One More Star, One More Stripe...

It's Veteran's Day, and I'm thinking about the countless mothers over time that have begrudgingly sent their children off to war.

Something I've learned since becoming pregnant and having a child, women are strong, but to what extent? 

I can't imagine letting him leave, my child?!

The worry.  The pain.  The pride.  The helplessness...

In reading my father's story, The Struggles of an Irish Family, I was amazed to learn that my Great-Grandmother Anna Colwell Mulligan suffered a most tragic war fate...  she had a nervous breakdown!

Anna Margaretta Colwell Mulligan, circa 1908

Here's her war story (told from my father's perspective, as told to him by his father, my late grandfather, William Joseph Mulligan):

The sixth of seven children, my father went to work when he was a young teenager.  From eight in the morning until three in the afternoon, he went to school.  From four until midnight, he worked for forty cents an hour at the Emsig Button Company placing button holes on navy uniforms.  

Shortly after graduating high school, the government drafted him in the Navy.  Upon completing boot camp in New Jersey, my father was assigned to the USS. FIREDRAKE, an ammunition ship.  The ship travelled to the Pacific, and was assigned to the seventh fleet with the USS. DETROIT as its flagship.  My father's ship saw action off the shores of the Marshall Islands, Gilbert Islands, Iwo Jima and Okinawa.

My father stayed with his ship until it was decommissioned on the Sabine River in Texas.  Three months later he was discharged from the US Navy.

From there, he returned to New York to find his neighborhood, the Gashouse District, destroyed.  In place of modest railroad flats, they were building larger apartments with showers and hot water, in a development which is now called Peter Cooper and Stuyvesant Town. 

My father was unaware that his home was condemned and his mother evicted!  He had written his mother, Anna, during the war, but mail service was unavailable to him while in the Pacific.  He learned through people still residing in the neighborhood that his family had moved to the Bronx.

He went to the Bronx, and discovered that his mother had had a nervous breakdown.  She couldn't take the stress what with four of her children in the war, and an eviction from her family home.  She worried about her boys and was most afraid that when her children finally returned, they would be unable to find her. 

My grandmother, Anna Colwell Mulligan, was committed to Creedmour State Hospital on Hillside Avenue in Queens.  She spent the rest of her life there, and died twenty-four years to the day of her admittance.

In resting my mind for just a moment, I'm filled with respect and gratitude on so many levels.  What strength!

Thank you, Veterans!  And mothers, too!

The Strong Women I Never Knew:


My great-great-grandmother



Jane Geheran Colwell, circa 1912

These final shots are of my great-grandmother and her sisters

l-r:  Jeanette Colwell, Anna Mulligan, Ethel Cunningham, Mary Kerrigan

May 16, 1939

l-r:  Mary Kerrigan, Anna Mulligan and Ethel Cunningham

May 16, 1939

l-r:  Mary Kerrigan (seated), Ethel Cunningham, Anna Mulligan, Jeanette Colwell

Summer, 1966

The Flagmaker, 1775

When the man's in battle

And the baby's rattle

Only makes you more depressed

The wise woman does what she knows

If it's fighting, she fights

If it's sewing, she sews

When the tension inside

Overflows and goes too far

One more star, one more stripe

To escape your lonely bed

One more star, one more stripe

Join the blue, the white and red

One more star, one more stripe

As you pray your child's not dead

The Ship was Quiet

Seeing as it's Veteran's Day, I'd like to share a personal statement my grandfather made about the last days of World War II.



I'd also like to extend my sincere gratitude to all those many courageous individuals that have served, and do serve our country! 

FYI:  This quote comes from a story my father wrote twenty plus years ago -- The Struggles of an Irish Family.  By some miracle, I've managed to keep it safely tucked away over these last few decades. 
 
My late grandfather, US Navy Signalman 3rd Class William Joseph Mulligan, recalled to my father...

"When the war was declared over, my ship laid anchor off Leyte Gulf in the Phillipines.  We had resupplied with ammunition to go to Japan.  I was on the bridge, and a lookout yelled "kamikaze!"  I was praying!  I thought the war over, and I would be going home, but this damn plane kept coming closer to the ship.  The guns were firing, but it kept coming closer.  I was crying, praying for God to help us.  I remember saying, "The war is over.  Not now!"  I closed my eyes out of fear.  Then there was a loud explosion.  I thought we had been hit, and with all the ammunition on board the ship; we would be blown to heaven.  I opened my eyes, and the plane had been shot down some fifty feet away.  We were safe.  The ship was very quiet that night, and I thanked God for his help that day." 

Many thanks to all that so willingly sacrifice in the name of freedom!

Thanks, Grandpa!  And thanks, Dad!

I appreciate your votes!

Review: Confessions of a Catholic Cop, Pt 2

* This is the conclusion to PART I of my review...

I cozied up with Confessions of a Catholic Cop on a rainy Saturday night.  And save 20 pages, I finished the book in just one sitting.  So you could say it was both entertaining and well-paced.

I even cried!

(But that's not saying too much, considering I cry watching Dateline.)

From the rip though (or cover flip though), Fitzsimmons goes to work.  And he's a painter.  The kind I imagine, that sits, unassuming, drawing pictures in his mind with words.  Of you and yours and those and theirs, all while friendly chatting.

And then he paints on pages... palpable descriptions of varied individuals (and places also).  Interesting ones.

That said, the characters of Confessions came to life for me.  And I believed them.  Their motivations, insecurities, and frailties, too.

I liked them, and felt for them even.

Without giving too much away (because I've never been good at keeping surprises), I was sad to finish Fitzsimmons's book.  And if I didn't have a thing for a man in uniform before reading Confessions of a Catholic Cop, I do now!

My only criticism, and it's slight, is the Law & Order reference.  It distracted me, and took me out of the world of Michael Beckett, the protagonist.  Not to mention, I kept waiting for Ice-T to pop up.

via

But moving on now to the big discovery I mentioned in PART I of my review... about how I felt a pull to Fitzsimmons... how the similarities of our stories were undeniable... ya da ya da ya...

Let me just say, my instincts were right on! 

Upon reading one - County Cavan - reference midway through Confessions, the light went off.  

"That sounds familiar," I thought. 

And then I put it all together.  My great-great grandparents, the Colwells and Reillys, were from County Cavan in Ireland.  More specific, they lived in the Parish of Castlerahan, in the Townland of Clonkeefy.

I thought about it a little more, and as bizarre as it might seem, I remembered seeing a - Fitzsimmons - listed alongside my family, the Colwells, on the First Official Census of Ireland taken in 1821.

(Yes, I'm a nerd.  I have this document.)

And you know what, I was right.  There he was, plain as day.  Well maybe not plain as day, but there, yes.  See for yourself.

Michael Fitzsimmons - Age 45 - Servant & Labourer

I could draw this out invariably, but after a few shared emails with the author, and based off what he knew about his ancestors prior, I was able to place our families together in Clonkeefy.

In the early 19th century, no less.

Pretty cool, right?

Moral of this post, follow your intuition.  Oh, and read this book!

Review: Confessions of a Catholic Cop, Pt 1

I'm not going to lie.  I don't read enough.  In the way of books, that is.  Wait.  Let me rephrase.  I don't read enough adult books.

I mean, I read a million children's books a day.

But I can't say, in all honesty, that I've read a real book since devouring Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat, Pray, Love on a Mexican beach two+ years ago.  And unbeknownst to many, it was no crime novel!

So, you can understand my initial hesitation when I received the offer to review Thomas Fitzsimmons's, Confessions of a Catholic Cop: the story of a ten-year police veteran/ part-time actor who digs deep to solve an arson plot that leaves those closest to him, changed forever.

Read about the author here.

"Why me?"  I asked.  "How can I relate?  I don't read crime fiction."

(At least, I didn't read crime fiction then.  I do now!)

Needless to say though, I felt a pull to the material, to Fitzsimmons, as strange as that might sound.  And I always try to follow my gut.

To start, I'm of an Irish Catholic New York-based family (like Fitzsimmons).  And it so happens close relatives have served in the NYPD and US NAVY (like Fitzsimmons).

My Father:  Machinist's Mate 2nd Class

Basically, the similarities were too compelling for me to ignore.

Not to mention, I watch loads of whodunit shows on ID.  And I actually favor a good mystery, a suspenseful crime story on television.

So, I agreed to review his book.  Or at least, I'd give it a go...

Check back soon for the conclusion (nuts+bolts) of my review. And let's just say, I'm glad I followed my instincts on this one!

I made a truly interesting discovery...

Heeere's Johnnie!

The bottle of Scotch below's been in my husband's family for going on forty years now.  Cool, huh?

Actually, it's been chillin' (literally) with rolls of Angel Soft under the sink of my in-laws' guest bathroom for some three+ decades. 

It's safe to say, they're not big drinkers... (said with sarcasm)

But really, my husband found Johnnie a couple months back, and its history's too precious to chuck.  For one, Mark can't recall the number of times he diluted the blend after sneaking shots (from said bathroom) as a teenager.  Not to mention, if he survives another generation (Johnnie, that is), Aksel will be the proud owner of a bottle purchased by his late great-grandparents, Cliff and Amy Hirst, as a gift for his grandparents (my in-laws), Tony and Judy Kohn.

So, it's a sort of odd family heirloom.  At this rate though, he's a part of the family.  Even if he is Scotch!

Now, heeere's Johnnie and the Kohns.

(Aksel and I are noticeably absent in the family photo below.  I was chasing my lil' water baby down the beach.)

Not a Blarney Stone, or Shamrock Unturned.

Being the good ole Irish-American girl that I am, and now having a wee one of me own, I feel obliged to share a little about past experiences.  In reference to my previous blatherings about how I wish to tell a story, and to pass on a definitive "something" that Aksel can take pride in, an anecdote of our ancestral homeland...



Besides, what better day than this very one?  Em, it is Saint Patrick's Day.  Hullo?! 

First of all, I love to travel!  When I was eligible at eighteen, I applied for a passport.  And, with my blue book in hand, I was off and running, actively seeking to behold the wonders of this wide world. 

As a side note, I've barely left my home, since the age of twelve, without a spiral-bound book, a black felt-tip pen, or two, and liquid paper.  So, in traveling, not only was it crucial that I SEE the world, but it was, for me, a requirement that I also write about it.  It was my personal goal to form knowledgeable, first-hand opinions about differing cultures.  Twas my objective, if ye will, to question people, and myself for that matter, thoroughly and often.  I sought to listen as graciously as I knew how, which I might mention at the time, was not saying very much. 

Basically speaking, I didn't want to leave a Blarney Stone, or a shamROCK unturned!

So, when it came time to navigate my travels, it was totally necessary I visit Ireland.  It was for me, a Mulligan, a sort of sacred journey, my very own rite of Irish passage. 

I attempt now, with my honest-born gift of gab, and my slew of dusty journals to recount my most special Celtic memory.


Proudly Irish, I'll always be a Mulligan!

I was twenty-one when I first visited Ireland.  A junior in college, and not a smidge scared, I packed my bag and left for the green isle.  On my flight's descent into Dublin, I felt overcome with emotion.  Staring out my tiny window, I felt strangely prepared.  Like I was there to solve some familial mystery, and I'd studied my evidence the night before.  I had, in fact, just received a lengthy email from my father, tracing our genealogical roots, which had been cleverly prepared by my priest-for-a-cousin, Kenny (aka. Abbott Matthew Leavy).  There were countless cousins, aunts, and uncles, who were born in such & such county, and had X amount of children, with silly names like Cornelius... it went on and on.  Albeit, I came to Ireland out of curiosity, with just a sliver-of-a-plight to answer questions for myself, about my past.

Growing up in a small southern town, with a tangled mass of dark curls, and an unforgiving name like Gillian Eleanor Mulligan, I didn't exactly blend in!   I was tormented actually, and felt inferior for a great part of my childhood.  For quite some time, I resented my heritage.  Not because I wasn't proud to be of Irish descent per se, but because I was so physically different looking than my classmates.  People always asked what ethnicity I belonged to, and oftentimes it embarrassed me!  So, I came to see what the people of Ireland were like.  To observe how they looked, and to compare how I was or was not similar.  Did I, in fact, look like an Irish woman?

Well, I got my answer!  It came from a very wise man, seated at a very old bar, nursing a very large Guinness, in a very dark pub.

His name was Michael Jordan.  The place was Mulligans on Poolbeg Street.  The story goes something like this...

My first logical stop in Dublin was Mulligan's Pub, and I couldn't think of, or justify, a more fitting place to start!  I walked for a long, long time, down endless side streets, staring hopelessly at my pocket map to find Poolbeg Street.  After quite some time however, I arrived at my destination, weary and starved!

I opened the heavy door, peered in with curious eyes, and rolled my suitcase over the threshold to enter the establishment.  Upon doing so, the pub seemed to let out a startled gasp (for air). 

Moldy, stagnant, dark, and dank are just a few pleasant adjectives that come to mind.  Did I say awesome, too?


 _________________________________________________________

INT. MULLIGAN'S PUB (DUBLIN) - DAY

GILLIAN

(pitchy in tone)

Hello.  Do you serve lunch?

The two male patrons and barman, startled by the glare of the opening door, look up to observe the unusual visitor.

BARMAN

No, Miss.

GILLIAN

(excited)

I'm Gillian Mulligan... and I'm here... at Mulligan's in Dublin, Ireland!

Smiling broadly, she settles in, and jumps on a barstool.

GILLIAN

(continuing)

I'd like a half-pint of Guinness with a dash of black currant, please.  Could I also have a packet of Walker's crisps?  I'm famished!

Talking aloud, but not to anyone in particular, she exclaims!

GILLIAN

  I have to drink Guinness, even if I don't like it!  It would be blasphemous, to be a Mulligan, at Mulligan's in Ireland, and not drink one.  For the merit of this experience, I must!

Silent moments pass.  The elderly gentleman to her left, pushes his newspaper aside, takes a long look at the girl, and speaks.

MICHAEL JORDAN

(with an unphased air)

Well, ya don't really look very Irish, Miss Mulligan. 

Lifting his nearly empty pint glass to his mouth, he swallows the remaining dark stout.

MICHAEL JORDAN

Em, but then again, ya don't really look like you're not Irish either.

__________________________________________________________

I love this memory of Ireland!  I hope my wee little leprechaun makes the trek one day...

This entry is in honor of my Great-Uncle John, who sadly passed away last night.  Although we saw each other infrequently, I will miss him greatly!  An inspiring, motivated man, he loved to travel too...

A present from the barman at Mulligan's Pub on Poolbeg Street:

One of my FAVORITE things!

A Half-Pint and Guinness!  (Staged, of course!)



The River Liffey at Dusk.

I Marvel at the Marble.

I marvel at the marble, and wonder where o' where you've gone?

Is it just me, or were they everywhere at one time?  Marbles.  On the street?  In the dirt?  Under a tree?  It seems to me I spent a good long portion of my youth finding them in the most random of places.

Now, nothing.  Nowhere.  Not a sight.

This glass goldfish is not a marble in the good ol' sense, but it so happens to be the greatest token of our love.  (Mark's and mine.)

Aside from our child, that is!

As a side note, you may have noticed recently my sentimental posts showcasing simple (perhaps even odd) things like seal-hair dolls and census papers.  You may wonder why I'm adament in sharing them?

Really, what's the big deal? 

Well, let me try to explain...

I know it's silly, but we're not guaranteed anything in this life.  I mean, I really hope I live to be old, old, old.  And I hope just as much that those I love and care for grow to be old, old, old with me, but I just can't say for sure?  So, I feel it necessary to write what I value.

And I'm learning (with age), that those things don't cost lots of money.  In fact, they're neither bought nor sold for much of anything.  They just have heart.  They tell a story.

And folks, a STORY is gold in my mind.

So, I marvel at the Murano marble.  Our lil' glass ball that we bought together on a rainy September day, on a crooked side street in Venice, when our love was just new and our pockets empty.

It means as much to me as my $16 DICE wedding ring!

A Favorite Family Something.

I've been putting my ancestral puzzle together for quite some time now, and this happens to be my favorite family heirloom, but first...

I'm fortunate to know a lot about my father's ancestors, but frankly, I know very little about my mother's kinfolk. 

In fact, I know only what she tells me:

1. They were Norwegian, and
2. They were Native American.

So, here's the family something that confirms my Indian heritage.

Here's what I know...

This handmade doll once belonged to my great grandmother, Thelma Schaeffer.  A nearly blind, Blackfoot Indian from Kalispell, Montana, she gave this Eskimo keepsake to my mother (in the late 60's) on the pretense that it had been given to her by her grandmother.

Wow!  So, I can't say or begin to estimate its age?  It's old though!

With its delicate beading, leather face, and seal-hair coat, it's definitely one of my favorite things.  Not to mention, it belonged at one time to my great-great-great Indian grandmother. 

I'd love to know more...

PS - Antiques Roadshow is coming to Atlanta in August! 

PPS - Who knows?

PPPS - Read more like this here.

Please vote!

The Red Bog.

It's no secret, I'm fascinated by geneaology.  If you've been reading all along, you know this.  If not, I'm telling you now. 

So, it should come as no surprise when I say I love NBC's hit series Who Do You Think You Are, sponsored by Ancestry.com.

I'm writing this now, because I was especially touched by last night's episode featuring Rosie O'Donnell.  It struck home, and I'm assuming it's because her ancestry is very similar to mine.  We're both of Irish descent, and our families settled close to one another in New York.

Unlike Miss O'Donnell though, I'm not starting at ancestral square one.  I'm lucky in that I already possess names, dates, documents, and certicates, et cetera.  I'm blessed, actually!  (See below.)

From the first official census taken in Ireland in 1821,  my great-great-great grandfather, Charles Colwell, born c. 1783 and his wife, my great-great-great grandmother, Anne, born c. 1787, are recorded.  Four of their children who were alive when the census was taken in 1821 are also listed:  Patrick (1811), Bridget (1813), Charles (1815) and Thomas (1817).  In 1826, my great-great grandfather, Philip, was born to this family.

(I have a brother named Patric, and a sister named, Bridgette.)

Thanks to my cousin Abbott Matthew Leavy of St. Anselm Abbey, many of my familial questions have already been answered.  For instance, I know much of my family came from a muddy plot of land called the Red Bog, in the Townland of Clonkeefy, in the Parish of Castlerahan, in County Cavan, very near to the border of Northern Ireland, but there's so much more I want to know.

For example, I'm terribly interested in a lass named Brigid O'Brien, and another named Annie O'Rourke. 

(My great-grandmother and great-great grandmother, respectively.)

Not to mention, the mug of ol' Thomas Mulligan, my great-grandfather and namesake, is a total mystery!  No Mulligan I know has ever laid eyes on him, and it's my mission to find a photo.  He was an alcoholic who deserted his family in the early 30's.

So, I'm energized to start researching, and I'm constructing my own elaborate family tree.  I just wonder what I'll learn?!

Do you know your story?

PS - If you're a relative, be forewarned, I will be in contact soon. 

PPS - And this doesn't just include my Irish relatives!

PPPS - For more like this, click on the label entitled Ancestry.

The Story of a Boy Named Aksel.

I'm a curious mother, and I've wondered from day one what characteristics Aksel would develop over time and from whom they'd come?

With that being said, I've been collecting old family photos for ages now and for lack of a better phrase, I'm beginning to put my child's cultural puzzle together.

For example, who does my child most resemble?  I have my ideas...

Join me as I take a step back in time, and let me ask:  Do you have photos saved?  Do you know your genealogical story?  Where did your child get his eyes from? 

I know where my Norwegian/Irish/German/Welsh/Italian/Native American boy got his... GRAMMY!

The Story of a Boy Named Aksel.

(In Pictures)

Aksel Kieran Mulligan-Kohn

"Grammy"

Judy Dianne Hirst Kohn (D)

Happy Birthday, Grammy (D)!  Similar Smiles?

Aksel Kieran -- 6 ½ Months

Aksel's Norwegian Relatives:  The Gundersons

Bottom Left:

Great Grandfather Ronald Eugene Gunderson (M)

Back Row:

Great Great Grandfather Olaf Gunderson (M)

Great Grandfather Ronald Eugene Gunderson (M)

Aksel's Welsh and Italian Relatives

Bottom Left:

Great Grandmother Eleanor Jones (M)

Great Great Aunt Donna Jones (M)

Second Row Left to Right: 

Great Great Grandmother Althea Mae Manginelli (M)

Great Great Great Grandmother Nettie Woods Manginelli (M)

Great Great Great Great Grandmother Martha Denend (M)

Back Row: 

 Great Great Grandfather Elmer "Red" Jones (M)

Great Grandmother Eleanor Jones (M)

"Lulee"

Grandmother Laurie Marie Gunderson Brown (M)

Aksel's Irish Relatives:  The Colwells

Second Row Left to Right:
Great Great Great Grandfather Phillip Colwell (M)

Great Great Great Grandmother Jane Geheren Colwell (M)

Third Row Far Right:

Great Great Grandmother Anna Margaretta Colwell Mulligan (M)

I think I look a little something like my Great Grandmother Anna!

Same hand on the hip and all!

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