Doesn’t Everyone Have an Irish Grandmother?
When I was about five years old I thought that everyone in the whole world must have at least one Irish Grandmother. While I knew that somewhere in the world I had a Russian-Jewish Grandmother whom I was not allowed to see (because of my Christian Baptismal status), my childhood perception allowed only for the Irish woman I called "Gramma".
I knew that she cooked seven days a week for us, that she shopped for food in the neighborhood "grocery store", that she made everybody’s bed, that she spent hours bent over the washboard ( the antecedent of the washing machine), that she hung the clothes and bed sheets on the "line" in the tenement backyard, that she cleaned the "apartment" each day and generally took care of the seven of us under her care. Two of us were children and the other five were out trying to make enough money to support us. We were huddled together emotionally against the outside world which we intuited as hostile and unfriendly.
Gramma, who was paid no salary, would (it was apparently understood) be our de facto servant. It was as if this was totally accepted and understood by the whole group. Looking back over sixty years ago, I can only now really appreciate something of this unusual woman. She didn’t want money or approbation. She wanted only the opportunity to show her love for all of us. I cringe as I remember my superficiality. Perhaps it was part of being immature and inexperienced simply to expect that the meals would be there on time and that I would have a clean handkerchief as I set off for my First grade classroom.
Her name was Mary Gallagher McArdle. She was from the strange world across the Hudson called Jersey City where she was strictly raised by her Irish Mother and Father (who had served his adopted country in the Civil War). She would often tell us of her fun loving brother (whom Gramma’s children called "Uncle Tom). His reputation for heavy drinking and chasing girls was apparently legendary. With just a hint of invitation, he would entertain anyone with his personable renditions of "I was walking through the park one day in the merry, merry month of May" and "I’m a dude, a dandy dude…." or any song from his large and sometimes raunchy repertoire. But since his easy going nature made It difficult for him to keep a job, he was usually unemployed. Gramma with her usual loving care style would "put him up" until one day he dropped on the street and went to his Maker Whom he might eternally amuse with his singing and joking and livening up the celestial Party!
The 15 year old Mary Gallagher presumably bored with the limitations of Jersey City and, looking for some kind of action and excitement (might we say "boys"?) would take the Ferry across the river to what we now call the Big Apple. Being a very pretty Irish lass with a quick quip and outgoing personality, she attracted the attention of a tall, handsome young Irish bartender, who wore a vest AND a pocket watch with a gold fob!!! Did they meet in a bar? Why not! After all, she was Irish, too - - a beer or two never hurt anyone, right?
He was Edward McArdle from a tiny village called Dromcondrath in County Louth and was VERY ambitious. He later acquired TWO saloons (or what we currently call gin mills).Besides, he wore a derby, a kind of sign of affluence. Although he was about ten years her senior, the Great Love Bug bit them both. So they were married and began what looked like a Paradisiacal Phase. The now Mrs. Mary McArdle loved kids and babies and appropriately good sex with her husband - - - so - - they had ten children. Edward brought some of his family from Ireland to share his good fortune and happiness - - and of course Mary, his little wife, was totally agreeable. There now was laughter and love and very good times. Grampa was even able to offer a FREE Lunch with every five cent glass of beer. It was a jolly time.
But life was not without heartaches. Her first pair of twins died shortly after birth. Her 12 year old son, Matty, fell down the saloon stair case and broke his neck. Since Medical skills were not what they are today the boy died shortly thereafter. After 20 years of relatively happy married living, in March of 1906, Edward fell ill with pneumonia and with the unbelievably poor treatment then available, he died, within ten days in the flat above the saloon on 52nd and Tenth avenue in New York.
The Greek diner on tenth avenue and 52nd street (2004). In 1905, it was the McArdle saloon and immediately above is the apartment where Edward (himself) went to his Maker and from which Mary was dispossessed with her brood.
Mary (Gramma) was told that due to her husband’s debts the saloon had to be
sold leaving her totally penniless. She with her seven surviving children was
"dispossessed" from her apartment. That meant that they literally were
thrown out on the street. There was no Social Security or Widow’s pension. No
one helped except her Church which found her some kind of primitive housing for
her brood. Something called " The Gerry Society" offered to take her kids and
put them in what sounded like orphanages, a fate that was whispered around as
worse than death. This gallant, little woman instantly refused the offer,
preferring to keep her children with her believing with her staunch Faith that
they would "make it somehow." And indeed they did! Gramma told me that she had to scrub floors for a dollar a day and to
scrounge even to survive in the cellar-like digs they inhabited. The children
who were old enough all went out to make a few pennies for the common
"pot." None was able to finish even high school except Margaret who
gained a Master’s degree from Columbia University with 13 credits towards her
Ph.D. All the others went to "woik." They entered the various worlds
of photography, Automobile repair, domestic service, education, theatre, postal
service While modern De-constructionists wax poetic about the philosophical need to
be tolerant, Gramma wove the tapestry of real tolerance. All her children
married contrary to her ethnic instincts, save one. Her in-laws were generally
NOT of her Irish preference but were German, Italian, Pennsylvania Dutch,
Jewish, and even English. She loved and accepted them all, nurturing them,
kidding with them, sharing what little of this world’s wealth she personally
possessed. Her sense of humor was gigantic but her ability to characterize people with a
phrase would send us all into laughter spasms in seconds. There was a verbally
abusive young woman who was instantly named "Mouthy" by Gramma. And
the young lawyer with the huge head and little boy’s body became "The
head on a stick" and Mrs. Brennan with a huge posterior and a forward tilt
became " Here’s me head, me arse is comin’." And the woman
upstairs who was afflicted with excessive activity of the articulatory organs
became " Babblin’ Bess." When her fortunes improved through the combined contributions of the now
grown kids, she wanted to grow flowers in the pots around her back yard. Since
our street was used by horse drawn carts and carriages, there was a plentiful
supply of the valuable substance so helpful for plant health. So, one day,
Gramma in a very loud voice commanded one of her very favorite grandsons, named
"Chick," to scoop up a large supply of the droppings and bring them to
her for the beloved plants. In spite of Chick’s pleadings, she demanded he
obey her - - which he did, not only interrupting a stickball ball in progress,
but Clearly, her strong spiritual "spine" was her Catholic Faith.
Though totally unaware of past Christological heresies and Biblical subt She took me with her to Evening Devotions in the Paulist Church where my
eight year old mind was awed by the Great Golden Monstrance showing forth the
Eucharistic Presence of the Lord and the flickering candles and the pungent
smell of incense and the exciting stories told about the saints who faced lions
in the Arena and whose bodies were pierced by Roman arrows or were tortured for
the Faith by evil Kings. The huge Organ pounded out mystical and rousing hymns
about Jesus and the Blessed Mother and St. Patrick and the many inhabitants of
Heaven. I was impressed and moved and loved it. We all wore scapulars, tiny,
cotton squares hung around our necks by little strings, and which were brown or
blue or red, depending on which personal devotion we preferred. We all had
little holy cards with saints looking dreamily up to heaven. Of course, it was
de rigueur to have a Rosary and the lucky ones wore Miraculous Medals around our
necks on a silver chain. Gramma approved all this - - - so therefore we all so
acted. Grandmother and I in 1944 when I was a seminarian
How much she influenced me to consider entering the priesthood myself is
known only to God. I do remember her palpable glow when she would invite the
local Paulists to dinner in our cramped little apartment on 61st
street - - - - and what presentations she would offer their Reverences! These
were the most overwhelming of repasts. She would say, a little defensively,
"Nothing is too good for God’s priests." I remember her telling me
about my Grandfather’s framing and hanging over his bar a ONE dollar bill that
the local priest had given him for "services." (Maybe a draft of good
Irish beer!!!!) I remember, too, her cherished friendship with the brusque but
manly Fr. Peter Moran who stood six feet four inches, had a deep voice and a
huge shock of sparkling white hair. He would sit in her kitchen sensuously
drinking Gramma’s strong, strong coffee as he complained , very colorfully,
about the deficiencies of the Rectory’s "Protestant" coffee. I would
respectfully meet the great man at the door and escort him to Gramma. Then, they
would talk for hours, he, the master theologian and she who mastered only the
complexities of the Third grade. While her coffee was exceptional, she had a secret concoction called Beef
tea" reputedly the cure for pneumonia, warts, arthritis, anxiety and belly
aches. Priests, family and friends were dosed with it whenever she deemed it
necessary. Once, however, in one of the very few times she gave in to what we
might call understandable "self pity", she got "bombed" and
was singing away in her darkened bedroom. She called me in which she rarely did
and proceeded to give me a lecture about life. With some ROTC training in my
background, I had registered for the Draft in World War II. So, Gramma was
terrified that I would go to war and be killed like a neighborhood kid she knew
who was killed in World War I. Florid as the proverbial Lord she grabbed me by
the hair I then had and said: "Jimmy, be the father of a fine family OR go
into the Seminary." There could be NO in-beween status. No single life. No
gender ambiguity. Be a Priest or parent. And the message had the note of urgency
to it! "Make up your mind" she seemed to saying to me:"Get to
it." Since my parents, as vaudevillians, were "on the road" most of the
year, Gramma, in fact, raised me. I became so attached to her that when I was
about 6 years old, I made a deal with God that He should take five years off my
life and add them on to hers so that she could be with us that much longer. How
the Lord figured that one out is beyond me since I am now 83! However, Gramma’s
influence on my life - - even my approach to life - - - - was apparently
enormous. Even when I was a teenager, she nudged me to
"righteousness". At 15, I was preening what I considered to be an
attractive head of red hair, and was admiring myself in the hallway mirror with
typical adolescent narcissism. Gramma came by and quickly sizing up the
situation " zinged" me with her quick barb: "You stink."
Ever since I have been very cautious about the Imperfection called VANITY. Of
course I have no longer any temptation to preen my hair since my head today
looks like a peeled egg. Applied to other dynamics of my spiritual life her barb
has been an ominous and strict conscience (or to my therapeutic minded
colleagues, a powerful super-ego). Gramma’s approval of all of us was
essential for happiness. Her scowl of disapproval (though infrequent) could lead
to inner turbulence When she was dying in Roosevelt Hospital and delirious, she instructed her
nurse that she must get well immediately since she had an Ordination to attend
(mine). She was about three years too soon in her calendar but her appreciation
of the priesthood was always with her. She was some kind of lady! She knew the
score of life. As she often remarked: " I did me bit." She had known
happiness and some ecstasy, sadness and pain. She knew how to cry for her brood
but also how to laugh with all. She was one of those rare people- a true
believer in God and Life. I guess she was what we all need at some time or other
in our lives - - - - - a real Irish Grandmother. New York City (ca) 1895 - The McArdle Family "Gramma" (then 26) holding her current baby, Jimmy, (J.J.) with "Himself", Edward on her left and her father-in-law "Daddy" on her right.
a at the same time suffering the jeers and guffaws of the
insensitive West Side kids. Gramma was a strong woman who knew clearly what she
wanted.tleties
of the Synoptic Gospels, she was " in touch" with God. She knew all
about the Eucharist by pre-articulate Faith. She knew the power of the Rosary
which she "did" everyday. She knew all about the effectiveness of Holy
Water which was in a little font at the door leading outside and which we all
piously used going "out" into the world.
