One college summer long ago my "little" brother worked for a landscaping company. My Uncle Louie "The Greek" got him the job. The business was owned by an old Italian family who immigrated to Long Island, and started farming. When the farms turned into suburbs, the farmers cashed in and retired or kept some of the land and became landscapers. Hans the foreman ran the operation. He didn't pretend to be a "landscaper." "I grow. My father grow. My grandfather grow." All the workers were Puerto Rican except for Hans, my brother, the mechanic and the mechanic's assistant. Before the "Progressives" invented diversity, this was Long Island's version: an Italian farmer, Puerto Rican workers, my brother, the Irish kid whose uncle Louie "The Greek" got him the job, a German foreman, and who knows what the two mechanics were.
The Puerto Ricans -- there were a dozen of them -- worked like crazy and sent all their money home to their families in Puerto Rico. My brother couldn't keep up at first. Hans told him he had to work faster. "I'm afraid of making a mistake," was his excuse. Hans said don't worry, "If you don't make mistakes, you're not working hard enough." Hans liked my brother. Eventually he started taking him fishing.
It wasn't all grinding work. They got the contract to put in trees along some of Ocean Parkway near Jones Beach. When it didn't rain for a while, they got a big tanker truck with a water cannon and drove down the parkway firing water at the trees. They got done in time to have lunch and take a swim.
One day while manning the water cannon during a beach run, my brother sees a friend driving up the highway. He waves at him. The friend who is in a VW bug with the top down and a pretty girl beside him slows down, waves back and starts laughing. "Hi, sucker! We're on the way to the beach! And you're not!" Never mess with a man with a water cannon. Rapidly a barrage fills the VW with water.
The assistant mechanic had the job of going to the deli and buying lunch for the Puerto Ricans. This was not a hard job. The Puerto Ricans always ordered the same thing. One day the assistant mechanic missed work. My brother got sent out for the lunches in his place. When he came back with the lunches and the change, the Puerto Ricans became very animated and went into a huddle. Their representative approached my brother. "Why have you given us so much change." My brother says, "That's what the change is. You gave me X dollars. The lunches cost Y and the change is Z. So you get Z back. What's the problem?" The problem was that the assistant mechanic had been keeping most of the change without telling the Puerto Ricans and it really added up over time. The Puerto Ricans were furious. When Hans and the owner found out, they were furious, too. The only reason the assistant mechanic kept his job was he was dating the owner's daughter, but he had to pay every penny back to the Puerto Ricans.
The assistant mechanic was mad at my brother. When he finally caught my brother alone, he lit into him about turning him in. My brother replied: "Fuck you! I didn't know you were cheating the Puerto Ricans. Blame yourself, Asshole. If I knew you were cheating the Puerto Ricans, I'd have told Hans right away. If you want to go [fight], let's go right now!" The mechanic thought better of that and demurred. Don't mess with The Dragon!
Monday, March 31, 2014
Friday, March 21, 2014
Fred is Dead
My favorite Fred story: some years ago controversial preacher Fred Phelps showed up at the Topeka St. Patrick's Day parade and lined up his troops to participate, complete with their entire catalog of "God Hates Fags" signs. The Dragon, representing the St. Patrick's Day Committee, approached Fred and said, "You're welcome to march. Everyone's welcome. But you and your people can't carry those signs, or shout anything inflammatory." Fred shot back, "Who are you." The Dragon: "I'm the guy who holds the parade permit. It costs $25. You want to carry those signs; go buy your own permit and hold your own parade." ("It was like looking into the eyes [Fred's] of pure Evil.")
Incensed, Fred moved to a street corner and picketed the parade, signs and all. He and his troops were patrolling the corner when a large semi-truck pulling a flatbed passed carrying a large Irish family and their friends. Fred found himself facing more than a dozen bare bottoms giving him the Celtic salute a la "Brave Heart." Barely able to contain his fury, Fred turned to a nearby policeman and shouted: "Did you see that! Did you see that!" The policeman replied: "All I see is some people exercising their right to freedom of speech."
Incensed, Fred moved to a street corner and picketed the parade, signs and all. He and his troops were patrolling the corner when a large semi-truck pulling a flatbed passed carrying a large Irish family and their friends. Fred found himself facing more than a dozen bare bottoms giving him the Celtic salute a la "Brave Heart." Barely able to contain his fury, Fred turned to a nearby policeman and shouted: "Did you see that! Did you see that!" The policeman replied: "All I see is some people exercising their right to freedom of speech."
Regan's Roman Catholic Rules
In the old days Catholics were forbidden to eat meat on Fridays. This was serious business for my father's mother who'd been indoctrinated at Manhattan's elegant Convent of the Sacred Heart. When cousin Furlong was served meat on Friday at a Princeton faculty member's house, it was taken as grave insult. My father was told he could not go to Princeton and was bundled off to Holy Cross College in Worcester instead.
My mother's family had a different point of view. The clam chowder on Friday could be served with bacon bits, because the bacon was "only there for the taste."
My mother's grandfather Michael Lafferty was a farmer. His family lived close to the land near the tiny, isolated hamlet of Kilmoon East near the tiny town of Lisdoonvarna, population 822 in 2002. My grandmother claimed she had to walk five miles to school each day. This might be an exaggeration, but maybe she was thinking round trip. These days you can check up on grandma by Googling Lisdoonvarna and you can see that Kilmoon East is not quite a three mile walk to Lisdoonvarna.
Another amazing Internet thing is that you can Google Michael Lafferty's census records. These prove that half the Irish of that era were illiterate. Of course you have to allow that the 1901 Irish census was administered by the British and recorded three children under five and a newborn as "Cannot Read." All of the older family members' "Literacy" is listed as "Read and Write" and as "Irish and English" speakers.
The census lists the Laffertys as "Roman Catholic". This is true. My grandmother remembered her father leading the family in saying the Rosary every night. It was simpler to be pious close to the land, no TV, no radio, and no electricity.
Michael Lafferty's relationship with the village priest was not simple. There was an ongoing feud. The rural Irish had kept their faith for hundreds of years with little help from priests other than an itinerant father passing through to celebrate mass, at times in the open air of a farmer's field, out of sight of the British who were hunting down and eliminating the priests. By 1900 the Catholic Church had agree to a truce with the British in Ireland and had legal if not official status. The Laffertys did not recognize the truce.
The feud between Michael and the priest came to a head during the Easter rebellion. Son Ned had joined the Irish Republic Army and was on the run after disabling (blowing up) some British army trucks. The priest wanted Michael to cooperate with the British and turn in Ned. Michael refused. The priest denied him absolution. Michael growled, "I'll burn in hell before I give my son up to the British", though he knew he wouldn't since, as a devout Catholic, he knew this was a matter of conscience, which the priest in fact had no authority to condemn.
My mother's family had a different point of view. The clam chowder on Friday could be served with bacon bits, because the bacon was "only there for the taste."
My mother's grandfather Michael Lafferty was a farmer. His family lived close to the land near the tiny, isolated hamlet of Kilmoon East near the tiny town of Lisdoonvarna, population 822 in 2002. My grandmother claimed she had to walk five miles to school each day. This might be an exaggeration, but maybe she was thinking round trip. These days you can check up on grandma by Googling Lisdoonvarna and you can see that Kilmoon East is not quite a three mile walk to Lisdoonvarna.
Another amazing Internet thing is that you can Google Michael Lafferty's census records. These prove that half the Irish of that era were illiterate. Of course you have to allow that the 1901 Irish census was administered by the British and recorded three children under five and a newborn as "Cannot Read." All of the older family members' "Literacy" is listed as "Read and Write" and as "Irish and English" speakers.
The census lists the Laffertys as "Roman Catholic". This is true. My grandmother remembered her father leading the family in saying the Rosary every night. It was simpler to be pious close to the land, no TV, no radio, and no electricity.
Michael Lafferty's relationship with the village priest was not simple. There was an ongoing feud. The rural Irish had kept their faith for hundreds of years with little help from priests other than an itinerant father passing through to celebrate mass, at times in the open air of a farmer's field, out of sight of the British who were hunting down and eliminating the priests. By 1900 the Catholic Church had agree to a truce with the British in Ireland and had legal if not official status. The Laffertys did not recognize the truce.
The feud between Michael and the priest came to a head during the Easter rebellion. Son Ned had joined the Irish Republic Army and was on the run after disabling (blowing up) some British army trucks. The priest wanted Michael to cooperate with the British and turn in Ned. Michael refused. The priest denied him absolution. Michael growled, "I'll burn in hell before I give my son up to the British", though he knew he wouldn't since, as a devout Catholic, he knew this was a matter of conscience, which the priest in fact had no authority to condemn.
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