Flynn Family Reunion

Every summer we have a Flynn picnic at a local Forest Preserve shelterhouse. Everyone in the family is invited, but usually just those of us that still live in the area show up, eat some good food, play a few games and catch up with each others' lives. Every three years, however, is the BIG Flynn reunion. The one where everyone makes a little extra effort to come, even those that live across country.

This year was one of those years. The year for the geographically-extended family to come back to their roots and hang out near Irish Grove for awhile. The Flynn's have been in America for 6 generations and counting.  So there's lots of us by now.  Here's a small sampling of the crowd.  Can you still see a family resemblance?

Lots of cousins. 

Lots of Flynn's. 

Lots of love.

Foresight

You've seen this picture before.  On the left is my Grandpa Lowell, on the right is his brother, my Great-Uncle Donald.  They were the second generation of Flynn's to live on and work this farm.  They were partners, as you can see noted on the side of the truck, but eventually, as their families grew, they decided to divide the farm between them.  Our road runs right down the middle of the original farm, conveniently splitting it in two, so Donald took the west side and Grandpa took the east. 

This morning I'm wondering if these men ever imagined that 65+ years and 3 generations later their grandkids and great-grandkids would even still live in the area?  More to the point, would they have guessed that their great-grandsons would become great buddies? 















Could they have foreseen that these two boys would run free around the exact same farm where they grew up, and that they, too, will share wonderful memories of working and playing with their cousins on this lovely family land?

Maybe they did.  Maybe they somehow knew that, even in a vastly different time, the bonds between our family and our land were strong enough to keep us close to home.  Or that they were strong enough, at least, to bring us back when we had decided to take on the outside world for awhile. 

I bet if they had thought about it they would have seen the possibility.  At least they would have felt the hope that it could happen that way.  I know that I'm guilty of thinking that way once in awhile.  Thinking about whether this farm will stay in this family past my generation.  Will my kids, or Laura's kids, or Matt's future kids come back to Irish Grove after they've tried on the outside world for awhile?   What about the Donald Flynn side and their kids?  Will they?  It's anybodies best guess, really; everyone must make their own way this world.  But I think I'm safe to say that Grandpa Lowell and Uncle Donald would be pretty pleased to see these kids, these boys, in this day and age, tearing around their barnyard.  I know it pleases me.

One question remains, however, and it's something that haunts me from time to time.  Do you think Grandpa Lowell and Uncle Donald could have imagined this?

We're Famous!

Ok, not famous. But we did make the local newspaper.

About 2 weeks ago, I received a call from a man with a heavy accent who stated that he worked for the Freeport Journal Standard and wanted to interview me about the farm. I asked him how he heard about us, and he responded that he had found our information on the new Local Foods Directory put out by the University of Illinois Extension Office of Stephenson County.

Score! My friend Margaret Larson, Extension's Director, worked hard to get the local foods directory printed in response to an increasing desire to support local producers. The directory hasn't been out much more than a month, and I was impressed by how quickly I had been contacted by someone who had found us through it.

But then I began to wonder how this reporter dude had chosen us over the many, many other interesting and varied farms listed in the directory. So I asked him. He said he was starting a new weekly column titled On The Farm, and I was the first person he contacted. He just picked us....no special reason, really.

Well, after chatting a little on the phone and again noting his thick accent, I asked him if he minded telling me where he was from. "Well, it's funny you ask," he replied. "I'm from Ireland."

A-ha!!

"Now I know why you picked us," I laughed. "It couldn't have something to do with the fact that our farm is named Irish Grove Farms, now could it?" He chuckled and admitted that yes, that might have had a little influence.

Just goes to show that we should never underestimate the importance of a name.

We had a nice 3 hour visit where we grilled him on every detail of his life. And then at the end, we let him ask us a few questions as well.

This is what came of it: Making the Move to Organic

Check it out and let me know what you think.

Cemeteries, Gravestones and Procrastination

I've always loved roaming around old cemeteries. They're so peaceful and serene, quietly shaded, and curiously inviting; the type of place that makes me want to sit for awhile, a place to perhaps read an old classic novel while leaning back against an old, sturdy headstone. I've never done that, read a novel in a cemetery. But I'd like to.


Irish Grove's cemetery is especially beautiful. And yes, I'm partial. But what can be more beautiful, peaceful and inviting than a rural church surrounded by the crumbling gravestones of its founders and the newer, shiny gravestones of its more recent members?


So you'd think a few simple requests to find the grave sites of my reader's ancestors would be pretty easy for me to honor, right? Well, unfortunately not.


You see, Irish Grove's lovely cemetery was a place I loved to roam up until that fateful day that one of my own was buried there. And now that Dad's there, the cemetery has become a place to avoid. It's the one place where I can't gloss over the pain of loss, where I can't deny reality, the one place where I'm forced to grieve.


But I go. I do. I force myself to take deep breaths and think positive thoughts, which sometimes works and sometimes doesn't. I send my kids to jump on their Grandpa's stone, to "wrestle him" like they used to, which makes me smile and laugh one of those forced laughs....you know the kind. And I think to myself, "If I keep coming here, it'll get easier." It will, right?


But today, as I drove to the cemetery to finally take some photos of someone else's relatives and someone else's history, ancestry, and quite possibly grief, my stomach started to tighten up. I mean, how could I justify going to the cemetery and not go visit Dad's grave? What kind of daughter am I, anyways?


But then......well, I saw something. Something, I am ashamed to say, that prompted a sigh of relief to escape through my lips. A lawnmower. I was saved by a lawnmower!! There was a young man mowing the cemetery lawn and I couldn't have been happier to see him. I mean, I can't go visit my Dad's gravesite and cry in front of a teenage boy, now can I? The poor boy is just trying to make a little money. Probably saving up for college. And he was so content, sitting there listening to his iPod and driving around headstone after headstone. Some old lady crying would make him really uncomfortable, and you must agree that that wouldn't have been very nice of me.


So, Fox's and Cuff's......please thank the local teenage lawnmowing boy for your photos. Without him, who knows how much longer it could've taken for you to get these.


And please accept my apologies for the delays, especially you, Rex. You've waited far too long for this:

PATRICK CUFF

DIED

Oct. 21, 1817

Aged 52 years

Here's the headstone, up close:

Here is the view behind the stone:






Here's the stone as it's found in relation to the church. It's the small headstone on the right side of the picture:

For the Fox family:

THOMAS FOX

1815 - 1891

SARAH FOX

1813 - 1891

and THOMAS

son of J.B. & C. Fox

Erected solely by J. B. Fox

I must admit that my family and I had to chuckle at that last sentence on the stone. We meant no disrespect, but there must be a good story there somewhere!

Here's a close-up of the gravestone:

And here is where the headstone is found in relation to the church:

Irish Grove really is beautiful. Maybe I will take that book on over.....

The End of an Era

Grandma Ruth passed way on December 11th, 2007, at the ripe old age of 95. And with her comes the end of an era for the Flynn family.

I realize that you readers must be thinking by now, "Good God. How many more posts about death can we take?" Well, I can assure you two things. First, I am wondering the same thing. And second, I promise to keep this one light.

In fact, it is pretty hard to be all glum and gloomy while reflecting on my Grandma's impact on our lives and Irish Grove.

Born Ruth Doty, she came from a relatively prominent family in Pecatonica, and was the youngest of 6 children. We didn't hear tons of stories about her life as a child, but she did talk about riding to school in a horse-drawn carriage, and about the different chores they had to do during the Great Depression.

When Grandma married Grandpa Lowell, she became part of Irish Grove history. But she didn't see the value in looking back much, and would only reluctantly throw us a few nuggets about life on the farm. Things like how the Spelman's would come over to play cards, and the kids would run wild, blissfully unattended. Or how she hated it when the kids rough-housed. She'd tell me about her large garden South of the house that she loved to dig around in, and would suggest I move my garden there immediately. "It has the best soil of the farm." She was right, by the way, and that was precisely the reason my Dad didn't let me put my garden there. And she'd talk about her flock of laying hens and how she sold the eggs, just like we do.

On second thought, she did enjoy telling us how tight Grandpa was with his money...so tight, in fact, that Grandma would hide her egg money from him and use it to secretly buy things she needed or wanted. She also enjoyed rolling her eyes at Grandpa's "hair-brained ideas" that were going to make he and his brother Donald "a million bucks". Ideas like planting a Christmas tree farm across the road from the house, or building the machine shed that was going to be used to store grain for the government.

When I asked her if they'd made any money, she'd quickly say "Lord no!!" in her gravely voice, and she'd raised her eyebrows and wave her hand at you. She had a certain "stick-it-to-ya" attitude that I always admired, one that has successfully been passed down the generational line. In fact, Grandma's crusty attitude might be her most enduring legacy. (Remember what I said about crusty farmers and getting a kick in the pants?) A Flynn family get together can often turn into a competition to see who's best at flinging barbs, and the fastest to duck-and-run.

But her sense of humour and crusty attitude were her most colorful characteristics, and ones that served her well throughout her life. You see, Grandpa Lowell decided to check out early, dying from a heart attack at 48 no less, and he left Grandma with 3 kids and a farm to manage. No small feat for anyone, much less for the Doty child who was "spoiled and used to getting her own way", according to her older sister Dorothy (who died three short weeks after Grandma Ruth, at the even riper old age of 103!!).

Grandma persevered, and wisely turned the farm over to the Brown family until Farmer Don retired in the 1990's. She also put her mark on Pecatonica with her many moves and home rehab jobs, earned the respect of the community, gambled in one-cent increments during her weekly penny-poker reunion with friends, and became the center-piece to en ever-growing family of 3 children, 10 grandchildren, 24 great-grandchildren and counting. All of us Flynn's, all of us benefiting from Grandma's strength and love and stick-it-to-ya attitude, all descendants of Irish Grove....Lord help us all.

We will greatly miss her. Grandma, there is no way you could ever be replaced. Now go shake 'em up in heaven. I'm sure there's any number of high-falutin' souls that could use a good kick in the pants.

What Type of Vines Grow Beef?

Being the country bumpkin that I am, one of my favorite riddles is: What type of vines grow beef? It's a riddle that's as old as the hills, I know, but I still love it. It's a "groaner", the highest type of humor in the Purnell family.

Who are the Purnell's, you may ask? Well, they're the wonderful German-English family that produced my wonderful mom, Marcia! And they're also the ones that add a definite touch of class and culture to my immediate family. I don't mean to diss the Flynn's, of course, but the difference in the two families is quite striking:

A Flynn get-together is a rowdy, loud, winner-takes-all affair, while an event at the Purnell's is a soft-spoken, well-mannered affair. You can relax with the Purnell's, which might very well be dangerous with the Flynn's. The Purnell's will nuture you, they'll give you a sweet hug and kiss, and they'll even tell you "there, there" when you're feeling low. The Flynn's will hug you too, but they'll also squeeze and shake you, slap you on the back, and give you a kick in the ass if they feel it's warranted. The Purnell's are the yin to the Flynn's yang.

But I'm trying to talk about cows, not families, and I'm way off track.

Over the years, we've raised lots of cattle in Irish Grove. The farm originated with milking cows when Great-Grandpa Edward first bought the land. Grandpa Lowell continued milking until his untimely death, and then the tenant farmers, the Brown's, milked until the mid-1990's. (The Brown's deserve their own post.....check back!)

When my mom and dad decided to build a house by the round barn, my dad lost little time in acquiring a small herd of cattle. But this time they were beef cows. Dad loved playing farmer with those cows, and he dove into the work that animals bring with gusto. He mostly raised steers, or feeder cattle as they are called. But with those cows, he proved to everyone, and most importantly to himself, that he was a Hard Worker. And there was no higher standing in John Flynn's world than that of a Hard Worker.

Looking back, I can see that the beef cattle were also, arguably, my dad's most effective parenting tool, and he used them extensively while raising my siblings and me. The cows were used to teach us responsibility, because they needed daily care in the form of morning and evening chores, and they also taught us the perils of procrastination. I can remember numerous occasions when I ran as fast as I could, completely terrified, through the shadowy area between the barn and house--all because I had put off my afternoon chores until late evening in the hopes that someone else would ultimately do them for me. No such luck.

The cows were often used for discipline. Many a long day was spent pitching manure as punishment, usually because my sister Laura was lousy at misbehaving without getting caught. And every time she would get in trouble, my dad would look at me and grumble, "get out there and help your sister", which seemed especially unfair. He would later laugh and say it was prevention.

Last but not least, the cows were effective at teaching us humility. You can only imagine how humiliating it was when we'd hear our school friends, or especially that boy we had a crush on exclaim, "Ewwww! I can't believe you're scrubbing a cow's butt," as we washed our steers before our 4-H competitions at the Winnebago County Fair.

Parenting tactics aside, I can now see that my dad mostly loved his beef cows because they allowed him to feel connected to his past, and because they kept him humbly rooted in the farm. They offered him a peek into the life of his father, Lowell, who died when he was only eleven. They allowed him to measure his success in life by a standard that his father would recognize: Hard Work.

When dad died last year, we sold his herd of cattle. It sounds sudden, I know, but it was actually following his plan for the year. We had planned to switch breeds that year, and embark on our new farm project: raising grass-fed beef. It was, at the time, a relief to have the cattle gone. We were tending to our broken hearts, and to our suddenly difficult task of simply living.

But when we bought 10 steers from Farmer Bill this spring, it felt like we were coming home from a long journey. The cows were back. The barns were occupied. The pastures were happy. And we could breath a little bit easier.

The cows have returned to Irish Grove, and have allowed me to keep alive my connection with dad. And not only him. The daily routines and occasional problems that the cattle bring us tap into a rythym deep within that connects me to my past, my Irish ancestors, my origin.

And I must admit that I have already sent Ana and Madelina, ages 8 and 5, out to the barn, pitchforks in hand, after a particularly tiring day of bickering. Armando, age 2, is safe. For now.

What type of vines grow beef? Bovines, of course.

Sundays in Irish Grove

Back in the mid 1880's, a bunch of Irish immigrants descended upon this innocent corner of the world and altered it forever. It's hard to imagine what the area was like before they arrived, but they settled in and established a small historical community that is now lovingly referred to as Irish Grove. My ancestors, the Flynn's, were a part of that group. Now the Flynn's have a fairly decent reputation in the immediate vicinity, mostly known as a fun-loving, hard working and hospitable crowd. And while that is by most accounts pretty accurate, we certainly have our faults, not the least of which are our loud, booming (deafening, really) voices, our competitiveness, and our over-sized egos.

Irish Grove can't be found on a map, even though many people call it home. But the community is literally split between two or three local towns, which at second thought seemed strange. So the other day I googled Irish Grove, and found that it is located in Rock Run Township. Aha, Rock Run Township. Wait a second....Rock Run Township? Like my little guy Armando likes to say when he receives an unacceptable answer to a question, "Huh?"

Anyway, unlike Rock Run, Irish Grove does exist, and the proof lies in the puddin', or in this case in the heart of the countryside: St. Patrick's Irish Grove Catholic Church.

I was raised in this church, and, like most diligent Catholic children, hated getting up for Mass on Sunday mornings. My parents would let us sleep just late enough to 1) fool us into thinking we weren’t going that day, and 2) ensure that there was insufficient time to primp and curl and properly prepare for the eye candy, oops, I mean soul food at church. Sorry, Lord.

But attending Mass at Irish Grove had its benefits, too, one of which is mentioned above. The second was the coffee and donuts served in the basement after church. And the third was running around the cemetery after Mass, climbing onto and jumping from one headstone to another, as my parents would laugh and commune with the other parishioners, many of whom are extended family.

Because we Flynn’s like to talk a lot, we were undoubtedly always the last people to leave for home. When the last stragglers finally said their good-byes, and conversation was no longer an option, my dad would walk around the cemetery with us and point out tombstones where an ancestor, “good old so-and-so”, lies. And he would tell us what he remembered about him or her, and how we were related to them. He’d say, “He’s your Grandpa’s first cousin, on his mother’s side,” in a slow, cadenced way that made me think he was practicing for his own benefit, lest he forget his family history (the mother of all sins).

I’m still a member of Irish Grove Catholic Church, and I’m also still pretty lazy about Sunday Mass. But when I do go, I make sure my kids get an opportunity to jump on those headstones as I chat with the parishioners making their way to their cars. I then attempt to relay those familiar old family connections to them (lest I commit that unspeakable atrocity against my kin) and usually fail to remember most of the details. All the while, my husband Marcel is patiently waiting for me to finally stop talking. And with his natural-born Panamanian sense of propriety, he is properly horrified at how wrong it is to let our kids jump and stomp on someone’s final resting place. I give him my best harrumph, and tell him that not only is it right, it’s tradition, for goodness sakes. And I’d just bet those hard-working, fun-loving old Irish men and women lying beneath that sacred ground are all the happier for it.