A short while back, I wrote about my late father-in-law, who’s reminiscences of his boyhood on an upstate New York farm are family legend. In a similar vein, these are family stories on my side of the bed.
I never knew my grandfather. In fact, I never knew any of my grandparents on either side, as they’d all passed before I was born. My mother’s father, Maurice Arthur Doyle, was from all accounts a larger-than-life character. The numerous stories of his exploits should really be recorded in book form, and perhaps if I live long enough, I’ll write it.
Maurice Doyle, Moe to everyone that knew him, was born in Ilion, New York, the eldest of five children to Arthur and Katherine Doyle. On a doctor’s recommendation for asthma, he moved to Winnipeg, Manitoba as a young man, where he met my grandmother, and together they raised four daughters and a son. My mother was third, smack dab in middle. My grandfather was a wonderfully comical character – the kind that wasn’t intimidated or phased by anyone or anything. He was the kind of person that, when my grandmother had bought him gloves and a book for Christmas and carefully hiding them, would emerge from the closet wearing the gloves and reading the book. My grandmother always called him “Doylie”.
He bought a rundown golf course on Lake Winnipeg at some point, fixing it up and taking care of it himself. In fact, he didn’t have a tractor at first, so he towed the gang mowers up and down the fairways with his old DeSoto. Later on, when he’d sold the DeSoto, the new owner heard about the golf course incident, and came back to ask my grandfather if it was indeed true. With aplomb, Moe Doyle replied that, of course he wouldn’t do anything like that with his beautiful car. In a similar vein, the Revenue Service came to call about his golf course operation, which over the years had any number of family members and fictious characters on the payroll. The Revenue man asked to borrow his books, and he replied that the man was free to take them – he had another set.
Just after my grandmother died, in the early 1950’s, my grandfather decided to take a trip to Europe with my uncle, who was 19 at the time. Grandfather had a connection in the chancery office, which resulted in the Archbishop of Winnipeg writing a letter of introduction at the Vatican for a private audience with the pope, at that time, Pius XII. They, along with a group of people from Quebec who were speaking French in hushed tones, were escorted into the hall where the audience was to be held. Pope Pius came through, greeting them individually and giving a blessing, came upon my grandfather, standing just over six feet tall and with a large, round Irish face. The Pope mentioned casually, “You’re not with this other group, are you?” “No, Your Holiness, this is my son, and we’re from Winnipeg, the western part of Canada.” “Ah”, responded the Pope. “That’s a part of the world I’ve wanted to visit. I don’t get to travel much.” My grandfather, never one at a loss for words or overlook an opportunity, then quipped, “I’ll tell you what, Your Holiness. I’m retired now, so any time you want to travel, give me a call and I’ll come and take over for you here.” My uncle, at this point dying of mortification, related that the suggestion apparently tickled the Papal Funny Bone. He threw back his head and roared with laughter. That must not have happened too often in a Papal audience, because the Vatican officials in attendance came scurrying over to see what this person could possibly have said. The Pope, amusement aside, must have declined the offer because the world would never see the headline, “Canadian temporarily ascends the Throne of St. Peter.”
On another occasion, my grandfather, again toward the end of his life, came to visit my parents before I was born. They were living in Winchester, Massachusetts, at the time, and it became imperative that he have a chance to see the famous St. Patrick’s Day Parade in Boston. So, off went Himself with ample warning to be careful and not talk to strangers. My mother must have forgotten that he’d managed to get himself around Europe successfully. Anyway, my grandfather was standing on a street corner waiting for the parade to start. A long black limousine pulled up, and the back window slid down. An Irish face, not unlike his own appeared through the open window, so my grandfather stepped over, and introduced himself. “Hello. I’m Moe Doyle from Winnipeg.” “Nice to meet you. Jim Curley from Boston.” They shook hands and chatted amiably for a few minutes until the late, famous Mayor of Boston excused himself, and the limousine pulled away to join the parade. Of course, the inevitable question when he got home came up. “Did you meet anybody?” Another grandfather story entered family lore.
Moe Doyle was an accomplished practical joker, and would go to any lengths to set them up. Most frequently, the target was his eldest daughter, my Aunt Eileen, who never failed to provide a satisfyingly truculent response. My aunt worked for him for a period shortly before and after she was married, minding the office, answering the phone, filing, that sort of thing. Their office was in the back of an older office building, which had a rather difficult walkway to navigate, being essentially planks across a muddy walkway. On the morning of April 1st, my grandfather got a couple of smudgy pails and got them somehow smoking pretty well. When Eileen arrived, he had his shirt collar open and managed to croak out, “Eileen – fire. Go call the fire department.” Off she scrambled over the planks. Not ending there, he had set up ahead of time that in the drugstore across the street, the nearest phone, the pharmacist would be on phone engaged in a long conversation and ignoring her frantic gestures. Several other locations down the street had the same set up conversations and tied up phone lines. After about the third of these, it dawned on her that this was the fruit of my grandfather’s maliciously fertile imagination, so she went home in a fit of pique. Again, not the end of the story. For several days and weeks afterward, he’d have people call her. They’d introduce themselves, as
“Mrs. Anscombe, this is Captain Smith of the Fire Department. I understand that you had a fire at your place of work on . . . . .” My grandfather would pay them for every word they could get out before she slammed down the phone.
My Uncle Jim, mother’s younger brother, was cast in much the same mould. Some years ago, I was working in a motel as a night clerk. A gentleman came up to the desk late one night to register for a room. I saw that he was from Winnipeg, so I remarked that my mother’s family were from Winnipeg. He asked if any were still about, and I mentioned an aunt and my uncle, Jumbo Jimmy Doyle, as he was known. The man responded that, while he didn’t know him, he told me that “he’s quite renowned in those parts.” Uncle Jim inherited the golf course, was for a period a professional golfer, and eventually built it into a summer destination resort. Originally, though, it was a series of rough and primitive cottages arranged in a semicircle behind the clubhouse. One evening, when we were visiting when I was a child, we watched as Aunt Eileen, who occupied one of the cottages, had arranged herself with a pitcher of cocktails and a plate of snacks on her front deck. Uncle Jim suggested that we stand and wait at a distance. No sooner had Eileen seated herself, drink in hand, than my uncle fired up the bug fogger and did a sweeping circle around in front of the cottages. I can still hear my aunt to this day, sixty years later, as she came back into view from a cloud of smoke, “Aw, Jim! What are you doing? I just got this all set up (as she stormed back into her cottage, slamming the door).” Not to let it go, he’d try to get the young cousins to go over and ask either singly or in groups if she had any cheese and crackers. As I recall, we all knew better than to take him up on it. On another occasion, as drinks were flowing in the clubhouse, some wagered that Uncle Jim could play the first hole of the course in the dark, he knew it so well. The bets were laid, and out they went. Uncle Jim hit his drive, and off went the crew down the first fairway with flashlights. They found the ball in the middle of the fairway, and he hit again. Farther along, again in the middle of the fairway was his second shot. The next one went onto the green, and by golly, the put went into the cup. Money changed hands. Sometime later, Uncle Jim admitted that a crew had strategically laid the balls out all down the fairway and in the cup. The difficulty, he admitted, was hitting the shots well off the course so nobody would inadvertently come across them.
As I mentioned at the beginning of this narrative, I never knew my grandfather. He died about six months before I was born. I think that he and I would have been much alike and very compatible. I’m grateful that my mother placed tremendous store in family histories, telling us about the Doyles and Kehoes coming over from Ireland at the time of the famine, settling in New York and to move up the Mohawk Valley, and particularly colorful family histories. Doyles were stone masons and worked on the upstate canal system. And while I didn’t ever meet my grandfather, I did meet and know his two sisters, my Great Aunts Rozella and Elizabeth, and some of his cousins, very elderly and at the time of my youth, still living in the area. Thus are precious stories passed on like Aunt Rozella’s silver – prized and treasured.
I'm Thinking...No! 