I Remember

By C.J. Doyle

I selected the subjects of the obituaries for one reason and one reason only all of them, without exception, were my tried and true friends.

Some I met while I was going to school and some were people I met during my leisure moments. Most of them I befriended at work, getting to know them over many days and many hours of conversations. They were a varied group; some native born Irish, some of Irish heritage and some born in the United States. A few passed away comparatively young, some were middle-aged and some were quite elderly when "The Master called".

There was however, one indisputable theme connecting all of them. I had their unflagging friendship and gave them mine in return. I cherished our friendship unto the end and their memory will always remain with me.

I have no doubt in my mind all of them were people anyone would have been proud to have known. I am happy to share these memories with you.

YOU MUST NOT GRIEVE SO SORELY,
FOR I LOVE YOU DEARLY STILL...
TRY TO LOOK BEYOND EARTH'S SHADOWS,
PRAY TO TRUST OUR FATHER'S WILL.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 27, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483654935

C.J. Doyle

I was born in Dublin, Ireland and reared in County Wicklow. I started my bartending career in Dublin in the "fifties". After plying my trade in two Dublin bars, I immigrated to Los Angeles, California in the early "seventies". There I tended bar at "Ireland's 32" in Van Nuys. I moved over to "Tom Bergin's Tavern" in the Fairfax District right after and have been there for the last 34 years. I am married and live with my wife, Alpha, in the San Fernando Valley area of Los Angeles. Come by Tom Bergin's Tavern any Friday morning and I'll make you a great Irish Coffee and sign this book for you!

Book preview

Contents

Dedication

Foreword

I Remember   Thomas Tom Doyle

I Remember   Raymond Ray Brennan

I Remember   John John-o Molloy

I Remember   Richard Dick Doyle

I Remember   L.P. Skip Carrington

I Remember   Peter Pete Kehoe

I Remember   Harold Har Furlong

I Remember   John Nugent

I Remember   Patrick Paudge Brennan

I Remember   Martin Byrne

I Remember   John Jack Kinsella

I Remember   Michael Mike Murphy

I Remember   Sean Murray

I Remember   John Mr. Warmth Donovan

I Remember   Thomas Tom Kelly

I Remember   Patrick Paddy Little

I Remember   William Bill Kelley

I Remember   John Jon Rappa

I Remember   Ernest Ernie Kinsella

I Remember   Gerald Jerry Jones

I Remember   Sean O’Kane

I Remember   Monsignor Peter O’Sullivan

I Remember   Patrick Pat Howlett

Acknowledgments

Photo

Dedication

I dedicate this book to the memory of the twenty-three true friends I have eulogized. Each one, in their own way, made a lasting impression on me which time will not erase. I was so, so lucky to have such staunch, tried and true friends.

A TRUE FRIEND IS SOMEONE WHO REACHES FOR YOUR HAND AND TOUCHES YOUR HEART!

Foreword

I selected the subjects of these obituaries for one reason and one reason only—all of them, without exception, were tried and true friends.

Some I met while going to school, more were people I met during my leisure moments, but most of them I befriended at work. They were a varied group, some native-born Irish, some of Irish heritage, and some U.S.-born. A few passed away comparatively young, some were middle-aged, and some were quite elderly when the Master called. There was, however, one indisputable theme connecting all of them; namely, I had their unflagging friendship, which I cherished unto the end, and their memory will always remain with me.

I have no doubt in my mind all of them were people anyone would have been proud to have known!

You must not grieve so sorely,

For I love you dearly still—

Try to look beyond Earth’s shadows,

Pray to trust our Father’s will.

I REMEMBER

Thomas Tom Doyle

I must admit I had serious reservations in penning this, the first episode of I REMEMBER. After giving it considerable thought and weighing the pros and cons, I finally decided that it was such a compelling story I would write it! When I tell you the subject in question was my brother, you will understand my dilemma.

Tom was the fourth-youngest in a family of six; I was some six years his senior. From the time he could walk, he was into all kinds of mischief, whether it was waddling out into the street, pulling the dog’s tail until it yelped in pain, or yanking the dishes off the table by pulling the tablecloth. Oh! He performed many more escapades, but they are too numerous to mention. I must admit, as time passed, he got a little bit more subdued; going to school really helped.

One thing really annoyed me, no end: he tagged along behind me almost everywhere I went. Many a time I chased him home, while he howled, until one day I came to realize it’s only natural for a younger sibling to tag along with someone older. When I saw the forlorn look on his face, the tears in his eyes, and the lower lip drooping, I just stopped, grabbed him, and hugged him! From that day forth, we had a bond that lasted.

I took into account that our Dad was working almost all day, every day, and my Mother (God rest her) died when I was eight years old. It was left to my grandmother and cousin to look after us, which they did with compassion and efficiency, but there is no substitute for parental love and nurturing, especially a mother’s. All that came to me that day like a flash of light!

We all noticed that Tom at an early age had an above-average aptitude for anything mechanical. He could do almost anything with machinery! For instance, on our way to school we passed George Willoughby’s Garage. But on the way home, Tom didn’t pass it. He could be found with his head buried in the engine compartment of a car or truck, explaining to a mechanic what the problem was, no kidding! He would eventually arrive home, covered in oil and grease. Then the fun would start. He would be washed and scrubbed—none too gently, I might add. But no matter how much it hurt, Tom still visited Willoughby’s Garage!

Next thing we knew, he was riding Willoughby’s pony at Gymkhanas and field events around the area. After a few tosses, none serious, he rode that pony like a veteran. He showed he had pretty good riding skills, grim determination, and, above all, he showed no fear! At home he still got into scrapes; again, nothing serious, mostly they were just dumb. I will say, though, he was improving.

Time passed; Tom was awarded a scholarship to the Irish Air Corps at Baldonnel, County Dublin, as an apprentice aircraft mechanic. He excelled in all stages of the work; two years in a row he was awarded leading mechanic honors, winning the Miller Shield on both occasions.

Next, Tom somehow got his hands on a motorcycle, which he overhauled and souped up, much to the chagrin of my father, who hated the damn thing with a passion. I didn’t like it either, especially after the experience I had with it!

One evening, we were visiting some friends in Lucan. I was riding pillion behind Tom, and everything was going smoothly until he hit a bump in the road. I shot off the back like a rocket, landed on my rear-end on gravel, skidded a couple of feet, skinning my rear end and tearing the arse off my pants. Tom was fifty yards up the road before he realized he had lost me! That was the last time I was on a motorcycle; I had had enough!

A few years passed, then Tom left the Air Corps, and how he managed that was really impressive, in a way that wasn’t usually done; in fact, it was taboo! With the help of a leading Carnew businessman, it was achieved, but from what I heard, it took a lot of shall I say, lobbying!

By this time, Tom was into bangers: his first auto was a piece of crap; his second one, not much better. On one occasion we had three flat tires in a twenty-mile journey! Finally he got a lovely little Triumph Spitfire coupe. It was a beauty, easy to handle; it was such a lovely, smooth-riding vehicle that my father even liked it! Many the time the two Tom’s (my Dad’s name was Tom also) drove down to Wexford to visit relatives.

My father was impressed with the car’s performance, and also with Tom’s driving ability. Down the years, I have ridden with many drivers, good, bad, and middling, but Tom’s dexterity behind the wheel, in my estimation, was only surpassed by professional racing drivers! On a day that will live forever in my memory, he proved to me how really good he was.

We were on a two-lane highway going into Bray, when a truck in front of us, without warning, braked hard: a car was approaching very fast in the opposite direction. The normal reaction would be to brake, but Tom jammed his foot on the accelerator, real hard, and at the same time yanked the steering wheel sharp right and immediately sharp left. We escaped the oncoming car by about three feet!

If he had braked, we would be in Eternity, as sure as I’m alive to tell the story. I just sat there in the passenger’s seat in a trance, white as a sheet, with my mouth gaping open, unable to say a word, sitting in a wet pool of my own making!

As for Tom, well, he just exhaled loudly, looked at me with a grin, and said, That was a close shave. I just looked at him, shaking my head in amazement. I swear, he was as cool as a cucumber!

Tom’s next job was at a cutlery factory in Newbridge, County Kildare. Personally, I think it was only a stopgap job; he had his mind on something better and more challenging, that was my take on it. You know, I was proven right. One evening a few months later, he told me he was about to start work at the Avoca copper mines in County Wicklow. As he said himself, The pay is excellent, the conditions tough and a little dangerous, but overall not bad. We found out later he was working a swing shift a quarter-mile underground wearing hip boots, with water knee-high, and the shift was two hours on, one half-hour off—not bad! he’d said; just how much worse could it get? But Tom, being Tom, he loved a challenge.

Six months later, he was promoted. He was now on terra firma, at ground level, servicing the air and water pumps for the whole complex. He was happier on the ground; work was a lot easier. Underground was tough and dangerous. He said he was working with drillers, mostly Donegal fellas who drilled all over the world. As he told me often, they were the toughest S.O.B.’s he ever met!

It’s a fact that Tom gave himself a lot of hardship; he seemed to thrive on it. On more than one occasion he drove from the Air Corps headquarters to the Phoenix Park for a hurling game, rushing as usual and no breakfast, then playing a grueling hour of hurling. I don’t know where he got his stamina; he could go all day without food. My sisters often told me he would sit in the kitchen, waiting for someone to cook him a meal, and as hungry as he was, would never dream of getting up and making a sandwich for himself. That’s the way he was!

Then in the early Sixties, everything changed. One weekend, Tom was returning home late at night, from a car-racing event, the Wicklow 500. He crashed into a bridge outside Rathdrum; he was rushed to Loughlinstown Hospital near Bray, with severe head injuries. The official police report stated the cause of the accident was from sheer exhaustion and lack of sleep.

We were notified by a policeman knocking at the door at 6:30 A.M. My father and myself immediately rushed to the hospital and found Tom in a coma in an oxygen tent. The operating surgeon told us, He’s young, strong, and should pull through. The next seventy-two hours are critical. I went daily to visit; for two days there was no change. On the third visit, Tom moved his arm, opened his eyes, smiled, and clutched my hand! On the next visit he mumbled a few words; I could see he was slowly improving.

I didn’t make the trip for a few days, but when I did, he wasn’t there! I was told he had been taken to Dublin by ambulance for therapy. A week passed. One evening,