Great-grandfather Patrick Kavanaugh is best remembered for changing our family’s last name from Cavanaugh because he tired of getting his brother’s mail.
I saw a photograph of Patrick at a family celebration earlier this month. He was gaunt, stern and “bog Irish” in appearance.
Our get-together memorialized the six children of Ellen Kavanaugh, burnt trying to save Patrick, her father, from the house fire that killed him, age 87. Those children – parents to many attendees – were Kathleen, Eileen, Bernadine, Lorraine and Kenneth. Another, Mary Jean, died young. Their children and grandchildren brought photos and mementos to share.
Lorraine was my mother. She died of cancer at 69, decades earlier than the others. There, spread out, were items and images I didn’t know existed – Lorraine at age 13, her summa cum laude certificate for Latin, the crucifix from above her bed, and many more.
This tabletop display about the five adult siblings awoke memories, sparked emotion and re-linked those attending into family. In “Our Town,” Thornton Wilder spotlights our millions of ancestors who came before.
And are still within us today.
Three of Ellen Kavanaugh’s daughters – Kathleen, Bernadine and Lorraine, the author’s mother – before Lorraine’s early death at 69. The other four adult siblings all survived into their 80s, with Kathleen topping off at 100.
There’s a beautiful song in my mother tongue, Bengali, that says, “The jewels of memory are more precious than anything else, I still wear them, I haven’t forgotten a thing.”
That priceless jewel of memory seems to adorn the hearts of everyone in your story. Thank you, Thomas, for this tender and evocative piece.