There’re Two Kinds of People: The Irish and Those Who Want to Be Irish

A childhood friend recently posted the title of this column on her Facebook page as a meme. It made me smile as I thought about the upcoming St. Patrick’s Day celebration. Even those who don’t have a drop of old  Ireland in them enjoy celebrating with corned beef and cabbage, soda bread, green beer, Irish parades, shamrocks, or leprechaun tales. This adoption of Irish customs, even temporarily, is a recent occurrence. In the mid to late 1800s, those of Irish heritage found more heartache than ready acceptance.

Many such immigrants came to this country under harsh conditions. They’d been starved out of Ireland during the potato famine or landowners had evicted croppers from tenant farms that couldn’t feed or clothe a family. According to emerging history, some arrived in the new world as slaves to work Caribbean sugar cane plantations. Examining old military rolls reveals that a number of those fresh-to-the- continent kept their bellies full by joining the U.S. Army, where they ended up as Indian fighters in the West.

For those who find little interest in history, it’s hard to understand that not so many generations ago, newcomers with strong brogues weren’t welcome. Those who wanted to work found it difficult to find employment, even if they had special skills. Walking up a street in developing communities that obviously needed hard workers, fresh arrivals would see signs in windows that said, “No Irish Need Apply.” Discrimination continued after death. Those who visit old cemeteries in mining communities will see graves segregated into sections for different ethnic groups.

Interestingly, a good number of Irish arrived in Kansas during this settlement period. Today, schoolchildren studying American history scan chapters filled with names such as Kennedy, Moynihan, and Keogh. According to one source, over 70 million people living outside Ireland, many of them in the United States, claim roots to that Emerald Isle. For those of Irish ancestry, it’s hard to imagine our forebears not only suffered hunger, poverty, and exploitation in the old country, but the struggle continued after they landed ashore in New York. Fortunately, for those who kept moving west and ended up in Kansas, life got easier.

We find towns like McCracken, named after a railroad employee. These hardy emigrants constructed a Catholic Church almost immediately. In Kansas Memory, we read Irish priest Thomas Butler’s report that Kansas churches of his denomination multiplied from three in 1854 to forty-five by 1871. He attributes this expansion to immigration. In Marshall County, visitors can explore the Irish community of St. Bridget established in 1862. Once there, they can tour a lovely chapel erected by settlers. Visit any old cemetery in the area, particularly a Catholic graveyard, to spot tombstones engraved Donnelly, Connelly, McKee, Keaghy, O’Brien, Sullivan, and so on. These aren’t foreign names here.

This state is a great example of what can happen when people work hard and adapt to a new culture. Most likely, you won’t hear locals speaking with an Irish brogue, but you might see several tipping back a Guinness to celebrate St. Paddy’s Day, even if they don’t have a drop of the blarney in them.

Tumbling Tumbleweeds Become Dollars in the Bank

 I sometimes fantasize about growing fields of golden wheat, tasseled corn, or russet milo.  When I see newly turned earth, I want to run the soil through my fingers and nothing smells better than fresh rain on dry dirt or a field of newly mown alfalfa.  Thinking about farming in this light makes me want to go deep into debt to fill a shed with huge implements.

While perks exist, farmers have one of the toughest jobs in existence. Watching crops dry before one’s eyes must be as bad as watching a loved one wither from an incurable disease. Though I dream about farming and I admire farmers and ranchers greatly, I don’t have the guts it takes to gamble a year of labor and money on a turn of the weather or the luck of the market.

Despite my lack of financial intestinal fortitude, I can imagine making a living from the land I love.  From the looks of things this fall, I believe the crop to plant should have been the Russian thistle--yes, the Kansas tumble weed.  The plant of  Sons of the Pioneers’ song “Tumbling Tumbleweeds,” the plant tourists show friends, the plant that fills my tree row and fence line, the plant that Russian–Germans brought with them from the Steppes.

This year’s crop looks especially fine.  Like good wine, tumbleweeds need to age, and those on our property are turning from green to gold.  With time, they will fade to a sand color.  At that point, wind gusting from any direction will tear them from their moorings, launching them on untold journeys.

I considered putting a radio collar on a tumbleweed to keep track of its travels. How far do they travel once they take off?  Do they make it out of state? Do they fall apart before they make it out of their county? 

I don’t know answers to these questions, and I cannot imagine our government funding a study on this subject. However, I have a friend who has capitalized on the wandering tumbleweed.

My friend and her sister created a web page for their imaginary Prairie Tumbleweed Farm accompanied by a fine story about farming tumbleweeds and appropriate photos to support their tale. Amazingly, they found a market for their tumbleweeds.

Because they hadn’t expected a huge demand for tumble weeds, they found themselves and their children digging tumbleweeds out of snowdrifts and blow-drying them before shipping them to eager customers.  To their surprise, a Hollywood director ordered some for a movie set. 

I find a lesson in my friend’s unexpected success.  Perhaps Kansans need to think outside the traditional crop and land uses to find ways to help not only to keep our land, but also to protect it.

 I don’t agree with some that the only future for our Great Plains is use as a buffalo pasture.  We can learn lessons the land teaches and from others’ mistakes.  With ingenuity and effort, the possibilities are endless.

 I may end up a farmer yet.