The Luck of the Irish

I have always thought that the Mexican people and the Irish had a lot in common. In addition to being from devoutly Catholic countries with a distinct tendency toward alcoholism, they both have some of the worst luck in the world. They just don’t know it.

I am lucky to be one-fourth Irish. That comes from my dear Grandmother, Irene Fay Jones. My grandmother and her family were Irish to the core.

I was also lucky to marry into an Irish family. My mother-in-law, Dorothy Gorman Hein, was my mother, too. Her sister, Margaret Gorman Gessing, was my beloved aunt. 

Irene and Dorothy had a lot in common: Both lost their fathers at a very young age. Dorothy’s father died in the flu epidemic of 1918, when she was eight years old. Irene’s father was crushed between two boxcars, working for the railroad, when she was eleven. 

Both Irene and Dorothy grew-up poor, raised by single mothers at a time when jobs for women were scarce. They both became hard-working, brave women who loved their spouses, their children and their grandchildren. Both Irene and Dorothy had sisters who were their best friends, and both married men who were stable, hard-working, and NOT Irish. Irene and Dorothy also loved to drink, now and then. Dorothy and Margaret drank wine out of a pretty glasses. Irene drank whiskey, with her sister Ruth, out of lovely porcelain cups.

St. Patrick’s Day was the most important day of the year for Dorothy and Margaret. They had their own booth at Duffy’s Shamrock Tavern in downtown Denver. They arrived early and stayed all day, wearing green from head to toe.

 

I don’t know if Irene Fay was proud of her Irish heritage. My Welsh grandfather didn’t approve of her wild Irish family. Too often the Fays were in trouble with the law and Grandpa was embarrassed when their names appeared, yet again, in the local newspaper.

Irene Fay was a serious woman. She married my grandfather, Robert Jones, when she was seventeen and he was twenty-four. Grandpa was a studious, sober Welshman, who never drank a drop of alcohol. Irene’s younger sister, Ruth Fay, was Grandma’s opposite. Ruth was fun-loving, friendly, exceptionally pretty and always ready for the next drink, even if it wasn’t legal.

Ruth married Johnny Quinn in the St. Paul Cathedral in 1923, three years after the start of prohibition. I can only assume it was a Roaring 20’s courtship, filled with music, dancing, and bootleg liquor. Ruthie’s hair was short, she dressed as a flapper and she loved to drive a car. Johnny was a small-built, dapper, charming Irishman.

As a child, I loved to hear Johnny and Ruth tell stories of gangsters running out the back door of their house. I grew up hearing stories of machine guns hidden in guitar cases, of people being gunned down in the streets, of crooked policemen and gangsters “with a heart of gold.”  Uncle Johnny taught my sister how to shoot Craps when she was seven years old.

Johnny Quinn killed a man at the Green Lantern Saloon in St. Paul in 1931. He said it was self-defense, but it probably wasn’t. Grandma’s brother, Frank Fay, and her brother-in-law, George Hurley, were also implicated in the Green Lantern “situation.”  Johnny was eventually convicted of the murder and spent time in the Stillwater, Minnesota prison before being pardoned by the governor. Meanwhile, Frank escaped to Canada, and George ran away to California. 

I wish I could tell you that Johnny and Ruth lived a straight life after he returned home from prison, but that wouldn’t be true. Prohibition was repealed, so they needed to find another business. They bought a small dry-cleaning business in St. Paul, and set up an illegal gambling operation in the back room. They ran that business until Uncle Johnny died of natural causes in 1963.

Aunt Ruth lived fifteen more years after Johnny died. She outlived my grandmother by twenty-two years. Ruth was always the life of the party. She was always beautiful. Always everyone’s favorite aunt. Always a baseball fan. Always generous.  And like the Gorman sisters ~ Dorothy and Margaret ~ Aunt Ruth was always ready with a laugh and another story.

I was lucky to have Irish men and women in my life. They taught me to work hard. To believe in leprechauns and four-leaf clovers. To ask for forgiveness, instead of permission. To look for fun and laughter. To make music and tell stories. And to take a drink, every now and then. Everyone should be so lucky.

When Irish Eyes Are Smiling!

Next Wednesday is St. Patrick’s Day. I’m writing this story in honor of two strong, amazing, Irish women in my life: My grandmother, Irene Fay, whose mother came from County Sligo, Ireland, and my mother-in-law, Dorothy Gorman, whose mother was born in Hannibal, Missouri.

Irene and Dorothy had a lot in common. Both lost their fathers at a young age. Dorothy’s father died in the flu epidemic of 1918, when she was eight-years-old. Irene’s father was crushed between two train cars, while he was working for the railroad. Irene was in high school at the time. 

Both Irene and Dorothy grew up poor, raised by single mothers, at a time when jobs for women were scarce. As adults, they were hard-working, brave women who loved their spouses, their children and their grandchildren. They also loved to drink, now and then. Dorothy drank wine out of a pretty wine glass. Irene drank whiskey out of a porcelain cup.

I don’t know if Irene Fay was proud of her Irish heritage. My Welsh grandfather didn’t approve of her Irish family. I loved all of them, however, even though they were often in trouble with the law. Grandma died she was seventy years old.

Dorothy, on the other hand, was enormously proud of being Irish. St. Patrick’s Day was the most important day of the year to her and her sister, Margaret. They had their own booth at Duffy’s Shamrock Tavern in downtown Denver. They arrived early and stayed all day, wearing green from head to toe. Dorothy died just before her ninety-eighth birthday, still strong-willed and determined to live on her own terms.

One of the sweetest love stories I’ve ever heard was the story Bill Hein told about meeting his Irish sweetheart, Dorothy Gorman, at church, one night in the rain. Here is his story, told in Bill’s own words:

“My Uncle, George Hein and Aunt Mim had already moved to Denver. I stayed with them when I first moved to town. We used to go to church at St. Francis De Sales on South Sherman Street and we always attended the Tuesday night services together. Very quickly I noticed that six young, pretty girls always sat together in the front pew on Tuesday nights.

One Saturday afternoon, I came into church to go to confession. When I was finished, I saw one of the pretty girls from the front pew, praying in the back of the church. And then I noticed that it had started pouring rain outside. 

I ran as fast as I could, through the rain, the two blocks to where my sister, Anne and her husband, John Kastle, lived. I ran right in their door shouting,”Where’s the car keys!”

I jumped in their car and went back to church, dripping wet. When I saw the girl I was looking for, I said, “I wonder if I could take you home? It’s raining outside.”

“Is it?” she answered, as she looked at me, dripping wet from the downpour. She agreed to let me drive her home.

That night we got lost all over South Denver. Dorothy said turn one way, and I turned the other. I didn’t want to take her home just then. I wanted the ride to last forever.

Later, I took Dorothy to Canon City to meet my folks. We were married at St. Francis De Sales Church on June 2, 1937.”

~ Bill Hein