To Hell and Gone: Jim's Story

By Jim Nolan

When I met Ms. Kate Carlisle at the Kingsbridge VA in Bronx, New York, I had accidently made reference to something that was said by connecting it to an action I had in the service. When I realized I had said something I did not want to divulge, I tried to let it hang.

She noticed my discomfort and said, I am very interested in things about WW2. You should write about your experiences.

I think I offhandedly replied, Oh! I could write a book about my combat experiences, but I never typed anything in my life.

To which she countered, You write, and Ill type!

She was serious, and I wrote, and she, good to her word, kept typing and asking for more. The project ended abruptly when she was transferred to Boston to work on her PHD.

It would have probably died there, but upon mentioning it to my daughter Patricia, she then provided me with an old computer and some lessons, so I had no excuse. To you who have never tried, writing is real work! Now everyone was waiting to see what the baby was going to look like. I was now in labor, and that takes time. I said this to those who had great expectations of me as a writer.

The balky computer was giving me all the cover I needed to quit because, due to my ineptness, it was only operating on certain days. My son Kevin became Mr. Fix-It with the computer, and while I loved his company, I couldnt have him spend the time fixing it, so I eventually broke down and bought a new laptop with a printer. Now I was in business! Well, I found out you could play solitaire and chess on this machine as well as type. Guess what I got involved with until I got a call from Trafford publishing? Well, now I had to finish my writing.

Lastly, I must acknowledge and thank all who will read this book, which spans the era from my birth in 1925, which was in the period Roaring Twenties.

Then we lived through the 1930s, the Great Depression, in the worst in the history of our nation and concluded in 1945 with the end of the greatest war in history. I was honorably discharged from the army in 1946.

I will give you more than a snapshot of those above events, which is a lot more than the few lines the kids get to read in their high school history books of this exhausting string of decades, including war that covered actions in five continents. What you dont often read in textbooks is the daily life and the drama it brings to ordinary people in such times.

You will meet my family. They are not only of my bloodlines but my real buddies. You will read about my faith, which I love dearly and I try to live it. I really cant understand people who try to live without its benefits.

We who had our lives chastised by so much life are now judged as living in a historic era and said to be of the greatest generation. As an eyewitness to those historic times and now an overripe geriatric of age 89, I only wish to put into our accumulated history what I can pass on to the greater generation of my grand- and great-grandchildren. To do this, I thought it best to start at the beginning.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: May 21, 2016
• ISBN: 9781490772899

Jim Nolan

JIM NOLAN grew up in Buffalo, New York, where 20 of his Listener Commentaries have aired on WBFO 88.7 Public Radio. His writing has appeared in The New Yorker, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, Maisonneuve, and Family Fun.Jim lives downstate with his wife and two sons. To read or hear more, go to jimnolansblog.com or youtube.com/jimnolan3.

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Part 1

Chapter 1

Castles

The town of Bally Gar in the east of county Galway, Ireland, was the place of my father's birth in 1892. The house he was born in would have been a thatched-roof one-story stone house with a half door and the single mandated one-by-two-foot window. More or bigger windows would be heavily taxed. It was said that with the unsleeping sod of a peat burning away the cold days of the winter months in all the Irish kitchen nooks, the English could reduce the Irish population greatly from all the lung diseases caused by those small, cramped, unventilated enclosures.

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In any event, this typical Irish farmhouse was replaced in my father's youth by a larger building that later would be called the Hermitage. I read that Peter the Great, czar of Russia, had a palace built in Saint Petersburg with the same name. I have no real knowledge of why this humble building in the west of Ireland might have been so grandly named---but I did make up a story.

My grandfather Patrick was a foreman in the building trades in London and actually commuted from his farm in the west of Ireland to erect apartment houses there. My suspicion is that this giant of a man rebuilt the humble cottage of his parents not with the intention of making it the grandest house in the neighborhood but simply to gain enough room for his seven sons and four beautiful daughters. Now, the Irish have a way of using good-natured ribbing to express their concern for a brother who sticks his head above the crowd---but if that was the intent here, it evidently missed its target. When the talk reached my grandfather's ears that he had built a castle, he set a large stone outside his gate with The Hermitage inscribed upon it in Celtic letters. That was the end of the whispers. He was a very big and proud man who lived to be a hundred.

The Nolan farm was located adjacent to the estate of Castle Kelly, which was owned by an English family. Of course, it was by law off-limits to the locals; later, it was also off-limits by the decree of the pastor of the town of Bally Gar.

While the English had every right to the castle won for them by the sword of Oliver Cromwell, it was not in good taste for its owners to oppress the peasantry or to mock their religion, but that didn't stop them. Many years after Cromwell, when the estate came under the ownership of a young newly married English couple, they set a table for local gentry like themselves and asked the parish priest to join them. The invitation was for Friday evening. In charity, the priest believed that the couple would know that Friday was then a fish day for Roman Catholics, as it had been for the English. So he went to the castle to welcome the couple to the town of Bally Gar.

He knew it was no mistake when he was served a large plate of roast beef. He saw the snickering of those around the table awaiting his reaction. The priest rose from the table and said, As a man, I could forgive you; but as a representative of our Savior, we shall see if the Lord is agreeable that from this time on, no male heir or animal will be born to the lord of this house. Evidently, this was agreeable to the Lord. The line of that family and subsequent English families living in that castle had neither male progeny nor studs in their fields.

To hunt or fish or even collect broken branches on the grounds of Castle Kelly was to bring down the law on the trespasser. Yet every Friday, there appeared fresh trout on the dinner tables of Catholic families, although no one owned a rod or was seen fishing. I found out the secret of how to fish without being seen fishing when, one Sunday when I was eight years old, my father came with me to learn from me how to fish.

I had arisen early to dig up fresh worms, and I had my pole, line, and sinkers secured to be ready for a big catch. My fishing mentor, Mr. John O'Rourke, a friend of my dad and a neighbor, had started me into the sport of fishing off the banks of the nearby Harlem River. Prior to this rare day when Dad did not have to work, I'd had at least five days of casting practice, and I was not tangling my fishing line so much. I felt I was ready to show Dad what a real fisherman I had become.

My dad asked me what we would be fishing for. I immediately replied, Eels!

Oh, he commented, and why do you need a pole to catch eels?

Why? I exclaimed. So I can cast my line out into the river!

Eels are out in the middle of the river?

Of course they are!

My dad said, I don't I think so. Eels are usually swimming closer to the river banks.

Oh no, Dad, they are way out there.

At this point in the conversation, we came upon a black family on the river bank. The father had his fishing line out in the current. My father said quietly to the fisherman, What are you fishing for?

Eels, replied the man, who never took his eyes off the line he had cast.

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With that, Dad went over to one of the concrete bases of the steel towers carrying the electric wires that stood along the tracks lining the perimeter of the river. He removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and carefully took off his Sunday shoes and socks, setting them aside---for this was in 1933, and things had be treated with care so as to last. (Dad's Sunday shoes lasted at least another thirty years before he had to resole them).

Dad then gingerly backed down the bank and into the water. His trousers were rolled up above his knees so as to be about three or four inches above the surface of the river. I noticed that Dad had pulled a few handfuls of the sparse grass from the side of the stone-faced embankment before he entered into the swirling green water. Twisting the grass loosely in and around his fingers, he bent at the waist and slowly moved his bare forearms down and forward, with the palms of his hands up as he slid them down into the water.

The Negro family and I soon heard a loud whoop coming from my father, who sent an eel flying twenty feet up onto the railroad tracks.

Don't let him back! he yelled to me. Then he called to the fisherman, How many eels do you need?

With several more whoops as my dad sidestepped down the shoreline, more flying eels were delivered to the tracks. The fisherman was soon beside my father, trying to learn the trick.

My father and his father and probably my great grandfathers and their fathers had learned the Celtic way of getting their families trout dinners. Not even when the stream was on their own property would they use baited hooks or nets to catch fish.

I have tried many times, but while I can get my grass-covered hands under the fish and get them interested in my wiggly middle finger, I can never close the deal and get them up out of the water. I wonder if I forgot to say a prayer.

In 1960, two of my father's six brothers arrived at our house from Ireland. At dinner, they brought my father up to date on things that had occurred since he left home. They talked of family and friends, the farm, and politics. One story they told upset my dad.

Dad had left Ireland in 1916, in the time of the troubles. He had been involved to some extent in aiding the Irish Free State cause and was listed, so he sailed away to America. His brother related that he and the lads from their village had set dynamite charges in Castle Kelly.

At this time, we knew the Black and Tans would be billeted in the castle, he said to Dad. The Black and Tans were men released from British prisons to serve as soldiers in Ireland. They came out of those prisons with skin that explained the name the Irish gave them. They were a disgrace to the English people, for they looted and raped as they pleased in Ireland, saving the Crown money on their food and shelter.

Jim, his brother boasted, we blew up the castle and killed twenty-five Tans with that TNT!

Dad pushed back his chair from the table, stood up, and said, Larry, I hope that my son would have better judgment and that if a thousand Communist terrorists were sleeping in the Statue of Liberty, he would not blow it up! Castle Kelly was a part of Ireland's irreplaceable heritage. No enemy had destroyed it till now. Your poor judgment did the job. Poor Uncle Larry, and poor me. As soldiers, sometimes we never think past the moment.

To my father, Castle Kelly was like the Eiffel Tower is to Parisians. He told me a story one time while we were walking home together that made me wet my pillow with tears for many nights.

I had bent down to pat a stray dog that was very amenable to my attention, and Dad told me a story of a dog he had raised from a pup. Being of a large family where there was no room for toys or private ownership, his dog was more than a pal for him---it was his confidant and a protector.

One day, when Castle Kelly had no occupants, Dad decided to climb to the top of its round tower. He tied up his dog and entered the tower. Round and round he climbed the inner stairs until he came to a landing high above the grounds. He waved down to his dog from a narrow window and then proceeded to complete the climb to the very top of the tower.

Craig, his Irish terrier, took Dad's wave as an order to follow him, and so the dog tore loose of his leash and ran up into the tower. Tracking Dad's scent, he raced up the winding staircase to the window Dad had waved from. Tower windowsills are not flat but angled down so as to enable the pouring of hot tar and shooting of arrows at the enemy below. The excited dog, still following the scent of his master, went out into the air to his death. Now I knew why we never had a dog.

Chapter 2

Grandpa

Dad attended the local school in town. His headmaster was the father of the famous English and American movie star George Brent, who was my father's classmate. I asked my father one time if he ever thought of thought of corresponding with George. No, he said. He was a 'townie.' This meant he was not in Dad's social circle.

Dad was evidently a diligent third-grade scholar. He related this story to me when I asked how he had learned to play the violin.

It seems that my grandfather had kept him home from school to do some haying. This was on the day his teacher gave a geography lesson. On the next day in class, the teacher asked Dad to point out Australia on the world map. My father said, Sir, I was absent yesterday, and I don't know where Australia is located.

You don't know? I spent time and effort to teach you, and you don't know? Go out and cut a switch!

Dad said this was a dilemma for him. He had never had to cut a switch, and he knew his classmates would be evaluating his choice in the matter. If he cut a small switch, it wouldn't hurt much, but it would mark him as a sissy. Cutting a heavy switch would get him class approval, but it would hurt. Well, he opted for the latter and held out his hand. The childish rules again came into play: be stoic and get more strokes, or cry and get less but get laughed at by your peers.

Dad didn't get laughed at, and he came away with a very swollen right hand. His problems were not over, because when he arrived home, his father tossed him the haying fork, which his swollen hand could not grasp.

Da, you kept me home from school yesterday, and I didn't know where Australia was. I had to cut a switch, he explained, showing his swollen hand.

Well, Grandpa knew that the schoolteacher was a drinker and marched my dad back to school. Grandpa was a man used to handling men in the trades, and he planned to have it out with the man who deprived him of a farmhand and overdid an unnecessary punishment.

Upon arriving at the school, Grandpa blocked the sun as he filled the doorway. The schoolmaster jumped up and said,

I know I did a cruel thing to James this morning, and I will atone by not only asking both of you for forgiveness but taking on your son as a private music student, something I have done in Dublin. I will teach him to properly sing and play the violin.

Dad became such a proficient violin player that he spent a few years as the town fiddler at the crossroad dances until, at age twelve, he graduated school.

Another incident my father related concerning his father had to do with an apprenticeship. My father, upon graduation from school, was apprenticed to a carpenter in a far-off village. He was to receive room and board during his education. The room was in an unheated shed, and the food was two meals of oatmeal mixed with water.

This was not the worst. The master carpenter seldom spoke or explained anything to his pupil. He would instead expect the student to concentrate on what he was doing and have the proper tool or nail on hand for him. (Think of a hospital operating room.) Present the wrong instrument, hammer, plane, or saw to the master's outstretched hand, and the offending item was immediately thrown back at the apprentice's head.

Grandfather rode out one day to see how his son's apprenticeship was coming along. He couldn't believe that the lad he saw before him was his son! Although he had paid for room and board, his son was near starved. He asked some questions about the training, and my father had to admit that this was one of the days when the master carpenter had thrown something at him.

Grandfather was an angry. The boy was learning little---the man was wasting his son's time. His father expected to him be earning a living at a trade and sending some money home to the family.

Dad's oldest brother Jack, the oldest of seven sons, had taken the Queens Shilling, meaning he had enlisted in the British Army. His regiment was posted to India at a time of great unrest. The marches and climate were only half of his discontent, for it was a real shooting war. He and his mates were also suffering from all sorts of disease due to rancid food and contaminated drinking water. Because of the monsoons and resulting floods, sanitation was almost unheard of in most areas of the land.

Jack wrote home about the situation and said he doubted that he would survive the remaining time of his six-year enlistment. His poor mother's heart was broken, and she began to sock away her egg-money pennies to buy him out of the army. It was not easy and took a long time, but it was finally done. Jack came home!

As his dad was in London for months constructing new buildings for its growing population, his visits home were primarily to make sure everything at the farm was as he had directed. One day before he would have to leave again, he was checking the sharecrop fields and equipment. When he returned to the house, he said to my grandmother, You could have saved the money you spent on Jack. He is up in the field doing close-order drill with the rake on his shoulder. It won't be long till he will be back in uniform!

He was right. Shortly thereafter, Jack joined the Irish Guards. They are the ones you see pacing or standing guard in front of Buckingham Palace. When he was done with his army time, Jack became a labor leader. At various times, he had half of England out on strike.

Chapter 3

Coming to America

My uncle Patrick, called Pake (rhymes with cake) by the family, believed that when Jack went into the service and proved he had no desire to be a farmer that he, Patrick, would get the farm. For some reason, however, his father did not agree. Patrick left home to go into the Newcastle mines. When he had earned money for passage to America, he went up to Scotland to book passage for New York City.

It was the scheme of the Scot tailors at that time to measure the greenhorn Irish kids for a suit of clothes and then, on the sailing date, tell them the suit was not ready. Because most of the tailors' young clients had jobs or people awaiting their arrival in America to meet and to guide them in their new country, they would very reluctantly decide to sail without their paid-for purchase.

Pake did not fall for the scam. He waited for his suit and sailed on April 15, 1912, two days later than planned. The ship he was originally set to board was the brand new HMS Titanic.

The ship he did sail on was a week overdue in New York because it was involved in the rescue effort for the Titanic passengers and crew. When he arrived in New York, he and the other job-seekers on his ship were lined up in front of signs of different railroad companies looking for strong backs.

Pake was pulled out of line and made to stand on a crate in front of his line of men from steerage, many who were still recovering from mal de mer due to their extended voyage. A sign on a post nailed to the back of the crate read, New Haven, Connecticut, Railroad.

Can anyone in this line beat this man in a fair fight? No? Well then, Paddy, you're their boss. From that day forward, for the next forty-five years, all track and track-related workers on the New Haven to NYC division were eventually ceded to Uncle Pake's supervision.

He was my dad's first boss in America. Dad was put to work as a gandy dancer, which is slang for a track layer. His brother, not to play favorites, gave him the toughest chores to do. Dad said the only good thing about the job was meeting my mother. This I will relate later.

My father left the railroad in 1917 to take a very dangerous job during the First World War. He worked in the Yale and Town lock factory in Connecticut packing gunpowder into artillery shells. After the armistice, he became a trolley-car motorman on a run from Stamford, Connecticut, to the Bronx, New York. This led to a long career as a motorman on the No. 1 line of the New York City IRT subway that, when he was hired, was still being tunneled north of West 140th Street and Broadway to Dyckman Street.

When the No. 1 line was completed, his ten cars left the Van Cortlandt Park Station terminal at West 242nd Street and Broadway and ended an hour and a half later at New Lots Avenue in Brooklyn. This run was mostly through dimly lighted tunnels. The design and engineering in the creation and building of those large tunnels under the most productive city in the world were accomplished the old-fashioned way: with TNT and human hand-power. This method, which was used in mining to gouge out coal or gold, was met with Manhattan schist---one of the hardest crystalline rocks in the universe. Eventually, however, the job was done.

The IRT was nicknamed the Irish-run trains because 90 percent of the motormen were Irish. Really, the acronym stood for Interborough Rapid Transit System.

I can't say enough about my father, but I will try to segue here into the story of my mother. Mom came from a house on a property that was too small for growing crops but perfect for growing children. The children were loaned out or hired out, depending on their own choice. Large farms needed hands that enjoyed work and did their fair share of it. That was the way of the Cunniffes' lads and lassies.

A neighbor of theirs from Bally Moe, County Galway---a Mr. Manion, whom I met quite by accident here in America---pegged me on sight as a Cunniffe. When I admitted that this was my mother's maiden name, he said, She must be Catherine, because Molly, her older sister, was the tall one I had a crush on since I was twelve. She was the most beautiful girl in Ireland!

He went on to tell me how he would creep up to the window of my mother's house to hear the laughter and singing and see my aunt Molly (Mary). He said, While every house in Ireland was awaiting some doom, the Cunniffes didn't seem to worry. The Cunniffes' attitude was, Come day, go day, God send Sunday." They were always working.

When I told my mother what Mr. Manion said, she laughed and replied, I took care of the chicks and ducks, and they didn't seem to have a care.

My maternal grandfather was a wonderful father, I was told by all my uncles and aunts. He evidently died early in life, but no one knew the cause of the illness that took him, for doctors were scarce in Ireland.

My mom told me my grandmother had sailed to Boston as a young girl and stayed but a day. She found Boston no place for a decent woman. She returned on the same ship that had brought her to America.

My mother's sister Mary---the tall, beautiful, and smart young lady known to everyone as Molly---came to America at the turn of the century, with pennies in her guarded purse. After clearing immigration, she joined her shipmates to meet their families. The first piece of business was to arrange for an income by getting a job. The want ads were, then as now, the logical place to start.

One of the girls, reading the ads, mentioned that a housekeeper was needed in New Jersey. This was not an option for those who knew that Jersey was not around the corner, and they would be away from friends and family. But for Molly, it was job! She had no ties to worry about. The ad was clipped out and given to her. The heading of that group of ads was not. It was close to noon as she left her friends to find out where New Jersey was located.

She went to the first policeman she met and asked for directions to New Jersey. I can only imagine that conversation: "You're just out, are ye? The first thing I have to tell you is you'll have to get back on a boat. Thanks to his kindness, Molly was put aboard the ferry bound for Hoboken.

Now her problem was to find her way to Llewellyn Park, West Orange. Think about it. If now you were to try to complete her journey, what would be your next step? She asked around but was unsuccessful until her guardian angel sent her to the one and only person who could help her. A workman overheard her inquiry to the New Jersey police officer, and he volunteered to help. He worked on the railroad and knew where West Orange was located.

Somehow, Molly had believed she just had a long walk ahead of her, not a train ride. Her purse was not heavy enough for such an expense. Crestfallen, she admitted her predicament.

The stranger said his brother was on the way to take the train run south, and he would be along soon. Although this man had just finished his day's run, he changed his mind about going to the saloon for a beer before heading home to his wife and kids. Instead, he took Molly to the train station restaurant for tea and toast.

When the brother showed up, probably surprised that his sibling was not at the usual watering hole, he was filled in on Molly's story. Sure, he said, there's enough room on our big train for a girl like you.

At the West Orange station, as Molly alighted with much thanks to her benefactor, she saw a woman across from the station struggling with some grocery bags. Wanting to help, but also to ask for directions to Llewellyn Park, she gave the woman a hand. It was appreciated, and the woman, a cook at a large estate, asked Molly to wait, as the chauffeur was coming for her. He would know and maybe could take her to her destination. It was now close to four o'clock in the afternoon.

The chauffeur obliged, and after leaving off the cook, drove to the Yardley estate in Llewellyn Park. Could anything go wrong for this traveler? Her knock on the door was opened by the butler. He escorted her to the drawing room where the madam of the house was seated at her small desk.

Molly said, Madam, I've come about the housekeeper position.

Mrs. Yardley looked up and shouted, You're Irish!

Yes, madam?

Don't you know how to read?

Yes, madam, I read very well.

Didn't the help-wanted ad say, 'Irish need not apply'?

I wasn't given that information, madam, Molly informed her. I have traveled all the way from New York City to apply to your request for a housekeeper.

Well, you're not acceptable. As the paper said, 'Irish need not apply.' I suggest you look elsewhere for employment!

Molly was stunned. This is America?

Just then, Mr. Yardley---the inventor and owner of the Yardley Steam Valve Company---appeared on the scene. He was very unhappy. He addressed his wife, asking, Don't you know we have guests arriving for dinner, and there isn't a dish on the table?

His wife said, I put an ad in the papers for help, and what shows up but an Irishwoman!

Her husband replied, The next time you lose your temper and fire people, be sure you have a backup hiding in the closet. She is not leaving! What is your name, miss?

Molly ... that is, Mary Cunniffe.

Mr. Yardley turned to his wife and exclaimed, I'm hiring this woman, and I'll be the one to fire her. Molly, report to the cook, and set the table!

Yes sir, and ... madam?

Yes, go, said Mrs. Yardley.

During the dinner that night, Mr. Yardley noticed that Molly, while very efficient and observant in serving the needs of his guests, was also taking in the conversation around the table. So when someone opined that some invention wouldn't sell because of the price, Mr. Yardley said, Molly, did you happen to hear what was said about the cost of the invention?

Molly shot back, If it saves money, it costs nothing!

Where or when she heard this remark, or if it just came to her out of the blue, she didn't know. It just came out, as cool as ice.

The women at the table were aghast that she had spoken. The men all smiled and nodded. Mr. Yardley said, Molly, well answered. Then he turned to his wife and said, It must be an Irish saying.

Forty years later, Molly tended around the clock for several years to the dying madam, who would not let a nurse into her room. This was the woman who in years past saw to it that Molly could not attend Sunday Mass by changing her Sunday schedule to make her work very early on Sunday mornings, supposedly to make the rolls, although the cook who normally made the rolls was on duty. The shift ran from six in the morning to nine at night---later, if there was company.

Because of this woman's intolerance for Molly's race and religion, she had to go to Sunday Mass at a cloistered convent at one in the morning, getting only two hours of sleep before Mass and then three hours before it was time to bake the rolls. This was her schedule for a score of years.

I tell this story because it involves a heroine and probably a saint. Aunt Molly paid my mother's passage to the US. My mother did not have to go through the trip to Llewellyn Park like her sister. Molly met her boat and brought the girl who minded ducks right to the forty-room estate that bordered Thomas E. Edison's in Menlo Park.

By the way, Molly repaid those who had helped her. From her first check she paid the train line and the ferryboat company for her fares.

My mother was put to work making beds and cleaning every nook and cranny of this mansion. Molly was like Dad's brother---a hard taskmaster. A white-glove inspection was conducted very frequently, and no maid, butler, or any other house employee could put anything past her.

My mother was sixteen and very timid and shy upon first meeting, but she was a friend for life by the second encounter. She was not yet as sharp as Molly, but she had a gift of voice caricature that made her stories so real and funny that she was always welcome in any company. Mom was also a very compassionate person all her life. In later years, she was the go-to person in our neighborhood if any problem arose or solace was needed.

One day at Llewellyn Park, she confessed to the cook that she was afraid of someday meeting the madam. Mr. Yardley had put Molly in charge of hiring and dismissing the help. Because of this, months could roll on in this large mansion without the madam meeting one of the upstairs maids. As mom had yet to meet her employer, she was concerned how she should speak and act should the occasion arise. She took her problem to the cook.

Catherine, it's simple, said the cook. Say, 'Yes ma'am, no ma'am, ma'am if you please---look up the duck's ass and you'll see the green peas!' Do you think you will forget that?

When the Yardley's traveled, every member of the staff traveled. Saranac Lake was their summer resort. They also took a large contingent when they visited other places or stayed with friends. Once they went to Connecticut to spend a few weeks at the shore off the town of South Norwalk.

Thursday was maids' night out. The Connecticut maids had invited the Jersey maids to a dance at a local hall---whether Elks, Foresters, or Knights of Columbus, I never found out.

The local girls knew the men who would come to this dance, and they gave a rundown on each and every man they knew. The consensus was that at twelve sharp, when the door opened, they would see a man that they all would die for. He was a big, tall, muscular, and handsome man with the look of a leader. Every girl would be giving him the eye.

And so it happened! At the stroke of twelve, the door of the hall was pushed open, and out of the wind stepped Patrick---also known as Pake Nolan. The sighs, my mother said, could be heard for blocks around. Isn't he grand? said the maid to my mother's right.

Yes, said my mother, but I like the wee one walking behind him!

Now, my father wasn't wee. He stood five-foot-nine, but not six-foot-four like his brother. All Dads' brothers were over six feet tall. Dad said maybe going into the mine at thirteen stunted his growth.

Dad was an excellent dancer, and he took a turn with many of the young ladies at the ball. Toward the end of the night, Pake said, Jim, will you sing a few tunes?

The rodding he took in school paid off. His clear sweet tenor voice singing Danny Boy would put goose bumps on a savage.

On June 28, 1921, Mom and Dad were married at Church of the Holy Name on West 96th Street and Amsterdam Avenue in New York City. She was a June bride, for they had waited for her birthday, and this also was the week Dad became certified as a motorman on the IRT. Becoming a motorman was not for everyone, as it required much study as well as physical stamina and unswerving concentration. He was always learning his job---reading and memorizing the RR signals book, the manual of operations, and the mechanics of the motors that operated his train. Safety was not yet a system-wide problem, nor was the job of removing suicides from under the train. These would come quickly enough.

The new Westinghouse air-brake system that would bring the ten-ton subway cars (not including passenger weight) to a sure stop was just coming into railroad systems and had to become intuitive to the motorman; if applied too late or too hard, they would have caused horrendous