Irish in Philly

Having been born and raised in Philly (not in the 'burbs, mind you) I've come to know my city through the history of my mother's parents. They had emigrated from Ireland, Co's Mayo and Derry, respectively, back in the mid to late 1920s. They met here in Philly in the early days of the Great Depression.

My grandfather, a widower, left behind his three sons with his sister and brother for Amerikay. During Prohibition, it has been rumored he brewed beer in the bathtub. Forget bathtub gin. Imagine the taste of homebrew from your tub!?!

Other stories consist of my grandfather running numbers for the Irish mob in Germantown. At that time, Germantown had a very large Irish population before white flight and urban cancer took it down. It is said he worked two jobs throughout the Depression. Keep in mind, some 20 to 30 percent of the US population couldn't land but one job.

My grandmother was an indentured servant. Indentured servitude is as close to slavery without being so. It was the only way she could 'pay' her way to the States. She had an aunt already living here who set up the arrangements prior to her leaving the port town of Cobh via steamship. She traveled from her 'bend on a dirt road' village in Co. Mayo to Cork by horse drawn jitney cart and train.

My grandparents met at an Irish social dance at a local parish. My grandfather, or as my mother might say, the debonair one arrived at the dance with another woman. He fell in love with my grandmother at first sight.

He approached her to dance leaving his date to her own devices. My grandmother declined. She wouldn't dance with a man who was already involved with another woman. After that night he ditched his original dance date and made plans to visit again the following Saturday night. Ths time stag. He tried all he could to convince my grandmother to dance with him. She finally gave in.

They married. Had 4 kids. Owned their own home. They achieved their American Dream.

Whether you're of Irish descent, Polish, Italian, German or Dutch, our families stories all have the same basis. The details may be different. Perhaps you're Grandpa Joe made wine in his bathtub. What it comes down to is, we are the products of their American Dream; to work hard, to make better one's lot in this life for themselves and their posterity.

We should take a moment and tip our pints to their memory and their dreams. If not for their blood, sweat and bathtub beer where would we be now?

PS. An ironic story, my grandfather had finally established himself with a decent job. He saved up just enough to buy a used car, his dream come true. He practically emptied out his small bank account to purchase that car. It was on Monday, October 28th, 1929. The next day was Black Tuesday, and the banks were closed. All hell broke loose.