Where the Irish of the Delaware Valley meet
Telling Lies in Philadelphia
While most Irish people are infamous for their ability to tell good-hearted stories, my Irish relative was known for his ability to tell bold-faced lies (and he was known for his anger and the drink, but that's normal). This is just one "Philadelphia" story of the many lies that he told, many of which are the reason I'm sitting here rather across the pond while typing this. I've decided to embrace the fact that the man couldn't tell the truth...what choice do I have?
My great grandfather's name was John Fulton (1884-1959; Imm. 1909). He was from Edenderry, Co. Offaly and came to Philadelphia (on someone else's travel permit) after a short stay in Scotland to work in a brick foundry where he met my great grandmother, Hannah, who was from (London)Derry. He was an angry man, so I'm told, and for good reason--Hannah died in the Spanish Flu epidemic of 1918, among other tragedies--more on that another time. He bounced and stumbled around Corktown for a few years until his job with the Pennsylvania Rail Road enabled him to buy a house in Belmont, on Mantua Avenue. The new digs were just a little too far for his wonky leg to carry him to the AOH Div. 80, which was on Lancaster Avenue then. But he truly enjoyed a good time, so he struggled out, and often.
Years later, when my grandmother, Susan, married Alfred Smith (originally Schmidt, but that's another story), himself the child of German immigrants, they lived with John in the house on Mantua (eventually selling it to them for $1 on the condition that he could stay). They owned a car, and suddenly John's problems were solved; he couldn't drive and didn't want to learn, but certainly Alfred could drive him to the AOH. But it only got better: Alfred didn't drink, so John could load up as he pleased, and indeed he did. But John wouldn't be held to a schedule, and they had no phone at the house, so Alfred couldn't drop him off and return in a way that was conducive to John's fun. Alfred would have to join the AOH so he could come inside and thus be ready to leave when John was ready (or thrown out, or carried out, waving his shilleighly in a blur, as was sometimes the case). A German in the AOH, you ask? Of course, John reached into his overflowing bag of tricks and pulled out the tool of choice: He lied. Sure, Alfred Smith was Irish, now give us a drink.
Later they moved to Northeast Philadelphia on the White-Flight Express. Unimpressed with suburban life, John wanted to keep his fun in the city. Alfred refused to take him all that way to the AOH, and since it was Alfred's house he was living in this time, John didn't force the issue. No problem, John would use public transportation--a trailblazer by nature--and do as he pleased. After a few times at it, and failing to make it home at a decent hour, or at all, my grandmother declared that her daughter, my aunt Marge, would go along to chaperon this determined old fellow. Marge was delighted--what gal wouldn't be delighted to go to a ceili?--until her mother informed her that she was to keep him in line: "Mind his drinking, keep his temper down, make sure he checks his blood sugar, and Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, keep him away from the ladies."
Such shenanigans went on and on until John retired, arranged for his Social Security check to be mailed to Edenderry, Co. Offaly, and shoved-off for home aboard the Mauritania. But before getting on the boat he told my aunt the truth for what seemed like the first time: He really didn't want to go back to Ireland. After all the lies he'd told to get to Philadelphia and stay there, Philadelphia was his home and he was unable to lie about that, but he still got his way; he died of a heart attack on the boat without ever setting foot alive in Ireland again.
I hope there are no legal implications here, with regard to the AOH, Mr. Hill...
My great grandfather's name was John Fulton (1884-1959; Imm. 1909). He was from Edenderry, Co. Offaly and came to Philadelphia (on someone else's travel permit) after a short stay in Scotland to work in a brick foundry where he met my great grandmother, Hannah, who was from (London)Derry. He was an angry man, so I'm told, and for good reason--Hannah died in the Spanish Flu epidemic of 1918, among other tragedies--more on that another time. He bounced and stumbled around Corktown for a few years until his job with the Pennsylvania Rail Road enabled him to buy a house in Belmont, on Mantua Avenue. The new digs were just a little too far for his wonky leg to carry him to the AOH Div. 80, which was on Lancaster Avenue then. But he truly enjoyed a good time, so he struggled out, and often.
Years later, when my grandmother, Susan, married Alfred Smith (originally Schmidt, but that's another story), himself the child of German immigrants, they lived with John in the house on Mantua (eventually selling it to them for $1 on the condition that he could stay). They owned a car, and suddenly John's problems were solved; he couldn't drive and didn't want to learn, but certainly Alfred could drive him to the AOH. But it only got better: Alfred didn't drink, so John could load up as he pleased, and indeed he did. But John wouldn't be held to a schedule, and they had no phone at the house, so Alfred couldn't drop him off and return in a way that was conducive to John's fun. Alfred would have to join the AOH so he could come inside and thus be ready to leave when John was ready (or thrown out, or carried out, waving his shilleighly in a blur, as was sometimes the case). A German in the AOH, you ask? Of course, John reached into his overflowing bag of tricks and pulled out the tool of choice: He lied. Sure, Alfred Smith was Irish, now give us a drink.
Later they moved to Northeast Philadelphia on the White-Flight Express. Unimpressed with suburban life, John wanted to keep his fun in the city. Alfred refused to take him all that way to the AOH, and since it was Alfred's house he was living in this time, John didn't force the issue. No problem, John would use public transportation--a trailblazer by nature--and do as he pleased. After a few times at it, and failing to make it home at a decent hour, or at all, my grandmother declared that her daughter, my aunt Marge, would go along to chaperon this determined old fellow. Marge was delighted--what gal wouldn't be delighted to go to a ceili?--until her mother informed her that she was to keep him in line: "Mind his drinking, keep his temper down, make sure he checks his blood sugar, and Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, keep him away from the ladies."
Such shenanigans went on and on until John retired, arranged for his Social Security check to be mailed to Edenderry, Co. Offaly, and shoved-off for home aboard the Mauritania. But before getting on the boat he told my aunt the truth for what seemed like the first time: He really didn't want to go back to Ireland. After all the lies he'd told to get to Philadelphia and stay there, Philadelphia was his home and he was unable to lie about that, but he still got his way; he died of a heart attack on the boat without ever setting foot alive in Ireland again.
I hope there are no legal implications here, with regard to the AOH, Mr. Hill...
About
Irish Philly Events Calendar
Badge
© 2009 Created by Jeff Meade on Ning. Create a Ning Network!
