Bridget, where are ye?

The nerve of you, Bridget. You’re nothing more than an ordinary Irish slut who came here from Inch Bridge in 1848 on some creaking ship out of Dublin, bound with a load of wretched potato-eaters escaping the potato famine. Lice-ridden lace curtain Micks, one and all.

But well, that said, you were my great grandmother, though, of course, I never knew ye. Where the hell are you hiding? Allegedly you arrived on these shores with John Moriarty in tow and the two of you wed in Springfield, MA. John was a common laborer. You too, and neither of you could read nor write. John was 15 years younger than you, you lucky wench.

Whatever. It’s unclear if your name remained Bridget Moriarty, because you also seem to have been known as Bridget Moran, Bridget Sheehan and quite possibly, Bridget Sullivan. Christ, who cares? Were you running from something, girl? I rather think you were.

Okay, so I do care because you were, after all, my great grandmother, the mother of two, a girl and a boy. Bet you were hell on wheels. A real roll in the peat bog. I’m guessing here, but it seems to have been you who made all the decisions once you settled along the Cedar River in Muscatine County, Iowa. Bitch. I did find your name on land deeds along the river, two to be exact. It says right here, “Bridget Moriarty.” At least one of your parcels was adjacent to the Stoneburner farm, and ah yes, the Stoneburners are still in that area, plus a few raggedy Moriartys, too. A very old man told me that your John was known thereabouts as “Wandering John.” Of course that could be hearsay, maybe. Did you drive him to drink?

Immodest wench! I took the time to look up some papers in the Muscatine County Courthouse, and behold, there was a petition for divorce, filed not by you, but by John. It was signed with his “X.” In it, John asked for alimony. This was a shock to say the least. The petition alleged that on at least two occasions, you lifted your skirts for Henry Stoneburner. Well, why not? Maybe old John was limp in the sack. Iowa winters are long. Can you blame a lass for dropping her drawers?

Whatever. John disappeared (did you murder him dead and toss his stiff body into the Cedar River?) and never returned. My grandpa was quite young when his father fled. The shame of it all more or less shaped his life. After graduating from high school in Moscow, IA, he enrolled at the University of Iowa and after graduating (with a degree in Philosophy), he promptly rode the rails to the Dakotas to begin a new life. He spawned ten kids. Never drank a drop of whiskey. Read for the law and escaped poverty by teaching school until he became a respected member of the South Dakota Supreme Court. What a handsome devil was he, this Maurice Moriarty of whom I speak. When he retired he wrote a column (“The Barbed Wire Telegraph”) for an Iowa newspaper. I too currently write a column for an Iowa newspaper.

Bridget, did you know your only son was hit by an automobile driven by one Mr. Chu Wu, who was speeding toward a football game at the University of Iowa? Wu smacked down my grandpa and sent him flying through the air and onward to wherever it is old judges go. The year was 1935. It was Christmas Day. The shitty luck of the Irish, but pay attention, don’t you think it’s odd that his lengthy obit made no mention of either you or John. And why would that be? Surely you know.

So where are ye planted?  I’ve tramped around and about multiple tombstones in your Iowa haunts, and drove, yes drove, out to South Dakota, specifically to Aberdeen, where allegedly you were laid to rest. You were not to be found among the crumbling stones …. gone you were like the last drop of whiskey drained. I like to think you’re under the sod somewhere laughing as I tramp about looking for useless bones.

Sometimes when I watch Titanic for the umpteenth time, I imagine that it was you who loved the lusty lad from steerage. You know the one I mean. There are literally thousands of Bridget Moriarty’s listed throughout our globe and my quest to find you has come to an end. I’m old myself now, and frankly my dear, I just don’t have the strength to give a damn.

The nerve of you, Bridget. You’re nothing more than an ordinary Irish slut who came here from Inch Bridge in 1848 on some creaking ship out of Dublin, bound with a load of wretched potato-eaters escaping the potato famine. Lice-ridden lace curtain Micks, one and all.
_

But well, that said, you were my great grandmother, though of course, I never knew ye. Where the hell are you hiding? Allegedly you arrived on these shores with John Moriarty in tow and the two of you wed in Springfield, MA. John was a common laborer. You too, and neither of you could read nor write. John was 15 years younger than you, you lucky wench.
_
Whatever. It’s unclear if your name remained Bridget Moriarty, because you also seem to have been known as Bridget Moran, Bridget Sheehan and quite possibly, Bridget Sullivan. Christ, who cares? Were you running from something, girl? I rather think you were.
_

Okay, so I do care because you were, after all, my great grandmother, the mother of two, a girl and a boy. Bet you were hell on wheels. A real roll in the peat bog. I’m guessing here, but it seems to have been you who made all the decisions once you settled along the Cedar River in Muscatine County, Iowa. Bitch. I did find your name on land deeds along the river, two to be exact. It says right here, “Bridget Moriarty.” At least one of your parcels was adjacent to the Stoneburner farm, and ah yes, the Stoneburners are still in that area, plus a few raggedy Moriartys, too. A very old man told me that your John was known thereabouts as “Wandering John.” Of course that could be hearsay, maybe. Did you drive him to drink?
_
Immodest wench! I took the time to look up some papers in the Muscatine County Courthouse, and behold, there was a petition for divorce, filed not by you, but by John. It was signed with his “X.” In it, John asked for alimony. This was a shock to say the least. The petition alleged that on at least two occasions, you lifted your skirts for Henry Stoneburner. Well, why not? Maybe old John was limp in the sack. Iowa winters are long. Can you blame a lass for dropping her drawers?
_

Whatever. John disappeared (did you murder him dead and toss his stiff body into the Cedar River?) and never returned. My grandpa was quite young when his father fled. The shame of it all more or less shaped his life. After graduating from high school in Moscow, IA, he enrolled at the University of Iowa and after graduating (with a degree in Philosophy), he promptly rode the rails to the Dakotas to begin a new life. He spawned ten kids. Never drank a drop of whiskey. Read for the law and escaped poverty by teaching school until he became a respected member of the South Dakota Supreme Court. What a handsome devil was he, this Maurice Moriarty of whom I speak. When he retired he wrote a column (“The Barbed Wire Telegraph”) for an Iowa newspaper. I too currently write a column for an Iowa newspaper.
_
Bridget, did you know your only son was hit by an automobile driven by one Mr. Chu Wu, who was speeding toward a football game at the University of Iowa? Wu smacked down my grandpa and sent him flying through the air and onward to wherever it is old judges go. The year was 1935. It was Christmas Day. The shitty luck of the Irish, but pay attention, don’t you think it’s odd that his lengthy obit made no mention of either you or John. And why would that be? Surely you know.
_

So where are ye planted? I’ve tramped around and about multiple tombstones in your Iowa haunts, and drove, yes drove, out to South Dakota, specifically to Aberdeen, where allegedly you were laid to rest. You were not to be found among the crumbling stones … gone you were like the last drop of whiskey drained. I like to think you’re under the sod somewhere laughing as I tramp about looking for useless bones.
_
Sometimes when I watch Titanic for the umpteenth time, I imagine that it was you who loved the lusty lad from steerage. You know the one I mean. There are literally thousands of Bridget Moriarty’s listed throughout our globe and my quest to find you has come to an end. I’m old myself now, and frankly my dear, I just don’t have the strength to give a damn.