Joy and Sorrow

Two conversations with locals brought me to a walk through my grandmother's neighborhood, a visit that evoked such contrasting sounds and experiences. Children's voices are loud, raucous, certainly they are playing on all kinds of playground equipment. I hear a few adult male voices in the cacophony and I realize this is Saturday morning sports. The game is soon over and children, mostly boys in the white, yellow and green shirts and shorts, are walking or running with parents to cars. A few adults stand and talk while the children wait or talk among themselves. 

All this takes place steps away from the Workhouse (ca 1842) and the famine pot memorial. This hulking, gray stone building with broken windows, heavy wooden doors padlocked so no entry possible, and walls and roof overgrown with vegetation is almost two centuries removed from children and Saturday soccer or Irish football. 

I hope today’s children never have to experience the destitution, poverty, and death of generations before them. I pray it is only an historical fact, just like I had to learn the history of Waltham in the fourth grade. I couldn't get away fast enough from this place. The joy of the morning sports couldn't erase the sorrow I felt for the past.  Some parts of this pilgrimage take longer to assimilate.