• Thank you to Carol and Steve Bowman, the forum owners, for our new upgrade!

Rose Rooney

BriarRose

BriarRose

Senior Registered
I'm going to write this story now, before the pain slips away. Take it for what it is.

In my beginning attempts at meditation, sometimes I would get just a name, and a face. One of those faces was of a dark-haired woman, quite lovely in her way. The name I got was Rose Quinn. I did internet research, and found Rose Quinn Rooney listed as a civil war camp follower of sorts - a washer woman and nurse. The stories of her life made sense with what I knew of myself - she followed a Louisiana regiment into battle during the Civil War, holding a fence down at Bull Run, so her "boys" could escape the shelling. She surrendered with them at Appomattox, insisting on being imprisoned with her regiment, although the Union Army wanted no part of her. She made her way back from Appomattox to New Orleans on foot, hungry, and footsore. The money she had was worthless. A Union soldier who recognized her for a fellow Irishman, gave her coins to buy bread. I thought that she must have been as tough as nails, following the troops when she was 50 years old. I could not, for the life of me, fathom her motivation. I did a regression this afternoon, and now I know.

I saw her in an Irish graveyard, barefoot, and wearing a drab brown dress. She is mourning three graves, with wooden cross markers. A priest comes out, but she wants no part of him. "Thank you, Father, but I'll be on my way. When I sell up my "bits 'n bobs", and a bit o' land, I'll have enough for passage to America. She scorns him - a scarecrow in a black "frock". Next, I see her in New Orleans, and there is a terrible scene on a wharf. I can feel the hot, moist air, and see torches. A big, black man, knocks a woman down, grabs her child, and batters her head against the cobbles. I have no child, and no man. But my heart twists in pain, as I watch the woman scream, and grab for her child. I make a run at him, but he knocks me down, too. Somehow, I think that black men are brutes, and must not be allowed to be free. The woman and child are black, but that's the idea that plants in my mind. When the War comes, I follow the troops, because I have no one, and nothing to lose. I am strong for my years. I can take the scraps that life throws my way, and have something to spare. I am strong, and the wounded and weak can lean on me. The last scene was her death bed in an old soldier's home in New Orleans. I have pneumonia. I know it because my physical body, here and now, is convulsively coughing. My lips are white. I am old, and death breaks me, as life never could. My physical present day body is hot and cold all over, and I fear that I will leave with Rose. I leave the body, and a spirit comes for me. It reaches out to help, but I shake it off! I gather myself up with dignity, (old lady in a white nightgown), and say "Get off, now! I'll walk by myself to heaven's door, or I shan't be goin'. I hope that worthless man o' mine, Rooney, isn't there. He drank himself to death before I left Ireland!" That Rose was a hand-full all right, rusty nails, and fire to the end and beyond. She died on Moss Street. The street where I live now has the same name. I picked my name, BriarRose, before I knew about Rose Quinn Rooney. Rooney was my present life first husband. Why, oh, why did I do that again? Well, that's it, folks. It was like a bad "acid trip". I can't stop crying. I am Rose Quinn, even now, and I don't cry! At least, not for myself. As I said, make of this what you will. I told it as I lived it.
 
I'm still shaking. I hope when my husband gets home I don't spit in his eye, and say, "get away, Yankee, or I'll scratch your eyes out!"
 
That's incredible BriarRose. How do you thing that that life has affected you in this one?


I know how you feel. It's like you're her again; that's always good validation, I think.
 
About an hour after I last posted, I started feeling wonderful, physically and emotionally. I have been out to dinner, and was almost manically happy. It was like about 150 years dropped off, in a single afternoon. My subconscious did everything it could to prevent this regression. My skin itched, the coughing wouldn't stop, etc. When I settled down, images started to come almost immediately. To answer your question Red Night, I think it left me with an over-whelming need to take care of people. If you were a childless widow, you had to give people a reason to keep you around! Rose still lives in me. When I was living in New Orleans, I looked out my window, and saw a neighbor holding a man at gun point in my driveway. I went immediately outside, and asked if he wanted me to keep the guy covered while he called the police. He said he'd never seen anything so brave, or so foolish. Maybe he was one of my "boys" in the "Rose" days, and the other guy was a Yankee! I can't abide women who get the "vapors". There's little trace of racism left, only the amount most people of all races seem to have. I have had intervening life times since Rose, so I guess it was gone, thank God. I believe the man I saw kill the child came home drinking, and imagined the child wasn't his. The women was his wife. I would recognize him on the street, even now. I've known men who behaved that way.
 
Have you been watching secrets of the dead on PBS?


There was a women like you described.


I remember more about my civil war life


but, I will hold off for awhile.


While you have need to take care of people


I am the total opposite .


It's strange what we bring back.
 
I have watched "Secrets of the Dead", but I've never seen that one. I'll have to look for it - it would be strange if it was about me!


Today, I continued to think about what I experienced. In this life, I needed to learn to depend on other people, and I have. I depend on my husband, and it seems that I subconsciously engineered my life so that I would have to. We depend on each other, so it is about balance.


The way the mind works is very strange. I've had an urge to watch old 1960's music videos on youtube, for the past few days. As I watched, I thought, "I would like to live the late 60's again, and be more adventurous. Go to Woodstock, join the SDS, maybe drop a tab of acid." I never did any of those things. My 1st husband, then boyfriend, was very conservative, and would just say no, I couldn't. I think he was the drunken Rooney who was Rose's husband. Did he come back with the determination not to go down that path again, and to protect me from it? Was it pay-back, in a good way? Maybe my life would have been a train-wreck without his restraining influence. Perhaps, I owe him for something after all? I was unusually happy and peaceful all day. I think this must be the effect of past life memory at it's best.
 
I tried to find that episode, shadows, but I couldn't. I checked every episode for the last seven years. It must be either an old episode, or so recent they haven't listed it yet. I will keep trying. I haven't been able to discover the year of Rose's death, or where she was buried. I spent a whole day with old Louisiana newspaper obituaries, and cemetery records. The soldier's home where she was a matron has been torn down, but some archive must have their records.
 
What an incredible memory BriarRose! While it appears it was painful in its review, it feels like it was really therapeutic in its lasting effects. And to have become BriarRose here before you found "her" means some part of you still remembers a very strong and capable woman.


I laughed when you wrote that the yankees wanted nothing to do with you at Appomattox! I can actually visualize that!


Thank you so much for sharing such a meaningful and positive memory.
 
Thank you all for your kind comments. I really think that the Yankees at Appomattox were trying to escort me to my cell (not ungently) and I told them to take their "cotton-pickin' hands off", in just the way I told Guidance when it was time to go. I found a new entry about Rose on-line, by a man in Louisiana who says he has a record of her name being listed with a regiment called "The Crescent City Blues". I'm going to do some more research, but it feels like I know everything about Rose that I needed to know. When I asked for a date of death, I got "79". She was born about 1811, and my feeling is that she died at age 79, around 1890.
 
No. I came across a purported interview with her, in an old Southern publication that was supposed to be after that date. She is really not even a footnote to history. I feel that it was 1890, because I jumped back into the flesh around 1892. I apparently always "rest" for only a year or two.
 
BriarRose said:
I tried to find that episode, shadows, but I couldn't. I checked every episode for the last seven years. It must be either an old episode, or so recent they haven't listed it yet. I will keep trying. I haven't been able to discover the year of Rose's death, or where she was buried. I spent a whole day with old Louisiana newspaper obituaries, and cemetery records. The soldier's home where she was a matron has been torn down, but some archive must have their records.
Click to expand...
death on the railroad secrets of the dead it happened before the civil war?
 
I'll try to find the episode today. Rose arrived in New Orleans around 1850, if I remember correctly. I found the ship's records of the boat that she traveled on to reach New Orleans. I don't think there was anything involving trains. I did quite a bit of research months ago, but I had no memory of being her, only a name, and the image of her face. The "Exploring Other Lives With Hemi-Sync" CD works really well for me. During this session, I could hear my present life physical body moaning, and feel it struggling. I feel very peaceful and happy now. My daughter knew I was Rose immediately. She read my post last night, and laughed. It was the part about insisting on being taken to prison. I got upset with a policeman a few years ago. I held out my wrists, and demanded that he "cuff me", and drag me off to jail. He didn't of course, but my family thought it was hilarious. It makes me realize how real, and alive, the other people we have been are. Does something serve as a trigger, and that piece of our soul take charge? It seems that may be true.
 
I found the episode, about 57 Irish men who died in Pennsylvania in the 1830's? Interesting, but I don't see any similarities?
 
I was doing some research on Rose's life tonight, and found some old movie footage taken during the 1930's at Camp Nichols. Camp Nichol's was the second site of the Old Soldier's Home in New Orleans. Rose died there. Some very old Confederate Soldiers were doing the "Rebel Yell". It was really blood-curdling. I got such crushing pain in the chest while watching the footage, that I had to stop watching. Rose died from pneumonia, but I think in the end, her heart gave out. Is anyone else afflicted by crippling pain, or symptoms when they see images from their old life? It might have been triggered by the sound of the yell, or even sub-conscious recognition of some of the men.
 
Maybe that's the film footage I saw years ago. It was from a newsreel. I think 1936 was the 75th Anniversary of the beginning of the Civil War. The veterans that were still alive had been teenage boys in the war. Drummers and bugle boys.
 
It might have been, Argonne. Some were introduced as "generals", and "colonels", but there were enlisted men there. The film appeared to be from the late 30's. There was too much crushing pain in my chest to allow much concentration. Rose seems to be one of the lives that I still have a lot of issues with. I'll try to watch the video again, because one of the names called out was really familiar, and caused the chest pressure to grow worse.
 
It's on the Smithsonian website. I googled "Camp Nicholls, New Orleans" and this footage came up on the first page. I would link it, but I can't remember how. Catie showed me, but I didn't write it down. I watched it again, reminding myself that the war is long over, and breathing deeply. The man who gave me chills was called James Blount, or Blunt. I'm going to do an ancestry search on him.
 
He was probably James M. Blount, born in 1849 in Louisiana. He was listed as living in a group home of some sort in Orleans Parish in 1930. That was the location of Camp Nicholls. What his connection was to Rose, I don't yet know.
 
Yes, that's it. I think the pain I feel when I watch it is caused by anxiety. I don't know if it's from the yell itself, the setting, or seeing some of those people again. I think it might be that I heard that yell during military engagements. I was long dead by the time the film was made. I was born around 1811. The gathering was filmed in 1932, and sponsored by the Times-Picayune newspaper. Ironically, in the 18 months I lived in New Orleans, I read that newspaper regularly.
 
BriarRose said:
The gathering was filmed in 1932, and sponsored by the Times-Picayune newspaper. Ironically, in the 18 months I lived in New Orleans, I read that newspaper regularly.
Click to expand...
I think the T-P was one of the many newspapers to go under in the last year or so. Too bad.
 
I just spent a few days in the Old Town area of San Diego. In a book shop, I picked up a coloring book about famous women of the Civil War. My heart constricted in my chest. I leafed through, but Rose wasn't there. The book was focused on glamorous spies, not Irish washer women! Amusingly, I was a bit "put out" by my omission! I guess human ego spans centuries! :laugh:
 
BriarRose said:
I'm going to write this story now, before the pain slips away. Take it for what it is.
In my beginning attempts at meditation, sometimes I would get just a name, and a face. One of those faces was of a dark-haired woman, quite lovely in her way. The name I got was Rose Quinn. I did internet research, and found Rose Quinn Rooney listed as a civil war camp follower of sorts - a washer woman and nurse. The stories of her life made sense with what I knew of myself - she followed a Louisiana regiment into battle during the Civil War, holding a fence down at Bull Run, so her "boys" could escape the shelling. She surrendered with them at Appomattox, insisting on being imprisoned with her regiment, although the Union Army wanted no part of her. She made her way back from Appomattox to New Orleans on foot, hungry, and footsore. The money she had was worthless. A Union soldier who recognized her for a fellow Irishman, gave her coins to buy bread. I thought that she must have been as tough as nails, following the troops when she was 50 years old. I could not, for the life of me, fathom her motivation. I did a regression this afternoon, and now I know.


I saw her in an Irish graveyard, barefoot, and wearing a drab brown dress. She is mourning three graves, with wooden cross markers. A priest comes out, but she wants no part of him. "Thank you, Father, but I'll be on my way. When I sell up my "bits 'n bobs", and a bit o' land, I'll have enough for passage to America. She scorns him - a scarecrow in a black "frock". Next, I see her in New Orleans, and there is a terrible scene on a wharf. I can feel the hot, moist air, and see torches. A big, black man, knocks a woman down, grabs her child, and batters her head against the cobbles. I have no child, and no man. But my heart twists in pain, as I watch the woman scream, and grab for her child. I make a run at him, but he knocks me down, too. Somehow, I think that black men are brutes, and must not be allowed to be free. The woman and child are black, but that's the idea that plants in my mind. When the War comes, I follow the troops, because I have no one, and nothing to lose. I am strong for my years. I can take the scraps that life throws my way, and have something to spare. I am strong, and the wounded and weak can lean on me. The last scene was her death bed in an old soldier's home in New Orleans. I have pneumonia. I know it because my physical body, here and now, is convulsively coughing. My lips are white. I am old, and death breaks me, as life never could. My physical present day body is hot and cold all over, and I fear that I will leave with Rose. I leave the body, and a spirit comes for me. It reaches out to help, but I shake it off! I gather myself up with dignity, (old lady in a white nightgown), and say "Get off, now! I'll walk by myself to heaven's door, or I shan't be goin'. I hope that worthless man o' mine, Rooney, isn't there. He drank himself to death before I left Ireland!" That Rose was a hand-full all right, rusty nails, and fire to the end and beyond. She died on Moss Street. The street where I live now has the same name. I picked my name, BriarRose, before I knew about Rose Quinn Rooney. Rooney was my present life first husband. Why, oh, why did I do that again? Well, that's it, folks. It was like a bad "acid trip". I can't stop crying. I am Rose Quinn, even now, and I don't cry! At least, not for myself. As I said, make of this what you will. I told it as I lived it.
Click to expand...
I think it was the most honorable thing to do to let you guys free, my Great-Great-Great-Great Grandfather; Hiram Blackledge 19th Indiana Co.C (1842-1931) may have been wounded at Gettysburg but I'm glad the opponents made it out safely. *salutes* May the memory of the Nation's division never die.
 
Thank you, Twilight. It is important to remember that division, so we can try to avoid repeating it. The south has held on to anger for a very long time. Of course, now I would side with the Union, although most of my DNA ancestors were Confederates. I do still struggle with partisanship on other issues.I think it was a life task to conquer in this life. The "them" and "us" dichotomy is damaging, and wrong, and I am making progress.
 
Wow! This is so really interesting BriarRose! Thanks for posting! Now have you ever come across a picture of Rose? And if so, is there a likeness between Rose Rooney and who you are now in this life? As for myself, it is so interesting as who we are now with our various quirks we have and who we were in our various past lives and how it all fits together. Again Thanks for Posting. Wishing You the Best!
 
BriarRose said:
Of course, now I would side with the Union, although most of my DNA ancestors were Confederates.
Click to expand...
I am in the same situation, BriarRose, with a single exception. Also to have some vague memories of dying badly at the hands of the Union tends to confuse the issues a little!
 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Back
Top