I never knew my grandfather, as he died about six months before I was born. But stories – family legends really – about him abound, along with a few pictures and a number of his quotes: “My mind is made up, don’t confuse me with facts” is my favorite.
Maurice Arthur Doyle was a tall, imposing figure with a round, Irish face and, from all reports, a complete lack of self-consciousness. He was a natural storyteller, and his sense of humor was legend. I’m told that mine is descended from his. Hard to know, but I’ll take it. The Doyles and Kehoes, my Irish ancestors, emigrated from Ireland at the end of the potato famine, arriving in New York in 1861. They moved to Upstate New York, settling in West Winfield and eventually in Ilion. The Doyle brothers – there were four, were stone masons by trade, and along with farming, did well repairing parts of the Erie Canal. My grandfather left the Mohawk Valley in need of a drier climate for his health, and settled in central Canada, in Winnipeg. There, he met my grandmother, and they had four daughters and a son. My mother was daughter number three.
“Moe” Doyle, as he was known to all but my grandmother, who called him “Doyly”, started a jukebox business, which was quite prosperous, allowing him to buy a small golf course on Lake Winnipeg, where the family summered. In the early stages, he mowed the fairways pulling the gang mowers behind his big DeSoto. Later, when he’d sold the car, the new owner came to visit and ask if it were true, he’d used the car to mow the golf course. My grandfather told him that was preposterous, and not to believe a word of it. When a revenue agent came to call at the golf course and asked to borrow his ledger, he agreed. Not to hurry getting it back either. He had another set in the office. He also dearly loved pranks. One Christmas, my grandmother got him gloves and a book. Before she could get them wrapped, she heard rustling in the closet, only to see him emerge wearing the gloves and reading the book.
Several stories feature prominently with my grandfather. The first was an April Fools prank he played on my aunt. She did some office work for him in a small office on the back of a building in downtown Winnipeg. To get to the office, one needed to walk across some planks put down to avoid the muddy walkway. In my grandfather’s mind, the more complex the better. He’d brought in a metal bucket, in which he was burning something to give off smoke. When my aunt arrived, he called as she came in the door to go call the fire department. So, she, all dressed up for day at work, and wearing shoes with heels, again navigates the planks and the walkway to summon assistance. Grampa Moe had then set up with the business across the street to have the proprietor on the phone in an apparently lengthy conversation. He nodded and smiled at her and continued talking. At the next two phone stops, the same thing, by which time, Aunt Eileen had twigged to the scam, so she got on the trolley and went home, not speaking to him for some time. Not to let it go, however, he arranged to have various people call her in the ensuing days, telling her they were from the Fire Department and could she provide them with details about the “tragic fire at her place of business.”
When the family was growing up, my grandmother had a heart condition so the family had a live-in maid. One Christmas, the maid was a displaced person from Poland named Anna. She asked if she could have a Christmas tree in her room, so my grandfather got her one. She kept the tree a secret until Christmas morning, when she asked if the children could come to her room and see her tree. Wonderful, and off they went, coming back shortly after with eyes wide. “Anna has real candles on her tree.” My mother, relating this story, said she’d never, ever seen a large man move so fast. He took the stairs in about three leaps, returning later with an astonished looking Anna to explain why that wasn’t a particularly good idea, and promising to get her some electric lights.
Shortly after my grandmother died in 1951, Grampa Moe and my Uncle Jim, who was 19 at the time and the only one still at home, took themselves off to Europe. My grandfather’s farewell tour, perhaps. At their stop in Rome, my grandfather had somehow managed to get into an audience with the Pope, Pius XII at the time. On the day of the audience, my grandfather was told that there were too many in the group, and he couldn’t get in. So, Grampa Moe, never one to take “no” for answer, pulled some strings and got into a smaller, private audience which included just himself, my uncle, and a small group from Quebec. Pope Pius came along the line, blessing the suitably demure Quebecois. Arriving at my grandfather, he noted, “You’re not with this other group, are you?” My grandfather responded that, no, he and his son were from the western part of Canada. The Pope remarked that that was a part of the world he’d like to visit, but of course, he wasn’t able to travel much. To which my grandfather responded, with his typical lack of inhibition, “Well, I’ll tell you what, Your Holiness. I’m retired, so any time you want to travel, just give me a call and I’ll come and fill in for you here.” According to my uncle’s retelling, the Pope thought that was highly amusing, threw back his head and laughed loudly. That gained the attention not only of the devout pilgrims from Quebec, but several alarmed members of the papal staff, wondering what on earth that big man could have said to the Pope that got that reaction.
On St. Patrick’s Day, as my mother told it, my grandfather was not allowed to cook the traditional corned beef and cabbage dinner in the kitchen. Not to be denied, however, he kept a small hotplate in the basement. He’d do his own shopping for the required ingredients, and down he’d go to prepare his feast. Climbing the cellar stairs with his prized dinner, my grandmother would protest: “Oh, Doyly, you’re not bringing that in here.” To which he’d respond, “Well, I’m not eating dinner in the basement.” A traditional Irish meal.
Shortly before his death, my grandfather came to visit my parents in Winchester, Massachusetts. His visit happened to fall on St. Patrick’s Day, and he expressed an interest in going to see the parade in Boston. Mother was concerned as, with a five-month-old baby at home and my father working, neither of them could go with him. Not to worry, said he. He made arrangements for a car to pick him up and bring him in and out of the city. Mother relaxed a bit, and off he went. Upon his return, he told this story: He was standing on the sidewalk, waiting for the parade to come by. A limousine pulled to the curb, the back window rolled down, and a round, Irish face peeked out. Again, not shy, my grandfather stepped over to the car and introduced himself. “Hello. I’m Moe Doyle, from Winnipeg.” The face responded, “Nice to meet you, Mr. Doyle. I’m Jim Curley, from Boston.” They exchanged pleasantries briefly before the window rolled up and the car pulled away. That is the way I remember the legend that was my grandfather. Fearless, adventuresome, unafraid to say what he thought, and keeping everyone laughing.
I'm Thinking...No! 