,
was the perfect backdrop for the Priest to offer up the mystery of
the Mass.

During Paddy’s Mass, my mind wandered. I tried to
imagine what it had been like before our chapel was built, during
the time a Priest could be killed for celebrating Mass. Mammy
told me that during the Penal times, the people would gather at


The Mass Rock in the Ancient Oak Grove, Carndonagh

the Mass Rocks. These were local, specifically appointed places,
usually in a wood or on a secluded remote hill, where the rock
would become the altar.

People would gather for hours before the Priest was set to
arrive. Mammy said that folks would always walk purposefully
but not quickly enough to appear anxious. Even the weans knew
not to disclose where and when the Mass was to be said. It was
important not to travel in too large a group. It took much planning
and forethought to bring our spiritual leaders to the people during
that time. Lookouts were appointed to watch for danger and give
a warning so everyone could flee if necessary. For most Catholics,
it required sacrifice and thus strengthened our faith.

Under these extreme conditions, people were lucky if they
were able to take communion every month or so, whereas we are
able to attend Mass now as often as we desire. We are very
blessed.

The Mass Rock that Mammy showed me is on the other
side of Carndonagh, past the St. Patrick’s cross, and on towards
Ballyliffin a short distance. Surrounded by an old oak forest, it is
completely secluded. Mammy said that over 300 people could
gather there for the celebration of the Mass and the British
soldiers never did discover them. Today, it is so peaceful and
quiet there in the forest that it is hard to imagine those difficult
times long ago.

We were taught from the time we were wee to appreciate
and revere our chapel because we were truly blessed to have the
freedom to gather and worship in the manner we believe is right.

In our chapel, the twelve stained glass windows were
imported from Italy, but the fourteen Stations of the Cross were
hand carved locally. I knew without looking that there were
twenty-five rows of pews on each side of the chapel as well as
seven rows of pews up in the balcony. I had counted them many
times before.

During Paddy’s Mass, I could not make myself look
around at those who were attending, but I knew that if I did turn
my head, I would see our families and loved ones, our friends and
our neighbours. Everyone who cared for us was there, it should
have been a comfort, yet I felt so alone without my Paddy.

I looked ahead at the statue on the right of the altar. It is
Our Lady with her hands outstretched in love. The statue to the
left of the altar is St. Joseph holding the Christ Child. The lamps
hanging from the ceiling had all their candles lit and the gold door
to the Holy of Holies behind the altar glinted in the flickering
candle light.

Everything is always so clean and tidy, and nothing is
ever out of place in the chapel. The three steps leading up to the
altar from behind the altar rail seemed to draw my thoughts
heavenward and, for a moment, I felt as if I knew that Paddy was

up there with the angels, looking down on all of us gathered for
his Funeral Mass. I knew that he was pleased that he could see
again, since the blindness had plagued him for so long.

The next memory I have is of the men lowering him into
the ground and removing the ropes from under his casket. Then,
as was our tradition, people filed past me as I stood by his grave,
grasping my hands as they told me how sorry they were for my
loss. I kept looking out past the chapel to the Derry Road and
wished that I could let it take me anywhere but where I was at
that moment.

I do not mind how I had gotten from the chapel out into
the graveyard. Afterward, up at the house, I was worried about
this gap in my memory and confided this to my sister Maggie.
She assured me that sometimes when we have a great shock, we
do not always mind the details. She said that it might come back
to me later after some time has passed and her words were a great
comfort to me.

And so I lie here tonight remembering the many nights
gone by. Those first nights of our passion awakening, slumber
forgotten as we bonded our souls together. Later there were
nights when, after caring for one of the children, I would quietly
creep into the warmth next to him trying not to awaken him.

At the end of other nights I would awaken to the first light
of dawn and feel his warmth still lingering on the bedclothes after
he had left to tend some of the livestock. But tonight as the tears
roll down my cheeks onto my pillow, I realise that there will never
again be his warmth in our bed.

As the days go by, I will probably let the grandchildren
take turns sleeping with Granny. It will be a treat for them. But
for now, this night, I will remember as I lie here alone and await
the dawn.

Chapter 2

I Write My Story

September 1929

I have decided that I will write the story my life.

Last week as I was cleaning out my knitting basket, I
found the papers that I had written on at the time of Paddy’s death,
folded up in the bottom. Reading what I had written brought back
the memories all fresh in my mind.

That was such a difficult time for me; almost 10 years have
passed and time does soften the pain somehow. I got to thinking
that perhaps some of my children or grandchildren will be interested
in my story after I am gone. I am especially thinking about the
weans out in Oregon whom I have never met.

Sitting here by the light of the fire, as I ponder my life of
more than 80 years, my mind is full of so many memories. Some
of them bring a smile to my face and others bring a tear to my eye.
I canna possibly write about everything that happened in my life,
but I do want to chronicle the highlights. I only hope that I can get
it all down before it is my time to go.

So this morning at breakfast, I asked to go to town with
Paul. When he went for the messages, I purchased a wee blank
book from Doherty’s, the newsagents. It is one of those that the

children use at school and has a hard black cover on the outside
with lined paper inside.

Mrs. Doherty at the shop assumed that the book was for
one of Paul’s younger boys: John, Vincey or Harry. I could not
tell her the truth and so I just agreed with her. I am not sure why,
but I have the book hidden along with a pen in my knitting basket
next to the fire.

I have not told anyone of my project. As I sit here remembering
the days long gone, and when no one is about, I will write
down my memories.



Mary Doherty in 1903

Chapter 3

My Birth

Spring 1847

Iwas born in the middle of the Great Hunger. At
the time, no one knew what a defining time the years of 1846-
1848 would be to the people of Ireland. It was not until years
afterward that this particular famine period was called The Famine
or The Great Hunger.

Folks where I was born knew that the potato crop had failed
again, but they pulled together and worked hard, so it was not as
great a tragedy to us as it was to those in other parts of Ireland. Just
north of our town, there is a special thatched cottage alongside the
Malin road called the Brachán House. Brachán is cooked corn
gruel. In Ireland, corn is a general term for grains and cereal crops,
typically oats. From 1846 to 1849 there was a very large pot of
meal cooked everyday at the Brachán House to feed anyone who
had a need. Maize or Indian Corn, imported from America, was
difficult to grind in our local mills. It did not gain popularity as
cattle feedstuff until later.

The meal was supplied by the Clonmany and Donagh
Relief Committee. The government had organised these local

relief committees in an effort to encourage local responsibility in
relieving those in need. People would walk for miles, if they were
destitute, to receive a ladle full of gruel in their cup. The meal was
portioned out based on the number of people in each house. The
daily ration consisted either of one pound of meal (ground flour or
grain) or one quart of soup thickened with a portion of meal.
Children below the age of nine were allotted half rations.

The townland of Ballyloskey where I was born is a mile
outside the town of Carn. Officially on the map, the town is listed
as Carndonagh, but everyone calls it Carn. Located in the middle of
the Inishowen Peninsula in our lovely county of Donegal, Carn is
the area’s market town.

Our road, the Ballyloskey Road, begins just down on the
Derry Road a little ways off from the Workhouse. Ballyloskey
means “townland of fire.” It probably was so named because of the
ancient lime kilns in Upper Ballyloskey. The smoke from the kilns
could be seen for miles and did look as if the townland was on fire.

The road winds up into the rolling Donegal hills and ends in
the bog fields of the area called Upper Ballyloskey. Our house was
about half way up, where the road takes a sharp turn to the right past
our front door and around the back of the house.

On a clear day, I could sit on our front door step and, turning
my head from the left to right, see past Slieve Snacht (the Snowy
Mountain) all the way to Glentogher, straight out Trawbreaga Bay
to the Isle of Doagh and on to Knockamany Bends. Over to the
right was just a bit of a view of Culdaff Bay. Some days though, if
the weather was bad, I could barely see Fanny Canny’s field in front
of the house.

My father always said that my birth occurred during the
lambing of 1847. It had been seven years since Mammy had
carried a child to term. Out in the field behind our house, while
assisting the ewes birthing the lambs, he was worried that whole
day and night as Mammy was birthin’ me in the cottage.

He remembered that it was bitter cold and he was not only
worried about losing some ewes and lambs that night, but he was
worried about losing Mammy and me. Granny Kate was helping,
along with my two aunties and the handy-woman, Margaret
Callahan.

Everyone was relieved when my puny cry broke the silence
of the dawn. They say that I was scrawny but strong. I guess that
describes me still. As a wean, my hair was very light, almost
colourless and as I grew older, it darkened into a heathery brown
colour.

Every summer my hair would lighten with the sun and then
be darker for the winter. My father said that my eyes never changed
colour from the first time I looked up at him. He often told me that
in them he saw the colour of a summer sky.

As is traditional, they named me Mary after my father’s
mammy, Granny Mary. She was Mary married to Hugh Doherty.
No one minds her maiden name anymore. Her husband was Hugh
and when they married she was called Mary Hudie.

Because practically everyone around here is Doherty or
McLaughlin, with the way of Irish nicknames, we are known as the
Hudies. I am wee Mary Hudie although my proper name is Mary
Doherty. Even after my marriage to Big Paddy Newman, whose
proper name is Patrick Doherty, I was still called wee Mary Hudie.

It can be confusing as there are no set rules to nicknames.
Although we are Dohertys, those in our house are known as the
Hudies, except my father. He is known as John Shoemaker because
he is the shoemaker. Johnny Tailor lives up the hill and John Cloth
is over the fields. You can guess what they do for work.

Nicknames can also be given for a physical feature or for
where you live. You can have known someone your whole life and
unless you attend their wedding or the baptism of their child or even
their funeral, you may never know their proper surname.

My father came from down by Quigley’s Point. It is about
ten miles from where I was born. He had come up to Carn

on a Fair Day and had seen my mother. He often told us weans that
he could never forget her, so he had to marry her. We would all
laugh at the thought of our parents falling in love.

It is customary for the sons to retain the lease on the land,
but Mammy was the last one of her house left at home. Her older
brother and sister had already left home for Boston. So after my
parents were married, my granda asked my father to take over his
lease. Granda decided that my parents would raise their family in
my mammy’s homeplace.

Eventually, there were eight of us reared in the house. Our
Paddy was born first. I was seven years younger. Hugh was born
the year I started school. Philip and Sadie came along within a few
years of Hugh. John and Maggie came along when I was a
young woman. I was eighteen by the time Wee Patrick arrived.
He was born a few years after my older brother Paddy died out in
America and so the new baby was named after him, to honour him,
as was customary.

A few others were born to Mammy in between all of us,
but they did not live long. Some other babies were expected for a
while, but they never were born. Although she would stop and say
the rosary, she never would talk about those white crosses marking
the small graves outside the walls of the graveyard. The unbaptised
babies could not be buried in consecrated ground.

Out in Straths, on the way to Ballyliffin, in the townland of
Carndoagh, there is a separate burial ground for unbaptised weans,
but at our chapel, they are buried outside the walls.

I did not understand Mammy’s silence until I too had to
stand by a grave and watch the shovelfuls of dirt fall on a small
blanket covered body and know that never again would I see a smile
light up the face of my beloved baby. My face stoic, and outwardly
calm, my eyes brimming with unshed tears, I then understood my
mother’s pain.

Through a child’s eyes, however, I had not understood the
world of the adults that surrounded me.

As a child, my world was the fields and lanes, the ditches
and the hedges that began just at the end of our garden. My

earliest recollection is chasing butterflies across the road and into
Canny’s field. I must have been about four or five years old.

I had finished all my chores, the bedclothes had been
tidied, the potatoes and turnips scrubbed for the pot, the cow was
milked.

Finally Mammy said, “Go for a wee walk, head on up to
McLaughlin’s and see if your friends are out. Enjoy yourself.”

The McLaughlin girls that lived at the top of the brae,
across from the Newmans, were my best friends. Sicily and
Elizabeth were both older than me, with Kate a year younger.
When permitted, the four of us were always in each others’
company.

I pulled on a jumper and scampered out the door into the
spring sunshine. Barely warm, the sun had chased away the chill.
There was no bitter wind that usually was so common. The five
minute walk up to McLaughlin’s passed pleasantly and in no time
I was down their street and at their front door. The half door was
open, but when I peered in, there was no one at home. I called out
to my friends, but there was no answer. Disappointed, I began
trudging the long walk back home. The day seemed suddenly
dreary, as I no longer felt the light-hearted anticipation of seeing
my friends.

Halfway down the hill, I heard birds chirping cheerfully
from behind the ditch. Although their song seemed to mock my
mood, it drew me towards them. I looked around and saw no one
so I cautiously ventured forth.

Crossing the road, I saw the open gate and peered around
the bushes into the field. Then I saw the butterfly. Playfully
dancing in the air, it teased me to follow. I could not resist. My
spirits lifted, we danced the age old dance of children and nature.
I do not know how long I played or when Mammy called me in,
but the memory of that moment in time is strong.

And in those dark moments that come to each of us over
a lifetime, when the way is hard and there is no apparent joy to be
seen, sometimes, if I let meself, I can still see the butterfly and

suddenly I am back again, four years old, flitting around Canny’s
field laughing with the butterflies.

I enjoyed working with Mammy. She often told me how
much she counted on me as we worked side by side. Having reared
my own children, I now know how much help I actually was, but at
the time, all I knew was that she counted on me.

From the time I can remember, it was my job first thing in
the morning to fill up the turf bin next to the fire. I would open the
heavy door to the outside and walk along the footpath to the turf
shed. As I grew older the path seemed to grow shorter, but as a
young child, it was a great journey.

Mammy and my father would laugh between themselves
as I solemnly fulfilled my duty. I knew, as they had often told me,
that the entire house would be cold if I neglected to bring in the
turf each morning. It was miraculous to me every morning that,
by carefully placing a couple pieces of turf and blowing a few
breaths on the ashes from last night’s fire, Mammy would quickly
have the warm earthy smell wafting through the room as the
smoke curled up the chimney. I often think of her still as I re-light
the fire each morning at my own hearth.

Every few days, I was allowed to scrape out the ashes that
had fallen below the grate on the hearth and take them out back to
the ash pile. This, too, was an important job because the ash was
essential to soap-making and my father would plow it into certain
fields that were not producing as well as he would like.

Mammy and I prepared the breakfast table after the fire was
started. Many a morning, the great pot of oatmeal was re- warmed
over the fire. Eaten with buttermilk from our milk cow, it was a
grand meal, or so said my father. And we believed him. If there
was no oatmeal, we would have spuds with the buttermilk.

Our Paddy and my father would leave to work in the fields
after breakfast. For many years it was a great mystery to me
what they did all day long. My duties kept me in the house
with Mammy while Paddy headed out each day doing mens’
work. He would fall into his bed after his tea, exhausted. It

seemed like a great adventure. I longed to join them in that
adventure.

After breakfast, Mammy would turn her thoughts to the
dinner. There were always potatoes; late summer and autumn
we had carrots or turnips. Mammy would make a scone with her
flour and sometimes there were a few eggs if the hens were laying.
It was simple fare, but we were never hungry and there always
seemed to be enough. My parents worked hard to provide for our
family. Some families did not weather the farming ups and downs
as well as we did.

Although there are no stories of starvation in our house,
the story is told locally of seven people lying dead along
Ballyloskey Road during the Great Hunger, with green stains
circling their emaciated mouths. It is said that they were too
proud to stand in line at the Brachán House with a cup in their
outstretched hand. Instead, they had tried to eat grass to stave off
their hunger.

Chapter 4

Good Times Begin

Autumn 1851

I do not recall my earliest memory of my husband
Paddy Newman. It seems that he has always been in my life. He
was one of “the Newmans”, the family that lived at the top of the
brae, just opposite the McLaughlins. They were Dohertys, but
like us they were always called by their nickname. They had six
of a family: Big Shan was the eldest, followed by the four girls,
Kate, Rosie, Mary and Nellie. Paddy was the last. Nine years older
than me, it seems that Paddy was always part of my life, when I
was an infant, a toddler and later a schoolgirl.

The thing that I mind most about him when I was young is t
hat he was my brother Paddy’s best friend. Typical young boys,
the two Paddys were always teasing me, or poking me just to get
me riled up. I would run from them screaming, and then later sneak
up through the fields to Newman’s just to see what was on up there.

To me, life was more exciting around the two boys. There
was always a crinkle of a smile about Paddy Newman’s face when
he would look at me. It was as if he knew a secret that I did not
know. Later he told me that he had watched and waited

for me to grow up. I do not know about that; it would be another
story.

But I do mind a time before I started school. I was probably
four years old or somewhere close to it. I was out at the edge of the
field watching the men help my father turn the hay. The pitch forks
were thrust into the dried hay and although the men were sweating,
it seemed as if the hay effortlessly floated into the air and turned
over onto itself to dry the other side. They were laughing and
talking as men do, hardly noticing the work they were doing.

I remember watching Paddy standing in the heat of the
summer sun. He would have only been about thirteen years old,
although he was already tall. They were calling him Big Paddy
even then. I think that he grew to be over six feet tall. I do not
know how tall for sure, for we never measured him. Even in his
stooped old age he would tower over most men. He had big strong
shoulders and thick strong arms.

I suppose that day of haying was the first time I especially
noticed Big Paddy Newman.

I remember that he remarked that it was a good harvest and
he hoped that the rains would not come too soon to spoil it. He
also said that he was grateful for such good weather. I remember
feeling excitement and hope from the men. It was palpable. It
must be remembered that there had not been that feeling in my
short lifetime, for I was born in the middle of the Great Hunger.
That harvest of 1851was anticipated as being the first good crop in
many years. There was no fear of famine that summer. That lack
of fear left a void in our lives and hope began to trickle in to fill it.

Our lives were spent so close to the land and the seasons
that it is difficult to explain the thoughts and fears of the local
people of that time to someone who did not experience it.
Although the famine times had not been as tragic in our area
as in other parts of Ireland, we had heard the stories from the
travelling people and the clergy.

The horrors of West Donegal and Galway were told and
re-told over the ditches and doorways. The fear of the Great
Hunger coming again hung over us all. Every spring planting
brought with it the worry of whether there would be a harvest.
Even when the green shoots pushed through the soil and began
to leaf, there was the fear of the blight.

For years after, the men would hesitate to turn the praties
at the beginning of the harvest, in case they would again discover
the black mush instead of firm brown potatoes. They remembered
how it seemed as if the plants had withered and the praties
dissolved before their very eyes. The blight which began in 1846
had taken everyone by surprise. At first the plants looked strong
and healthy, but as that summer went on a strange foul vapour
arose from the fields. No one had ever smelt it before but it
became a well known feature during those years. The smell
seemed to emanate from the decaying stalks, filling the air
with the malignant odour. No one who had smelt the horrible
stench ever forgot.

As the seasons passed and years turned by with crops not
failing and blight not coming, we all seemed to release the
collective breath that we had been holding. Some playfulness
re- entered our lives as we began to move some of the dreariness
aside.

New ideas about animal husbandry were being discussed
among the men. The turnip root had been introduced as a source
of winter feedstuff. This was causing the cattle trade to increase.
It was now possible to select and breed cattle, keeping them from
year to year, instead of killing them off annually. Indian corn was
promoted as being good fodder for cattle and the local mills were
able to supply the farmers with more variety in feedstuffs. I heard
the older ones remark that times were going to be different. It was
spoken in such a hopeful way.

We children did not know any different, but with the faith
that children have in their parents’ reassuring words, we knew
that the hard times were now past and the rainbow was around

the corner. Life was precious and fragile and our time was spent
working and preparing to sustain that life.

It was expected that once you reached the age of twelve
that formal school was finished and you worked the land.
Everyone keenly felt the responsibility of working to support the
family. It was difficult for families to get the money together to
pay the rent to the landlord and feed everyone.

Some small-holding farmers had to send their children
and teenagers to the hiring fairs to be hired out. The hiring fairs
had developed from the need for farmer and labourer to find a
common place to meet and strike a bargain for the work time period
and wages. It became common for specific fair days to be called
hiring fairs.

These hiring fairs were usually held twice a year, in May
and November, although some towns had hiring fairs all on their
own not connected to the ordinary fair day. The main hiring fairs
in our area were held in the Diamond in Derry City and
Letterkenny, but there were some children hired out from our
Carn Fair. The farmer would strike a bargain with the father and
then children would leave with the farmer for six months or a year,
whatever was the agreed term. They would be fed and have shelter
in the barn and were expected to work fourteen to sixteen hours a
day. The full work day was supposed to be 13 hours with two or
three one-hour breaks.

That was not always the norm. If a worker left before the
term was up, they forfeited whatever wages had been earned. A
child’s reputation would be tarnished and other farmers would hear
about his attitude and he would not be given another term. Times
were tough and money was scarce, so most workers stayed for the
full term no matter what the conditions were.

Some bigger towns started having a runaway hiring fair
held the day after the usual hiring fair. Here escapees were allowed
a chance to find a second master for the term.

The first farm season from May to November would be
spent mostly outdoors. In addition to helping with the harvest
and picking potatoes, children would be expected to tend the

livestock, milk the cows in the morning and evening, churn butter
and gather eggs. Meadowlands were cleared of stones and other
obstructions that might hinder reaping and fences were repaired to
keep wandering animals out. The turf would be brought from the
bog and stored in the turf shed. Roof repair and thatching would
be completed.

The second farming season from November to May would
be spent repairing and preparing. Land needed for planting would
be drained and ploughed, ditches and drains were cleared, sloughs
were drained, walls rebuilt and boundary hedges repaired. Girls
would be taught to twist hay or straw into ropes and help with the
washing and cooking.

Workers would be expected to work six days a week and
sometimes most of the seventh. In the spring and summer the
day would start around six in the morning and go until dusk,
which could be 17 hours later. More workers were taken for the
first term than the second because of the heavy summer workload.

At the end of each term, the father would travel to the farm
to collect his children and receive the wages from the farmer.
The money was used to pay the family obligations, such as tithes
to the established church until 1839, and the ever oppressive land
rent. Some farmers would make deductions from the wages for
clothes, boots, pocket money or broken articles. Sometimes, if the
child was unlucky and the farmer kept a careful record, the wages
would be whittled away on frivolity, so that at the end of the term
there was not much money to be handed over to the father.

Some people thought that hired workers were short-changed,
but they did get their meals and board included as part of the hiring
arrangement. The workers had the security of a contract and were
not subject to layoffs and interruptions. There was a wide variation
in living conditions. Some lived in deplorable conditions and others
lived on par with their employers.

In winter things were particularly harsh. Out buildings, like
the barns, would be freezing with icicles around the walls and wind
whistling through the rafters above. Sometimes the weans beds
were nothing more than a blanket thrown over some straw on the
floor. It was a hard life. Lucky for us none of our people had to be
hired out. Some of the young people used this time of hiring to
learn skills that were sound preparation for travelling to Scotland as
a young adult when they would hire out for seasonal agricultural
work across the sea.

My next specific memory of Paddy might have been that
same summer or it could have been the one following. I do not
know which year it was, but school was finished for the boys and
they were now out working with the men. Kate McLaughlin and I
were sitting just inside the garden next to the stone wall, playing in
the dirt, making little houses of stones. We were pretending and
fantasising as young girls do. One little stone was me and another
was my husband. A group of stones were all my children. Kate
had her family of stones around her. Other stones were the house,
the byre and the barn. I had my whole life played out in front of
me with my wee stone garden.

Paddy jumped himself up onto the stone wall and laughed
out loud. He said that although I was wee, my biggest strength was
that I had everything organised into its proper place. I knew how
everything would work out and what everyone would do and how
it would all be.

His words did not sound like a compliment to me.

I stood up and yelled at him, “I am going to marry you
Big Paddy Newman, just you wait and see. This is you. You are
this stone.”

He laughed at me and jumped off the wall into the garden.
My brother Paddy, who of course was sitting right next to Big
Paddy, since they were inseparable, jumped down into the middle
of my stone world and kicked it all apart. I screamed and ran into
the house, to receive some comfort from Mammy. I wanted to
discuss the injustice of older brothers, I wanted

retribution, I wanted…., well, I wanted our Paddy to be in trouble.

As I was running to the house, I did hear Big Paddy scolding
our Paddy.

“Paddy ye should not torture her like that. What has she
done to deserve that? She is just a wee girl and was not hurting
anyone with her dreams and her plans.”

He then told our Paddy that he was just being cruel. Big
Paddy had defended me even to my own brother, and that meant
something to me.

Chapter 5

My Childhood

I mind the time I finally was allowed to go with the
boys into the fields. I had just made my First Communion earlier
that spring. It was hay time. The famine was over and emigration
had hit our community hard. There were no labourers to hire. The
young ones had left their own hearths and homes to find work in
England, America or Australia.

Daddy and Mammy had a huge row. Paddy, Hugh and I
were quiet in our trundle bed, just below them on the floor,
pretending to be asleep.

Mammy said, “Mr. Doherty, ‘tis not right for our Mary to
have to go out into the fields. She is too young. The work will be
too hard for her and then she will be in your way and you will be
cross with her.”

My father was silent for a few moments. I thought that he
had fallen asleep.

Finally he just said, “Kate, ye can get along well enough
without her for one day, I need the wean.”

I thought of my friends from school, most of the other
children my age, both boys and girls, had already experienced
that great excitement of heading out to work with their fathers.

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