May, 1969

There is a new addition to the family and I (as well as my other siblings) have a little brother. He was a little late arriving; a condition of which he would prove to be predisposed. Much to my father’s delight he has all the traits of his paternal Irish heritage, the flaming - undeniably more controlled than mine – red hair, rosy complexion and striking blue/green eyes. And while I have the name of my father, my new little brother has my father’s looks.

My father emigrated from Ireland. Born into crushing poverty in the lanes of the recent Republic - so often rendered postcard quaint for the casual tourist - the truth of my father's childhood was quite inexorable. My father was one of 10 children of which only 7 survived to adulthood - two uncles and one aunt I would never know and an arrant reminder that there is nothing cute or picturesque about being hungry, cold and, even worse, scared. My father never spoke of Ireland much, almost never talked of his family and when he did there was a distant note to his voice as he meted out only the scarcest of facts about his background. These were not castigations against his upbringing or culture but simply the quintals of his own personal benchmarks. After all, being proud to be Irish is the Irish condition regardless of station.

My father escaped his poverty, studied and became a boat captain, moved to this province and began his captainship. He then he met my mother. My mother, fearing she would lose her new husband to the sea, insisted he take a more land-based position. My father gave up the sea for wife and family - a family to which a new son, looking remarkably like him, had just been added. Meanwhile, I was hanging out with my grandparents and delighting, for a rarified moment, in completely ignorant bliss.

Hit From May, 1969
Proud Mary by Creedence Clearwater Revival