rd.5 - 15 years old song:
Come Out You Black And Tans
yeah, a lot was happening with my musical tastes at this time, and there are 100 different directions i could go - but this was the year my Irish granpa passed away at the age of 84, two days before Thanksgiving.
he was a tough lil' sum##### - 5'5", 140 lbs of pure piss and vinegar. drank and smoked up 'til the day he finally passed - with a full head of salt n' pepper hair, and one foot missing from the diabetes which did him in for good.
was born in 1900, and was forced to flee County Clare after the Easter uprising of 1916 - he had a big family, and according to him, 2 brothers were hanged, and at least 5 (by his recollection) cousins were executed, as well.
he made his way back to Clare, and was put on a "coffin ship" (dubbed as such due to the deaths incurred on the voyage over) to Americay within weeks.
landed in NY harbor at the age of 16 - no family with him, and the Ellis Island folks stripped him of the "O" in his last name (O'Dowd was shortened to plain Dowd), and off he went.
had one contact over here, an older cousin, who snuck him in to the basement of his building on 9th Ave to sleep ... he would get scraps of food, some water - but basically holed up there 'til he could find some work.
he kicked around with some day labor (brick laying, mostly), before landing a gig at the Domino sugar factory in Brooklyn, circa 1920ish.
he worked there for his next 45 years, never missing a day's work. forced vacation once a year, but the old man never called in sick, he showed the #### up.
met up with the lovely Maureen Coffey a short time later, and they were married in 1925.
my mom was born in '33, their second child, as her brother was born in '30. my granma passed away during WWII, leaving him two kids he was ill-equipped to care for or love.
he was a hard drinker, and mom told me he was as nasty as could be at times. so she became the "Ma" of the family, taking care of both guys - was a tough life for her. Paddy was no picnic.
when my mom was dating my Italian father, gramps had a #### fit, telling her no way in hell would he walk her down the aisle if she was marrying some "guinea bastid". he forbade her to say yes to the marriage proposal, but, here we are. the old man caved.
this was considered a mixed marriage, and mom told me the Irish and Italians never once exchanged greetings or pleasantries at the service or reception. they might as well have drawn a line down the middle.
so, why honor such miserable old curmudgeon?
because after he
finally retired, he holed up in a quasi senior housing apartment, and i would make the visit to see him every Saturday with my mom.
she would cash whatever checks arrived for him (pension, SS, etc) and do his shopping - would make sure his clothes were laundered, tidied up the place, and cooked him his Saturday supper.
we always bought him four staples: smoked cali butt ham, carton of Lucky's, potatoes, and his whiskey.
my mom was a pretty tough and stern woman, and, after getting to know gramps i could see why. hard to imagine any love being in her home after her mom passed - but, yet, there she was, calling him "Daddy", and making sure he was looked after. it was a side of her i never got to see - a loving, nurturing side - it was the main reason i always volunteered to accompany her ... i needed to know that she was more than the harsh head of the household we lived with the rest of the week. i empathized with her, and that helped me understand her better as our lives wore on.
while mom was busy taking care of biz, i would sit with him, and he would crack a Rheingold and pour a tall glass of Bushmills - Lucky Strike always dangling.
he would regale me with tales of "home", about how him and his friends would constantly be in trouble with the nuns and clergy ... tales of hiking the Cliffs of Mohr, of his first ever girlfriend ... how he would horse back ride to Cork with his cousins - he had a glint when he spoke of all that, and he would always preface every sentence directed at me with my name.
i could see that life wore him down, and the events of '16 hatdened him to pure survival mode - i asked him why he never took a day off, and he told me "if you can get out of bed, you can sure as #### go to work!" in that molasses thick brogue of his ... and the "F" word was always different, a variance predicated on how much he was drinking - it would be "fook" or "foog" or "farg" at any given time ... and it ALWAYS got liberal use when talking about the English.
he had to go back to Ireland once, shortly after the Black n' Tans came over to trouble the Republicans ... he told me of being warned not to be out on the streets after sundown, as per their edict - and how he would have to cut through a graveyard a few times as they gave chase. he was hassled and beaten a few times, but made it back here in one piece.
read about those pr1cks
Here.
one of the last times i did get to see him before he went into the hospital he had been beaten up pretty severely ... 84 yrs old at the time, and he was followed home by some punks who rolled his ### out on 10th Ave.
his face looked like 5 lbs of raw chop meat, save for where the blood was still caked. both eyes blackened, probably had a concussion, but refused to go seek medical help ... he told my mom all he needed was a few highballs and a good home cooked meal.
he sat that day and sang this tune, telling me the bastids who jumped him were ####### compared to what the English were like - the ol' man actually wanted to go out looking for them ... he was a piece of work.
so he sat and drank and smoked and sang - had mom working the record player because he wanted me to stay sitting with him.
he told me that afternoon to take care of "Joany girl" (my mom), and to continue to work hard in school so i'd have a better life than they ever could have ... he told me how proud of me he was, and how he'd tell "Jackie Robinson" (his neighbor in the next apartment who he spent most of his time with, "Jackie" called gramps "the Leprechaun") how smart and talented his grandson was.
mom wouldn't take us to see him in the hospital, and she forbade us to go on our own ... said he was either too ornery or too drugged up (they amputated his foot a couple weeks before he passed).
but i bucked her wishes ... saw him two days before he died - he was so happy to see me, said he woulda done a jig " if the fargin' bastids hadn't cut his foogin' leg off!"
he told me the American dream was all mine to pursue, and to never be afraid of any obstacles ... he gave me a hug, and asked if i remembered the Wolfe Tones song ... of course i did.
he belted the chorus out, laughed a bit, then told me to leave before Joany girl showed up - told me he loved me - those were the last words i ever heard from him.
others may think you are. Took me almost 50 years to get there.
