Patterson Spade Mill in Ireland

The scripture for the day, which is applicable for having to use spades:  In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread . . . Genesis 3:19

I was searching for the Patterson surname while in Scotland and Ireland and found this spade mill in Ireland.  We just had to go to it!  Actually, the history behind making different types of spades was very interesting, along with this Patterson family ancestry.  I took photos of the time line with family names and births.  It may lead to something later.  The lady there told me that one family member did go to Canada during the potato famine.  That is when one son from the Patterson clan left Ireland, along with his wife (a Brennan).  They landed in Prince Edwards Ireland, Canada.  I will need to research the ship's registers to see when they actually arrived there.  The census records show Pattersons and Patersons residing in the same neighborhood on plots next to one another.  The mystery of the dropped "t" will need to be solved.

It was very noisy in the shop and this giant hammer pounded the metal flat to prepare the shovel to be shaped.  The big belts in the back turned and provided electricity and power to the tools.  It is run on water power from the canal and falls in the back of this shed.

These are the different labels put on the shovels over the years.

This other part of the shop showed the finished shovels.  It looks very cluttered, but there are shovels in here that are custom made and sold even today.  I would have purchased one if I could have taken it on the plane.

This is the canal that supplies the water that is then sent down the hill  to the shop where it generates the power to run everything.

This poem was on a large sign at the spade mill

 by Seamus Heaney (1939-) 

Digging

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; as snug as a gun.

Under my window a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade,
Just like his old man.

My grandfather could cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, digging down and down
For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mold, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.

- from Death of a Naturalist (1966)

Here it is seen when many left Ireland during the potato famine.