Water

When our house (the McKennas’) on Niko Way was built in 1998, we had an artesian well installed.  Don't laugh, but we even used the services of a water diviner.  It was a little kooky watching him move slowly around the yard, intently watching his divining rod, but who am I to dismiss the method as bunk.  I don’t remember precisely how far down the well installers had to drill, but it was somewhere between 200 and 300 feet.  Now some of you may shrug at this claim, but nothing compares to well water; it is oh-so-delicious.  The Guatemalan mason who put in our stone patio ten years ago nodded approvingly, murmuring “agua de pozo” (well water), when I encouraged him to drink water right from the house spigot.  People in the know have a great appreciation for well water.  It goes without saying, however, that there’s a responsibility to test periodically for carcinogens, and we here on Niko Way are mindful of the trace quantities of arsenic that show up when we test our water.  The back of our property nestles against the former Boston & Maine railroad corridor, and railroad corridors have been notorious for emitting toxins into the ground.

As I look at the spot in our yard where the cap for our well sits, I’m reminded of my early introduction to artesian wells and the “sweet nectar” that they draw from the ground.  At our Titicut home, the well sat at the top of our driveway, to the right side, relatively close to the Library.  It had a little wood frame house, and we were instructed to stay clear of it.  Don’t open the door, don’t enter it, don’t touch the boards on the ground covering it, don’t throw things down it; in fact, just don’t go anywhere near it.  We, of course, took that as an invitation to do just that.  We removed the boards that covered the well, and peered straight down, hoping just once to be able to discern its depths.  We listened carefully, and then shouted into that space. Science was hard at work when you cast words or strings of words down that shaft.  You learned about the persistence of sound; the irregular rock siding assured a playful continuation of your notes.  “Helloooo” galloped joyfully down the cylindrical tract; on the other hand, “Chris is a stupid-head”, with its fricative sounds, fittingly ricocheted and smashed its way along the same path. A lot of stupid statements were dropped into that space. And I admit, I dropped rocks down there. They were little, so.

In the kitchen, next to the enormous double basin cast iron sink in one corner was an old cast iron "pitcher pump".  It operated as an offshoot of our artesian well; when primed with - you guessed it - water, the suction thus created allowed it to draw water from a cistern located behind the kitchen.  You pump-pump-pumped, and a rush of water then cascaded from its spout as if by magic.  Eventually, we were able to modernize our plumbing, and the pump, along with accompanying lead pipe, was removed.  It’s probable that the cistern itself still remains on the property, well hidden in the ground. Chris, perhaps as a hide-and-seek gambit, remembers lowering himself into its belly.  Which all brings to mind a common enough occurrence that I must ask: how many times did my older brothers (in a “joke’s on you” maneuver) simply vacate the premises in the middle of a hide-and-seek game?  Yuh, mm-hmm, I thought so.  To this day, there's a part of me that is still, reflexively, searching for them.

I wouldn’t go so far as to say that the hand pump was “popular” in that day and age, but you were more apt to see them outside on farms.  These days, they have great retro appeal, and can be bought cheaply on Amazon.com.  I doubt, however, that the typical purchaser reflects on how useful they are in a power outage.  Despite their continued functionality, they’re more for decorative purposes, adding the “perfect touch” to any fountain, pond, or garden display.  At the very least, their presence shouldn't cause some mother to contemplate:  I wonder if my otherwise sensible son is sitting in the cistern.

A Life Full of Promise

I've been piecing together our family's ancestral story, and thought I'd share what I've learned about a great-uncle whose exploits during WW1 earned him high esteem, but whose decades-long absence inspired much familial resentment.  For better or for worse, I will dispel the vibrant mystique that has swirled around him in our memory.  Thank you, Tom M., for your contributions to the story about Patrick.

Patrick J. Morrissey, bachelor

b.  1885 in Gracedieu, County Waterford, Ireland

d.  28 Apr 1954, Tucson, Arizona

As a youngster, Patrick attended Capen Primary School and Lincoln Grammar School, both in South Boston.  He then attended English High School* of South Boston, graduating in 1902 at the head of his class.  

(* It is worth noting that English H.S. was founded by the “shunned” families of Boston, generally newcomers who were not welcome at the City’s elite schools.  (Think “Boston Brahmins”). Throughout its history the School has always been acknowledged as a home for immigrants.)

Physically, Patrick was short (5’6 ½”) with a slight build, dark hair, and blue eyes.

The stories about Patrick abound.  On the surface, he was the “golden child”, and in many ways he responded well to the high expectations that his parents had for him. . . at least in the early years.  If it can be said that one of James’ and Anastasia’s sons would be capable of breaking their hearts, it would be Patrick.  Their pride in him was immeasurable.  

Described as “gifted” because of his outstanding academic record at Boston English High School (Class of 1902), as well as his unsurpassed performance on an entrance examination, he was recommended by Congressman William McNary to West Point Military Academy in 1903.  (Boston Globe, 19 April 1903).  Away from the guiding hand of his parents, Patrick began to stumble.  Ultimately, at West Point he graduated 82 out of a class of 111.  Right before graduation from the Academy he and a fellow cadet were charged with drunkenness; the two were suspended.  Originally, the suspension was for one year; inexplicably, the suspension was reduced so that it extended only one day past graduation, preventing him only from participation in graduation exercises with his class.  

Six months later, he was with his regiment at Parang, Mindanao, Philippine Islands, engaged in a topographical survey of the Philippine Islands; i.e., he conducted mapping strictly for military purposes.  In 1909 he returned stateside and did stints at Fort George Wright in Washington, as well as the School of Musketry at the Presidio of Monterey, California.  The fact that he was subsequently hired to teach French at the Academy (from 1912 to 1916) indicates that he had ostensibly regained a measure of grace in the eyes of his alma mater.  Patrick returned to the Philippines in 1916, having by

now attained the rank of first lieutenant.  He was stationed at Corregidor Island, 13^thInfantry Division.  In January of 1917, a few months before the U.S. entered the War, he was awarded the rank of captain, stationed at Manila with the 27^thInfantry.  Replacing General “Black Jack” Pershing (likewise a West Point graduate), who had been reassigned and would take command of AEF for the Western Front, Patrick was assigned to the Philippine Scout Division, and once again received a promotion; he was now a major, a rank that he would enjoy until the conclusion of the War, at which time he returned to the grade of captain.  

From August, 1918 to April, 1919, he commanded the 3^rdBattalion of the 27^thInfantry, serving as U.S. Liaison between Russia and Japan (amidst the Russian civil war).  Patrick distinguished himself as part of the American Expeditionary Forces – Siberia, tasked with the mission to safely evacuate the Japanese, crossing (at a remarkable pace) nearly the entire country, west to east.  For the mission’s success he was awarded the second highest medal conferred by the Japanese Emperor, the “Third Order of the Rising Sun”.  The medal, housed in a Japanese lacquered box with braided cord and tassel, was in Aunt Ginny’s possession for several years.  Accompanying the award itself were a letter from the War Department (dated 1921) and a handwritten commendation in Japanese from the Emperor.  We cannot help but wonder,by what set of circumstances did the medal end up in Aunt Ginny’s hands?  A recent comment by our second cousin Jim Morrissey (Martin Alphonsus’ son), suggests that it may now be in his possession (March, 2019).

Back to Patrick:  

Patrick returned to the U.S. in April, 1919, and remained at the Presidio in San Francisco until he resigned in June, 1920.  He must have found his internal demons indeed formidable when he finally separated from the Military, for he ultimately turned his back on those who had relied upon him: family, friends, fellow soldiers, leaving all bewildered, lost, and/or disappointed.  Among Patrick’s records collected and preserved by West Point is a postcard that he wrote in September, 1920 from Merced Falls, California, a mere three months after resigning.  It’s a short but profoundly personal note that invites great speculation; he begins by stating, “My dear Col. Robinson, I am sorry to cause you so much bother.”  While he appears to want to have direction, he’s now itinerant with vague ideas about destination (Argentine Republic?) and gainful employment (oil, mining, stock raising, ranching, and lumber).   One might detect a wish on Patrick’s part to not disappoint, but his ambiguity tragically exposes him to just that.  

Voter registration and federal census records show that Patrick lived in California, primarily in the San Francisco area, from the 1920’s to the 1950’s, sometimes listed as a carpenter, at other times as a patient in various veterans’ hospitals.   (At the very least, he was a patient at three VA hospitals:  Yountville, Alameda, and Los Angeles.). His WW2 draft registration record of 1942 indicates that he was living in a veterans’ home in Napa County, California.  

For so long I had surmised that it was Patrick’s indecisiveness or restlessness that contributed to (and perhaps explained) his nomadic behavior; evidence instead suggests that his sense of detachment arose because of physical limitations.  Patrick was not well, and he had not been well for a long time.  His final years were spent in a military hospital in Tucson, Arizona; he died of service-related tuberculosis.  In a letter to the U.S. Military Academy in 1952, Patrick reflected on earlier times with fellow cadets and happier experiences (such as boxing matches); he also expressed regret that he wasn’t well enough to attend an upcoming class reunion.  Following a comment in which he wished all “abundant good health and happy living”, he shared one of his favorite sayings:  dum spiro spero (“while I breathe, I hope”). 

The final chapter of Patrick’s life is worth the telling.  Towards the end of his life he wrote a letter to his younger brother John.  So many years had elapsed that Patrick was unsure of where his brother was living; thus, he addressed it to the DeAngelo Fruit Company, where he had known John to be employed.  In his letter he asked if this John was the son of Anastasia, along with other questions that would determine kinship.  John was ambivalent about responding at all; he was, still, nursing an enduring resentment. (An explanation, or a likely explanation, is provided within John’s biographical section.)  With strenuous encouragement by Aunt Ginny, her father did reply. Patrick responded immediately, and plans were made for the two brothers to reunite after a separation of over thirty years.  For the first and only time in his life, John – at the age of 54 - boarded a plane at Logan Airport, at the last instant turning around and waving to his “won’t take no for an answer” daughter.   Upon his return from Arizona he said very little about his reunion with his older brother; he did, nevertheless, thank Aunt Ginny for talking him into taking the trip to Arizona to see his brother. . . and to say goodbye.