The Ripples
- Paul Cotter
- 1 day ago
- 2 min read
In a college writing course, we were given an assignment that would open my eyes to a world that was centuries old, yet surprisingly new to me: the story of my family tree.
The professor told us to write a 35- to 50-page paper telling our family history in a cohesive, narrative form that captured the essence of each era. That was an intimidating thing to tackle, and we didn’t have today's online family ancestry searches at our fingertips to make the job easier. But I’m glad I was required to write the piece, because it gave me a richer understanding of my roots and the stories of those who came before me.
Like the rippled reflection of trees in water, the people in our family tree have sent ripples across the ages — affecting countless lives right up to today.
Through talks with my parents and other relatives, I learned about Barnaby Cotter, our earliest known family ancestor. He was a coal miner in Ireland in the late 1700s, living in a small stone house in County Cork.
I learned about Barnaby’s great-grandson Michael, who was the first in our family to stand on the shores of America. Michael sailed from Ireland in the mid-1800s to escape the potato famine which was causing mass starvation and disease, killing approximately one million people across the island.
I learned about my grandfather Dr. Stephen Cotter, one of the first radiologists in Buffalo during the 1920s and ‘30s. No one fully understood the dangers of X-rays at that time, so my grandfather was exposed to massive amounts of radiation while taking no precautions. He was often left so weak and exhausted that he crawled home on his hands and knees. With a compromised immune system, he died of pneumonia when he was just 43 years old — leaving my father as head of the household at age 13.
On my mother’s side, I learned about the life of her uncle Joe Masterson, who served as Buffalo’s fire commissioner in the 1940s. Joe came from a family of firefighters which included his brother Francis, who gave his life while fighting a basement fire in 1931. Overcome by smoke, Francis staggered out of the blaze to catch his breath, then rushed back in to save two firemen who were trapped inside. While leading them to safety, Francis collapsed and could not be revived. He died from smoke inhalation at age 42, leaving behind a wife and four children.
Oh, the stories I heard.
It’s a living, breathing, growing thing, a family tree — overflowing with tales of love, courage, heartache, life and loss. How humbling it is to remember that we’re all just one little branch on that tree, adding to the larger story in our own small way.
Photographer's Footnote: For the photo at the top of this post, I captured the rippled reflections of trees in the pond in our backyard.
