A Mystical Journey: Ireland to Canada – Happy Birthday Canada

Today, July 1st, we here in Canada are celebrating what is called “Canada Day,” but originally was simply celebrated as “Canada’s Birthday.”  When I think about this country, that for whatever reason the Good L-rd allowed me to be birthed in, I often times think about what it must have been like for the peoples (other than our beloved Native brothers and sisters, the original inhabitants of what we now refer to as Canada) who first came to these shores; people who left everything behind, including their loved ones (families, friends) to strike out in a place that they knew nothing about.  Trying to put myself in their shoes, I will now write what it is I am experiencing.  The backdrop will be Ireland because my own father’s mother did just that; left everyone, left with nothing…a young woman, back then travelling without family, leaving her home and family and everything near and dear to her heart.  My name is Hanora Mahony, and this is my story, Canada, about what my journey to your shores was like, how I felt leaving for your shores, a place unknown, how I felt when I arrived, what I encountered and a bit about my life in Canada.

In Ireland I was a bit of a vagabond or wandering ministral or gypsy, you might say.  My parents were often seen shaking their heads, raising their hands in disbelief at various things I’d get into.  I was a bit of a tomboy, no, that’s not right – I was a tomboy and I loved chucking on my rubber boots and flying out the kitchen door as soon as I saw the tiny heads of the boys next door bobbing over the rose hedge that surrounded my house.  As soon as they saw me they’d speed up their step because frankly, they didn’t want anything to do with me – a couple of big strong and strapping 13 year old boys didn’t want this pale freckle faced scrawny red headed girl tagging along and spoiling their fun!  I’d let them walk ahead at their quickened pace, taking my time knowing full well I’d catch up with them at what I called my favourite spot.  I claimed that spot and didn’t give a hoots damn if they did built their rackety old shack on it – it was my land first, I saw it first and there’s no denying that because I was a full 6 months older than them!

We arrived at the cliff’s edge where, as always, I plunked my scrawny body down and sat cross-legged staring across the magnificent expanse of breathtaking sea that lay stretched before me with no end in site.  The boys were somewhere behind me, I could hear their faint grumblings about my being their, and then they disappeared; they didn’t disappear, it’s just that for me they no longer existed.  There was just me, Hanora, the damp ground upon which I sat still wet from the early morning fog and mist, and miles and miles of oceans….my eyes transfixed on some invisible scene in the great beyond.

I was dreaming; no,more visualizing some strange land, empty and vast; more vast than the sea before me.  It was as if a voice was calling me, calling me to come home.  Shaking my head I thought what a silly thought.  Ireland is my home, the only home that I and all of the generations of my family had ever known for as far back as anyone could remember.  That same scenario played out for a lot of years; the same place, the same sea, the same unheard voice beckoning me…until I turned 18!  On the exact day of my 18th birthday I announced at the breakfast table to my parents and siblings that I was leaving home.  Dead silence and then conversation continued as if I’d not spoken.  I was used to that as most folks seemed to just ignore my nonsensical ramblings.

True to my word (having done my homework), that is listening and eavesdropping on the fishermen’s tales down by the old post office every evening where they gathered waiting for the mail call) I’d learned of a ship departing, travelling straight across that sea I’d gazed upon for the past six years, to a land yet undefined, unnamed, but known to exist.  The ship was leaving the end of October and I heard that it was taking passengers and the fare, well I had it because I’d saved all the pennies from the bottles I’d picked up on my walks to the sea side cliff, cashed them in and tucked the money away.

I arose at 2 in the morning; the rest of the household snored loudly and no one was awake.  I’d packed a few pieces of clothing, including the warm quilt my great grandmother had made for my 16th birthday, using it to tie up my worldly belongings.  Like the story about Tom Sawyer & Huck Finn that I’d read so many times…I snuck out the door with my quilt tied to a strong tree branch I’d fastened with twine, and began the 200 mile walk that would take me through the mountains to the otherside; down to the sea where the boat was to leave at 6 that evening.  I left a note for my mudda and fadda telling them that I loved them and I was off to find my way in a new land.  I was certain they’d take this as just another foolhardy story of mine, and fully expect to see me that evening at the supper table.

Fast forward.

I arrived on the shores of North America (it wasn’t called that then); to be precise, the ship landed in Boston.  It was Christmas ‘eve and there was a warehouse that had been set up to “process” us new “immigrants” as they called us.  There was a young man I’d gotten to know on my sea crossing; he was travelling with his mum and dad and his two sisters, and they sort of adopted me.  The young man and I became best “buds” and stood in line together waiting to be “processed.”  We giggled at the thought and simultaneously blurted, “Processed!  Do they think we’re dairy products?”

Eventually this young man (his name was Patrick but everyone called him Paddy) and I got married.  I had just turned 20.  Paddy was the son of a fisherman and his family decided to move north to what was called “Upper Canada”.  So, a young bride of 20, I arrived on the shores of Canada at a place called Cape Breton Island.  Boy, I thought Boston and the land south of Cape Breton was rugged, barren and uninhabited – well it was nothing compared to this new place (we’ll just call it Canada).  I was certain we were the only human beings here, the very first people who ever stepped foot on this land.  But that couldn’t be so, because there were the familiar fishing boats anchored all around us.  We’d arrived in the middle of the night and I could only see the shoreline and then nothing; total darkness except for the stars twinkling overhead.  We didn’t go ashore until daylight and by then the fishing boats had vanished into thin air.  Obviously they had gone out for the day’s catch, but no one heard them leave.

There wasn’t a house to be seen.  I stood on deck and saw nothing but fields of daisies, clover, what appeared to be wild mustard and wheat….and herds and herds of sheep and mountain goats.  There weren’t any trees and the shoreline was steep, rugged and treacherous.  O my God, I thought, what have I done. This place looks just like Ireland – the Ireland I left because there wasn’t a decent way to make a living and I wanted a family, to be married and raise my children in a place that would give them tons of opportunities to earn their own living.  I wept.

Twenty years later, living in the house we’d built, surrounded by neighbours and stores and merchants, I stood at the same seashore where we’d landed. I gazed across the sea. In my mind’s eye I saw me directly across this vast sea, 13 years old sitting on the cliffe praecipice, having that first vision.  I swear I could see that girl stand up, wave at me, smiling and say, “Well done.  It was a good, a venturous and wonderful thing that you did – welcome to your new home, Canada ‘eh!”  Smiling, I turned around and headed back up the path towards our home.  Yes, Canada, this was the perfect choice and thank you for calling to me!