A kind word for the Irish travelers

A few years back, I was frustrated with trying to get a book off the ground but it just wouldn’t come together. My limitations as a writer were the problem. In the course of researching and writing, I crossed paths with a young mother. She gave me a story of what it means to share loss and grief. I present, “A Kind Word For the Irish Travelers.”

The Irish Travelers live in Edgefield County’s Southern end. I-20’s Exit 5, Highway 25 will take you through Murphy Village where mansions flank the road. It’s said the gypsies believe in evil spirits and leave their new homes empty for a year. They cover windows with aluminum foil and butcher paper. Shuttering windows keeps evil spirits out. After a year, the gypsies move in.

You best not venture into Murphy Village. Best not to call them gypsies either. Said one Irish Traveler, “We’d rather not be called gypsies, it’s lost its sting. It’s not particularly offensive anymore.”

CBS’s “60 Minutes” did an exposé on the Travelers who speak Cant, a secret language that’s a blend of English and Gaelic. Cant keeps outsiders on the outside. Lots of intermarriage goes on and Travelers look alike and often share first and last names. That confuses law officers tracking Travelers afoul of the law.

Now, in fairness and kindness, I turn to Sarah whose tale speaks of sadness, tenderness and what it means to be an outlier.

—

During a very dark time in my life, my son came into the world prematurely at what was then Augusta’s University Hospital. After I was discharged, I sat alone in the visitor’s room day after day just to be near my son. During a long vigil in the waiting room, a gypsy my age, Mona (not her real name), asked what was going on and where my family was. I explained to her and her clan why I was alone. She, too, had a premature son there. She invited me to a restaurant to eat with her and her family. I declined, too embarrassed to let them know I barely had enough money for gas to get home. When they came back, they brought me food.

“Mona and I became close during what was the worst emotional, physical, and mental rollercoaster I’ve ever been on. Every day, this gypsy family would bring food to me from wherever they’d eaten. The grandmother gypsy walked over and sat by me one morning. 'You are family.'” 

Mona and the young mother became each other’s sounding board, each other’s lifeline. They called each other in the middle of the night and shared prayers, tears and laughter, but the laughter stopped. Mona’s son passed away.

“She and I were basket cases. A week to the day later, my son died. Mona’s family sent condolences and love. A few months later, they invited me to the grandmother’s home for a meal.”

The gypsies exercised their legendary caution. “I had to stop at a gas station down the street from where they live and call to let them know what color and kind of car I was driving. Two cars with two men each pulled up to me, one car in front, one car in the rear, and they escorted me to the home where everyone was waiting. This happened every time I went to visit, no exceptions.”

In time, the two women drifted apart. “I still see them in town now and then,” Sarah said, “and it’s great but sad as we’re reminded of how we met.” 

—

I grew up hearing about the Travelers. Most of what I heard was not flattering. Con jobs and the like. I’ve seen them in the restaurants in and around Augusta. They’re legendary, but they’re also people who love their families as you love yours. I’ve long held back on this sad story of sons lost. It continued to haunt me, to tug at my heart, so I decided to share my burden with you and others. I suspect it tugs at your heart, too.