Soccer Practice "Homework"

When I picked my grandson up for soccer practice today I was greeted with a blank piece of paper and a "homework" assignment. His teacher had instructed the kids in the class to ask someone in their family about an event significant to family origins. In his thinking I was the logical person to ask for information about the first person in our family to come to America. So, with this brief introduction and his crooked smile, I received a sheet of lined paper, a tired pencil, and a suggestion that I could work on the project while he practiced with his team.

When we got to the field I sat down in the camp chair I'd brought, took out his piece of paper, an old pen I'd found in the car (the pencil really was too tired), and my phone. I'd remembered some of the basics, but knew I had more details stored in my email account under a folder I'd named Family History. I reckoned I could locate those emails using a little patience and my internet-capable phone.

Before trying the phone I managed to jot down some quick remembrances with kids and parents buzzing around me:

-- somewhere close to 1858, Austin and Johanna Callahan left Kilrush, County Clare, Ireland by boat, bound for America.

-- they entered the country through Ellis Island like so many before them and over time made their way to Wisconsin.

-- Austin and Johanna stayed in Wisconsin, living out the rest of their days in that rich, green reminder of Ireland.

-- the Callahan family remained in Wisconsin for many generations until my grandfather, also named Austin, moved to Chicago, then onto Sacramento, California.

It was in Sacramento that my father met my mom and my personal family history began.

Sorry, I digress, back to the story at hand.

I'd forgotten how hard it was to navigate through my email folders via my phone and, more importantly, how difficult it was for me to read the teeny print on the phone's screen. I wasn't very successful digging up more information, but in the process I did stumble across several email threads with my Aunt Pat (Patsy as I came to call her). Patsy really was the fire behind the genealogical research and she pursued it with fervor and diligence.

But, it was also during this time that Patsy was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. As I read thru each of the emails the painful details of her struggle with the disease came back to me. Pancreatic cancer has very little mercy and Patsy eventually lost the fight. Through it all she never flagged or accepted defeat. She was always positive, always expecting she would overcome.

Before she succumbed to that terrible disease, she managed to take a trip to Ireland with her daughter, my dear cousin Kim. What an incredible gift that was! During that trip, Kim took one of my favorite pictures of Patsy. That wonderful photo remains with me, indelibly etched in the back of my thoughts, all the time. Its the way I remember her. Its the way I carry Patsy with me through life, transported between the mundane and the magical. With a smile of triumph and joy, she is standing in front of the verdant Irish countryside, arms wide open as if the whole of the kingdom was hers, as if she'd come home and was welcoming each one of us in -- bidding us share in the glory and splendor that was her ancestral home.


It then occurred to me that when a young child asks about our family and wants to know how we got here -- I have an opportunity. I can paint a picture of Patsy, I can describe an impressionist's portrait of of Austin and Johanna, I can retell stories of their aunts, uncles, and great grandparents. I can relate what I remember and describe what I know. I can keep the memory of all those that came before alive and vibrant. And, I can help plant the seeds of vision and wonder in the hearts of the future knowing they will carry this rich heritage far beyond me. Its in that spirit that these words from an old Irish tombstone ring true:

death leaves a wound that no-one can heal,
love leaves a memory that no-one can steal.