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They said my great-grandmother was stunningly beautiful, had a whip-smart sense of humor and thought of others before thinking of herself. Yet she was also known for diving into a deep sadness that would quieten her. Even set her to trembling.
Labasheeda, the village where she was born, was a tiny farming community that was still reeling from the horrific Great Hunger (also known as the “potato famine”). It had only been thirty five years since the Great Hunger had begun, and as many historians will tell you, the blight on the crop may have improved, but emigration out of the impoverished Irish countryside remained unabated.
From all accounts Honora was a gorgeous baby, but it couldn’t help her to fight against the hunger that raged in her little belly. She was one of many children, and because her parents could not feed her she was given up for adoption to an orphanage in Ennis, the capital of County Clare.
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I often imagine her: A beautiful little girl, starving and parentless. Thrown into a dorm

A recent photo of Labasheeda Bay
with many other girls, forgotten. Then I remember that her ability to fight is what gave me a chance at life.

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On the ship to New York she was huddled into the steerage compartment with many other people. Her beauty had attracted some of the crew and the worst thing imagined, actually happened to her. Honora was lured away and trapped. Taken advantage of.
I learned this fact from a great aunt and uncle. They were in their 90s when they mentioned this. During their day, something so tragic and personal was never spoken of, but they wanted me to add it into the genealogical story I had been collecting.
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In New York Honora found work cleaning homes and making sandwiches in saloons in Greenwich Village. She then became associated with groups that raised money for Irish freedom.
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One night in 1902, at a dance ball put on by the local Gaelic Athletic Association and the

Lynches Tavern in the 1950s.
County Claremen’s Evicted Tenant’s Protective and Industrial Association, she met a very tall and imposing man.
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For whatever reason, he approached Honora, towering over her, and gently extended his hand to her. She must have been so nervous, though she allowed him a dance.

That’s Honora in the back. I can’t tell if she is smiling or if she is sad! My grandfather is the youngest boy on the right. Photo: 1919.
the tavern for a few years they moved to Brooklyn and lived a moderate, working class life.
This work sounds wonderful and really resonates, Eamon! I often feel badly about the condition Gen Z (which includes my own children) face. Then I think about the story of the grandmother I knew best and realize life has always been quite difficult. We are here because they were survivors — often with little except the mercy of God to sustain them. Blessings on your work.