“Do as I wish … Not as I do” - Part I

A Short Story by Terence Cannan and Sheryl Brennan

Another spring is upon us. In my native Ireland, spring brought reflection and rebirth. The more years that pass, the more I find myself talking to God about the wonders of the world and path of my life. A life riddled with hardship, broken dreams, and a broken body.

My name is Patrick Boddie and today is just another rainy Sunday in London; time to honor God, rest from a long work week, and spend time with family.

I hail from County Cork in Ireland. For generations the Boddie clan proudly worked the land in Cork until turbulent economic times found us surrendering our land to an English Lord and becoming his tenant farmers.

My father and grandfather before him dreamed of buying back a portion of the land from Lord Dugan, but farmers are poor and the price of land increased every year until the dream they held blew away with the summer winds.

My dream was different than my patriarchs. I envisioned sailing to the Americas and laying claim to my own parcel, perhaps two-hundred acres or more. To hold the rich earth within my hands belonging to none but myself, to see the proud upturn of my father’s lips, and know we served the English no more. I vowed I would die before a rich noble would hold a mortgage just out of reach and keep me bound in servitude. That was a dream worth working for.

Twenty-seven years later I sit in a cramped rented flat, not lamenting for the lack of obtaining my vision, but in the hope my son Liam will not follow in my footsteps.

I see in Liam the same drive and zeal for life I had in my youth. At thirteen years old, he is the youngest of my brood, yet speaks of things far exceeding his years. He is gifted with an imagination and a passion to fulfill dreams of his own, but I fear if he stays in London, he will suffer the same fate that befell me.

Sunday is also the day I tally the weekly wages my family earned from working at the mill. After paying the expenses, I rejoiced in the knowledge of a guinea left over this week; a small bit of savings to kip away for hard times.

Liam sidled into the room with a determined expression contorting his features. “Da, when can I start work at the mill?”

Inwardly I cringed at the question. Biting back the knot wedging itself in my throat, I returned to my paper.

An Irishman who immigrated to Missouri in the states wrote to the London Times of his prosperity. The editors published his words for all to see of the man who came from nothing who purchased one hundred and twenty acres of land for five dollars an acre.

This is the dream I want for my son. To get out of this place and be his own man, work his own land, and not be tied to the mill machinery like a rat caught in a trap, earning a living that barely affords you survival.

I show him the editorial, pointing for emphasis at this man’s prosperity. “I want better for you and yours, Liam. This could be you one day.”

“There is no dishonor in working the mill, Da.” he answered. “It has been good enough for you, why is it not good enough for me? Is it not past time for me to ease your burden of my support?”
His loyalty to the family makes me proud, but I do not wish him to suffer as his mother and I have. I pulled a wrinkled envelope from my pocket and pushed the tattered paper across the wooden table towards him.

“I received a letter from your Uncle Matthew in America yesterday. He says there are good jobs there… Jobs that pay three times what you could earn at the mill.” I watch as he reads through the scribbled text. “I have 3 pound saved. Enough for one steamboat passage to New York. I cannot do much for you and your sister, but I can send you to a place where a man can be anything he wants to be. If you think you are ready to do a man’s work, then take this chance to do what I could not.”