My grandfather, Philip Ryan, died in November 1924, when I was ten. He was 89. I remember going to visit him when he was sick. He was wrapped in a blanket sitting in his chair.
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People were in the kitchen smoking and eating and drinking. An Irish wake.
When we got to the Sag, the Ryans from the farm were there–Philip’s nieces and nephews who lived out that way. They opened the casket so they could say good-bye.
And she went out to the kitchen and made him a plate of bread and eggs–fried eggs–and whatnot.
About ten years ago somebody smashed Thomas McLaughlin’s tombstone. The historical society out there paid to put the stone back together. They put a new front on it. It was beautiful. And then a few years ago the vandals were out again, and this time they smashed Mary McLaughlin’s stone too. I should really do something about getting them repaired.
