Celebrating being Irish on St. Patrick’s Day
Shelter Island is home to many an Irish-American. Reporter feature writer Carol Galligan is one of them. She called all the Os in the Shelter Island phone book, along with a few other neighbors with Irish names, asking for comments on St. Patrick’s Day and the Irish heritage. The responses follow.
What it means to be Irish
By Kathryn O’Hagan
What does it mean to be Irish? Fierce pride, shameless wit, generosity of spirit, sweet singer, avid storyteller, quick to laugh, love of justice, strong character, devilishly charming, never at a loss for words, steeped in tradition and faith, one part shenanigans, one part blarney and two parts bard, and so lucky in life … when I escaped the 73rd floor of 2 World Trade Center on 9/11, ’twas the luck of the Irish, wasn’t it now? Perhaps Kathryn Ann Margaret O’Hagan had more to accomplish … and lastly, the Irish saved civilization (Thomas Cahill).
A few of my favorite Irish blessings and toasts: “May you see your children’s children,” “May the Lord keep you in His hand and never close His fist too tight.” “Health, and long life to you, Land without rent to you, The partner of your heart to you, And when you die, may your bones rest in Ireland!”
An Irish beer run
By Philip O’Neill
When I was young, you got a half-day off at my Catholic school, if you were Irish and going to the parade. [After the parade] I would walk to my aunt’s building where I would wait for my parents to come from work and we’d have an Irish supper — corned beef and cabbage and boiled potatoes.
The grown-ups had beer to drink and the children had sodas. Someone had to get the beer, the adults had worked all day and were tired, so they would “get the kid” — me.
I went down with the two-quart growler, a tin can with a handle and cover, that also served as a milk pail and would hand it to the bartender. He would then go outside and look up at the window for the sign that it was okay.
Five flights is a good walk up — and by the third floor you stopped for a rest and a sip. When you got to the top floor, the door was open and as you entered, you were asked, “Did you drink any?” With a straight face you would answer, “Who? Me?”
Adventures in Ireland
By Jim Dougherty
Ireland has always been a Magical Mystery Tour for me. First visit was in 1956 when this suburban brat learned vividly in impoverished Ireland that money can’t buy happiness.
What fun we had. A 1960 rental of a Ring of Kerry cottage with English chums introduced me to Mrs. Brennan — wife of the fisherman next door who each morning brought us incredibly fresh fish, oysters, eggs and vegetables, introducing each unsolicited and inevitable yarn with “Well now, honest and true,” “Well now, would you believe,” or “—” whatever. To this day you’re a vivid, warm memory, Mrs. Brennan.
And Charlie Chaplin and his wife staying down the road, generously regaling one and all in the evenings with pantomimes of his deep sea fishing escapades that day.
July 1974 found Nancy and I wandering around Galway in a horse-drawn gypsy caravan — the roads were empty then before “The Affluence” clogged those arteries. Our mare, Timolina, showed me who was boss each morning and evening as I struggled to harness and unharness her, farmers in the background giggling softly.
Coming to America
By Mimi Brennan
The first Brennan to emigrate to the U.S. was the widow, Anastasia Brennan, who came from Ireland in 1848 with seven of her eight children. Bridget, the eldest, had gone ahead to find a family home and employment. The family was never reunited.
Anastasia and the remaining children did finally settle in Brooklyn where they and their descendants prospered and eventually became active in local politics.
Jim Brennan, a sixth-generation grandson, has been a State Assemblyman from the Park Slope and East Flatbush area since 1985.
Anastasia’s name is engraved on the American Immigrant Wall of Honor at Ellis Island.
Irish pride
By Joe O’Brien
My father was born in Limerick, Ireland in 1907, came to America in 1927, married my mother in 1933. My mother’s parents were from Ireland also, she was born here in the United States, her maiden name was Donohue. My father was proud of Ireland as I was. I marched in the Saint Patrick’s Day parade with my college, Providence College several times. Don’t know if I’ll make it this year.
Raising an Irish-American family
By Carol Galligan
My great-great-grandfather left his wife and children behind during the first year of the Irish famine, 1847, and made his way to New York City. It took him four long years to make enough money to keep his family alive and bring them all to America. His wife walked down the gangplank, carrying a 4-year-old; behind her, three older children.
That 4-year-old grew up to be my great-grandfather and to marry my great-grandmother, a Connecticut Yankee of English descent, a Protestant who traced her lineage to 1630 and the Winthrop Fleet, whose ancestors had fought in the American Revolution. I can only assume he was either very handsome, very funny, very sexy or all three.
Their marriage compromise was to raise their daughters as Protestants and their sons as Catholics. They had six girls and eight boys. My grandfather was one of those boys and I grew up in his house. He was his mother’s oldest son and was named Charles Augustus Brady. “Augustus?” There’s a story!
My brother and I were never allowed to attend the parade. My grandfather’s edict? “It’s not the place for us! We’re not Irish, we’re Americans.” Of course, we always went anyway. The Irish aren’t known for obedience.
