The Ford-McDonnell Wedding

On July 13, 1940, two of Irish America’s most powerful families – the Fords and the McDonnells – were joined through marriage.  Henry Ford II, grandson of the fabled automaker Henry Ford, was to marry Anne McDonnell, daughter of Wall Street rainmaker James Francis McDonnell.  No expense would be spared in an event that came as close to a royal wedding as 20th century America would ever get.  As Stephen Birmingham wrote in his classic, Real Lace, “If it was not the wedding of the century, it certainly was the last of the great weddings in America before World War II.”
The father of the bride, James Francis McDonnell, was the son of a Famine refugee named Peter McDonnell who hailed from County Longford and arrived in New York around 1850.  The elder McDonnell turned out to be one of the fortunate ones of his generation.  He established a successful business and sent his son James Francis to Fordham.  By then the McDonnell’s were among the many thousands of Irish Americans — known disparagingly to their working-class counterparts as “lace curtain” – who were determinedly clawing their way into middle-class respectability.  When young James Francis graduated from Fordham in 1900, he headed for Wall Street.
By 1916, now a millionaire, McDonnell had his own major merger wedding.  But in that era, his marriage to Anna Murray of Brooklyn, daughter of Irish American tycoon Thomas E. Murray, commanded headlines only in the Brooklyn Daily Eagle.  Still, there was no denying that he’d just become a member of the FIF’s – “first Irish families.”
The Murray family into which James Francis had just married had come into its fortune by virtue of the genius of Thomas E. Murray, Sr.  He had only a few years of formal education, but was born with ambition and an extraordinary gift for mechanical invention.  A job at an electrical power company in Albany, NY led eventually to a career as one of the nation’s foremost experts in electricity and an irrepressible inventor of new machinery and parts for electrical generators.  By the time of his death, he’d registered over 1,100 patents (second only to Thomas Edison) and amassed a fortune.
James Francis McDonnell grew even more wealthy in the years following his marriage.  He and Anna built a mansion in New York and another out on Long Island at Southampton.  They also had fourteen children.
The source of Henry Ford II’s fortune needs little explanation.  He, too, was the descendant of an immigrant who fled Ireland during the Famine.  I great grandfather had settled on a farm outside Detroit.  His son, Henry, hated farming and loved mechanical things, so he headed for Detroit. There, like Thomas E. Murray, Sr., he found work as an engineer with an electric power company.  But his fascination with automobiles led him to quit and found the Ford Motor Company in 1903.  The rest, as they say, is history.
And so when it was announced to the press that the grandson of Henry Ford and granddaughter of Thomas E. Murray, Sr. were engaged to be married in the summer of 1940, it became THE story, a welcome distraction from the winds of war across the Atlantic.   For weeks leading up to the event, the press covered it like a royal wedding, devoting miles of column space to every detail of the preparations.  One of the biggest pre-wedding stories was the announcement that Henry Ford II would convert (or re-convert, as some Catholics with an eye toward history liked to point out) to Catholicism so that the wedding could take place with the full blessing of the Catholic Church.
The event took place in Southampton and more than eleven hundred of America’s most powerful and influential people – FIFs and non-FIFs alike — were invited.  Hundreds more curious onlookers stood on the sidelines trying to catch a glimpse of the new couple.  None other than Monsignor Fulton Sheen, the charismatic radio priest, performed the ceremony and in typical dramatic fashion, declared the marriage “unbreakable” (he was wrong).  The reception, on the lawn of the family estate, was a gala affair for the record books.
Unlike the James Francis McDonnell–Anna Murray wedding of 1916, this one made headlines everywhere.  A photograph of the elderly Henry Ford dancing with his new granddaughter–in-law was published in papers around the world.
What accounts for all this attention is not simply the money involved, but the fact that Irish Catholics in 1940 were beginning to enjoy an increasingly positive image in American society.  To cite just one example, Hollywood had begun to make movies that starred hero priests and patriotic Irishmen – from Boys Town (1938) and Yankee Doodle Dandy (1942), to Going My Way (1944), The Bells of St. Mary’s (1945) and Fighting Father Dunne (1948).  Of course, Al Smith’s presidential election campaign only twelve years earlier (and Kennedy’s campaign 20 years later) showed that not everyone was convinced. Still, the times were clearly changing.  Once seen as subversive and dangerous, the Irish were now more and more at home in America.
But the money did help, too, and the FIFs – the Kennedys, Murrays, Cuddahys, McDonnells, Farrells, and Smiths – reveled in the moment.  For if the new image of the Irish in popular culture told America that Irish Americans were wholesome, respectable, and patriotic, the McDonnell-Ford wedding announced that they were also rich and powerful.

Ed O’Donnell

George M. Cohan Pens WWI Soundtrack

On April 7, 1917, George M. Cohan scribbled fast and furious.  Ever since he’d awoken that morning to discover that Congress had declared war on Germany, he’d been hard at work on a patriotic song.  By the early afternoon the fa med song and dance man had composed another hit – “Over There” – and America had a war anthem.
George Michael Cohan was already famous by 1917.  Born in 1878 in Providence, Rhode Island to parents who performed on the vaudeville circuit, he was only weeks old when he made his first appearance on stage.  Not long after he learned to  walk, Cohan joined the act that soon became known as “The Four Cohans” (including his older sister and parents).   By the 1890s they were nationally famous and commanded top billing and fees.  Young George proved a natural on stage and with the pen.  He was only 16 when he published his first song.
By the turn of the century he was writing, producing, and starring in his own musicals.  But none did very well until Cohan formed a partnership with Sam Harris.  Their first musical, “Little Johnny Jones,” opened in late 1904 and became a smash.  It featured two hit songs “Give My Regards to Broadway” and “Yankee Doodle Dandy.”  More hits followed, including ‘Forty Five Minutes From Broadway’ in 1906 (from the play of the same name) and “You’re a Grand Old Flag” (from the show “George Washington, Jr.”).  By 1911, the Cohan-Harris partnership was by far the most successful on Broadway.  In that year alone they had no fewer than six hit shows and owned controlling interests in seven theaters.
Cohan’s flag-waving hits made him rich and famous.  They also helped identify Irish Americans as an intensely patriotic lot.  The Irish in America were rising fast economically, socially, and politically at the turn of the century and the result was, in the words of historian William V. Shannon, a “more than life-size patriotism.”   Many non-Irish Americans might not have considered the Irish their equals, but they did admire their Americanism in an era marked by a huge influx of newer and stranger peoples from places like Italy and Russia.
Of course, this robust patriotism was not the same as jingoism.  Indeed, when World War I broke out in 1914, many Irish Americans voiced loud opposition to any U.S. intervention.  This stance reflected both an adherence to longstanding and widely shared American isolationist principles and a commitment to Irish nationalism.  The more the Kaiser took it to the British, the better the chances for Irish independence.  The failed Easter Rising of 1916 and subsequent summary execution of the leaders by the British only intensified Irish American hostility to the idea of an Anglo-American alliance.  And the American Irish were not alone in this view.  President Woodrow Wilson won re-election in 1916 on the slogan, “He Kept Us Out of War.”
Nonetheless, once the same Woodrow Wilson announced that America would join the Allies in a fight to “make the world safe for democracy,” Irish Americans (and Americans in general) threw their support behind the war effort.  Tens of thousands joined the armed forces and several became well-known heroes – Medal of Honor winner William Donovan and Fr. Francis Duffy, “the fighting priest.”
Fueling their enthusiasm and that of the nation at large was Cohan’s rousing call to arms.  It came to him in less than an hour while traveling by train from his home on Long Island to Manhattan.  “I read the war headlines and I got to thinking and humming to myself ,” he later remembered.  “Soon I was all finished with the chorus and the verse, and by the time I got to town I had a title.”
Cohan published the song immediately and days later singer Charles King helped popularize “Over There” when he delivered a stirring rendition at a Red Cross fundraiser in New York.  Soon thereafter singer Nora Bayes made a recording that marched right to the top of the charts and stayed there for seventeen weeks.  Stores found it impossible to keep their shelves stocked with recordings or sheet music.  In contrast, no one seemed much interested anymore in that popular song of 1915, “I Didn’t Raise My Boy To Be A Soldier.”
“Over there” helped to get five million Americans into uniform and countless more to fill factories, sell Liberty Bonds, and volunteer at the Red Cross. The American Expeditionary Force under Gen. John Pershing eventually arrived in Europe and helped tip the balance in favor of the Allies over the Central Powers and bring “the war to end all wars” to an end by November 1918.
Cohan continued to write songs, manage his theaters, and perform in musicals, but his star began to fade in the late 1920s.  He enjoyed a revival of sorts in the 1930s as a performer and even landed the lead in “Ah, Wilderness,” the only comedy written by that other Irish American icon of the stage, Eugene O’Neill.  In 1940, with war once again raging in Europe, Congress awarded Cohan a gold medal (NOT the Congressional Medal of Honor as is often said) for his patriotic songs.  Cohan died in 1942, but not before seeing James Cagney star in the film tribute to his career, “Yankee Doodle Dandy.”  According to his friends, he loved ever flag-waving minute of it.

Edward O’Donnell

ReJoycing Bloomsday

James Joyce’s love-hate affair with Dublin was uneasy at best. His dislike for his hometown was no secret, yet Ireland’s capital often became the bones of his works. Characters played out past friendships, and it was by no accident that Ulysses’ Leopold Bloom schlepped his way through Dublin on June 16th, 1904. As it was on this very day that Joyce and his wife-to-be, Nora Barnacle, took their first walk to the village of Ringsend. But was it fate or simply coincidence that he wrote, “Today 16 of June 1924 twenty years after. Will anybody remember this date?” Little did he realize that Bloomsday would be born.

Every year, cities from Los Angeles to Tokyo play host to Joyce’s work, but nowhere are the festivities more lively than in Dublin itself. Fans in Edwardian dress spread about the city in search of nutty gizzards to copycat Bloom’s breakfast and hunt out the address where he finally rolled into bed. But it wasn’t until 1954 that June 16th came to be known as Bloomsday. On the thirtieth anniversary of Ulysses’ setting, a small group of Dublin writers set out in horse-drawn cabs to retrace Leopold Blooms steps. It was an easy challenge to undertake as Joyce made no effort to rename the city’s pubs, streets, or bridges. Joyce wanted to “give picture of Dublin so complete that if the city one day suddenly disappeared from the earth it could be reconstructed out of my book.” It was because of this attention to detail that fans from across the world come to relive the epic story and take away with them a taste of Joyce’s Dublin.
But, in hindsight, considering the religious state of 1950’s Ireland, it is ironic that literary circles embraced the controversial novel. Ulysses was first published as a series in the American journal, The Little Review, but its publication was brought to a halt when a court banned it as obscene. No printer in America or England was willing to produce the novel and for a time it looked as if Ulysses would never see the light of day. But one year later, Joyce’s friend and American expatriate, Sylvia Beach, offered to publish his work and sell it at her bookshop, Shakespeare & Co. in Paris. On February 2nd 1922, as Joyce celebrated his fortieth birthday, the first edition of Ulysses was ready for distribution.

Outside of France, the novel remained an underground masterpiece until the US and UK lifted the bans in 1934. Curious minds found ways to bag the book while some bookstore owners, like New Yorker, Frances Steloff backed the Irish underdog. Her store, Gotham Book Mart, challenged the censors over the years and she supplied Ulysses to U.S. readers. Joyce, himself, occasionally ordered books directly from Steloff.

In Ireland, Ulysses was never officially banned but the content was met with embarrassment. For many, Joyce’s merciless depiction of Dublin life and the novel’s sexual innuendo was hard to stomach. It was as a result of this mind-set that Joyce turned his back on his homeland in 1912. At the time, his publisher, George Roberts, destroyed the entire first edition of Dubliners because of its realistic portrayals, and with it triggered the writer’s voluntary exile.

Although Joyce may have rejected Dublin, the Irish continue to celebrate him, simply because he was one of their own. They credited his brilliance by featuring him on their former ten-pound note and turned his old residence, Martello Tower into a national landmark. And since its centennial celebrations in 2004, the city has turned the festivities into a weeklong event. If you happen to be on other side of the Atlantic from June 9th it would be worth your while to join in on the Bloomsday festivities. The James Joyce Centre in North Great George’s Street runs a program of tours, readings and shows, and traditionally kicks off the festival with the re-enactment of Ulysses’ Paddy Dignam’s ‘wake’. And without a doubt, the Centre’s Bloomsday Breakfast is a highlight for fans as the Centre serves up Leopold Bloom’s breakfast of freshly roasted gizzards. But, whether it’s retracing the entire 18 miles of Bloom’s adventures or simply enjoying lunch at Joyce’s old watering hole, Davy Byrne’s pub, it is best to map out what Ulysses settings you can to choose from.

By Pat-Ann Durcan

Billy the Kid Claims His First Victim

On August 17, 1877, young William Henry McCarty became a killer and outlaw. Attacked by a barroom bully in Arizona, the seventeen-year old killed the man with his pistol and fled to nearby New Mexico where he tried to start a new life as a ranch hand. But he would soon find himself embroiled in a bitter and bloody rancher feud, a conflict that propelled him to national infamy as “Billy the Kid,” the most notorious outlaw in the west.
Billy the Kid was born William Henry McCarty in New York City to Irish immigrant parents Catherine and Michael McCarty on September 17, 1859. Like many of their fellow Irish immigrants, the McCarty’s lived in poverty in a run down tenement on the Lower East Side. When Billy’s father died soon after his birth, he and his mother headed west, eventually landing in Santa Fe, New Mexico.
There in 1873 Billy’s mother married another Irishman, a miner named William Antrim. Her death the next year from a long bout with tuberculosis hit Billy hard and set him on a downward spiral. He accompanied his step-father to a silver strike in Arizona, near a place called Globe City. His step-father alternated between abusing and ignoring Billy, leaving him to fall in with a rough crowd in the mining town. By age sixteen, Billy was known as a violent and reckless young man who possessed little regard for authority. Shortly after his arrest for stealing laundry, he set out on his own, supporting himself as a ranch hand, cattle rustler, and gambler.
Up to this point the 17-year old’s offenses were relatively minor, given the rough and lawless character of life in the 1870s southwest. But that changed one afternoon in August 1877 when Billy got into an altercation with a fellow rowdy named Frank Cahill. “Windy” Cahill was a big man—considerably larger than the slight Billy­—who delighted in taunting others. No one remembers what Billy said in response to one of the burly Irishman’s barbs, but it prompted Cahill to attack. He threw Billy to the ground and began to pummel him. Somehow Billy managed to pull his gun and fired into Cahill’s stomach. When Cahill died the next day, Billy was long gone.
Now an outlaw, he headed for New Mexico and again fell in with cattle rustlers and horse thieves. But as was common in the wilder days of the west, men like Billy were often hired by ranchers (sometimes the very ones they stole from) to protect their herds from other rustlers or rival ranchers imposing on their grazing and watering areas. Billy was hired by a wealthy English rancher named John Henry Tunstall, a man then embroiled in a bitter struggle with an Irishman named James Dolan. Dolan and his partner William Murphy held a monopoly on the local beef market in Lincoln County and were notorious for paying prices for beef that kept ranchers on the verge of ruin. When Tunstall, the largest rancher in the county set out to break the monopoly, he found that Dolan controlled all the local politicians, judges, and businessmen. Worse, Dolan hired rustlers to harm Tunstall’s cattle and drive him out of business. Tunstall’s response was to hire his own men, including Billy.
The simmering feud between Dolan and Tunstall erupted into a conflict that came to be called the Lincoln County War when Dolan had his men assassinate Tunstall on April 18, 1878. When the local sheriff, a man under the thumb of Dolan, refused to arrest any suspects, Billy and a group of Tunstall’s men took matters into their own hands. Only days after the assassination, they hunted down and killed two of the suspects. Three weeks later they killed Brady in an ambush. Another suspect was shot soon thereafter. Dolan’s men got revenge a few weeks later when they gunned down three men in Billy’s group and Tunstall’s business partner. Billy narrowly escaped.
The Lincoln County War cooled after that episode. Billy laid low in Fort Sumner, New Mexico (not far from Lincoln) until arrested by a posse sent by the governor of the New Mexico territory. Billy soon escaped and rejoined his friends in the hills near Fort Sumner. In late December 1880 Sheriff Pat Garrett found them and arrested Billy, charging him with the murder of Sheriff Barry. A jury found Billy guilty and sentenced him to hang, but he again escaped the day before going to the gallows, killing both his guards in the process.
By now Billy’s exploits had become the stuff of sensational stories in newspapers across the country.

Journalists often exaggerated the details and weaved in copious amounts of fiction into their dispatches, turning Billy ­— a nondescript ranch hand caught in the midst of a brutal range war ­— the nation’s most famous outlaw. And for good measure, they gave him a catchy nickname, “Billy the Kid,” a moniker that was derived from Billy’s youth (he was only 21) and boyish face.
Sheriff Garrett eventually caught up with Billy on July 14, 1881 and killed him with a bullet in the heart. Garrett was heralded for ridding the west, in the words of the New York Times, of “probably the most noted desperado on the Pacific coast … [and] one of the most dangerous characters this country has produced.” That hyperbole indicated the myth making yet to come as novels, ballads, movies, and oral tradition turned William Henry McCarty into a national icon.
Ed O’Donnell is the author of 1001 Things Everyone Should Know About Irish American History

Bill Doyle

All of Bill Doyle’s pictures tell a compelling story of Ireland’s history. It’s no wonder this 81-year-old photographic artist has, over his more than 60-year career, published five books, won The Daily Telegraph Photographer of the Year Award, three Carrolls Press Awards, Ireland’s Eye Photographic Award from The Irish Independent Newspaper, and a few from unnamed competitions in Japan, German, England and the United States.

During his career he took many pictures for magazines, including Ireland of the Welcomes and was the first staff photographer for Cara, Aer Lingus’s inflight publication. There are probably more, but getting the humble photographer to admit his achievements is difficult, at best. It was only through research and word of mouth that his accolades were uncovered. He is one of Ireland’s best photographers. Some might say his fame goes past Irish borders. Doyle never uttered a word about a Bill Doyle television documentary being filmed. It was only through communications with his long-time friend and fellow photographer, Leo Doyle, that it was finally revealed.
Bill Doyle’s work is, Leo said, “well known and [he’s] generally regarded as Ireland’s first celebrity snapper,”
You’d never hear it from him though. Anyone lucky enough to talk to this soft-spoken man—and then glimpse one of his award-winning photographs—will understand why Doyle’s late mother, Bridget, always said, “The trouble with Bill is he orders beer when he should be ordering champagne.” After more than four months of telephone interviews, which all included witty and sometimes off-color quips, an interview on Doyle’s home turf painted a more complete picture of this quiet unassuming man.

He sat behind a table just inside the entrance of Davy Byrnes pub on a recent warm May afternoon in Dublin. His beer glass, still full, made a wet ring on the napkin as he waited. The old historic Duke Street bar, once the haunt of famous writers and artists, was buzzing with modern conversations. No one in the famous literary establishment knew the gray-haired man with steely blue eyes, dressed simply in khaki’s, a blue shirt, vest and a green tie, was one of Ireland’s best photographic artists. The quick witted, gentle and contented man seems to like it that way and avoids limelight, most interviews, photographs of himself and any fanfare.
But, in bits and pieces, he shared parts of his life, just as he had in earlier telephone calls.
“Bill was always talking, always looking and always ready for that great picture of ordinary people going about their lives,” said Letitia Pollard, editor of Ireland of the Welcomes. “I remember going for the first time to the Aran Islands and thinking that, perhaps, I had left it too late and the magic shown in Bill’s photos would be gone. So [in 1998] I went to Inis Meáin.” The middle island that inspired literary giants JM Synge and Yeats is where Ireland’s past and present collide. “Enjoying an early evening walk along the beach by the pier, I saw a vaguely familiar figure walking toward me. Who was it? Bill, wandering toward the graveyard to see old friends, and just to see…” she said.
His work clearly shows how talented he is, but getting him to admit he has a gift is another matter.
“I never knew I was good,” he said modestly. Doyle preferred to joke and chat rather than focus on himself. But, like photographs in a developing tray, his past started to emerge.
Doyle was born in Dublin in 1926 in another era. With burgeoning growth over the last few decades that era is gone. With Doyle’s work as evidence, it is not forgotten.
For example, in one of his shots, taken in the late 1960s in Connemara, there are two basket-laden donkeys, heads down and weary, trotting along a dirt path. A third donkey, sans basket, lopes behind the others. A middle-aged man, hands by his side, walks with his faithful sheepdog behind him. Although the shot is black and white a few dark clouds seem to follow the group toward a destination we’ll never know. Rock walls slope across the background and the mountains of another island loom behind the landscape. One lone rooftop with two chimneys pops up behind a hill, letting us know the vast and empty landscape has at least one home there.
“It’s changed completely,” Doyle said of the area that now sports numerous houses and far less farm animals. “In Connemara now you wouldn’t see the donkeys.” (See photo on page 13)
After looking at his pictures, people still go to Connemara and look for them, he said. The donkeys are now only in the shots he took more than 40 years ago. Thankfully, with the right light, perfect timing and one click of his camera, Doyle froze people, places and time forever.
It’s not just the donkeys or the lone men on the beach now missing from the Irish landscape. In the late 1960s Doyle took a black and white close up of an elderly Aran Island man sipping a half-pint of Guinness. Though he took it years ago it’s as vital as the day it was taken. Doyle captured a moment, one that comes to life just by its mere existence. The man is holding a half-pint glass between his lips, the stout’s foam clinging in waves to the glasses top and sides. The seam and tweed of the man’s wool vest cradle a handmade sweater, one with a distinctive island stitch. His paddy cap, only a few inches from the top of the glass, looks worn and comfortable. Doyle’s shot is so real viewers are transported into that pub with the man who looks as though he’s had a long day and is now relaxing.
Doyle’s photographic moments, now Irish treasures, will keep the country’s history alive.
“His black and white images of ordinary life and the people of Dublin city through the 1960s and 1970s are now iconic, as are his images of Kerry and Connemara,” Leo said of Bill Doyle’s award winning shots.
A black and white photograph of a decaying wooden jaunting car, alone in a field is a perfect example. The more than 100-year-old buggy, once pulled by a horse, was used when a man and a woman wanted to court. The two sat back to back on each side of the cart and rode along with the driver—probably a parent. Eye to eye conversations were impossible and dating then had to be difficult. Had Doyle not caught that moment before the car disintegrated and fell to the ground one might never have visions of early dating.
“The Ireland that I shot then would be impossible to get now,” Doyle said. “I go through [my] negatives and all those things I’ve seen are gone.”
During his decades as a photographer he has been on worldwide assignments, published five photographic books, and currently has an exhibition in Sydney, Australia. Doyle isn’t impressed. But, anyone who has seen or bought his pictures is.
“Back in the late 1960s—right through the 1970s and up to 1990s, Bill was better known as top VIP at social gatherings, [rather] than the VIPs…,” said Leo Doyle. “Film producers and directors, international pop and rock stars and statesmen all were quite comfortable being photographed by Bill Doyle.”
Although it is apparent Doyle is a wizard with any film camera, his only bow to technology is a telephone and a television set, which, if need be, he said he would gladly live without. He does not own a computer, answering machine or cell phone—and vows he never will. Unlike the rest of the technologically obsessed world, Doyle loves communicating through handwritten letters.
Growing up his family heated the house with coal. He now warms his Dublin home with a wood stove. “I was probably indoctrinated with that mentality,” he said of his simple and contented life in the 130-year-old Victorian he bought in 1977.
“To me it’s magical.”
Spend a few minutes with the 5’10” inch quiet man and it’s clear he’s magical too.
Although he gave up his driving license a few years ago and now relies on other transportation, Doyle gets around Dublin easily. He is still taking pictures, his last, he said, was of an old telephone.
Over the years he’s made enough money to support himself and lives comfortably in a house that is only a few minutes from Grafton Street. People may not know him, but they know his work. Even so, Doyle considers himself: “an ordinary man…the guy next door.”
But, this particular man is not the “guy next door.” So, although he’s not impressed, the rest of the world is. Comments from well-known publications and artists laud his work.
Here are just a few comments from friends, magazines and newspapers:
“The fine vision of Bill Doyle…fills my eyes and warms my heart. Bill Doyle has the vision and can record it,” Irish author and broadcaster Benedict Kiely said of Doyle’s book, Imagines of Dublin.
“Even though Bill Doyle presents us with single images you can hear the sounds of the islands,” said author, journalist and filmmaker Muiris Mac Conghail of Doyle’s book, The Aran Islands, Another World. (Mac Conghail, who Doyle calls a “genius” even wrote the introduction to one of his books.)
“Some hundred black and white photographs by well known photographer, Bill Doyle, have the same timeless archetypal quality as the proverbs, conveying in economical visual images the accumulated life of Irelands ancient culture,” Publishers Weekly referring to Doyle’s book Ireland of the Proverbs.
But, maybe it is his gentle “guy next door” persona that has net Bill Doyle with so many awards and unforgettable photographs. “Bill Doyle’s forte is his uncanny ability to make people feel totally at ease in front of his camera, coupled with a finely tuned superior artistic eye that can almost feel a picture before it happens. Most of the inspiration for his most successful images were the result of well thought out ideas, arising out of what he saw and felt in the world around him,” said Pollard.
He still doesn’t give himself as much credit as he deserves. Doyle said he sometimes trips over some of his best work. “There’s always the luck of the moment,” he said and referred to his book, The Funeral in the Aran Islands, a hardbound photographic documentation of a traditional funeral. “I happened to be there at that moment on that day. The bell was ringing in the church and a funeral appeared. All the women were wearing black shawls and red skirts.” He remembers thinking, “Oh my God, and I happen to be here at this moment.”
Even then he knew this was Irish history.
His own history started with his mother, Bridgit, his brother and a sister who died at 8. Other than a short stint as an insurance salesman, Doyle has always been a photographer.
“The day I bought a camera I never worked again,” he said. “I’ve made a living from my hobby.”
In 1946, without any formal training, he when he went to work for the Rotunda Hospital taking and developing pictures of babies, he said. With a cheap black and white Kodak Ratina he took his first shot of Siamese twins.
In 1952 he moved up to a Roliflex, a premium camera at that time, and taught himself how to use it. He bought another. That was also the year he married, Tina, a woman he met while bicycling in County Louth. She had a wonderful sense of humor and they were happy. In 1959 his daughter, Lesley, arrive at the same Rotunda Hospital. By this time Dad had moved on to other work and took baby pictures for himself. Tina and Billy’s time together was short lived. She died of cancer at only 38. Although she has been gone since 1963, Doyle still speaks lovingly of their time together. It’s apparent he still misses and longs for her after all these years.
In the 1960s, during one of his jaunts across the world, Doyle biked through Portugal’s mountains. He wrote and took pictures of the experience. “I got a call, ‘you’ve won,’” he said. He received 500 pounds, a Leica camera and a trophy.
“I was then sent to Kenya as a guest of the Kenya Government,” he said of another trip and award. “What a prize.”
Doyle, who enjoyed traveling with Tina, said the two visited—and took pictures—in Norway, Portugal, Kenya, the Loire Valley, France, Italy, Austria, London and Uganda.
The years behind a camera paid off in awards and other assignments.
The most remarkable, he said, was The Daily Telegraph Magazine Photographer of the Year Award in 1967. “When I won that prize it was quite alarming,” he said. Doyle went to London to get his prize and met the editor who said, “’You’ve beaten about 2,000 English guys, who were all very good at photographing a white egg against a white background.’”
Doyle’s photographs are anything but white against white. His documentary of Irish moments are stark and real. Even with the exhibitions, great reviews and numerous awards Doyle think he’s “actually a screwed up painter.” Perhaps that’s why his pictures tell such rich stories, sometimes in black and white and sometimes in color. Funeral shots from the Aran Island book are gut wrenching, unforgettable and sad. No painting has ever captured those moments.
As the years progressed Doyle said he worked for big and small companies taking photographs. During the 1970s Doyle did a lot of work for Ireland of the Welcomes magazine. They produced a book using his pictures. Later Doyle decided to go it alone as a freelancer.
Luck and the sun a lot of the credit for his work, Doyle said. “I’ve always maintained 50 percent of what I’ve photographed is motivated by light,” he said. “In every painting light is an essential.”
Look at his work and it’s apparent that Doyle’s eye and quick trigger finger are also “essential.”
He knows when he’s taken a really good picture or “when I’ve frozen the image.” He fills the frame and, unlike other photographers, does not crop his work—ever. What’s on the paper is the actual picture he took. The rest of the photographic world should be so lucky. Although he doesn’t work in the darkroom anymore he recalls the magic when the image appeared. In that instant he’d know whether or not he’d captured another “moment.”
His photographic tips and methods are surprising. “You’d be amazed with what I get away with,” he said. He uses a wide-angle lens and sets it at 125/F11 and incorporates the images without focusing. “It’s terribly simple,” he said and added, “I have good reflexes.”

Simple?
Perhaps it’s simple for Doyle, because he has an artistic eye and the ability to know when and where to take the best shot. It’s takes a lot more than light, luck and F-stops to garner so many awards and accolades. His instincts and great timing have made him famous. Doyle has heard people say, “‘you never see a Billy Doyle anymore.’” That, he said, is because Ireland has changed so dramatically. The people and places only exist now on pieces of his photographic paper.
Doyle’s daughter, Leslie, has taken over the family business and is also a photographer, Doyle said proudly.
Lately he’s been filing all his work because she will inherit it when he’s gone. “I have a massive collection of negative and transparencies,” he said. “If I don’t file them and kick the bucket they would end up in skip on the street.”
“Kicking the bucket” is a long way off. Doyle lives a healthy life, takes the most out of each day and expects to keep going for some time. “I throw my chest out the window at half past 7 a.m.,” he said. “Every day is a gift. I get up in the morning saying I’ve got to get the mileage out of the day.’”
When he is ready to leave this earth he wants his friends to gather at his house. “The wake will be in this room,” he said of the parlor where he listens to music. “I’ll leave a few bob for drinks.”
Maybe, just maybe, someone will bring a bottle of Champagne.
Doyle has published: Ireland of the Proverbs; The Aran Islands, Another World; The Magic and Mystery of Ireland; Island Funeral; Images of Dublin, A Time Remembered. hm

By Denise Dube

150 Years of Belleek

The village of Belleek, the most westerly village in Northern Ireland, lies quietly along the banks of the Lough Erne. Visitors are lured by the town’s picturesque beauty, thriving shopping district, and abundance of outdoor activities. The gentle rolling emerald landscape is made for walking and the waters are filled with trout and salmon that entice anglers of all ages. Still, what draws most people to the village is Belleek Pottery, the home of the world’s finest parian china for the last 150 years, and one of Ireland’s greatest treasures.
Accounts differ greatly has to how the pottery began. One legend states that in 1849, John Caldwell Bloomfield, who had just inherited Castle Caldwell and the surrounding village of Belleek, was attempting to whitewash a cottage “using the flaky white powder he dug up from his backyard” (Antique). The pearl-like luster of the finished product inspired a geological survey… and in the soil were found all the necessary ingredients to create a china unlike the world had ever known.
Another legend hints towards a far more grim beginning. Bloomfield inherited Caldwell, “at a time when the surrounding population was still reeling from the devastation of the Potato Famine.” During the course of the next six years, potato plants withered and died, resulting in the starvation deaths of “over a million men, women and children.” As the new owner of Belleek and Castle Caldwell, Bloomfield may have been inspired by the words of Daniel O’Connor to the British House of Commons in 1847 when O’Connor urged “Ireland is in your hands, in your power. If you do not save her, she cannot save herself. I solemnly call upon you to recollect that I predict with the sincerest conviction that a quarter of her population will perish unless you come to her relief” (History Place). Bloomfield, knowing he had to provide some type of economic haven for his people, commissioned a geological survey to see if the land could support a working pottery (Funding).
The actual truth may reside in the mists of time, but what is certain is that a survey was done and the soil surrounding Belleek village was found to be abundantly rich in minerals. Bloomfield was thrilled with the results and immediately formed a partnership with London architect Robert Williams Armstrong and Dublin merchant David McBirney. Together the three men were able to get a railway line built to Belleek to supply the necessary coal for the kilns. Production focused mostly on domestic items, like “pestles, mortars, washstands, hospital pans, floor tiles, telegraph insulators and tableware” (Belleek) The quality and craftsmanship of these items was superb because Armstrong insisted on hiring the best potters available. He single-handedly recruited 14 craftsmen from Stoke-on-Trent, the epicenter of England’s pottery production (Belleek).
Over the next few years, the quality of the clay continued to improve, and by 1863, the pottery finally produced its now famous parian china. In order to ensure that Belleek would remain synonymous with high quality, the company established “standards for its porcelain–and each piece became subject to Armstrong’s approval. Rejected pieces were then destroyed—a policy the company continued over the next 150 years. Indeed, even in the early 21st century, Belleek continued to throw away some 20 percent of its production”
In 1872, Belleek displayed a variety of goods, including tableware, statues and a Chinese tea urn, at the Dublin Exposition and won two gold medals. Interestingly, Belleek received the ultimate nod of approval when Queen Victoria ordered a tea service for herself and as royal gifts for those she favored. Not surprisingly, the British nobility quickly followed suit and Belleek started appearing in homes as far away as India.
So, what is it about Belleek that collectors find so appealing? Well, first you need to understand parian china, a white biscuit porcelain whose name is derived “from its close similarity to the white marble mined on the island of Paros in the Aegean Sea.” Instead of being molded into shape by hand (think of a potter’s wheel), parian china is actually a liquid dough that is poured into a mold and then allowed to dry for several days before it is fired in the kiln. The process results in china that is thin, durable, and translucent… perfect for tea services and decorative objects such as Belleek’s famous baskets, lamps, and vases.
Today, 150 years later, Belleek continues to “produce its famous lines of seashell designs, basket weaves, and marine themes,” but it has also adapted to the demands of a new millennium by creating a line called Belleek Living, which according to the official website is a “cutting edge design with a relaxed modern style…a range of quality ‘designer’ giftware that reflects how we live today.” Still, whether you prefer the more traditional woven baskets or the newer sleek and modern dinnerware, an Irish home is just not complete without a piece of Belleek, which is probably why giving Belleek as a wedding present is such a long held tradition. And, legend has it that “if a newly married couple receives a piece of Belleek, their marriage will be blessed with lasting happiness.” Now, who can argue with that?

By Marjorie McKinstry-Miller

Poor Farmers’ Blight— The Irish Potato

As Irish legend tells the tale, the wreck of a Spanish ship carried the first round of potatoes to Ireland where these veggie immigrants from South America floated ashore, salt-washed and ready to eat. Quite likely, rumors arrived too, warning folks to be wary of this thin-skinned but dastardly member of the deadly nightshade family. With such infamous cousins as red tomatoes and green peppers, the Solanum tuberosum purportedly produced a poison able to induce everything from stomach upset to syphilis, leprosy, and sterility! Early French references to potatoes as pomme de terre or earth apples may have contributed connotations to this garden variety of rumor too, so the strange vegetable was thought to cause the eternal ruination of the gardens in which they grew. With such a wicked reputation spreading wildly, officials in France and other areas issued edicts strictly forbidding potato production.

Although Spanish Conquistadors often spoke of the wholesome benefits potato eyes had seen, few vegetable visionaries believed in the nutritious value of this odd glob of a tuber. As noted in mid-to-late 16th century journals, sailors who ate potatoes did not encounter scurvy during long trips at sea. On land, the potato or papa, as it was initially known in the Quechuan language of the ancient Incans, had amply fed pre-Columbian peoples for many thousands of years. Indeed, the papa plant originated in the Andes or highland regions of South America now known as Peru. By the late 1500s, however, Spaniards had taken the papa or patata, as they dubbed the spud, to North America where another name change occurred as “Potatoes of the Virginia,” further confusing botanical histories.
Meanwhile back at sea, those legendary ships from the Spanish Armada actually did sink off the Irish coast in 1588. So, conceivably, a batch or barrel of potatoes could have bobbed ashore. About a year later though, Sir Walter Raleigh reportedly brought the plant from North American to his estate in County Cork, experimentally producing what may have been the first crop of not-very-Irish potatoes. Unfortunately, he also gave some to the English Queen mum, but the kitchen staff of Elizabeth the First did not know what to do with the lumpy things. As that story has it, the cooks threw away the edible potato parts, boiled the poisonous leaves, and ruined an otherwise elegant dinner, thus causing the vegetable to be promptly banned from all near future events.
Since that particular potato incident set the plant’s reputation back a bit, it remained an outcast in Europe, perhaps until North Americans began to demonstrate their hearty appetites and undeniably good health. According to a side dish of the story though, Irish immigrants began cultivating potatoes in the American colonies, and not the other way around. This tale has some merit since, almost from its start among English-speaking peoples, the vegetable became known as “The Irish Potato,” presumably to distinguish the patata from the Spanish-named batata or sweet potato. Yet another tale, however, has Sir Francis Drake taking potatoes and tobacco from Colombia to Britain with a stop-over in North America, rather than Ireland. At any rate, properly pared and prepared potatoes had begun to grace Irish plates somewhere between the mid 17th century and the early 1700s. By the end of the 18th century, Frenchmen had fried their edicts, and noble French women had woven regal potato blossoms into their high-fashioned hair.

The next hundred or so years dished up a golden era for potatoes until they suddenly succumbed to the blight of 1845, the dark year in which the Irish Potato Famine began. Almost overnight, fungi settled in like fog, killing crops, stinking up the countryside, and plaguing farms until the turn of the decade. By 1851, the fungi, identified over a century later as Phytophthora infestans, had destroyed most of the country’s crop, leaving at least a half-million people—possibly one million or more —dead of starvation. Another one to two million reluctantly left the country, often settling among relatives in the United States or Great Britain. For those who remained in Ireland, the blight continued, not with mold and fungi, but with poverty, homelessness, and laws requiring the already small farms to be subdivided among heirs. Countless people roamed the city streets or wandered the countryside with no recourse but to dig holes in the ground and cover those earthen caves with sticks to provide shelter for their families.
How could such a terrible tragedy occur? Too many factors converged to single out just one. Yet most of the stories agree that the initial appeal of potato planting came because of the enormous amount of food that can be grown on a small plot of land or in poor soil. Besides this propensity for compact growth, each potato packs in energizing nutrients, such as carbohydrates, protein, Vitamin C, complex B vitamins, potassium, phosphorus, magnesium, and iron. Identifying those healthful properties, however, also uncovered toxins in the greenery. For example, solanine may lurk in the thin green layer beneath the skin, but cooking cures that problem and breaks down indigestible starches too.

While eating a raw potato can send a stomach into upheaval, almost any form of cooking works well. Depending on regional preferences, a cook may bake, boil, broil, roast, mash, or fry Irish potatoes with such success that this once rejected vegetable has become the fourth largest crop in the world, taking its high-ranking position right after wheat, rice, and corn. In Ireland, cooks often add a dash of fennel and a dollop of cream to give their potatoes a distinctly “Irish” flavor, or they might fry up some chips. Irish cooks also add varying portions of flour, butter, and milk to make potato pancakes or pat up a potato cake dough that’s lightly kneaded, rolled, then divided into fourths or farls. Lightly fried on either side, a potato farl (with or without the apricot jam) would surely be fit for a queen. Regardless, the development of recipes and the cultivation of facts eventually overcame the rumors. Surprisingly though, by 2005, the largest potato producer in the world was not Ireland, England, or the Americas, but China! Like a good story, a good word about a good food apparently gets around.

By Mary Sayler

Selkies

As the early morning mists swirl along the shore, a majestic seal approaches the rocky beach, seeking a suitable spot to land among the waves crashing against the coastline. A small child watches from a cliff and is rendered speechless when the seal rises from the surf, discards its skin, and emerges as a beautiful woman.
The child has just witnessed the magical transformation of one of the Celtic world’s most beloved supernatural creatures: the Selkie.
Selkies have been a part of Irish, Scottish and Icelandic lore for centuries, and there is quite a bit of controversy regarding their actual origins. Some folklorists believe that selkies first appeared in the legends surrounding the Orkneys, a group of islands off the north coast of Scotland. There may be some truth to this, as selch is the Scots’ word for seal. Other mythological experts believe that the legends may have evolved from the sight of Finnish fishermen, wrapped in warm sealskins, sliding out to sea in their kayaks. And another school of thought, as noted by A. Asbjorn Jon, states that selkies “are said to be supernaturally formed from the souls of drowned people.”

Whichever theory you believe, it is obvious that the selkie, the Celtic version of mermaids, continues to haunt the minds of those in and around the Emerald Isle. To this day, it is taboo among many fishermen to hunt and kill seals, because for them, there is a deeply ingrained belief that they may be killing a relative or friend.
So, what is it about selkies that we find so fascinating? Well, part of the attraction is that they are creatures of the sea, and the sea holds great mystical and cultural value to the Irish. Another part of the selkie allure is their magical ability to change shape and live among us. Finally, there is a romantic sadness associated with selkies. They seem to be loving and kind creatures, but are also perpetually lonely.
Most selkie stories start with the emergence of a selkie on land after shedding her skin. Once on land, this ever curious and beautiful creature explores the shores and surrounding villages, only to find that she has unintentionally entranced a local man. If the villager is lucky enough to find the selkie’s skin and place it in a hidden and secure spot, the selkie will then become a loving wife and mother.
The selkie almost always falls in love with her benign captor, but she never forgets her first home, the sea, and is often found roaming the shore, looking wistfully upon the cold Atlantic waters. Her life continues in much the same vein until either she or her children accidentally discovers the hidden skin. The moment it surfaces, the selkie wraps it around her body, rushes to the sea, dives into the waves, and resurfaces as a seal. The selkie will not return to land, for it does not want to be tricked again, but it will sun itself on rocks close to shore, hoping to get a glance at its former mate and its cherished children.
And such is the sorrow of the selkie, to never be happy and to never feel as if it belongs 100 percent on the land or in the sea—except for the male selkie (yipes, selkies can be men, too).
These fellows are a bit different from their female counterparts in that they actual seek out the companionship of mortals. They are infamous for their seductive powers over human women and troll the shores looking for Irish lasses who might enjoy a maritime romantic interlude. In fact, the amorous abilities of male selkies are so well known and revered, that human females have been known to stroll along the seashore in an attempt to catch a selkie’s eye. As one legend recalls, “Should such a mortal woman wish to make contact with a selkie-man, there was a specific rite she had to follow. At high tide, she should make her way to the shore, where she had to shed seven tears into the sea. The selkie-man would then come ashore and, after removing his magical sealskin, seek out ‘unlawful love’” (Orkneyjar). As you may imagine, these watery Lotharios aren’t quite so popular with their brothers on land. Since, according to Walter Traill Dennison, the rascals “…often made havoc among thoughtless girls, and sometimes intruded into the sanctity of married life.” In fact, some so feared the seductive powers of male selkies that “mothers would paint the sign of the cross on their daughters’ breasts before they undertook a sea journey” (Orkneyjar). It’s not stated if this was an effective technique or not, but I guess desperate times call for desperate measures.
Still, romance is not the only thought that occupies the male selkie’s mind. He has one other main interest: punishing any human who dares take the life of a seal. As a force of vengeance, the selkie is quite formidable, as he can control the weather and the sea. When the Atlantic turns particularly rough and ships start capsizing and breaking apart, villagers cast accusing eyes upon each other, wondering which fool was idiotic enough to bring the wrath of the selkies down upon their shores.
While selkies can control the weather at will, they cannot control how often they may take human form. Some legends insist that selkies are only provided one opportunity a year to walk the earth: Midsummer’s Eve. Others suggest the transformation could take place every ninth night or when a seventh stream—a magical inlet created after nine straight days of high tides—flows onto shore.
Though the debate continues as to when selkies may come ashore, it is impossible to deny the impact selkies have had on our culture. Our folklore and oral histories have been recounting their adventures for eons, and today the selkie still emerges as a popular figure in literature and film. One of the most notable incarnations is in the children’s novel Secret of Ron Mor Sherry by Rosalie K. Fry. The story surrounds that of a small child, Fiona, who, according to Elfrieda Abbe, through sheer perseverance, willpower and “determination uncovers a family secret and unravels a mystery” wrapped around her own hidden heritage as the offspring of a selkie. Though the novel was originally published in the late fifties, the story now reaches an even broader audience through its marvelous 1994 film adaptation, The Secret of Roan Inish. The director, John Sayles, wanting to convey all the beauty, charm and mystery the story had to offer, decided to film on location on the West Coast of Ireland. It is a simply breathtaking and magical cinematic voyage that is well worthy of the 103 minutes of screentime.
Another fabulous film that invokes the beauty of Ireland and the mythology surrounding selkies is the 2001 Hallmark Channel release, The Seventh Stream, starring Scott Glenn as a lonely widower who saves a beautiful young woman trapped in a loveless and abusive relationship. This is a particularily heart renching and poignant version of the legend, and may bring even the staunchest cynic to shed a tear. For those seeking a much more light hearted approach to the mythology, read Laurell K. Hamilton’s A Kiss of Shadows, which follows the adventures of a selkie and his part human part fey princess girlfriend as they solve mysteries in Los Angeles.
Or, for the greatest adventure of all, find a quiet and peaceful stretch of shoreline, shed a few strategic tears, and wait. The selkies will come to you.

By Marjorie McKinstry-Miller

Jackson Wins at New Orleans

On January 8, 1815, Andrew Jackson scored a decisive defeat over the British at New Orleans. It was the final battle in the War of 1812, a conflict many in the young nation called America’s second war for independence. And it made Jackson a national hero with what many thought was a decidedly bright future.
Andrew Jackson was born in South Carolina on March 15, 1767, the third son of Andrew and Elizabeth (Hutchinson) Jackson, both immigrants from Ulster. From the start Jackson faced adversity. His father died just a few days before he was born, leaving his mother to struggle to keep the family together.
When Jackson was eight, the revolutionary war broke out between the colonies and England. Jackson’s family sided with the pro-independence forces and in the latter years of the war (at age 13) he served as a mounted courier for the Continental Army. Unfortunately, the war left him an orphan as his brothers were killed by British soldiers and his mother died of cholera. The ordeal left him with an implacable hatred for the British and a hope that he might one day have an opportunity for revenge.
Despite his travails, Jackson studied law after the war and was admitted to the bar in 1787. He then headed for the frontier town of Nashville, Tennessee where he prospered as an attorney and investor in land, horses, and slaves. He entered politics in the late 1790s, serving in both the United States House and Senate before accepting an appointment to the state superior court of Tennessee. In 1802 Jackson was named the major general of the state’s militia.
When war broke out between America and Great Britain in 1812, Jackson was exultant. Like many Americans, he had long decried the foreign policy of the Jefferson and Madison administrations as nothing short of cowardly in the face of repeated British outrages against American ships on the high seas. Jackson immediately volunteered for military service and by 1814 had risen to the rank of major general in the regular Army in command of Tennessee, Mississippi, and Louisiana.
Although far from the war’s major clashes in the north, Jackson made the most of his opportunity. His forces successfully repulsed a British assault on Mobile, Alabama in September and in November expelled the enemy from Pensacola, Florida. That left one key city in need of protection—New Orleans, the gateway to the vital Mississippi River. The British, Jackson soon learned, intended to take the city and close the river to American commerce.
Jackson’s army reached New Orleans in late November, shortly before a British fleet arrived and landed a force of some 13,000 at a position 10 miles below the city. Here the Irish connection to the story broadens considerably, for the commander of the British operation was Major General Sir Edward Pakenham, born in Westmeath, Ireland. Pakenham took the offensive immediately, launching repeated attacks on the city. But Jackson’s men—a much smaller force of 5,000 that included both regular army and militiamen as well as free blacks and Choctaw Indians—held the British at bay until the climactic battle of January 8, 1815.
Among those assisting Jackson in his defense of New Orleans was yet another man with a strong Irish connection. Seventeen years earlier General Jean Humbert had landed 1,000 French soldiers in Ireland to support Wolfe Tone and the 1798 uprising of the United Irishmen. Captured and imprisoned in the wake of the uprising’s failure, Humbert eventually returned to France, resigned his commission, and sailed for New Orleans. When Jackson arrived, Humbert offered his services and was placed in charge of mounted scouts. His service proved immensely beneficial to the cause and he later received stirring praise from Jackson.
The morning of January 8 was foggy and dark, conditions Pakenham believed gave the attacking British the advantage. Striking from the east from Lake Borgne, the British threw everything they had at Jackson’s lines in an all-out attempt to end the standoff once and for all. But poor coordination of a planned two-pronged strategy threw them off balance. Jackson’s men were ready for the attack and poured fire into the British lines, repulsing the offensive and winning a decisive victory. British forces lost more than 2,000 men, Jackson lost 71. Worse for the British, however, was the loss of two generals, including Pakenham who was shot while trying to rally his crumbling forces. Defeated, the British retreated and soon sailed off into the Gulf of Mexico leaving New Orleans safely in American hands.
Given the primitive communications of the day, it took several weeks for news of Jackson’s stunning victory to reach the rest of the country. When it did become public knowledge, the nation exploded in celebration for it was the second welcomed bit of news to arrive in recent days. On December 24—fifteen days before Jackson’s victory–American and British officials signed the Treaty of Ghent, ending the War of 1812. This gap between treaty signing and the Battle of New Orleans has long led people to erroneously state that Jackson’s victory (snicker, snicker) came after the war had ended. But since the Treaty of Ghent specifically stipulated that hostilities would continue until both governments formally ratified the treaty, which did not occur until mid-February. The war was very much ongoing when British and American forces clashed on January 8.
Andrew Jackson became a national hero and used his fame over the next decade to build a political career that eventually led to the White House. General Humbert remained in the city until his death in 1823. General Pakenham’s body was brought back to England for burial. The people of New Orleans eventually erected a statue honoring Jackson and the men he commanded and for decades celebrated January 8 as victory day, an event that inspired several songs, including “Huzza! for General Jackson,” the chorus of which went
Remember New Orleans I say,
Where Jackson show’d them Yankee play,
And beat them off and gain’d the day,
And then we heard the people say
Huzza! For Gen’ral Jackson!

Ed O’Donnell is the author of 1001 Things Everyone Should Know About Irish American History

Irish Children’s Literature

Picture Books

Small Beauties

The Journey of Darcy Heart O’Hara. Written by Elvira Woodruff. Illustrated by Adam Rex. When she was born, her father danced. Darcy is the seventh child in the O’Hara family, the first girl, and a “noticer.” Young Darcy is frequently distracted from her chores by all the beauty she sees around her: dew-covered spiderwebs, cloud castles, and “a magpie flying low over the buttercups.” However, with her gift of sight comes a certain blindness, and it isn’t until the second year of blight that she begins to “notice” what her family does: worried faces, hungry stomachs, and the smell of rotten potatoes.
Beautifully illustrated with golden-hued depictions of the Irish landscape, this picture book is a delight to both the eyes and the ears. The backdrop of the story is bleak, touching on the realities of famine and forced emigration, but the language lilts like a fairytale. Even sorrow-fraught phrases—“Now the O’Hara’s, like many of their neighbors, knew more about courage than coin”—roll off the tongue sweetly. Written with children ages four to eight in mind, this book succeeds at interweaving an uplifting, melodious tale with an authentic depiction of Ireland in the 1840s. (Knopf Books for Young Readers, 2006.)

Brave Margaret: An Irish Adventure

Written by Robert D. San Souci. Illustrated by Sally Wern Comport. The story of Simon and Margaret was originally translated from the Gaelic in William Larminie’s 1893 anthology West-Irish Folk-Tales and Romances. In this engaging picture book, celebrated children’s author and folklorist Robert D. San Souci adapts the same story for young readers.
A strong female heroine in the tradition of Joan of Arc or, perhaps more to the point, Grace O’Malley, Brave Margaret decides to leave her simple life in Donegal for a chance to see the world aboard the ship of Simon, the son of the King of the East. Half romance, half adventure tale, Simon and Margaret triumph over monstrous creatures, sorcery, and even death itself as they catapult toward a fairytale ending. Bold, lively pastels adorn nearly every page of this fleet-footed tale. Recommended for children ages five through ten, Brave Margaret is long enough to challenge a beginning reader and short enough to serve as a bedtime story. (Aladdin, 2002.)

Anthologies

Tales from Old Ireland

Retold by Malachy Doyle. Illustrated by Niamh Sharkey. Doyle introduces his collection of seven traditional stories with an Irish proverb: “A tune is more precious than birdsong, and a tale more precious than the wealth of the world.” These tales are, indeed, worth their weight in gold, but don’t let the word “precious” fool you. There is nothing dainty about them! Rife with violence, retribution, and magic, this collection is not for the very young; but older children will enjoy the authenticity of the tales, told with the same forthrightness as ones straight from the mouths of the Brothers Grimm. The award-winning Niamh Sharkey makes each tale come alive with striking, and pleasingly minimalist, oil illustrations.
Hearkening back to the pre-Christian days of oral mythology, this volume delves into the quintessentially Irish tales that have been handed down across generations—tales of the Tuatha Dé Danaan, the Fianna, and Tír na nÓg. Some of the stories, however, will be surprisingly familiar, even for those whose Celtic mythology has gotten a little rusty. “Fair, Brown, and Trembling,” for example, is an Irish version of the Cinderella story. And “Son of an Otter, Son of a Wolf” is reminiscent of, at times, both the Romulus and Remus myth and “Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves.”
Written to be read aloud, these seven folktales are rendered in accessible language and come complete with a handy pronunciation key. The last tale’s surprise ending segues easily into the source notes, which make a point to mention the role that Irish monks played in preserving the country’s rich oral tradition. (Barefoot Books, 2006.)

A Pot O’ Gold—A Treasury of Irish Stories, Poetry, Folklore, and (of Course) Blarney

Selected and adapted by Kathleen Krull. Illustrated by David McPhail. The last chapter of this children’s anthology begins with a quote from Virginia Woolf: “It is a lovely country, but very melancholy, except that the people never stop talking.” And it’s a good thing, too! If not for Ireland’s love affair with words, Krull might not ever have been able to compile this delightful volume, packed with everything from poems to battle cries.
Although an excellent introduction to both major and minor poets, this collection is a far cry from a dry, scholarly tome. Recipes and limericks intermingle effortlessly with more serious pieces of the Irish canon, and, since each section is organized by theme rather than time period, pre-Celtic fairytales rest alongside poems from Yeats and Joyce. The history behind each tale (and even each poet) is described, making this collection an excellent way to sneak in tiny doses of history along with spoonfuls of blarney. Although the official recommended reading level is ages nine through twelve, the collection’s short selections, accessible illustrations, and gentle tone make it a fine bedtime collection for younger listeners. (Hyperion, 2004.)

Chapter Books

The Gift of the Pirate Queen

By Patricia Reilly Giff. The prolific Patricia Reilly Giff—winner of two Newberry Awards and author of over 60 books for children—has said that her mission is to write stories that “say ordinary people are special.” And perhaps that’s the true message of The Gift of the Pirate Queen. Grace O’Malley is an Irish-American sixth-grader, who has been trying her best to fill the gap her mother’s death left in the family, cooking hamburgers for supper (everyday), tidying the house (sort of), and trying to coax her high-spirit sister into following her diabetic diet (without much success). Grace is more than a little insulted when her father sends off for his cousin Fiona—all the way from Ireland—to usurp her role.

However, it is through Fiona’s stories of Grace’s namesake, the fearless pirate queen, that Grace finds the courage to set things right with her teacher, her sister, and the class outcast—all in time for Christmas!
Giff has the ability to view the world from a child’s eyes, and, although the story was written over two decades ago, its lessons about ordinary, everyday courage ring timelessly true. Recommended for readers ages nine through twelve. (Yearling, 1983.)

The Last Wolf of Ireland

By Elona Malterre. Today there are no wolves in Ireland; but in the 18th century, stories of the beasts’ ferocity and cruelness made them feared across the Irish countryside. Malterre’s story, which gives a nod to both legend and history, envisions Northern Ireland in the 1780s when education took place in hedge schools, English lords kept watch over the villages, and the last wolf in Ireland perished.
This is the story of Devin O’Hara, the boy who befriended a wolf, and of the lessons he learned along the way about bravery, friendship, and compassion. The bittersweet ending might be a little much for younger readers, but children ages nine through fourteen will enjoy the well-drawn characters and nimble plot. The story’s brevity and quick pacing make this book a good choice for reluctant readers. (Clarion Books, 1990.)

Darby O’Gill and the Good People

By Herminie Templeton Kavanagh. Originally released in 1903, this charming tale is as timeless as it is engaging. Darby O’Gill is the finest reel-dancer in Ireland and a right “knowledgeable lad,” at least when it comes to the fairies of Sleive-na-mon. Although Darby is quick to offer advice—“Nayther make nor moil nor meddle with the fairies,” he says knowingly—he is, fortunately for the readers, slow to heed it. This short volume is packed with six interwoven tales of Darby’s adventures with his long-suffering wife Bridget and his dear, if not altogether trustworthy, friend Brian Connors, King of the Fairies.
This book is written in fool-proof dialect, all the better to be read aloud on a cold night, next to a warm fire, with the whole family. Recommended for readers ages nine through twelve. (Sophia Institute Press, 2002.)

Out of Print Classics

The following books, although out-of-print, are true treasures and, fortunately, readily and affordably available on both eBay and Amazon.

Molly the Rogue

Written by Mary Walsh. Illustrated by Henry C. Pitz. Mary Walsh’s classic story is a fairy tale in the true Irish tradition. It begins a long time ago in County Kerry “where the butter is sweet and the mountains are dark and wild,” and where Johneen lives in a humble home with his father, his siblings, and his cat Malteezer. When Molly the beggar woman arrives in a basket, she begins to introduce Johneen to a world that lies just beyond the reaches of common sight. “There’s plenty to see if you have eyes for it. Thiggum thu?”
This enchanting picture book has a heart of gold, and its graceful images and sweet lapses into the Irish language conjure up the atmosphere of an Irish wonderland. It’s a place where fairies dance and cats speak and an old beggar woman might just turn out to be a family’s salvation. Recommended for ages four through eight. (Alfred A. Knopf, 1944.)

Shawneen and the Gander

Written and illustrated by Richard Bennett. Shawneen’s family isn’t rich by any means; his mother is in need of a new shawl and a new teapot, and Shawneen’s shoes are so worn that he forgoes the road for the fields to save his soles. But, when Shawneen spies the most beautiful bugle he’s ever seen on a shelf at Mrs. Murphy’s store, he knows that he just has to have it. With a little help from a leprechaun, he hatches a plan (and an egg) and ends up with a gander which he is certain will get him a princely sum at the fair. However, the gander ends up being a pigs’-tail-pulling, goat-chasing, havoc-wreaking “holy terror”—and Shawneen has his hands full just saving him from the pot!
This children’s story lilts its way over hill and dale, and across the path of the wickedest rogue in Ireland, in its way to a heartily satisfying conclusion. The hardcover version of this 60-page book is adorned with simple, green-tinged illustrations; the story is also available as a free download from Project Gutenberg. Recommended for ages four through eight. (Doubleday, 1961. Or at www.gutenberg.org.)

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