In 1847, I was able to do some work again in the potato fields, as the crop was finally healthy but only one-fourth normal size, as we had to eat the seed potatoes and grain over the past winter to stay alive. In return, Britain did open up soup kitchens for us, but of 2000 planned, only half were in operation in 1847. We Catholics (80% of our population but not in ruling authority like the Protestants) didn't agree with this nonsense.ĭespite the fact that many of us were starving, our country kept having to export foods to England-oats, bacon, eggs, butter, lard, pork, beef, and fresh salmon. Many of the British took the attitude that the famine was God's punishment toward a sinful people. Hard to do, I'd say, when one is starving and out of work. The Irish Poor Land System resulted in building 130 such workhouses, with a total of 100,000 beds, but the British goal was bizarre: they wanted to make poverty so unendurable that we (its victims) would embrace the virtue of the “saved,” namely to be more industrious, self-reliant, and disciplined. We narrowly avoided having to go to one of the area workhouses. Our family was very fortunate, somehow avoiding the pestilence (typhus, relapsing fever, dysentery, and scurvy) that many of our neighbors succumbed to. We tried planting potatoes again in 1846, but stalks and leaves of the potatoes were blackened, accompanied by a sickening stench, and within only 3 to 4 days the whole crop was obliterated. By August 1846, many of my countrymen had joined me in this endeavor, as the labor force increased fivefold to 560,000. It did pay 10 pence per day (12 pence equals 1 shilling), almost double my salary as a potato farmer. In an effort to earn some money, I joined a public works labor force, sponsored by the British, building roads and digging ditches that seemed to have little purpose. England gave us some Indian corn and maize, but it was poorly ground and caused abdominal pain and diarrhea. Over especially the next 2 years, life was miserable. The potato crop was ruined, destroyed (we learned later) by the fungus Phytophthora infestans. When the wind and rain died away, there was a terrible stillness. In October 1845, almost overnight, a dense blue fog settled over our puddled potato fields. It had been raining a lot, even more than usual for Ireland. A single acre of potatoes could yield up to 6 tons of food, enough to feed our family for the year. Because of a generation-long collapse in our living standards, we came to rely mainly on potato farming for our sustenance. At that time we had five children: Bridget (age 8), Thomas (7), Michael (4), Julia (2), and little Mary (1). We lived in a small cabin valued at only 5 shillings, where I was one of 30 farm laborers on the estate of George Fawcett, Esq. When the potato famine swept through Ireland in 1846, I was 30 and my wife, Mary (McDonald), 33.
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