Keepers Of The Flame

Keepers Of The Flame

         It was a sunny day, temperature in the seventies, in Western New York. In Buffalo, when the sun shines, all hands are outside enjoying the warmth and feel of the sun on your face. I had been meaning to visit the family graves in Holy Cross Cemetery, Lackawanna since our return from Florida. It was only a short thirty-mile drive. Now was as good a time as any.

         The 290 expressway crosses the northern side of metropolitan Buffalo and empties into the Niagara Thruway Southbound. This admirable stretch of roadway follows the Niagara River southwards to the beginning of the river’s mouth at Lake Erie. On a day like this, it is beyond picturesque. Rowing crews stroke the black rock canal and all manner of small watercraft speckle the rapidly rushing Niagara River. The thruway enters the great arch of the skyway, in downtown Buffalo,. You ascend 100 feet into the air as the roadway takes you past Buffalo’s outer harbor and towards Lackawanna. The sparkling blue of the great expanse of Lake Erie catches your eye as it drifts some 150 miles westward to Toledo, Ohio. The stories to be told in this area are without number.

I follow the local roads, across Tift St. and through the area of our childhood homes, past Amber and Lockwood streets. The Martin family had migrated here from its first-ward, immigrant, roots in the 1920’s. The aging two-story wooden homes are a bit the worse for wear. but still housed families these one hundred years later. The quiet expanse of South Park Lake drifted by. Some few golfers were playing the nine-hole course. Another line of joggers and walkers were circling the ring road enjoying the best of Buffalo’s summer weather.

      At South park Ave, I turn right and look up at the architectural brilliance of the Basilica of Our Lady of Victory. Father Baker had built this edifice with the pennies of the poor, sainted man that he was. Attached to it, lay the rolling expanse of marble, slate and grass that is the Holy Cross Cemetery. Five generations of my family lay at peace within.

     As always, when I drive through the quiet wrought-iron portals, I smile broadly. The names on the tombstones sing out to me. O’Reilly, O’Malley, O’Toole, Deegan. Dugan and Dunne. It is a litany of the Gaels who had crossed the broad ocean to settle on the often storm-tossed shores of the eastern end of Lake Erie. They are my friends and neighbors all, quietly at rest here.

     When I see them, I do not think sadly of their passing. But rather, I smile in remembrance of the life that they lived. These were rowdy, bawdy people who didn’t have much in the way of possessions. but seized life with the desperation of one who cherished being alive. I remember well their parents and grandparents for the many kindnesses they had extended to our family. When any of us lost someone, the heaping platters of food would swamp the house as thoughtful neighbors brought food and drink to make the immediate sorrow easier for all of us. For sure, the odd bottle or two of the creature and a keg of beer made their appearance as well. We thought all of these folks well worthy of a final toast as a rite of passage.

     At the St. Jude section, I park the car and take my gardening tools along with me. First, Brother Edward’s resting place. I hacked away the intruding grass and plant matter until the surface of the in ground stone was free and clear. I then said a prayer and told Eddie of the progress of his extended family, which now included grandchildren and great grandchildren. He would have enjoyed them much.

              A few rows up and over, I apply the same energy to stones that belonged to my Father, Francis Harold Martin and Mother, Eileen May Carney Martin. Then, I used some effort at the stone for my younger sister Maureen Anne and brother Daniel Eugene. I spent some time asking for their collective blessings and for their help with those who still struggled in the family. If they don’t have a pipeline with the almighty, who does?

A wedge shot to the southeast, I visited brother John Francis’s black marble monument. It had the etchings of the Claddagh stone on its face and the words to the most memorable Irish Toasts “May the roads rise up to meet you. “ Jack was a social bon vivant of the highest caliber. And he was, as they say, “more Irish than the Irish.” He may have been a character, but her always made you laugh.

        My youngest brother, Kevin Patrick, lies somewhere safe in the arms of my dad’s parent’s Emmanuel and Mary Martin. Search as I may, I have yet to find them again. And brother Patrick Michael lay quietly in a military cemetery in New Hampshire.

 I did find a Martin family grave dating to 1857. It is a weathered, white marble monument in the older section of the cemetery.  It lists several of the family names, Mary, Edward and John among them. Who knows what took them so early? Perhaps the cholera epidemic of 1850’s gave reason for the plot and was then added to as each in turn met their time of departure.

       My tasks completed, I said a last and silent prayer for the repose of all those around me. The names as I scanned them could well have been from a community picnic or gathering of our extended clan and neighbors. Five generations of my own lie here within. Another three generations, below them, walk the streets of Buffalo, waiting for their own time here to come to its end. I wonder who will come here then and remember everyone as I have done. There is always one in a generation of a family who remembers and keeps alive the flame of memory, so that all can remember who we are and from whence we came.  That is enough reassurance for me as I leave these quiet granite and marble boulevards, whose names sing out a rota of all that peopled the area since its founding in the early 1800’s.

     May the heavenly roads rise up to meet you all. And the celestial winds be always at your backs. May the warmth of family shine on your faces and until we meet again, May God hold you in the Palm of his hand.

                                   -30-

                              ( 1.097 words)

                        Joseph Xavier Martin