The Cawley story

Michael J. Cawley was my link to the 19th century, my link to my ancestors. He was a protector, a defender, and a true love. He was my grandfather.

He was born in April 1895 on a farm in Shraugh, County Mayo, Ireland, hence my link to the 1800s and to the precious sod of my ancestors. He was a living example of the people from whom I descended. He revealed throughout his life, in his own way, the wit, lilting language, and the mystical, magical love of the Irish. Fortunately, I was close enough to him to have been a recipient of that revelation.

As a boy, Michael worked the family farm. At the age of 19, he came to America; his cousins welcomed him into their home in the Jamaica Plain section of Boston. He fought for his new country in World War I. When he returned from the battleground of Europe, he became a full-fledged citizen and would never leave America's shore again.

Back in Boston, another maiden won his allegiance and lifelong fidelity. She was Delia Conway, from Swinford, County Mayo. She was working as a maid and living with her cousin Mary Curley. My grandmother once told me that Mary Curley, upon meeting my future grandfather, said, “Forget him, Delia. He's a farmer.”

But the farmer had won the convent schoolgirl's heart, and on one of those nights after dancing at Hibernian Hall and sharing a plate of griddle cakes, Delia Conway agreed to become Mrs. Michael J. Cawley.

Settling in Jamaica Plain, the couple began a family which would ultimately number 11, including Michael and Delia. Michael worked in Armstrong's brewery in Roxbury. Through studying at night school after work each day and with Delia’s constant testing on the material, Michael passed the Boston police exam. From then until retirement, he supported his family as one of Boston's finest.

A dream of Michael and Delia’s came true when they were able to put a down payment on and move into a two-family house in Roslindale, a section of the City of Boston. It was in this house that my earliest memories of this man Michael, or Grandaddy to 24 of us, began.

My mother, Mary Alice, was the first girl to be born to Michael and Delia. If living with my grandparents for a while did not instil "Irishness" in me, my mother's love of all things Irish certainly did. Irish songs, including those of John McCormack, played over and over on certain days in our home. My grandparents did not speak of their time in Ireland and never made the journey back. Only once in a while would something come up in their conversations that gave me a clearer picture or understanding. In my grandmother's case, she once mentioned that she loved the horses or the races. Later, I found out how small towns held races frequently. My grandfather loved singing or muttering ditties to himself. Shortly before he died, I heard him saying, "the poor old Granuaille", the "poor old Granuaille." He loved bestowing nicknames on all of us, so I thought he was talking about my grandmother. Years later, when I worked for the Boston College Libraries, and a book entitled Granuaille appeared on my desk, a whole new world of knowledge about Ireland opened up to me. Pursuit of this knowledge will never leave me, and I find it a labor of love.

Most fortunately, I have come to know many of the family members who stayed in Ireland. It's hard to describe what knowing them means to me. It is better knowledge than that I have gained through books and travel.