The Open Gate

My Irish-born great-grandmother, Mary Flood, was mother to my Nana Kenvin, the grandparent I was closest to and knew the best. Great-grandmother Mary emigrated from Ireland to America in the 1890s and died in 1931 in New York, 30 years before my birth, when my father was only 5. But Poppy remembered her as a beloved grandmother and he sought out her birth home of Castlemartyr, County Cork, Ireland, when he was a graduate student in the 1950s.

This visit led my father to write an enchanting short story, "Castlemartyr," one of his best and one of my favorites, that inspired me. It's a lovely story about family, loss and kindness.

My father died in November 2021 at the grand age of 95. Sharp and creative to the end, he talked about Mary Flood just months before he died. He had made a little book of her poems that she penned in the 1920s and he shared a few family photos. I had promised him I'd visit the town of Castlemartyr someday.

As travel restrictions eased in 2022, I realized I could plan a trip again. Losing a close family member always reminds us of our own mortality, of course, so I reasoned there was no time like the present to visit Ireland. And I'm sure in the back of my mind was the idea of a pilgrimage in honor of my father. It seemed time.

For once, I didn't over plan. No guided tours, no greatest hits of the Emerald Isle, no rushing to check sights off a must-see list. I know there's more to Ireland than just a little corner of County Cork, but a stay in a particular village was my only requirement for this adventure.

Car to bus to red-eye to another plane to taxi and there I was suddenly: in the village of Castlemartyr on a sunny September midday. The little town my great-grandmother had left as a teenager at the end of the 19th century. My driver, Dave, had enchanted me with his warm and friendly manner and helpful conversation. My Airbnb host, Orla, a native of Castlemartyr, welcomed me to the house she grew up in, where a wing is now the lovely apartment that I called home for six days.

When Orla's partner, Tommy, knocked on the door a few hours later to hand me some homegrown tomatoes, I thought I had fallen asleep and was dreaming. Truly, it was that lovely and special.

Because rain was forecast for the rest of the week, I wasted no time in seeking out my ancestors' grave sites in the yard of St. Anne's Church of Ireland just across the street from my lodging. The gate chained shut momentarily intimidated me, but I walked around to see if there might be another entry.

Not easily deterred, I saw someone in the yard just next to the church: "Pardon me," I said, "but I've come from America looking for some family graves in that churchyard. Do you know if there's a way in?" The young man I asked was friendly and answered that he was from Limerick, but he'd pop inside to see if "the mother-in-law" knew. Moments later he emerged and motioned for me to follow him. "She says the gate is always chained and no one comes by there much, but the gate is not actually locked. We'll just undo the chain and open the gate."

And, in a matter of seconds, I was in. The overgrown path led to a weedy and unkempt graveyard. Tombstones so old the carvings were obscured on most. My father had noted that great-great-grandfather, William Flood, was a stonemason so the Flood tombstones were the grandest in the graveyard. I looked at all, grand and less grand, and could not distinguish any Flood names.

Almost giving up, I noticed a few — on the larger size —  tucked in closer to the church itself. Eureka! There lay my great-great grandmother, MaryAnne Skuse Flood. And another Flood whose name I did not recognize next to her. But the graves were so overgrown with weeds, covered with ivy and moss, that it was hard to decipher anything. I took photos as best as I could and gave thanks to my ancestors.

On Day 2, with still nice weather but the threat of rain moving in, I went down the street to the greengrocer early to stock my kitchen. My route led right by the churchyard and amazingly the church gate was open! There were sounds of mowing and raking. When I see a gate open and a path appearing, I follow.

Up I went and there was a man raking in the corner of the graveyard. "Hello," I cried, "I've come from America and my great-great grandmother is buried over there. Thank you so much for tidying up here." "Ah, you're welcome," he said, adding, "which ones are your relatives' graves and I'll work on them?" I pointed out the Flood sites and he promised to clean them up. "I'm Heather; what is your name?" I asked. "It's Moses," he said. "Of course it is," I answered.

Moses had come to Ireland 20 years ago from South Africa and from Nigeria before that. He kindly answered my questions, did not take offense when I offered some Euro as a small thank you, and allowed me to snap a photo of him doing the hard work.

I told him he was my hero, that my great-grandmother, like him, had been an immigrant, and that they were both courageous. "How is it for you in Ireland?" I asked. "Better than in South Africa," he replied.

Because of Moses' work, I could see the other grave belonged to my great-great-great grandmother, Frances Flood, the mother of William, as well as to her son John. Frances died at age 86. Born in 1790, she lived through the potato famine and endured to that amazing age. John wasn't as lucky and had died at age 44.

MaryAnne Skuse Flood died at age 38, after birthing her ninth child. I learned from the genealogical records that Frances' son and MaryAnne's husband, my great-great grandfather stonemason William (who most likely carved these tombstones), lived to age 70.

I don't believe in signs any more, and I've never believed that everything happens for a reason, but when the gate is open, walk on through.

Heather Kenvin is a mom in Maine. Now retired from a career in college advancement, she enjoys working with others to strengthen community. She writes personal essays and occasional true tales about her corgi-mix rescue dog. Read More