More Irishness, in honor of the Holiday!

What It Means To Be Irish:

1) You will never play professional basketball.
2) You swear very well.
3) At least one of your cousins is a fireman, cop, bar owner, funeral home owner or holds political office.
4) You think you sing very well.
5) You have no idea how to make a long story short!
6) There isn't a big difference between you losing your temper or killing someone...
7) Much of your childhood meals were boiled.
8) You have never hit your head on a ceiling.
9) You spent a good portion of your childhood kneeling in prayer (ya know ya were thinkin' about being badwhether ya did it or not).
10) You're strangely poetic after a few beers.
11) You are, therefore, poetic a lot.
12) You will be punched for no good reason...a lot.
13) Some punches directed at you are from legacies of past generations.
14) Many of your sisters and/or cousins are named Mary, Catherine or Eileen...and there is at least one member of
your family with the full name of Mary Catherine Eileen.
15) Someone in your family is incredibly cheap. It is more than likely you.
16) You may not know the words, but that doesn't stop you from singing.
17) You can't wait for the other guy to stop talking before you start talking.
18) You're not nearly as funny as you think you are...but what you lack in talent, you make up for in frequency.
19) There wasn't a huge difference between your last Wake and your last keg party.
20) You are, or know someone, named Murph.
21) If you don't know Murph then you know Mac. If you don't know Murph or Mac then you know Sully.
Then you probably know Sully MacMurphy.
22) You are genetically incapable of keeping a secret.
23) You have Irish Alzheimer's... your forget everything but the grudges!
24) "Irish Stew" is a euphemism for "boiled leftovers."
25) All of your losses are alcohol related (loss of virginity, loss of drivers license, loss of money, loss of job,loss of significant other, loss of teeth from punch...) but it never stops you from drinking.

I didn't write this, but I can admit, some of these fit me!

Family Tree

In all of us there is a hunger, marrow deep, to know our heritage - to know who we are and where we came from. Without this enriching knowledge, there is a hollow yearning. No matter what our attainments in life, there is still a vacuum, an emptiness, and the most disquieting loneliness.
~Alex Haley~

I hope to write a series of blog posts about my family tree, at least what I know so far. I think it'll be good to get the information and stories out of my head and on "paper" for future generations. Today I am starting with my dad's side:

I was born in NYC, Manhattan to be exact. Same as my father. We lived in an apartment, I talked about it here. My dad's parents (my grandparents) lived in the apartment building next door. (Not where my dad grew up, but he still was born and raised in Manhattan). My grandmother Frances Clarke (Nanny) was Irish, but was born and had grown up in England, my grandfather, Thomas Cox (Pa) had grown up in Ireland, so they both had accents. I didn't think much of their accents, as living in NYC many people had accents.

The story, as I had always heard it growing up, was that Pa was coming from Ireland to America and Nanny was coming from England. They met on the boat and by the time they got to America, they were in love. The real story, which came out after both grandparents had died, was that Nanny got pregnant while they were on the boat, (guess there wasn't much to do on boats back then, especially if you were in steerage), so they had to get married. That baby ended up dying a few months after birth, he would've been my Uncle John, my dad was born 13 years later.

My dad didn't talk to much of his childhood. I know it was hard. I know they were poor, but most Irish were back then, especially in the big cities. The neighborhood my parents grew up in was mostly Irish and Italian, and poor, so everyone was in the same boat.

Pa held a variety of jobs over his lifetime. He was a milkman for a while (drove a milk truck) and was a member of the Teamsters. In his later years he worked for the Port Authority in NYC. It's what he did before coming to America that he was most proud of. He was a member of the IRA, the Irish Republican Army. He told us that he was one of the first members of the IRA. He was the youngest of 12 children, and there wasn't much to do in Ireland if you weren't the first born son (and inherit the land and farm) or a daughter who would be married off, so for a teenage boy, the IRA was it. I don't know what he did as an IRA member or what happened to him other than one story he used to tell us: After he had been with the organization for a while, and had done whatever they told them him to do, the Black and Tans came for him one night. He was asleep in his bed, and they dragged him away from his home. He said they tortured him for information, of which he said he had none. He thought they were going to kill him, but they didn't. After a very long night they let him go. He had nightmares for most of the rest of his life after that. He never told my dad any details, and he never told us kids any. It's kind of a shame really, so much history, such much information, lost forever. My grandfather wasn't a very nice man, he wasn't good to my father and he was very stern with us, his grand kids. I often wondered if he was always that way or if he was a product of his circumstances, the things that had been done to him.

In recent years I have begun exploring my family tree. I have limited information, I know who my great grandparents were, but barring a trip back to Ireland, I'm not sure how to get more information. Yes the Internet is a wonderful thing, but unless someone, somewhere, put that information on the Internet, it isn't there for my grabbing. My grandfather told us the birth records were kept in the Catholic churches, and many of those churches were burned to the ground during all the years of trouble with the British. So our record might not be there at all. I do know my grandfather had a sister who came to the states when he was a baby, and she died before he ever came here, so he never knew her. I never had first cousins, both of my parents were only children, but I do remember a 2nd cousin, who was my age, that I knew when we lived in NYC. My parents never fostered an interest in us keeping up with our relatives. After we moved to the Midwest when I was 8, we lost most contact with those relatives. I find it sad, and now it makes it that much harder to find these people who share my gene pool, my heritage.

This is what I know about my paternal grandparents: My grandfather was born Thomas Francis Cox, June 15th, 1902. His fathers name was John Cox and his mothers name was Bridget Devine. My paternal grandmother was born Frances Clarke, June 13th 1908. Her parents were Francis Clarke and Margaret LaVelle.

I plan to write more of their stories and delve into my mothers side in upcoming posts. More to come............

When anyone asks me about the Irish character, I say look at the trees. Maimed, stark and misshapen, but ferociously tenacious.
~Edna O'Brien~

To live in hearts we leave behind, Is not to die.
~Thomas Campbell~

Irishness

May the leprechauns be near you,

To spread luck along your way.
And may all the Irish angels,
Smile upon you St. Patrick's Day.

~Irish toast~

Today is St. Patrick's Day. A day my family always celebrated while I was growing up. My dad was a first generation American, both of his parents were Irish, met on the boat on the way over here. My mom was mostly Irish, her father had a bit of Scot in him. So when I was a kid, on St. Patrick's Day, my dad would break out the Irish Rover albums, my mom would whip up an Irish stew or some corned beef. And of course there was drinking. There was drinking even when it wasn't St. Patrick's Day, but that just gave everyone a better excuse.

So I found some funny Irish stories, some Irish quotes and proverbs to add to the merriment of the day and to help me remember my heritage. I also added a playlist below with some good Irish songs. There are the Irish Rovers, of course, in memory of my father, but there are also some good current bands on there, the Irish make some good music.

In case you are wondering, I will be making corned beef and cabbage in my house tomorrow. I'd much prefer a nice lamb stew, but my DH will not eat the poor baby lambs. So Corned beef it is.

Enjoy the wit and wisdom : )


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Six retired Irishmen were playing poker in O'Leary's apartment when Paddy Murphy loses $500 on a single hand, clutches his chest, and drops dead at the table. Showing respect for their fallen brother, the other five continue playing standing up.

Michael O'Conner looks around and asks, "Oh, me boys, someone got's to tell Paddy's wife. Who will it be?"

They draw straws. Paul Gallagher picks the short one. They tell him to be discreet, be gentle, don't make a bad situation any worse. "Discreet??? I'm the most discreet Irishman you'll ever meet. Discretion is me middle name. Leave it to me."

Gallagher goes over to Murphy's house and knocks on the door. Mrs. Murphy answers, and asks what he wants. Gallagher declares, "Your husband just lost $500, and is afraid to come home."

"Tell him to drop dead!", says Murphy's wife.

"I'll go tell him." says Gallagher.

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Into a Belfast pub comes Paddy Murphy, looking like he'd just been run over by a train. His arm is in a sling, his nose is broken, his face is cut, and bruised, and he's walking with a limp.

"What happened to you?" asks Sean, the bartender.

"Jamie O'Conner and me had a fight," says Paddy.

"That little O'Conner," says Sean, "He couldn't do that to you, he must have had something in his hand."

"That he did," says Paddy, "a shovel is what he had, and a terrible lickin' he gave me with it."

"Well," says Sean, "you should have defended yourself. Didn't you have something in your hand?"

That I did," said Paddy, "Mrs. O'Conner's breast, and a thing of beauty it was; but useless in a fight."

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An Irishman who had a little too much to drink is driving home from the city one night and, of course, his car is weaving violently all over the road. A cop pulls him over. "So," says the cop to the driver, "where have ya been?"

"Why, I've been to the pub of course," slurs the drunk.

"Well," says the cop, "it looks like you've had quite a few to drink this evening."

"I did all right," the drunk says with a smile.

"Did you know," says the cop, standing straight, and folding his arms across his chest, "that a few intersections back , your wife fell out of your car?"

"Oh, thank heavens," sighs the drunk. "for a minute there, I thought I'd gone deaf."

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Brenda O'Malley is home making dinner, as usual, when Tim Finnegan arrives at her door. "Brenda, may I come in?" he asks. "I've somethin' to tell ya".

"Of course you can come in, you're always welcome, Tim. But where's my husband?"

"That's what I'm here to be telling ya, Brenda. There was an accident down at the Guinness brewery"

"Oh, God no!" cries Brenda. "Please don't tell me."

"I must, Brenda. Your husband Shamus is dead and gone. I'm sorry."

Finally, she looked up at Tim. "How did it happen, Tim? and please don't spare the details"

"It was terrible, Brenda. He fell into a vat of Guinness Stout, and drowned."

"Oh my dear Jesus! But you must tell me true, Tim, did he at least go quickly?"

"Well, Brenda, no. In fact, he got out three times to pee."

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Mary Clancy goes up to Father O'Grady after his Sunday morning service, and she's in tears.

He says, "So what's bothering you, Mary my dear?"

She says, "Oh, Father, I've got terrible news. My husband passed away last night."

The priest says, "Oh, Mary, that's terrible. Tell me, Mary, did he have any last requests?"

She says, "That he did, Father."

The priest says, "What did he ask, Mary?"

" She says, "He said, 'Please Mary, put down that damn gun...' "

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Definition of an 'Irish fact':
That which tells you not what is the case but what you want to hear.
~Hugh Kenner~

The curse of the Irish is not that they don't know the words to a song - its that they know them all.
~Susan Dooley, Washington Post.~

When I look back on my childhood I wonder how I managed to survive at all. It was, of course, a miserable childhood: the happy childhood is hardly worth your while. Worse than the ordinary miserable childhood is the miserable Irish childhood, and worse yet is the miserable Irish Catholic childhood.
~Frank McCourt - Angela's Ashes~

"This is one race of people for whom psychoanalysis is of no use whatsoever."
~Sigmund Freud (speaking about the Irish~

"The most important thing to remember about drunks is that drunks are far more intelligent than non-drunks. They spend a lot of time talking in pubs, unlike workaholics who concentrate on their careers and ambitions, who never develop their higher spiritual values, who never explore the insides of their head like a drunk does."
~ Shane MacGowen, lead singer/songwriter for The Pogues~

"It's not that the Irish are cynical. It's simply that they have a wonderful lack of respect for everything and everybody."
~ Brendan Behan~

May those who love us love us.
And those that don't love us,
May God turn their hearts.
And if He doesn't turn their hearts,
May he turn their ankles,
So we'll know them by their limping.

~Irish curse~

Christmas 1973

In 1973 I was 5 years old. We lived in New York City, in an apartment in a neighborhood on the far upper west side of Manhattan. I did a google search of where I used to live.....wow that was weird. I lived at 119 Payson Ave., Ny, Ny. The building looks exactly the same as I remember it. You can also do a pan of the street, and across the street from our apartment was a park.......it looks exactly the same. I was 8 when we moved, I can't believe everything looks the same as it did 32 years ago. What a jog down memory lane.

Now that I am done being sidetracked, let me regale you with what Christmas was like at the Cox's apartment in the early seventies.

My parents, even though they were parents, still liked to party. And for some reason, most of their friends didn't have kids. So most Christmas's were geared toward the adults than the kids. Oh we still had fun, but probably not the same kind of fun as most kids.

In 1973 I was 5, my brother was 9 and my sister was 10. I am pretty sure they didn't believe in Santa anymore, but they went along with it for my sake.

So the evening of Christmas Eve would start with family and friends coming to our house. I remember my grandmother and Harry (her live in boyfriend, only grandfather on my moms side that I really remember) would be there. Also my Aunt Marge and Uncle Ron (friends of my parents, not real aunt and uncles because both my parents were only children). I'm sure my dad's parents were there, they lived in the apartment building right next door to us, but they weren't as social as the rest, so it's a vague memory. I remember the loud people, the partiers the most.

So we would have an apartment full of people. And our apartment wasn't that big, so as a five year old it may have seemed like more than were actually there. But between my own family of five two sets of grandparents and Aunt Marge and Uncle Ron, that was plenty.

Since my mom and dad were partying, the last thing they wanted to do was get up at the crack of dawn to open presents. So the kids went to bed around 9 or 10 while the adults kept the celebration going. Before going to bed we would leave Santa a shot of whiskey, yes whiskey, it's cold flying around the world all night. If you aren't Irish, you might not understand. And then we'd be off to bed. After my parents knew we were good and asleep, they would bring out our gifts. Sometimes starting to put things together just then as well. When they had everything out and put together (and I heard in later years that the "putting together" part often took a whole lot longer than my dad thought it would) my parents would come and wake us up yelling "Santa's been here, come open your presents." Now this was usually around midnight or later depending on how much trouble toy assembly had been.

I remember this year particularly because I heard Santa's sleigh and that is what woke me up. It's kind of hard to explain, but the way our apartment was configured, the kitchen window was just an angle away from the bedroom I shared with my sister. Not right next to our window, but just across the way at an angle (clear as mud I'm sure). We used to string a clothes line from our bedroom to the kitchen to hang clothes to dry. Anyway, that year I was awoken to the sound of Santa's sleigh bells outside my window. I was told years later that it was my grandmother (moms mom) and she had hung herself out the kitchen window ringing bells so I would hear the bells outside of mine. (We lived on the second floor). It's a happy memory that I am glad I have.

So anyway, while we were happy Santa had been there, WE WERE TIRED! We had just fallen asleep. The adults were mostly happily inebriated at this point, so they were all quite jolly. We would open our presents, entertaining the adults, get a few minutes to play with a few things, then back to bed with you, playtime tomorrow.

Does anyone else think this is bizarre? It was the norm for us, at least for a few more years. During the summer of 1975, a mean girl I knew told me that that Santa was lie. I asked my mom and she confirmed it. I think she was happy about it because we no longer had to play the going to bed charade. We just started opening our presents before we went to bed on Christmas Eve.

We continued to have Open Houses on Christmas Eve. In 1976 we moved to Illinois. That year we had our first Christmas in a new house, in a new state. Grandparents flew in to be with us. As we all made new friends, more and more people got to experience a Cox Christmas Eve. Some of my friends still talk about coming to our house Christmas Eve. The food and booze were always flowing. My parents were perfect hosts. It really is one of the highlights of my childhood memories. A lot of things were not good about my childhood, but almost every Christmas was. I miss that my children will never experience what we had when all of my family could be together. We weren't the perfect family by any means, but there were times when we did have a lot of fun.

When Time who steals our years away

Shall steal our pleasures too,

The mem’ry of the past will stay,

And half our joys renew.

~Thomas Moore~

Once

Saw a pretty good movie last night. It's called "Once". It's kind of a musical/bittersweet love story. Here's what it says on the "official" site for the movie:

"A modern day musical set on the streets of Dublin. Featuring Glen Hansard from the Irish band "The Frames," the film tells the story of a street musician and a Czech immigrant during an eventful week as they write, rehearse and record songs that reveal their unique love story."

My 13 year old daughter and I really enjoyed it. It has a bit of foul language (lots of the F-word), but hey, it's Irish!

I put most of the songs from the movie on my playlist below.......they are playing now if you have it on. If you like the music, you'll like the movie : )