Ireland’s most Heartbreaking tradition: The American Wake

Céad Míle Fáilte – and welcome to your Letter from Ireland for this week. Here in Cork, there is a crispness to the morning air and whats left of the leaves have turned a golden russet. It’s a beautiful time of year, though tinged with a little sadness as the days grow shorter.

I’m enjoying a cup of Barry’s tea and do join me with a cup of whatever you fancy as we start into today’s Letter from Ireland – it’s longer than usual so we may need a second cup!

This week, I’m delighted to share another chapter from my upcoming book: “The Lives behind the Timelines: Stories for my Grandchildren”. The book will be released in mid-2026, and in it, I choose 21 of my own ancestral timelines and attempt to bring each person to life through story and conversation.

In the sample chapter below, I share the story of an “American Wake” – so called because it was the “celebration” held the night before a young person emigrated to America. Like a traditional wake for the deceased, family and neighbours gathered to say their final goodbyes, knowing they would likely never see their loved one again. The ocean was simply too vast, the cost too great, and the distance too far for most emigrants to ever return home.

This particular American Wake is for my great-granduncle, Patrick Collins, who left Arduramore, near Ballydehob in West Cork, in October of 1883 to join his three older brothers in Chicago. He was just 21 years old, and his mother Catherine knew in her heart that this goodbye was forever.

I hope you’ll join me now as we step back to that October night in 1883…

A Cottage in the Townland of Arduramore, County Cork – October 1885.

The cottage glowed like a beacon against the October darkness, warm light spilling from its windows across the yard where a steady stream of neighbours made their way through the soft mist. Inside, what little furniture the Collins family owned had been pushed against the walls to make room for the gathering. The dresser displayed their few pieces of good china, and the table groaned under the weight of food brought by visitors – soda bread, cold potatoes with salt, a precious ham that someone had contributed for the occasion, and a large stone jar of poitín that would make its way discreetly among the guests as the night wore on.

Catherine McCarthy Collins moved between groups of visitors, her weathered face set in a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Her youngest son was leaving in the morning – leaving Arduramore, leaving Ballydehob, leaving Ireland itself for the distant shores of America. The thought sent a cold shiver through her that had nothing to do with the October chill.

“They’re saying the rain will clear by morning,” said her sister-in-law Bridget, appearing at her elbow with a cup of tea. “Pat should have good weather for the journey to Skibbereen, at least.”

Catherine nodded, watching her son across the room. At twenty-one, Patrick Collins was tall and broad-shouldered, with the same determined set to his jaw that his father Mike possessed. He stood with a group of young men, his childhood friends, their faces animated as they spoke of Chicago and the opportunities that awaited there.

“Chicago,” she murmured. “Might as well be the moon.”

Bridget squeezed her arm. “He’ll write, Catherine. And sure aren’t his brothers already there to look after him? Dan, Jerry and Mike have done well enough to send for him, haven’t they?”

“But who will send for us?” Catherine couldn’t help the words slipping out, though she instantly regretted them. This night was for courage, not for giving in to a fear that had lived with her since the letter had arrived from Chicago three months ago, containing the fare for Pat’s passage and enthusiastic descriptions of the contracting company the brothers hoped to eventually establish together.

The Hickeys arrived then – neighbours from the next farm over. Mr. Hickey crossed to pat Pat on the shoulder, while his wife approached Catherine with a small parcel wrapped in brown paper.

“I brought him some cakes for the journey,” Mrs. Hickey said. “The railway to Queenstown is a long one, and who knows what they’ll feed him on that ship?”

Catherine accepted the package with murmured thanks. Such kindnesses were all that made the situation bearable – the way the community closed ranks around those being forced to leave, offering what practical help they could.

In the corner, someone had taken out a fiddle, and slow airs filled the room. Michael Casey, who had lost three sons to America already, began to sing “The Parting Glass,” his voice worn but true. The conversation quieted as the familiar words wrapped around them all:

“Oh all the money that e’er I had
I spent it in good company
And all the harm that e’er I’ve done
Alas, it was to none but me…”

Pat looked over at his mother then, their eyes meeting across the crowded room. In that moment, Catherine saw not the young man preparing to cross an ocean, but the boy who had first learned to walk in this very room, who had worked alongside his father in the fields of Arduramore, learning the ways of farming that would now be of little use to him in the bustling streets of Chicago.

She remembered Pat’s face when the letter from his brothers had arrived from Chicago last July. “There’s more work here than men to do it, Pat. We’ll be starting our own contracting company, and with the four of us Collins boys together, there’ll be no stopping us.” He had read it aloud to them all, his voice growing stronger with each line, a light kindling in his eyes that Catherine hadn’t seen since his older brothers had left, one by one, over the past five years.

“A toast!” called out old Mr. Sullivan, raising his cup. The room fell silent. “To Patrick Collins, who follows his brothers to make his fortune in Chicago. May the four Collins boys build an empire in America, and may they remember those they leave behind in Arduramore.”

“To Pat!” the room echoed, and glasses were raised.

Pat nodded solemnly, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. “We’ll send for you both,” he said, looking directly at his parents. “Once the company is established. Dan and Jerry and Mike have already spoken of it. I swear it.”

Catherine nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Mike Collins stood beside her, his hand finding hers, squeezing gently. How many such promises had been made at how many American wakes across Ireland? Some were kept, yes – but many were swallowed back by time and distance and the grinding reality of building a new life in a strange land.

The music started again, livelier now. Young neighbours were coaxed into dancing despite the sadness of the occasion. Pat joined in, determined to make this last night one of celebration rather than sorrow.

As the evening wore on, Catherine found herself in a quiet corner with Pat’s godmother, Mary Driscoll.

“I gave him my mother’s medal of St. Christopher,” Mary said softly. “To protect him on the journey.”

“Thank you for that,” Catherine replied. “I’ve packed Mike’s prayer book. And I’ve sewn ten shillings into the lining of his coat.” It was money they could scarcely afford to part with, saved penny by penny over the months since the decision was made.

“Have you made him promise to write as soon as he reaches Chicago?” Mary asked.

Catherine nodded. “Though God knows how long the letters take. Months, they say.”

“My sister in Boston writes twice a year,” Mary confirmed. “Christmas and midsummer. Says the post is more reliable now than it was, though.”

The night deepened. The oldest and youngest guests began to drift away, with embraces for Pat and promises to see him off at first light. The remaining visitors settled into the rhythms of an Irish wake – stories were told, songs were sung, and memories were shared. Pat’s childhood adventures were recounted to general laughter. The time he’d fallen into the river trying to catch trout with his bare hands. The summer he’d worked for old Thompson and accidentally let the pigs loose at the fair.

As midnight approached, Catherine slipped outside for a moment of quiet. The rain had indeed stopped, and a thin moon occasionally appeared between scudding clouds. From here, she could still hear the murmur of voices and music from inside, but the night air cleared her head.

A soft footstep behind her announced Pat’s presence before he spoke.

“You should be inside, Mammy. You’ll catch your death out here.”

Catherine smiled at the familiar phrase, turned now to gentle teasing between them. “I needed a moment,” she admitted. “To remember this night properly.”

Pat stood beside her, looking out over the dark fields of Arduramore that stretched toward the invisible Roaringwater Bay beyond. “I’ll miss this view,” he said quietly.

“And we’ll miss you.” Catherine reached for his hand, finding it warm despite the chill. “But you’re right to go, son. Your brothers have carved a path for you.”

“I’ve written down the Chicago address,” Pat said. “Dan says the city is growing so fast you wouldn’t believe it. Buildings going up everywhere, which means plenty of work for us contractors. We’ll be able to send money home regular, once we get established.”

Catherine nodded, her throat tight. She reached into her pocket and pressed something small and hard into his palm.

Pat looked down at the simple silver ring, worn thin with age. “Your mother’s wedding band?”

“I want you to have something of home,” Catherine said. “Something to remember us by when Chicago seems strange and far from all you know.”

Pat’s fingers closed around the ring, and he pulled his mother into a fierce embrace. “I’ll never forget, Mammy. Not for one day.”

Over his shoulder, Catherine looked at the cottage where the rest of her family and neighbours celebrated this most difficult of partings. An American wake, they called it, because the leaving was so final it resembled death. But there was hope in it too – hope that those who left might forge better lives, might somehow keep Ireland alive in their hearts across an ocean.

“Come,” she said at last, drawing back. “Let’s not waste these last hours in sadness. There’ll be time enough for that tomorrow.”

They returned to the warmth and light of the cottage, where someone was telling a story about Mike Collins in his younger days that had the room roaring with laughter. Pat slipped the ring into his waistcoat pocket, patting it once before joining the circle around the fire.

Catherine watched him go, fixing this image in her memory – her son, surrounded by those who loved him, on the last night he would spend under the roof where he was born.

---

Dawn came too quickly. The cottage was quiet now, the visitors gone, only family remaining. Pat stood in the doorway, his small trunk already loaded onto Cousin Michael’s cart. He wore his good coat, newly mended, and carried a walking stick carved by his grandfather.

“We’ve eight miles to Skibbereen,” Michael called gently from the yard. “We should be on our way if you’re to catch that train to Queenstown, Pat.”

Catherine handed her son a small parcel – bread and cheese for the journey, wrapped in a clean cloth.

“Remember your prayers,” she said, reaching up to straighten his collar. “And write as soon as you reach Chicago. Your brothers will be waiting at the station, won’t they?”

Pat nodded. “They will, Mammy. Dan wrote that they’d all three be there.”

His father stepped forward then, a man of few words but deep feeling. He gripped Pat’s shoulder firmly.

“Make us proud, son,” Mike Collins said, his voice gruff with emotion. “You and your brothers, building something together in that new country.”

“We will, Da,” Pat promised. “The Collins Brothers Contracting Company will be the biggest in Chicago one day.”

The family followed the cart to the end of their lane, where neighbours waited to join the procession that would accompany Pat to the crossroads. There, tradition dictated, the final goodbyes would be said.

As they walked, Catherine found herself remembering other partings – her three older sons setting off on this same journey, one by one. Dan first, then Jerry, then young Mike. Each time, a piece of her heart had gone with them. Now Pat, her youngest, would complete the breaking.

At the crossroads, Pat climbed down from the cart one last time. The small crowd that had accompanied them formed a circle, a human barrier against the finality of what was happening.

Father Murray, who had come to say a blessing, stepped forward. “May God and Mary be with you, Patrick Collins,” he intoned, making the sign of the cross. “May they guide your steps in Chicago, and may they bring you home to us again, if it be God’s will.”

“Amen,” murmured the gathering.

Then it was truly time. Pat embraced his mother once more, holding her tightly.

“Don’t look back, son,” she whispered fiercely. “Promise me. Once you start down that road to Skibbereen, don’t look back.”

It was the old superstition – that looking back would bring bad luck, would tether the departing soul to what they were leaving rather than freeing them to grasp what lay ahead.

Pat nodded against her shoulder. “I promise, Mammy.”

He turned to his father next, the two men clasping each other in a fierce embrace.

“Take care of her,” Pat murmured.

“I will,” Mike promised. “You take care of your brothers. Keep them out of trouble.”

Pat managed a small smile at that – they both knew it was likely to be the other way around.

He turned then to climb onto the cart. Michael clicked to the horse, and the wheels began to turn. The gathered neighbours and family raised their hands in farewell, a few calling out final good wishes. Catherine and Mike stood at the centre of them all, his arm around her shoulders, watching as the cart grew smaller in the distance.

True to his word, Pat did not look back, though his shoulders were rigid with the effort it took. Catherine watched until the cart disappeared around a bend in the road, then took a deep breath and turned to her husband.

“Come,” she said, her voice steady despite the tears on her cheeks. “There’s work waiting for us at home.”

As the small group began to disperse, Catherine cast one final glance down the empty road toward Skibbereen. A journey of thousands of miles had begun with those few steps, carrying her youngest son away to join his brothers in Chicago, to whatever fate awaited them all across the vast Atlantic.

“God keep you, Patrick,” she whispered to the wind. “Until we meet again.”

Whether that meeting would be in this world or the next, only time would tell.

---

Taken from: “The Lives behind the Timelines: Stories for my Grandchildren”. To be published mid 2026.

I hope you enjoyed that excerpt, and I look forward to sharing some more between now and the end of the year.

How about you? Do you think that your Irish ancestor may have had such an “American Wake” (or other country) the night before they emigrated? Do reply in the comments below and let me know what you think.

Slán for now now,
Mike.