Standing on the platform at Dublin airport on that cold October morning in 1962, I said goodbye to my friend Finola before boarding Aer Lingus bound for America. I was then twenty-two years of age, and[it was my first time to leave Ireland. Wearing a light grey coat and carrying a small red suitcase that contained all of my worldly possessions, I took a last look around my Ireland with a lump in my throat before boarding the plane. The airline stewardesses greeted me warmly as they directed me toward my assigned seat. Dressed in green-skirted[uniforms with matching caps, the exclusive crew of stewardesses presented a positive airline symbol with their tall perfect figures and good looks. Their job was considered prestigious in those days, requiring a second-level education with a preference for language skills. Limited to single young women whose careers ended once married, thus creating opportunities for new recruits. Without the appropriate standards and connections, I could never have qualified for such a role. I did, however, enjoy their service, as I experienced on my first airline flight. Once seated inside the plane, I observed the interior walls decorated tastefully with green shamrocks. The theme was truly Irish, enhanced with traditional music piped through the sound system, making me feel very comfortable. Following a hearty meal, I slept for many hours, waking up at the announcement to prepare for landing.

          After touching down at Idlewild Airport, renamed JFK, I easily passed through customs with my Irish passport, work permit, and sponsorship documents. Proceeding to find my connecting flight to California, I heard my name being paged over the intercom. This scared me as I was then alone in a foreign land, causing me to wonder why I was being called. Was I being deported as an illegal alien? I was already familiar with an intercom system from my hotel experience, but the issue was how or where to take the call. At least I knew how phones worked. In the midst of the chaos and with the help of a staff member, I was directed towards the phone.

Nervously picking up the receiver, I was pleasantly surprised and relieved to hear the voice of my cousin Eddie on the other end. He was then settled in Manhattan with his family, and I had written to him in advance about my American plans. Eddie was apologetic for not being able to greet me at the airport, but I was very grateful for his welcome call. On that initial flight, my destination was Fresno, California, where my sister Francie was then living and working as a nurse. That meant finding my connecting flight for an additional six hours in the air. Dazzled by all of the newness and activity around me, I was drawn by the sight of a moving staircase, known as an escalator. I had never seen such before and learned that I had to climb it for my connecting flight. Standing on the first step with the heels of my shoes over the edge to avoid getting them stuck in the grids, I held onto the handrail for dear life, recalling my Dublin experience with my spiked heels caught in the street grids, ruining and at times, breaking the heels off. God forbid that this should happen to me again, causing me to miss my connecting flight, so I fretted. Approaching the end of the escalator flight, I prepared anxiously to step off and then stumbled onto the floor, relieved that I did not fall and break my neck in my efforts to reach the Gold Coast. This must have left me in a state of shock since the flight to California seemed uneventful.

Arriving at Fresno airport, I was met by Jim O’Brien and his wife. They looked so good to me, presenting an image of affluence. Jim had immigrated from Dublin and was then a vice president in the banking industry. He and his family had become close friends of my sister Francie in Fresno, and I benefited from the relationship. Taking my red suitcase, Jim and his wife led me to their sleek, streamlined automobile, the trunk of which was equally as long as the body. It was the longest automobile I had ever seen as I compared it to the small mini cars in Ireland. I later learned it was a Chevrolet modeled after the jet fighter planes. Seated in the back seat of this wonderous vehicle, I peered out the window at the vast fruits and vegetables farms as we drove through the San Joaquin Valley. Then I heard a whirling sound and looking up, I saw a helicopter flying overhead. It was spraying the crops from above as it circled around. It was my first time seeing a helicopter, and I understood that it was used extensively in the military, yet here it was, spraying crops. Overwhelmed by the sights, I compared them to the small farms in Ireland and to the spraying machine, manually operated by its handle, that the farmers carried on their backs as they walked through the ridges spraying their few crops. What an introduction to America!!

“Automobile in America,
Chromium steel in America,
Wire-spoke wheel in America,
Very big deal in America …”

“West Side Story” by Leonard Bernstein, 1956

Following this amazing introduction to the New World, I was driven to Francie’s home, which she shared with her friend Mary. They had left Ireland together on a nursing contract with a Fresno-based hospital named Saint Agnes. Reconnecting with Francie again was exciting. She had changed somewhat after one year in Fresno, behaving more responsibly than ever at home. Through her, I met her many friends in Fresno, including Monsignor O’Brien, uncle to Jim, who drove me from the airport. I also became acquainted with several other Irish nurses employed at Saint Agnes. They all lived very comfortably in spacious homes with manicured lawns kept alive by water sprinklers. Some of the homes had private outdoor swimming pools. It was routine to cool off daily in a pool from the heat of the valley. I joined with others for an occasional dip in the chlorinated water that bothered my eyes. I was unaware of private swimming pools until then, having spent my youth dipping in the Bunree River or in the Atlantic Ocean near my home. Water was at a premium in Fresno, unlike Ireland, which has a propensity for rain. If only the surplus water could have been exported, how much better it would have been, I pondered. In addition to private pools, the Fresno homes were surrounded by trees bearing lemons, oranges, peaches, and grapefruits, making me feel that I had landed in Paradise ensconced in fruit.

Strolling along the streets of Fresno, I came to a traffic light with a hand telling me to “Wait,” which then changed to “Walk.” This was a surprise for me, knowing that I was in the “land of the free and the brave”, yet there was a light telling me what to do. Around the corner, I spotted a sign reading “Drug Store.” No way! Did they really sell drugs and perhaps even offer free samples for promotion? Medicines could only be bought in chemist’s shops in Ireland. Yet, since I was already on a high and could only take so much of a good thing at once, I should save the drug trip for later, I reasoned with myself. Then, alerted by a honking car from across the street, I recognized the driver. It was one of the nurses from Saint Agnes inviting me along in her quest for gas. “Gas in a car, what did that mean,” I asked. In Ireland, we had cures for getting rid of stomach gas while enjoying ‘great gas’ and having fun, but gas in a car was unheard of. That same evening, we went to a local drive-in movie in the gassed-up car. While I had been to many movies in Ireland, attending one in a park was a new phenomenon for me. Parking our car some distance from the large screen to save our necks, we observed the stream of people heading towards the concession stand. They lined up to place their orders and then returned to their cars with paper trays carrying refreshments and large tubs of popcorn. Their voices could be heard from the distance and inside their cars as they talked, laughed, ate, and drank. The entire scene was entertaining, apart from the film on the screen. It was surely an experience for me as I watched in awe at the creative way of movie-going in suburbia. As a final introduction to Fresno, Francie arranged for me to join others on a hiking trail. Dressed inappropriately in a pleated skirt and nylon stockings, it was clear to my fellow hikers that I had just come off “The Boat.”

Fresno was an idyllic place to live, but it was limited in job opportunities for me. During my stay there, I contacted a friend from home named Kathleen, who had settled in San Francisco with her husband, Pat Kelly. They invited me to visit them and, while there, to seek suitable employment opportunities in the city. Setting off on a Greyhound bus from Fresno with Francie accompanying me for the initial trip, we headed for the Bay Area.