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The Rising of the Moon: The untold story of the Irish potato famine PT 1

We are all fierce fighters down to the bone as long as I could remember. Especially me—being named after the mighty Finn Macool which was the plan, so you can certainly imagine my family’s shock on the account of my being a girl. Pa didn’t care, and was bursting with pride, with his rich golden smile, for the ever-growing number of O’Callahans. It all started after the potatoes had gone to mush, the crops blackened with the truculent blight—that soon changed our lives.
With a single knock on our cottage door.
My parents had it drilled into us ever since the blight showed up in our fields, to not show weakness to the British, carry on as if nothing has changed. I walked to the door with the words on the tip of my tongue and died the moment I saw Harrison’s brown mousy hair.
“Hallo, Fianna.” “Hi, Harrison,” my almost cheerful voice disappearing into a croak. “Father wanted to inform you that the rent will be up.” “When?” “Two weeks. Good day, Fianna.” I tried to catch his hand. “Wait Harrison! How are you I haven’t…I haven’t seen you-“ All I received was the door shut in my face, but I took after him. “What is going on with you? You’ve been different ever since—“ “Fianna you wouldn’t understand. Things are changing and there’s nothing we can do.” My Pa came barging through the door. “That bloody scum! He won’t hear the last from me! That damn English mongrel!” Harrison took off for the hills with my father on his heels. “ANGUS!!! Enough!” puffed my pregnant mother, with my wee sis Maeve in hand. “We don’t have to worry about the money, right Angus?” My blatant father paused. “Seamus, bring the fish.” He instructed my brother. Granda hobbled out behind us. “Do not fret, Mo Ghile Mear(moe-Gil-ah Mar)Your Pa will have the money.” “I know he will. But what of the Campbells?” My Granda didn’t have a reply, the grim look set on his face had said it all. Coilin had come out of the cottage to announce his need to leave for the golden land of America. Pa, set in his ways and too proud of his green land, responded rather appropriately. “It’ll teach you a lesson for your grandchildren so you can be a proper Irishman, and not run away with your tail between your legs!” “It’s not about cowardice, Pa. It’s about surviving so I do have grandchildren. ‘Tis not worth the fight.”
Pa took a step forward sticking a ruddy freckled finger in his face. “It is worth the fight every day of your ungrateful life, Coilin Patrick Dennis o’Callahan! Every breath of our freedom that we have left and worth it for the days to come. And-mark my words—If you shall ever utter those words again, I will never acknowledge your dirty treasonous arse. Do you understand?”
Pa also seemed to forget that stubbornness was hereditary, and had left in the morning. In his wake he left a note stating his reasons, that he loved us above else signing it wittingly as Pa’s personal treasonous bloody arse.



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