January 14th, 1912. A tragic train accident occurred in Philadelphia, recounted in the papers. Some servant women and a driver on their way to church – the crossing guard was not there that day. The carriage was struck. All perished. And the paper made sure to note how the ladies on the train fainted, not so much the loss of life of the poor.
Mary Roddy was on that carriage – a servant in the Biddle household.
She was Nora Roddy’s younger sister.
My great-grandmother.
Nora and Mary immigrated from Roscommon, Ireland – one of the areas hardest hit by An Gorta Mor. But their family survived and they immigrated after the turn of the 20th century.
Nora died a year before my birth – and I know bits and pieces of my family’s past.
Nora was a farmer’s daughter, and worked as a servant.
Her husband passed during the great depression – and at 43 years old she went back to work.
So far as I know she didn’t speak of her sister.
Nora worked as a servant, in department stores, she was strong as an ox.
Her daughter – my grandmother- graduated highschool at 16 – valedictorian of her class. She could not afford college.
But she worked in insurance her whole life and rose to VP.
She put her sons through college.
She finished her own degree in her late 40’s.
She put aside an education fund for every grandchild to use – I took summer classes to lighten my course load with it. I was grateful for that.
She was a formidable woman – but not the cozy or warm type of grandmother. She had not lived an easy life.
I went to a fancy high school on the main line – and a few of my classmates bore the last name Biddle and I wonder if they are from the same family that Mary Roddy worked for.
I graduated from Wharton.
No one talks of Mary Roddy – of where we came from – this family acts like their colonizers.
My uncle belongs to Leander. I think he fancies himself English royalty.
We climbed our way out of hell but the flames still chase our feet.
The scars are still there. We are broken.
But my grandmother – Nora did name her Mary.
