19 September 2004


My brother hasn't seen any precipitation in nearly 6 months, so he came to visit from Los Angeles to see some rain. He misses summer thunderstorms. He misses pizza without all the bullshit("would you eat a fucking kiwi strawberry pizza?"). He misses old houses and cemetaries with eroded brownstone markers. At one such place there is a small headstone for a 2 year old girl. Around the stone lie various weathered objects of tribute--sealed envelopes, coins, tiny gift boxes, toys, candy, and a pink stuffed animal--all soaked with a season of rain. An odd present day shrine for a child who died in 1834, we think. And in a shady corner of the burial ground, a flat stone grown over with sod that reveals itself as the marker for our great great grandfather, Michael. He is our oldest known ancestor. Nothing is known about who came before. Nothing is known about our family when they lived on Victorian streets of Derry. My brother showed me the ship's passenger manifest, showing young Michael and his wife Mary and his 1 year old son George(our great grandfather). And born at sea was Bridget. It was 1869 when they arrived in New York City.





My brother also showed me the 1880 census for Kings County, NY, where the family is listed as living at a residence in Brooklyn Heights, nearby where my great great grandfather spent work hours as a laborer on the Brooklyn Bridge.

Opening day 1883.

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