An Gorta Mor by guest blogger Shannon Haire

It takes a lot of suffering to be ranked among one of history’s worst tragedies and biggest losses of life.

Photo by Shannon Haire - Used with Permission

The famine that hit Ireland in 1845 has that unfortunate distinction. ‘An Gorta Mor’ (the Great Hunger) decimated the Irish population and over a five year period 1.5 million people starved to death or died of hunger-related causes. Another two million fled Ireland in order to escape that fate, and the native population hasn’t recovered since. It is estimated that there are more Irish people spread throughout the world than there are in Ireland itself, and that has been the case ever since the Great Famine began.

Photo by Chmee2

Ireland is a mecca for memorials, historical places, and public sculpture, but few are as somber and potent as the Famine Memorial on the banks of the River Liffey in Dublin. The memorial sculpture was created by Rowan Gillespie and unveiled in 1997. It consists of emaciated men, women, and children trudging along the banks of the river, with various expressions of sadness, despair, and resignation. The horrifying bronze sculptures also include a starving dog walking behind the people. It is one of the most photographed public art pieces in all of Ireland.

Photo by Eric Jones

These statues are a permanent memorial to the many people who suffered and fled the Great Famine. It was built on the departure site of the Perseverance, one of the first famine ships to leave the area in 1846. The ship's captain was a seventy-four year old man who quit his office job to transport hundreds of starving people from Dublin to America. All passengers arrived safely on that maiden voyage and the Perseverance was one of the first of thousands of ships to make that desperate crossing. 

Photo by Shannon Haire - Used with Permisson

Rowan Gillespie’s haunting sculptures are a stark reminder of the tragic loss of life and home that the Irish people suffered and his vision captures the utter despair that millions of families were feeling during the great famine. These eerie memorial statues make it impossible to walk the banks of the river without feeling the desolate ghosts of the dead. In the water there is a replicated famine boat that doubles as one of the many famine museums located throughout Ireland. The ‘Jeanie Johnston’ is a is a fitting backdrop to the darkness of Gillespie’s pieces, and both ensure that those who visit the area will forever remember one of the biggest tragedies in Irish history.

Shannon Haire is an Irish history blogger and author. Her newly released book, Petticoats, Patriots, and Partition, is available on Amazon.com. She blogs regularly about Irish history, politics, and current events on her increasingly popular blog,  Choosing the Green - Roghnú Glas

The 4th of July if You Like Cemetery Hilltops by Arthur Kay

It is a well-known secret that, although the cemetery near my home closes at sunset, they don’t enforce that rule very strictly on the 4th of July. From the hillsides up there you can see for miles and take in pretty much all of the fireworks you can handle, albeit at some distance and in a cemetery, if that’s your thing, which it is totally my thing.

There are already fireworks going on by the time I get to the gate, and a bunch of empty cars parked nearby. I figure those people are probably inside, so in I go too, taking a route that will give me at least a little cover if the security folks are around and feeling feisty.

Going up the first hill, and there’s a group of loud drunks by the Cogswell spire. I go wide and keep trees or monuments between me and them most of the time. If anybody is going to attract security’s attention it’s these people, and I’d rather just steer clear of them.

Up past the dead millionaires, there’s a couple of short staircases that lead up further, and past those I’m climbing to the very top. Again I hear voices, but they’re quieter than the ones below. I find a pair of couples pleasantly sharing a big log near the summit. There’s also three boys standing in a tight little cluster just a ways off, taking in the view.

Creepy mulch piles by Arthur Kay

Last time I was here I was distracted, though not unpleasantly so. This time I am all here. I look around and find a spot. If this were a nightmare, that’s the spot where something ghastly would emerge. I go stand there and feel sort of sinister.

Then, looking out over the bay, I let my senses open up.

It’s dazzling. I can see displays at least down to Fremont, up to what looks like Richmond, and all across the water. The sound is like listening to a distant war zone. There are so many fireworks going off in my field of vision that it is impossible to track them all.

A squirrel, with no reason to expect a human to be in the precise spot that I am in, jumps up right next to me. It sees me, makes a strangled yap of alarm, and leaps away. I have managed to terrify a squirrel.

From the direction of Tiburon comes a series of huge crimson blooms, the bottoms of which appear clipped by the horizon, which is strange. I wonder if they are going off on the other side of the Marin hills. Either that, or I am seeing fireworks that are literally being set off over the ocean.

The three boys lean in together and one of them is nervously flicking a lighter. They are about to smoke something that they probably didn’t pay taxes on.

From south and across the bay comes a series of lights so high and so bright it looks like strobe lightning. A good five seconds after the last one goes out, the sound reaches me in a series of booms that make the dogs in the houses below me freak out in response. I am at least ten miles from where those things went off; I cannot imagine how loud it would be if you were a couple of blocks away.

Some fireworks barely clear the tops of houses down in a part of Oakland where friends of mine live, the low altitude stuff people set off in their backyards. I resolve to head down from the hill soon. I have other business in the cemetery, and have been up here for about long enough.

One of the boys loudly whispers “oh shit oh shit!” and another boy crouches way down, giggling and rummaging frantically through the tall grass. The boys have dropped their joint.

I leave them, silently wishing them luck. I go down to the other places in the cemetery, where I expect I will be the one who is scared, and which I would rather not write about.

This story by Arthur Kay was originally published on his Facebook page, and then featured on Loren Rhoads' cemeterytravel.com on July 6th, 2015. It is posted here with permission.