On the ninth of June, 1900 when HMS Campania docked on Ellis Island, six members of an Irish family disembarked. There was a lately widowed father, his three sons, and two of his daughters. There were three more left at home in Kilnamartyra, County Cork. The family had been saving for this voyage. Like other immigrants, they came seeking their fortunes but they were realists and didn't expect a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. They had barely enough money to get to San Francisco where they had a few friends, and to tide them over until they found work. Patrick, eldest of the children, was twenty-three. On the ninth of June, 1939, thirty nine years to the day later, the older of his two sons was on a visit to New York and, looking across the harbor could see Ellis Island. This young man was about to graduate from Harvard Law School.
When the family arrived in San Francisco, they all set out to find jobs. It was a harsh welcome they received. Everywhere were signs that read "No Irish Need Apply"--the inference seeming to be that the Irish were a bunch of drunken bums. They persevered however and Patrick, a skilled carpenter got a foothold. The older of the two daughters became a cook. They settled in a ramshackle house which Patrick repaired in his spare time. Denis, the father grew homesick and used what little money he had earned as a baker's assistant to go back to County Cork.
Early in the morning of April eighteenth, 1906 a catastrophic earthquake and the raging fires that followed, nearly destroyed San Francisco. The family's old house, although damaged, survived. As the city began to be put back together and to be rebuilt, carpenters were needed everywhere so Patrick began to make real money.
The others brought in some too and they bought a dilapidated Victorian house on Pierce Street. The sisters who had stayed in Ireland, joined them and found work, one as an expert seamstress. The younger brothers married and so did three sisters. Then, in 1914, Patrick married a pretty red-haired, merry-hearted Irish-American girl he had met at a church social.
He was thirty six and she was twenty. She gave up her job as a telephone operator to become a housewife and, in 1915, the mother of a son. Eighteenth months later she had a second son. Patrick was a happy man until, almost at the year's end in 1917, the terrible flu epidemic swept the country. His young wife and his newly born baby daughter both died. It was a devastating shock that left him heart-broken and bewildered. His older sister, Jane, took over care of the two little boys. She was one of those indispensable, wonderful maiden aunts who have been mainstays in many families.
Patrick recovered from the tragedy but he had loved his Gertrude very much and didn't remarry. According to his sons, he never even looked at another woman. San Francisco by this time had become truly cosmopolitan with Italians and Irish the predominant groups. Patrick and his Irish friends kept up with politics in the Old Country and after the 1916 Easter Rebellion in Dublin, they had begun to take action. It was high time for Ireland to throw off the hated British yoke and to be free. There were regular whist parties given to raise money for the rebels of 1921 and 1922. His six year old son, opening a closet door, found a stack of guns ready to be sent overseas. When Ireland triumphant, becoming a republic, there was tremendous rejoicing.
Patrick was a strict but indulgent father. He would have used the rod but the threat of it was enough. The boys did well in school and, except for periods of teen-age rebellion, stayed away from neighboring Fillmore Street which was reputed to be gang-ridden. He was a meticulous worker and got on fast, in time becoming a contractor and a prosperous one, trusted and respected. One of his principles was to use only the best materials in building and this paid off. A devout Catholic, he always tipped his hat when he passed a church. As a true Irishman, he loved "the ponies" and indulged himself in regular visits to Tanforan and Bay Meadows racetracks where he would stand by the paddocks to get a good look at the entries before he made any bets. There had been alcoholism in the family. He kept a bottle of Irish whiskey but would take a single shot glass only on special occasions. He had built a fine apartment house across the street from the old Victorian. He and his sister Jane, with the two boys, made it their home. A bit of luck perhaps, but mostly perseverance and honest hard work had put him in his present comfortable position. His sons lived up to his expectations. The older one was a champion debater and the valedictorian of his class at the University of San Francisco. The younger son was to become a high school English teacher. Patrick had come a long way from Kilnamartyra.
Patrick was my father-in-law and in 1949 he came to live with us in Pasadena. At age seventy, he had outlived all his siblings. He loved San Francisco as he loved Ireland and didn't want to leave it but he was used to, and needed family life. We had a house with a small apartment behind it which was perfect for him. When I went to see if everything was right there, he led me to the closet and showed me a good-looking suit. He said he wanted to be buried in it and was saving it for his appearance in his coffin. In a short time he settled in, adoring his grandchildren, in particular our fourth child who was two months old when he joined us. By the time she started to crawl and to be taken for rides in her stroller, he was her devoted slave. She took the place of the little daughter he had lost. He was the ideal baby sitter. The older children loved him and he was constantly amused by their antics. He was Grandpa and they delighted in watching "The Lone Ranger" with him. Several times in the five years he lived with us, he took the train to San Mateo to visit his other son and the grandchildren up there. During racing season, we took him to Santa Anita. He was not a great talker but would sometimes get on the subject of Irish history which he knew well. We didn't discuss American politics. My husband and I were firm Democrats. He had supported FDR but hadn't approved of his fourth term and was absolutely furious with him for "shaking hands with Uncle Joe Stalin" at Yalta.
For his seventy-fifth birthday we gave him an Irish yew tree he had wanted. Two months later, he had a stroke and it was all downhill after that. His once acute mind began to blur slightly. Another stroke damaged it more. He was content now to sit on the porch of his little house under the shade of a big avocado tree while his favorite grandchild and her small brother played quietly at his feet. It was a scene of total peace. That's the way I like to remember him in his last days. In 1954, clad in the suit he had saved for the occasion, he went by train home to San Francisco to be buried in the family plot beside Gertrude.