By CONNELL J. MAGUIRE
Excerpts
all material copyright © 2003 Connell J. Maguire
To Go Up Or Not to Go Up the River
Mister Ireland, I’ll call him. We used to see him in the autumn of his life, a bit bent, weary from working in landscaping, heading home. He was still a striking hulk of a man. We looked at him in awe because of the report that he had boxed champion Jack Johnson in the Army during World War I.
He had been in the same regiment with a Philadelphian wounded in the war, later a lawyer and candidate for judge. The prospective judge is well remembered because of the hullabaloo which occurred when his opponent accused him of trading on his wounds for political advantage. The criticism backfired with a vengeance.
Prohibition of alcohol was gone when we got to know Mister Ireland, but while it was in force, our man got in trouble for making moonshine. We heard that he added to his legal difficulties by throwing the plain-clothes raiders out on the street.
There were sharpers abroad in those days who intimidated the accused and solicited money, promising to fix the case. My father was similarly beset for the same problem. Just this moment, I spoke with my brother in Milwaukee who witnessed and contributed to my father’s travail. In struggling to support seven children, my father brewed beer. Since people came in and out of the store, he could sell it unnoticed. The police were sympathetic and told him that he had been betrayed by a bad neighbor and they had to arrest him. Danny, then a wee boy, saw the police come inside from the store and asked them: "Do you want some beer?" A helpful son.
My father’s name was Barney so I’ll call Mister Ireland Barney too. He was approached by two men demanding some hundreds of dollars to fix his case. If you don’t pay up, you’re going up the river," they threatened. "Up the river" meant jail.
Barney refused to deal with them, took his chances and appeared in court. When his name came up, the judge looked back and forth at Barney and the name on the docket. "Are you the Barney Ireland who served in the Army in France in the World War?" He specified the Battalion and Regiment.
"I am, your honor."
The judge left the bench, came down and shook hands with Barney.
"What a great country this would be if we had more men like Barney Ireland."
You might raise your eyebrows and question that statement, but wait on.
A lieutenant was wounded and lying exposed to enemy fire. Barney seized a machine gun and single-handedly drove Germans away. He then ran out amid the crashing shells, picked up the lieutenant on his shoulders and carried him to safety. The lieutenant was now the judge.
The case was dismissed and the judge invited Barney to lunch.
As he left the courtroom, Barney encountered the two sharpers standing by the door who witnessed the whole scene. "See," said Barney calmly, "I’m not going up the river."
Milk Can Afield
We were living in the house my father built, where my sister Kathleen was born, about a mile or so from my Grandmother’s home. We had no cow. Pat and I were sent to Grandma’s for a can of milk. We agreed, with what proved to be a shallow spirit of harmony, that each of us would carry it half-way. Had we returned home by way of the road, we could have measured our duty by telegraph poles. However, we considered it more sensible to take a more direct shortcut through the fields. Pat carried first and reached a spot he said was half-way. Who was I to contradict the seat of wisdom? I did. I pointed out that a spot about ten paces farther on was half-way of the mile walk. Pat put the can down and would not take it any farther. I would not pick it up unless he did. Had we known the art of compromise, would it have helped? I doubt it. The can would not have been picked up by what my aunt called Pat, the stubborn gentleman.
So we went on home empty-handed and the pail of milk sat in the field, fodder for ants and flies. My mother asked, "Where is the milk?" She received oblique answers. Pat replied, "Joe wouldn’t take it half-way."
"Well, where is the milk?"
"Pat wouldn’t take it half-way."
By a series of questions my mother reached outrage, realizing that the milk was sitting in Friel’s bog. Pat was three plus years older than I. "Go back you and get the milk. You are old enough to have better sense."
I was overdosed with justice. All I wanted was fairness. My unease however was not strong enough for even slight heroism. I did not protest that the judgment was excessive in my favor. More probably, I felt I was due a victory.
Pat and I went to Ireland a few years ago, two retired old codgers. His friends in California wanted a picture of us at the spot where we left the can of milk some 70 years ago. A neighbor there obliged. I said, after looking from one house to the other, "Look, Pat. It wasn’t half-way." "Yes, it was," quoth he. Fortunately, this time there was no milk can.
The Holy Mission's Ill-Begotten Close
Tinkers, as they are called in Ireland, are something of a mystery. They are homeless by choice. Ireland has very little defense spending so the poor can get free housing, shopping service, meals, and laundry service. If you are either rich or poor you have it made in Ireland. The tinkers, sometimes called travelers, could have jobs now while the Irish economy roars ahead. They prefer their nomadic lifestyle. While they pile up trash along the roads, they do odd jobs and also receive charitable help from Irish homes. That tradition of kindness to them goes back to the days of landlord Boycott, whose name became a verb in our language. People were evicted and their houses leveled at the whim of the landlord. Social structures to come to their aid were lacking. They begged or got passage to America. In England, industry absorbed many of those evicted there. Boycott was the first landlord to bear the brunt of outrage. People refused to sell him anything, buy anything from him or work for him. Laws were passed in England to try to suppress this movement as it spread throughout Ireland. Relief finally came to Ireland under the land reform program of Prime Minister Gladstone. So Eugene O’Neill’s second name is Gladstone in honor of Ireland’s benefactor.
So much for prologue to my story of one tinker in distress. Our man was terribly hung over and arose late in the day in miserable condition. He set out hoping with all his being for a hair of the dog that bit him, at least one good shot of whiskey. He had no money, only trust that some kind soul in town would treat him. To this hope he was destined to add an expression of faith, but not yet. The town was shut tight. No pub was open. An old lady informed him that they were all up at church for the closing of the Holy Mission, a two- or three-week religious revival. Was God against him too? Perhaps the reverse was true. Some soul would be inspired to generosity by religious observance and would buy him a shot. So he hurried to church and found a seat at the back.
The congregation began to renew their baptismal vows led by the priest. The priest states the questions and the people answer "I do" as in a marriage ceremony. There is a modicum of silence between the "I do" and the next question, usually. But the tinker was a beat behind with his affirmation. When the priest phrased the question, "Do you renounce Satan?" and the people answered "I do," our man filled the church and the silent interval with a very loud "I do, the bastard."
There could be no doubt where he stood. He was with the program four square. Was he not proved worthy of a shot?