Back East, Part II

St. Michael's parish in Mitchell Township. My ancestors helped to build this church. They are buried next to it.

(Scroll down for Part I of this thread if you haven’t read that bit yet.)

Do you know who your great-great grandparents were? Do you know their names and where they lived?

Most people don’t. In the years that I spent researching Tainted Legacy, it occurred to me more and more that I had never thought past my grandparents. (I suspect my mother was always secretly glad of that, since she didn’t want to talk about her grandmother to anyone before the family secret was laid bare by her curious and persistent daughter.) Genealogy, in the pre-discovery-of-Bertha-Gifford days, was boring to me. I mean, I knew that my ancestors had come to America from Ireland—Dad never let us forget it. But, let’s face it; those were dead people. What did they have to do with me? Sigh. What a self-absorbed little ingrate I am at times.

I began to change in my thinking during long conversations with my cousin, Danny Fiocchi. We talked about Bertha a lot because I was immersed in writing the book and then I was immersed in finding a publisher. But those talks eventually led to him sharing about discoveries his brother Mick had made about the Murphy side of our family. After Tainted Legacy was finally published, I began traveling back to Missouri every summer to promote the book, give talks on Bertha, roam around in cemeteries where Bertha and others are buried, and visit all the new friends and cousins I made during the writing and research. And with every year that passed, Danny encouraged me to take a summer out and head up to Wisconsin to visit one particular graveyard up there.

Well, Danny my love, I’ve finally done it. I’m so sorry, sweetheart, that you are no longer around so that you could’ve gone with us—although I felt your presence with us every step of the way, let me tell you.

This is me, standing by the headstone--how grand it is!--for Jeremiah and Elizabeth Murphy.

My great-great grandparents, Jeremiah (Jerry) and Elizabeth (Betsy) Murphy traveled—somehow, dear lord, making that rough trip over the ocean—from Ireland to the baby country of America. After living for a time in Massachusetts, presumably to work and save their money, they made their way to Sheboygan, Wisconsin, and then set out to find land on which to homestead in Mitchell Township, walking the twenty miles out into the country to find the perfect spot. And they found it, boy howdy, they found it.

Cousin Mick was our tour guide when we drove out to Mitchell. From his careful study of plat maps and other historical information, he has been able to determine precisely where that early Murphy family built their home (which is no longer standing). Oh, the countryside there! The green rolling hills and fertile soil, the trees and trees and more trees! (Actually, the trees are so thick, they have obscured a view of where the house would have stood. Had I taken my hiking boots with me, I would’ve been game to tromp on through.)

Can you imagine it? No paved road, no electricity, no phone lines, twenty miles from town. “Yes, dear, I think you’re right; this is the perfect spot for our new home.” Of course, they had to get a house built before the winter came on. I hear Wisconsin winters can be a bit chilly….

The courage of those two! Oh, wait, did I mention that five of their six children had already been born, and that Jerry and Betsy were nearly forty by the time they booked passage on a barge to travel down the Erie Canal to Lake Erie, then travel by steamboat across the Great Lakes to Sheboygan? Yeah. And then the seven of them walked to Mitchell Township. (“Mary, keep on eye on your little brother! You know John is always running so far ahead I can’t see him!” I can just hear Betsy….)

But I know something about wanting a better life for your children… and how you just gird yourself up and then keep putting one foot in front of the other, no matter how tired you are…. But hey, I’ve always had the comforts of electricity and a car and running water and a functional indoor toilet. Well, most of the time, anyway.

Two years after homesteading, Jerry and Betsy gave birth to their youngest son, Peter Henry Murphy, my great-grandfather. My dad was named after him. He would later marry Julia O’Brien, and the two would have ten children, including my Grandpa George. George and his wife, Delia, had seven children, including my father, who was also born in Mitchell Township.

Beneath this humble stone lie Peter and Julia Murphy, my great-grands.

Knowing all this history (which has been gleaned from multiple sources and carefully set down for the family by Cousin Mick), I stood over the graves of Jerry and Betsy, Peter and Julia, with profound humility and gratitude. Our family, down through the generations, has never lacked for work ethic. We have always been less interested in amassing wealth and more interested in the values of family and home life. Well, and the value of a good Irish whiskey, let’s be honest.

I am grateful as well to Danny and Mick, who gently encouraged me over the years to take this trip until I finally did it. There is a sense of respect that is cultivated in learning of one’s ancestry, one’s own personal history. Thank you, Jerry and Betsy, for agreeing together to leave one beautiful land to come to another. It is an understatement to say that I am privileged to be here because of the sacrifices you made.

Peter and Julia Murphy, my great-grandparents, with their youngest son between them, surrounded by nine of their ten children.