Been thinking a lot about my ancestors this week. We are, after all, a nation of immigrants. Three generations ago, the elders were born in Ireland and Canada.

Mom wrote this poem in 1972, presumably after seeing a tragic story in the news about a man without a home found frozen in the snow.

The Immigrant

He looked an immigrant, forever homeless
in his makeshift clothes, dead in the snow
for days before the photograph was taken.
His life had passed to history like the tribes,
the lands, the buffalo. All hopes for understanding
came like kindling to the fire; like fragile glass
they broke against the white man’s word and lay
like Big Foot, dead, and frozen in the snow.

~ Joan Vayo, 19 July 1972

Mom’s maternal grandparents left what is now Northern Ireland in 1888. Joseph Malachy Regan, you see, had witnessed the killing of a Catholic boy by non-Catholic police. He couldn’t fathom raising a family in such circumstances.

And so Joe and Maggie were immigrants. They worked hard, loved their family, and built a happy life in New Haven, Connecticut.

Although thrilled to have a few photos of them, I don’t have anything of theirs to hold in my hand. But I can look at my youngest son’s red hair, listen to middle son’s sharp wit, and see the delight in my husband’s eyes when I enact a brogue and curse the state of the country.

I can read books by Irish authors and hum along to Celtic music.

And I can use Mom’s shillelagh.

What might be a shillelagh, you ask?

Ah, ’tis an Irish walking stick. The shillelagh dates back over a millennium, when it was best used as a club or other form of personal protection.

Although I’d not planned to use this sturdy stick to ward off invading hooligans, the old girl did come in handy this week.

Since I was a wee lass, I’ve loved to knock down icicles from the eaves of whatever house we lived in at the time. (I seem to remember leaning out an upstairs window to do this once, but maybe that was a childhood dream.)

Following all the snow and ice here on the farm this month, I finally had the chance to gleefully knock down full sheets of ice and frozen snow from our rooftop – using my shillelagh!

I am sorry to have not captured the “before” look with a photo, but it was a thing a beauty to both see and hear the results of my trusty shillelagh swinging high in the air.

‘Twas glorious! Gary was mortified when I told him the battle took place with me in bare feet. He worried I could have been impaled, but I assured him I dodged each chunk of ice as my shillelagh did the whacking.

It seems my frozen toes and I are in good company. Here’s Bing to share the story of his father’s shillelagh:

Thank you to Joe and Maggie for coming to this land. And to Mom for writing poems about the realities that tore her tender heart. Finally, thank you to The Right Reverend Mariann Edgar Budde who spoke truth to power this week in support of immigrants and all those who seek mercy and compassion.

---

“The Immigrant” © 1972 by Joan Vayo. All rights reserved.

Please sign up below to receive an email notice with each new story (we never share/sell email addresses – promise!):