The Irish Brigade.

 On the battlefield at Gettysburg Pennsylvania there sits a monument known as The Irish Brigade.
On that monument, these words are engraved.

'Of those who in their manhood died to blot out Slavery's stain,

And rear aloft in all its pride, fair Freedom's flag again'

'Tis ours to raise this cross on high above the Irish dead,

Who showed mankind the way to die, when Truth and Freedom led." 

 From, Our Fallen Comrades, by William Collins, 1888.

My husband Jerry and I recently visited this monument on our trip to Gettysburg this past year.

My dear sweet friend Amy Clum had sent me a book, Ghost of Gettysburg Walking on Hallowed Ground by Drs. Dave and Sharon Oester.  The book was a gift, for my trip. Yet, it was more than a gift, it was a balm for our suffering souls.  For, my husband and I had experienced a few monumental losses in the days and weeks that preceded our departure for the land of Pennsylvania.  Amy's well-intentioned gift gave me a focus for my grief as I lay my mourning aside in a thinly veiled attempt to "get on with life" and "have a great time" words uttered by well-meaning and good-hearted family and friends.  The books would fast become a road map for our stay in one of the most haunted cities in the USA. This clear and concise piece of work would help aid in my quest to search for my heritage, It would help me tap into my potential as an empathetic person and it would help me to unlock my soul's path and begin a new journey.  Though to be honest, I flipped through the pages and used the contents section of the book as a guide book  Leaving the actual reading of the chapters, and pages of the book to be devoured in greater detail, long after my sojourn.  I wanted to have my own experiences first, then, do the research and read an expert's opinion.  Sort of a check and balance for my own experimentation toward my empathetic nature.  

Why search for my ancestral roots in Gettysburg you may ask?  Well, because, my family of origin has its roots in Pennsylvania and beyond.  All the way back to Ireland.  Yes, I am a wee bit Irish.  Not much you see, mostly British but, there inside my strands of DNA, there is woven a little Celtic Irish knot, forged in a bloodline of men who left their homeland that was war-torn, and scarred with a putrid politician's out for their own gain.  Leaving the Irish countryside and it's countrymen and women to die of starvation or leave for the hopes of a better way of life.  Yes, I have a wee bit of Irish in my blood. A little Scottish as well, but I leave that for another story.

My Irish roots run on my Maternal great grandmother's father's side of the family. Hugh and Daniel Slane would be the name that I can definitively Tie myself back to Ireland.  Tyrone, Northern Ireland., to be exact.    My Maternal great grandmother's mother's family was also from Ireland.  Londonderry, Ireland through William McIntosh the father off Melissa Adeline McIntosh my 3x great grandmother.  I am still in the process of nailing down the facts to my Irish Lines family, for they too appear to hail from that far off land as well.  Give some time and research hours and I'll find that.  My own mother's father's line runs into Ireland by way of the Rhine Family.  A trail I'm still following along the Northern shore.

So here I am at the Irish Brigade.  A massive structure, a top sits a giant Celtic cross.  The monument itself is impressive and it stands along the wooded lane and   It sits just across from The Wheatfield, In the shadow of the Celtic cross is where I pick up a trail along a wooded area that almost envelops the monument itself.  It was behind the monument, deep into the woods, off the beaten path, that I had the most incredible of experiences and perhaps a possible connection the very men who died in battle upon the very ground that I found myself standing. 

As I wondered around the massive monument I was instantly drawn to the woods behind it.  I had to crouch down under a massive fallen log and then scurry through some underbrush and briar to find a mossy covered rock to perch my weary bones upon.  I was immediately transported to another world.  I had left behind the tourist attraction road and found myself alone, in the deep  Pennsylvania timbers. I could not hear even the faintest whisper of a human voice and only the occasional sound of a passing car.  I had left my husband to snap photo's of the monument and I ventured off, alone following my intuition to the very heart of my soul.  I sat upon that rock and let my spirit become still and quiet.  More than 45 minutes passed by when all of-of sudden the tree's felt alive and the very forest that surrounded me seemed to have eyes.  My body was immediately covered in goosebumps for me this is not a sign of being cold but more of a sign that someone otherworldly, a spirit if you will is extremely close at hand.  Let's just say my goose-flesh and goose pimples and the hair on the back of my neck stood straight up.  My heart rate increased and I swear I could hear the faint whisper of a deep Irish brogue say

"Dia dhuit". I can hardly explain what I felt.  Only until I had later read the word's of the Irish Poet, Brenden Kennelly when speaking about what it means to be Irish.  He writes.  Ireland literally gets in under your skin. Steals into your dreaming mind, taking possession of it, like a memory of love or a spontaneous kindness from a stranger or friend".  Indeed, Ireland or at least the former inhabitants of those who passed away long ago on that very ground were, in fact, literally, under my skin.  I could feel them and it was as if they, the men from long-ago, the men of the New York Irish Brigade, that somehow, they had recognized in me a very clear and present Irish kinfolk. That day for a few precious moments, they sat with me on the rock as I wept, feeling overwhelmed by their presence and longing for the homeland that I had never seen, nor bore witness to myself.  Though someday.  I hope to visit the country that is Ireland.

Be Blessed, Shel.

Photo credit Gerald L. (Jerry) Phillips Jr.