Sunday, May 11, 2008
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Monday, April 14, 2008
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Saturday, March 29, 2008
Moscow, Russia
Sue Ellen Woodcock
Jan. 24, 2008
After 30 hours of travel, on my way to Kazakhstan to join my sister and her husband for the adoption of two boys, I stopped in Moscow, Russia and spent my time as a tourist. I arrived on a Friday afternoon and met my interpreter and guide setting out for the most famous of Moscow’s tourist sites – Red Square. After a long walk down Tverskaya Street we arrived at an entrance of Red Square, which is actually the backside of a museum. First we stood at the mark of where all of Moscow’s main streets begin from. A few more steps under the arch I saw my first landmark, but was quickly disappointed. St. Basil’s Cathedral sat off in the distance but was covered with scaffolding and shrouded in work tarps. My interpreter, Olga, said it was having some much needed repairs to the domes. I looked down at my feet at one point and it hit me as to where I was. The Red Square where hundreds of troops passed by the reviewing stands of Lenin, Stalin and other great Russian leaders. I was in the seat of communism in a country so feared that an American would never think to come visit in the past.
To the right of where I stood another landmark – that of Lenin’s tomb. It was Friday though and the tomb is not open to the public. This also explained why we were able to walk all over Red Square. I discovered on my second visit weeks later with my brother-in-law that the entire square was roped off and lines of people waited to enter the tomb including us. Things were fine until one of the soldiers guarding the entrance noticed my camera and told me no. He said to take it back to my room but I made a glum face and pleaded with him that I would keep it in my pocket. He leaned over to me (in true Russian fashion) and whispered in my ear, “100 rubles”. My brother-in-law started to get upset but I stopped him – 100 rubles was worth about $3 American. I folded the money into my hand and shook the guard’s hand and we both nodded, with me proceeding through the gate. Thinking back I took a risk doing that, the guard easily could have told the other guard that I bribed him.
Inside the tomb was equally exciting with no light except for that over Lenin’s head. Everything else was so pitch black that we never knew guards were in the room except when they “shushed” us for whispering to each other about which finger had fallen off Lenin’s hand. We were rushed around the glass box holding the coffin so we never did get a good look at his fingers.
Later that day my brother-in-law and I had another run in with the police this time. We had just finished walking through the GUM department store, the long gray building framing one side of Red Square. We stopped outside to smoke a cigarette and drink a Coke. We had already been told not to through your cigarette butts anywhere near Red Square and not really anywhere else. We saw the two police officers as we finished our Coke. Speaking to us in Russian we told them we only spoke English. Then one said “papers” and we proceeded to give him our passports and visas (which they tell you to have on you all the time just for cases like this.) After looking at the papers they motioned for us to move along and gave us back our papers, another thing were warned about. When the police or army looks at your papers they will sometimes ask you for money to get them back and again you run the risk of bribery.
Back with my interpreter I lingered in Red Square and saw the golden domes of the Kremlin looming over us, it also hit me as to how old Moscow and Russia are and how young the United States is. After a quick visit the churches of the Kremlin we made our way to a pizza place to eat and talk. Olga was a young attractive woman with brown black hair and eyes to match, a teacher as Moscow University and an interpreter (She often took groups of businessmen to the United States for conferences). The first thing I noticed about her was that she was not your typical Russian. As we chatted over pizza I asked her where she was from and she said Chechnya and she didn’t go home much, then she continued to tell me her boyfriend was also from Chechnya, was in to politics and traveled home often. That made me raises an eyebrow. From then on we didn’t talk much about her or anything that wasn’t about touring around Moscow.
It was night time now and we continued our tour. We went to Old Rabat Street where people sell things from tables, paint portraits or put on little street shows. Hundreds of years ago it was a crossroads for many battles headed toward the Kremlin. One of the sideshows we saw was a little disturbing but very Russian. A young girl about 9-years-old wore a short, dancer’s style dress, leggings and silver shoes. She was carrying a plastic assault rifle and proceeded to do a dance with it. A box for collecting money was in front of her and her parents stood in the background smiling with pride.
On the way back to my hotel we took the Moscow subway system. First, the escalators inside are the longest you will find anywhere. They were made that way because during the Cold War the stations were used for bomb shelters. But there is a treat down below – the mosaic artwork in the ceiling and the bronze statues at the walls. The mosaics depict different sports and the statues depict heroes, like a dog with a knelt down officer.
While Moscow is a great place to visit from a historical point of view there are still many things that remind use of the communist years.
Jan. 24, 2008
After 30 hours of travel, on my way to Kazakhstan to join my sister and her husband for the adoption of two boys, I stopped in Moscow, Russia and spent my time as a tourist. I arrived on a Friday afternoon and met my interpreter and guide setting out for the most famous of Moscow’s tourist sites – Red Square. After a long walk down Tverskaya Street we arrived at an entrance of Red Square, which is actually the backside of a museum. First we stood at the mark of where all of Moscow’s main streets begin from. A few more steps under the arch I saw my first landmark, but was quickly disappointed. St. Basil’s Cathedral sat off in the distance but was covered with scaffolding and shrouded in work tarps. My interpreter, Olga, said it was having some much needed repairs to the domes. I looked down at my feet at one point and it hit me as to where I was. The Red Square where hundreds of troops passed by the reviewing stands of Lenin, Stalin and other great Russian leaders. I was in the seat of communism in a country so feared that an American would never think to come visit in the past.
To the right of where I stood another landmark – that of Lenin’s tomb. It was Friday though and the tomb is not open to the public. This also explained why we were able to walk all over Red Square. I discovered on my second visit weeks later with my brother-in-law that the entire square was roped off and lines of people waited to enter the tomb including us. Things were fine until one of the soldiers guarding the entrance noticed my camera and told me no. He said to take it back to my room but I made a glum face and pleaded with him that I would keep it in my pocket. He leaned over to me (in true Russian fashion) and whispered in my ear, “100 rubles”. My brother-in-law started to get upset but I stopped him – 100 rubles was worth about $3 American. I folded the money into my hand and shook the guard’s hand and we both nodded, with me proceeding through the gate. Thinking back I took a risk doing that, the guard easily could have told the other guard that I bribed him.
Inside the tomb was equally exciting with no light except for that over Lenin’s head. Everything else was so pitch black that we never knew guards were in the room except when they “shushed” us for whispering to each other about which finger had fallen off Lenin’s hand. We were rushed around the glass box holding the coffin so we never did get a good look at his fingers.
Later that day my brother-in-law and I had another run in with the police this time. We had just finished walking through the GUM department store, the long gray building framing one side of Red Square. We stopped outside to smoke a cigarette and drink a Coke. We had already been told not to through your cigarette butts anywhere near Red Square and not really anywhere else. We saw the two police officers as we finished our Coke. Speaking to us in Russian we told them we only spoke English. Then one said “papers” and we proceeded to give him our passports and visas (which they tell you to have on you all the time just for cases like this.) After looking at the papers they motioned for us to move along and gave us back our papers, another thing were warned about. When the police or army looks at your papers they will sometimes ask you for money to get them back and again you run the risk of bribery.
Back with my interpreter I lingered in Red Square and saw the golden domes of the Kremlin looming over us, it also hit me as to how old Moscow and Russia are and how young the United States is. After a quick visit the churches of the Kremlin we made our way to a pizza place to eat and talk. Olga was a young attractive woman with brown black hair and eyes to match, a teacher as Moscow University and an interpreter (She often took groups of businessmen to the United States for conferences). The first thing I noticed about her was that she was not your typical Russian. As we chatted over pizza I asked her where she was from and she said Chechnya and she didn’t go home much, then she continued to tell me her boyfriend was also from Chechnya, was in to politics and traveled home often. That made me raises an eyebrow. From then on we didn’t talk much about her or anything that wasn’t about touring around Moscow.
It was night time now and we continued our tour. We went to Old Rabat Street where people sell things from tables, paint portraits or put on little street shows. Hundreds of years ago it was a crossroads for many battles headed toward the Kremlin. One of the sideshows we saw was a little disturbing but very Russian. A young girl about 9-years-old wore a short, dancer’s style dress, leggings and silver shoes. She was carrying a plastic assault rifle and proceeded to do a dance with it. A box for collecting money was in front of her and her parents stood in the background smiling with pride.
On the way back to my hotel we took the Moscow subway system. First, the escalators inside are the longest you will find anywhere. They were made that way because during the Cold War the stations were used for bomb shelters. But there is a treat down below – the mosaic artwork in the ceiling and the bronze statues at the walls. The mosaics depict different sports and the statues depict heroes, like a dog with a knelt down officer.
While Moscow is a great place to visit from a historical point of view there are still many things that remind use of the communist years.
Once More to the River
Sue Ellen Woodcock
April 3, 2008
I like E.B. White, or Elwyn Brooks White for those who like to be exact. Yes, he wrote cute children’s tales (Charlotte’s Web, Stuart Little and Trumpet of the Swan). He penned essays that captured the heart of New York and Maine in an understated and humorous way. He makes you “feel” his essays. Prof. Taylor actually turned me on to him 20 some odd years ago in an undergrad non-fiction class. She asked us to pick out an essay we wished we had written and when I opened my E.B. White book I had folded in the corner of one essay. I had forgotten about it until I read him once more in the Norton Sampler. Twenty years apart and I had picked the same one. I would say that “Once More to the Lake” is one essay that hits home – for me he is talking about the St. Lawrence River. So here is my rendition. . . .
Once more to the River
There it is! There’s the old silo! That’s when I knew I had arrived. I turned the car down the road the same way my dad used to every August when we’d visit for a week; down a narrow and steep hill where you had to toot the horn to let others know you were coming, past the other camps on the river, then all the way to the end.
My car rocked and rolled into the yard just like the station wagon used to do. I sat in the car for awhile looking over the small two-story camp and the Air Stream trailer permanently jacked up on cinder blocks. My uncle had inherited all of this at Point Comfort but he didn’t keep it as neat as my grandparents did. I walked to the back door past the two-holer outhouse. I always wondered if two people ever did use it at the same time. For the most part it was used as a shed holding old life preservers, ropes and a few garden tools.
The screen door screeched as I opened it. Trying the knob on the main door I found it unlocked. This was a place where you could still do that. I looked around as I passed through the little kitchen and the living room. Everything was just one big L-shaped room. Right near the kitchen sink the water bucket still sat. You couldn’t drink the water from the river so you had to go get it from a spring. Many nights after dinner my brother or myself or both of us were sent. We made our way over some wooden boards that helped keep the path dry, up a sandy road and to the big round pipe sunk into the ground that held the water. I used to get the creeps sometimes going by myself. I used to think that Sasquatch (the latest rage of the 70s) was watching me in the woods. My mother always wondered how I got the water so quick.
Stopping at the heavy glass door to the screened-in porch I could see across the St. Lawrence River to Canada. Many times I had looked across the see the huge Laker ships carrying their cargo from the Great Lakes to the Atlantic Ocean. The bed on the porch was still there reminding me of sleeping there summer nights, waking in the morning with the light dew on my face and my sleeping bag.
I looked up to the open loft above the living room remembering how we used to lay claim to one of three beds. My brother always getting the doubled bed that squeaked
with the slightest movement. I can picture him and his red hair moving up and down to purposely get the bed to make the most noise as possible. Sleeping in the loft was like camping out in the camp. We played flashlight games on the peak of the unfinished ceiling or we’d tell ghost stories, but mostly we would lay in bed in listen to the adults as they ate cheese and crackers and beer while they talked about whatever. Listening to them always felt like being let in on a secret that really wasn’t one.
Laying in bed in the loft during a storm you could hear and feel the rain. The window in the loft was propped open with a wooden block. In the mornings we could see a couple of chipmunks fussing about in the hollowed out tree by the camp. We’d see them mouth their little acorns and then we’d hear them scurry across the roof. Mothballs made sure they didn’t get in in the winter. I could barely notice the mothball smell. The camp smelled like itself; plywood, wooden matches to light the stove and damp bathing suits drying on the wooden kitchen chairs.
Now that I’m walking around in my memories I noticed a woodstove that had been added lately. The pile of Reader’s Digest hardcover editions weren’t in the corner anymore just a couple of fishing poles. There were always fishing poles and it was always the right time to go fishing.
I changed into a pair of shorts and an old t-shirt and headed for the dock. A flood of memories came back like bringing the oars to the rowboat or taking my grandfather’s hand to get into the motor boat. Every summer I fished everyday of my vacation only to catch cruddy “sunfish”. They had big red eyes and they weren’t for eating.
I cast off the dock and got the line out a good 50 feet. Slowly I reeled the line back in then I cast again but this time there was a little nibble. Of course it was one of those sunfish again and to top it off it swallowed the hook. With no one around to help me I had to get it out myself. I twisted and pulled a couple of times and it finally came out. Was this cruel to do to a fish? Some would say yes, but I would say I never thought much of thinking about it. I put the fish back in the water and it swam away.
April 3, 2008
I like E.B. White, or Elwyn Brooks White for those who like to be exact. Yes, he wrote cute children’s tales (Charlotte’s Web, Stuart Little and Trumpet of the Swan). He penned essays that captured the heart of New York and Maine in an understated and humorous way. He makes you “feel” his essays. Prof. Taylor actually turned me on to him 20 some odd years ago in an undergrad non-fiction class. She asked us to pick out an essay we wished we had written and when I opened my E.B. White book I had folded in the corner of one essay. I had forgotten about it until I read him once more in the Norton Sampler. Twenty years apart and I had picked the same one. I would say that “Once More to the Lake” is one essay that hits home – for me he is talking about the St. Lawrence River. So here is my rendition. . . .
Once more to the River
There it is! There’s the old silo! That’s when I knew I had arrived. I turned the car down the road the same way my dad used to every August when we’d visit for a week; down a narrow and steep hill where you had to toot the horn to let others know you were coming, past the other camps on the river, then all the way to the end.
My car rocked and rolled into the yard just like the station wagon used to do. I sat in the car for awhile looking over the small two-story camp and the Air Stream trailer permanently jacked up on cinder blocks. My uncle had inherited all of this at Point Comfort but he didn’t keep it as neat as my grandparents did. I walked to the back door past the two-holer outhouse. I always wondered if two people ever did use it at the same time. For the most part it was used as a shed holding old life preservers, ropes and a few garden tools.
The screen door screeched as I opened it. Trying the knob on the main door I found it unlocked. This was a place where you could still do that. I looked around as I passed through the little kitchen and the living room. Everything was just one big L-shaped room. Right near the kitchen sink the water bucket still sat. You couldn’t drink the water from the river so you had to go get it from a spring. Many nights after dinner my brother or myself or both of us were sent. We made our way over some wooden boards that helped keep the path dry, up a sandy road and to the big round pipe sunk into the ground that held the water. I used to get the creeps sometimes going by myself. I used to think that Sasquatch (the latest rage of the 70s) was watching me in the woods. My mother always wondered how I got the water so quick.
Stopping at the heavy glass door to the screened-in porch I could see across the St. Lawrence River to Canada. Many times I had looked across the see the huge Laker ships carrying their cargo from the Great Lakes to the Atlantic Ocean. The bed on the porch was still there reminding me of sleeping there summer nights, waking in the morning with the light dew on my face and my sleeping bag.
I looked up to the open loft above the living room remembering how we used to lay claim to one of three beds. My brother always getting the doubled bed that squeaked
with the slightest movement. I can picture him and his red hair moving up and down to purposely get the bed to make the most noise as possible. Sleeping in the loft was like camping out in the camp. We played flashlight games on the peak of the unfinished ceiling or we’d tell ghost stories, but mostly we would lay in bed in listen to the adults as they ate cheese and crackers and beer while they talked about whatever. Listening to them always felt like being let in on a secret that really wasn’t one.
Laying in bed in the loft during a storm you could hear and feel the rain. The window in the loft was propped open with a wooden block. In the mornings we could see a couple of chipmunks fussing about in the hollowed out tree by the camp. We’d see them mouth their little acorns and then we’d hear them scurry across the roof. Mothballs made sure they didn’t get in in the winter. I could barely notice the mothball smell. The camp smelled like itself; plywood, wooden matches to light the stove and damp bathing suits drying on the wooden kitchen chairs.
Now that I’m walking around in my memories I noticed a woodstove that had been added lately. The pile of Reader’s Digest hardcover editions weren’t in the corner anymore just a couple of fishing poles. There were always fishing poles and it was always the right time to go fishing.
I changed into a pair of shorts and an old t-shirt and headed for the dock. A flood of memories came back like bringing the oars to the rowboat or taking my grandfather’s hand to get into the motor boat. Every summer I fished everyday of my vacation only to catch cruddy “sunfish”. They had big red eyes and they weren’t for eating.
I cast off the dock and got the line out a good 50 feet. Slowly I reeled the line back in then I cast again but this time there was a little nibble. Of course it was one of those sunfish again and to top it off it swallowed the hook. With no one around to help me I had to get it out myself. I twisted and pulled a couple of times and it finally came out. Was this cruel to do to a fish? Some would say yes, but I would say I never thought much of thinking about it. I put the fish back in the water and it swam away.
Roots, the Irish Version
Sue Ellen Woodcock
Feb. 8, 2008
Roots, the Irish version
There are a good number of us living in the United States who can trace their roots back to Ireland, in fact there are over 80 million people in the U.S., Canada, England, Wales, New Zealand, Australia, South Africa, a few South American countries and some folks living in continental Europe who can. That’s nearly 14 times the number of people living in Ireland today. Influenced by the movie Roots, I began my own family history search at the age of 12. It took me straight to Belfast, North Ireland, but at the time the Troubles were in full swing and I knew my chances of ever getting to Belfast were slim.
One thing I learned in my searching is that today’s Irishman fears the American tourist arriving on your doorstep and announcing you’re cousins. And being a good American that’s exactly what I did a few years ago, well, kind of. My Irish cousins, headed by an elderly one by the name of Mary Jenkins, had been communicating by letter with me for a couple of years before the visit, and subsequent visits took place. But the best thing, besides meeting people who shared our DNA was that they helped find our way to the wee town of Ballynure (a small parish where Jonathan Swift was known to preach in) and a little cottage – the family cottage - nicknamed Snowy Glen.
I arrived in Belfast all hyped-up with my sister and immediately called Mary from the hotel, which was fine except our cousin, Russell, answered the phone. That was ok but he has a speech impediment and a heavy Northern Irish accent. Once Mary took the phone from him we got directions and arrived at 256 Cliftonville Road in no time. The line of row houses ran on both sides of the street, but no one was outside, however, we did notice a couple of people looking out their sheers at us. It dawned on us later that we had parked our Republic of Ireland, i.e. Catholic rental car on a Protestant street and drew the curiosity of a handful of people. Once inside we settled down in the parlor for tea and pastries and chat of all our past relatives. We discussed how my great, great grandmother was Mary’s aunt. It was a relief to learn we were closer on the family tree than I had first thought.
We went outside to see Mary’s greenhouse and her geraniums and other summer flowers. The whole time we stood in the yard talking a helicopter hovered over the neighborhood on its regular Saturday patrol. The tension of the Troubles still existed but fit right in to everyday life. Talk soon turned to this little town of Ballynure, located just outside of Belfast near the seaside town of Carrickfergus. Ballynure was the town where my great, great grandmother and great, great grandfather had lived at least around the time of their marriage in 1880. Mary distinctly remembered visiting their house as a child and how it was called Snowy Glen, or Snowy Glin as she pronounced it. She spun us a tale of playing in the fields on her visit to the “country”. The more we heard about this house the more we wanted to leave and go find it. My sister and I said our goodbyes, not thinking we would ever be back someday for another visit, which we where some years later.
We ventured off in our rental car and followed the map to Ballynure. The excitement took over. We were on a great detective story and we were hyper-focused on our mission, and not having a clue what to expect. First we found the Ballynure Presbyterian Church, the church my great, great grandparents were married in. Like all good tourists we jumped out and took photographs, posing by the front door and looking more interested at the church as if we had never seen one before. As luck would have it one of the church ladies walked around the corner to the front door and let us in once she knew what we were up to. After a good look inside we inquired about the rest of Ballynure. The woman smiled and said what we saw was about what we’d get. There were three good sized roads in town, one was called Dairyland Road, and a few houses scattered on each. She had never heard of Snowy Glen. We had a photograph of what it looked like in the 1960s, but the woman didn’t recognize it. After looking at the local cemetery and finding a headstone or two that could be relatives we decided to head back to Belfast but we would take the alternative route back, taking us through the town of Carrickfergus. We explored two of the roads in Ballynure and had pretty much given up on finding Snowy Glen. Maybe our elderly cousin didn’t remember her childhood place as well as we thought. The third road in town pointed us in the direction of Carrickfergus and as we left the borders of Ballynure I looked in the rear view mirror of my car and there it was. Heaped over with vines, tall grass, bushes and small trees was the house. I screamed with excitement, shocked my sister a bit and did a U-turn in the road. “That’s it. That’s it.” I kept saying. We stopped the car to look at the photograph and then at the partially buried house in front of us. The old street sign said, “Dairyland Road”. The doorways to the cottage were the same. The windows were the same space apart, but most importantly, some decorative woodwork around the windows matched. We had found Snowy Glen, just not in the shape we had hoped it would be in.
We debated about poking around the property but decided it was worth getting dirty and wet over, we hadn’t come all this way not to. We didn’t give much thought to the strength of the structure until afterward, but as far as we could tell it was pretty sound. We waded through the grass and into the right side door (the left side door went to a newer barn type of addition.) The ceilings and most of the walls were whitewashed and musty with years of life inside. There were two little rooms, one with a fireplace, but it looked like some local youths had also found the house. There were spray painted remarks about the Pope and Tags (Slang for Catholic.) There was an old ladies shoe on the floor, some linoleum, and a few pages of a Bible, an admittedly strange assortment of things. I looked out the window from the room that must have been the kitchen (it had the fireplace) and wondered if I was looking out over the same fields Mary had played in as a kid. I also thought how neat it was that I was looking out the window my great, great grandparents did.
There was also a small ladder-type set of stairs going up to what I imagine was a bedroom, more like a crawlspace. I didn’t continue on for lack of a light and for fear of something jumping out at me. We had decided we had seen enough and decided to leave, but not before I pulled several layers of wallpaper off the wall as a souvenir and a couple pages of the Bible. The first Bible page I picked up was from Exodus. How appropriate since my family’s exodus had been made from here. We drove back to Belfast as fast as we could to call our mother in the U.S. and tell her of our great find.
Feb. 8, 2008
Roots, the Irish version
There are a good number of us living in the United States who can trace their roots back to Ireland, in fact there are over 80 million people in the U.S., Canada, England, Wales, New Zealand, Australia, South Africa, a few South American countries and some folks living in continental Europe who can. That’s nearly 14 times the number of people living in Ireland today. Influenced by the movie Roots, I began my own family history search at the age of 12. It took me straight to Belfast, North Ireland, but at the time the Troubles were in full swing and I knew my chances of ever getting to Belfast were slim.
One thing I learned in my searching is that today’s Irishman fears the American tourist arriving on your doorstep and announcing you’re cousins. And being a good American that’s exactly what I did a few years ago, well, kind of. My Irish cousins, headed by an elderly one by the name of Mary Jenkins, had been communicating by letter with me for a couple of years before the visit, and subsequent visits took place. But the best thing, besides meeting people who shared our DNA was that they helped find our way to the wee town of Ballynure (a small parish where Jonathan Swift was known to preach in) and a little cottage – the family cottage - nicknamed Snowy Glen.
I arrived in Belfast all hyped-up with my sister and immediately called Mary from the hotel, which was fine except our cousin, Russell, answered the phone. That was ok but he has a speech impediment and a heavy Northern Irish accent. Once Mary took the phone from him we got directions and arrived at 256 Cliftonville Road in no time. The line of row houses ran on both sides of the street, but no one was outside, however, we did notice a couple of people looking out their sheers at us. It dawned on us later that we had parked our Republic of Ireland, i.e. Catholic rental car on a Protestant street and drew the curiosity of a handful of people. Once inside we settled down in the parlor for tea and pastries and chat of all our past relatives. We discussed how my great, great grandmother was Mary’s aunt. It was a relief to learn we were closer on the family tree than I had first thought.
We went outside to see Mary’s greenhouse and her geraniums and other summer flowers. The whole time we stood in the yard talking a helicopter hovered over the neighborhood on its regular Saturday patrol. The tension of the Troubles still existed but fit right in to everyday life. Talk soon turned to this little town of Ballynure, located just outside of Belfast near the seaside town of Carrickfergus. Ballynure was the town where my great, great grandmother and great, great grandfather had lived at least around the time of their marriage in 1880. Mary distinctly remembered visiting their house as a child and how it was called Snowy Glen, or Snowy Glin as she pronounced it. She spun us a tale of playing in the fields on her visit to the “country”. The more we heard about this house the more we wanted to leave and go find it. My sister and I said our goodbyes, not thinking we would ever be back someday for another visit, which we where some years later.
We ventured off in our rental car and followed the map to Ballynure. The excitement took over. We were on a great detective story and we were hyper-focused on our mission, and not having a clue what to expect. First we found the Ballynure Presbyterian Church, the church my great, great grandparents were married in. Like all good tourists we jumped out and took photographs, posing by the front door and looking more interested at the church as if we had never seen one before. As luck would have it one of the church ladies walked around the corner to the front door and let us in once she knew what we were up to. After a good look inside we inquired about the rest of Ballynure. The woman smiled and said what we saw was about what we’d get. There were three good sized roads in town, one was called Dairyland Road, and a few houses scattered on each. She had never heard of Snowy Glen. We had a photograph of what it looked like in the 1960s, but the woman didn’t recognize it. After looking at the local cemetery and finding a headstone or two that could be relatives we decided to head back to Belfast but we would take the alternative route back, taking us through the town of Carrickfergus. We explored two of the roads in Ballynure and had pretty much given up on finding Snowy Glen. Maybe our elderly cousin didn’t remember her childhood place as well as we thought. The third road in town pointed us in the direction of Carrickfergus and as we left the borders of Ballynure I looked in the rear view mirror of my car and there it was. Heaped over with vines, tall grass, bushes and small trees was the house. I screamed with excitement, shocked my sister a bit and did a U-turn in the road. “That’s it. That’s it.” I kept saying. We stopped the car to look at the photograph and then at the partially buried house in front of us. The old street sign said, “Dairyland Road”. The doorways to the cottage were the same. The windows were the same space apart, but most importantly, some decorative woodwork around the windows matched. We had found Snowy Glen, just not in the shape we had hoped it would be in.
We debated about poking around the property but decided it was worth getting dirty and wet over, we hadn’t come all this way not to. We didn’t give much thought to the strength of the structure until afterward, but as far as we could tell it was pretty sound. We waded through the grass and into the right side door (the left side door went to a newer barn type of addition.) The ceilings and most of the walls were whitewashed and musty with years of life inside. There were two little rooms, one with a fireplace, but it looked like some local youths had also found the house. There were spray painted remarks about the Pope and Tags (Slang for Catholic.) There was an old ladies shoe on the floor, some linoleum, and a few pages of a Bible, an admittedly strange assortment of things. I looked out the window from the room that must have been the kitchen (it had the fireplace) and wondered if I was looking out over the same fields Mary had played in as a kid. I also thought how neat it was that I was looking out the window my great, great grandparents did.
There was also a small ladder-type set of stairs going up to what I imagine was a bedroom, more like a crawlspace. I didn’t continue on for lack of a light and for fear of something jumping out at me. We had decided we had seen enough and decided to leave, but not before I pulled several layers of wallpaper off the wall as a souvenir and a couple pages of the Bible. The first Bible page I picked up was from Exodus. How appropriate since my family’s exodus had been made from here. We drove back to Belfast as fast as we could to call our mother in the U.S. and tell her of our great find.
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