My Irish Home

My mother was a farmer's daughter, born in 1939 in rural Ireland. She was the first of 10 children born to Edward and Ellen Moore, and lived on the family farm in Annaghkilly, Newbliss, until she emigrated with her sister to the Bronx.

My aunt took photos when they returned to the farm.

The small cottage is the first home my mother lived in- I picked peas with my sister Dee in the vegetable garden behind this cottage in 1976. It was removed to straighten and widen the lane so the milk truck had an easier time getting down the lane to the milking parlor each day.

Supper in the field- My grandfather (seated in overalls) and his brothers Peter (Seated beside him) and Patrick (in a sweater vest and cap) take a moment for tea-

My great uncle Peter milking by hand- before the milking parlor was built

Back to baling Hay

The lane in from the Newbliss road. Our little piece of heaven.

Guatemala 1992

Eighteen years ago this week, I landed with a small group of Americans at the international airport in Guatemala City. We were Peace Corps trainees, learning public health and animal husbandry. We were taken to a pension in Antigua for the night and were brought to CHP, our school for the next 3 months, the following day. We were each placed with a Guatemalan family in one of three villages, Santa Lucia, Santo Tomas, or Magdalena.

Lili Pineda was my Guatemalan mom, and I lived there with her and her sister, as well as their two children. Their sister Martha lived next door with her son, and more of the family was scattered around town. I was adopted by the whole family, and was invited to their church and all their family events, which immersed me in the Guatemalan culture.

Claudia was more a sister than a cousin, as she and her mom shared the house. She taught me about her culture far more than any book could and her mom embroidered a pillowcase and crocheted a sham as gifts for my birthday.

Luis was one of my cousins and he took me to Antigua, Panajachel and out with him and his friends. He helped me with my Spanish homework and was incredibly kind to me.

My training group was a very mixed group of amazing individuals. We grew as close as family and became lifelong friends during that 3 month training period.

And we learned Spanish- I reached an intermediate alto level by the time we were assigned to the aldeas we would work in. It was Mother’s day weekend in Guatemala when I traveled to Saltan the first time. Set in the beautiful moutains, it was a four hour bus ride on a largely unpaved road. Again I was met with kindness. I was welcomed into the fold in a place that had no phones, limited mail service and electricity when it didn’t rain so hard.

As a health extensionist volunteer, I worked on preventative medicine, which included vaccine campaigns, teaching women’s groups, and digging the odd latrine. I experienced medicine in a world of limited supplies and prohibitive costs. I learned and I learned and I learned…

I learned how lucky I was to have so much opportunity

I learned it is important to work within the culture of those you serve

I learned Spanish first-hand, not from a book

I learned what real poverty looked like

I learned that even if you have very little, it can be shared

I learned to love a country I wasn’t born to, with no relatives connecting me

I loved Guate, I still miss my adopted country, and I hope to visit again. Eighteen years have passed in the blink of an eye.

A birthday wish

I had a childhood friend, Steven, who died of leukemia the summer before I started high school. He was an out of state pen pal who meant the world to me and his death shocked me. For all that we shared through letters, he never once mentioned his leukemia came out of remission. He never told me he was dying. And then he was gone.

Steve would have celebrated his 46^th birthday on February 14^th this year, had he lived. Dying at 17 seemed so crazy- so unreal… but chemo didn’t work the same miracles in 1981 that it does now.

I am missing Steve this week.

I like to think he lives on… and not just in my memories. I see him in my stories and written work. He was the first person to teach me to paint a picture with words. He encouraged me to make good choices when I came to forks in the road. He was a voice of sobriety and sanity during a troubling childhood too full of drama, sadness and chaos. He was my lifeline and I lived for his letters.

It was hard on me when they stopped coming. And for a long time, high school was a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from.

I was in Canada on his first birthday in heaven. I believe in heaven. That it is a real place of beauty. I have to believe he is there, with all the good men women and children who have passed through my life on their way to that perfect place

I like to think Steve is proud of me…rooting for me…supporting me… I strive to make a difference. I work hard to do for others who are in need. And I am embarrassed by praise that I sometimes receive- cause it is what I am supposed to do.

Knowing this young man made me a better person, a better friend and a better mom. I tell my kids I love them. They hear it every day- and twice on the days they are on my last nerve, jumping up and down. Cause it can be gone so quickly.

Steve signed every letter with Love you always – and I do it too- so those I love know it. Nobody should ever doubt they are loved.

So Steve-

Happy Birthday! I miss you.

Love you always,

Geri