Dare to Dream: One Man's Journey from Ireland to San Francisco

By Patrick O'Neill

Growing up in Northern Ireland on his family's farm during The Troubles, Patrick O'Neill is a boundary-pushing, clever boy who thinks outside the box. 

Rooted in his family and his community, O'Neill's childhood memories capture the charged environment of the violent civil war all around him. He strikes out on his own in his

• Language: English
• Publisher: Black Dot Publishing
• Release date: Sep 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9798218275181

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DARE TO DREAM

Copyright © 2023 by Patrick O'Neill.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

ISBN (paperback): 979-8-218-27312-5

ISBN (ebook): 979-8-218-27518-1

Cover photos: Lough’s Hill © Patrick O'Neill,

San Francisco © Laila/Adobe Stock

Interior images: Aerial photo of Reclain Road © Patrick O'Neill, Turf cutting photo © Heather Greer and The Democrat, Racing photos courtesy of O'Neill Racing. All other images are from the author's personal archives.

To my beautiful family,

The O’Neills

Contents

PART I: 64 RECLAIN ROAD

Chapter 1: The O’Neills

Chapter 2: Young Life

Chapter 3: COP SHOP

Chapter 4: Innocence Lost

Chapter 5: Fate

Chapter 6: Secondary

Chapter 7: Hustle

PART II: ABROAD

Chapter 8: London Calling

Chapter 9: Oxford

Chapter 10: America the Beautiful

Chapter 11: Golden Gate

Chapter 12: O’Neill Construction

Chapter 13: Diamond in the Rough

Chapter 14: Wedding Bells

Chapter 15: Booming

PART III: CHECKERED FLAGS

Chapter 16: #64

Chapter 17: Podium

Chapter 18: Drive

Chapter 19: Knife’s Edge

Chapter 20: Dominate

Chapter 21: Karting

Chapter 22: Inch by Inch

Chapter 23: The Hardest Goodbye

PART IV: A DREAM LIFE

Chapter 24: Six Beers

Chapter 25: Breaking the Chain

Chapter 26: Destiny

Chapter 27: St. Patrick

Chapter 28: Crash

Chapter 29: Forever Young

Epilogue

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Chapter 1

The O'Neills

Shit. Everywhere I looked was shit. Giant cold piles of it frozen to the cement floor of the cattle sheds. Francis, my older brother, had already led the cattle to their outdoor pen so we could clean. I watched the steam puff from their noses as they moved out into the cold morning air. Then I grabbed a shovel and started to tackle the lumpy brown piles. It was 35 degrees outside, so I had to bang, scrape, and prod until a clump loosened. At just seven years old, my hands ached with every attempt. Once loose, I used all my might to scoop the shit and put it down the doggle, an opening in the concrete wall that led to the slurry tank where it was stored all winter long. In the spring and summer, it would be collected in a slurry tanker and spread out over the family field as fertilizer.

Until then, this was my Saturday routine, and I hated it. My other siblings were warm inside the house watching Sesame Street, and Francis and I were out here, shoveling shit. We didn’t complain because we knew what our dad would say: If the sun comes up, you go to work. After all, he was already out in the fields.

It took Francis and me hours to finish. When we were done, our Wellies (boots), trousers, and jumpers (sweatshirts) smelled, but living on a farm made us used to that. We dragged ourselves back inside to wash up for tea with the family and heat our hands over the fire before beginning the next chore.

Our family home and farm were at 64 Reclain Road in Altauglushan Galbally, County Tyrone, Northern Ireland. Tyrone has been farmland since it was first settled, so our farm was surrounded by other farms that were surrounded by even more farms. Some families worked to sell their crops or cattle, but most have always farmed to feed their families, leaving the open fields dotted with lazy cattle and sheep roaming and chewing, roaming and chewing.

Tyrone is the largest of the six counties that make up Northern Ireland, with over 170,000 people. With all the farmland, it’s as green as green can be, with narrow, winding roads connecting the townlands. The different O’Neill clans, the strongest of the Gaelic Irish families, have a long history throughout Northern Ireland and especially Tyrone, which was an O’Neill stronghold. Surely my bloodline is connected to the Earl of Tyrone or an O’Neill clan chief of long ago, but my family was too busy trying to keep the cattle fed, the farm tilled, and food on the table to worry about any of that.

Two hundred years ago, Britain tried to conquer the Gaelic Irish and started an ongoing war between the English Protestants who settled in Northern Ireland, renaming it Ulster, and the Irish Catholics who originally owned the land. With the backing of the Crown, Northern Ireland became part of the United Kingdom, and, despite being the minority, a small group of about 10,000 English families bought up practically all of the farmland. Now, this is important because it set the stage for later infighting between the English Protestants and the Irish Catholics—later named The Troubles—a battle that would cost the lives of many of my friends and neighbors and nearly my own as well.

To further complicate matters, in the 19th century, potato blight infected the crops for seven long years, from 1845 to 1852, creating the Great Famine. Since families farmed for survival, this was beyond devastating. Thousands of Irish starved, and those who could, fled the land. Nearly two million Irish refugees emigrated, many to the United States. Sadly, this meant a loss of the Gaelic language and identity as the British settled in. The Irish who remained would continue to fight, tooth and nail, for every bit of their land and identity. All of this history is to say where I come from, the people are proud of who they are. They work hard. They are resilient. They are survivors, and so am I.

Being from Northern Ireland, I come from a long line of farmers on both sides of my family. This area was dominated by O’Neills and Loughrans, so it’s unsurprising that my dad’s mother was a Loughran and married my granddad from Clonavaddy. My paternal granddad, Owen O’Neill, owned a cattle farm where he lived with his wife and their six kids. Anything they grew and harvested was for eating and canning. They supplemented this with some cattle they raised and sold to butchers at the Cattle Mart. My dad’s mother, Mary O’Neill (née Loughran) died when I was very little, so I have no memory of her.

My father, who we called Da, and his father were very close. Da had a tremendous amount of respect for his father, and when we would visit as children, he and Granddad would sit and talk about the latest news from our farm or the local area. I remember visiting Granddad when I was around six or seven years old. At that time, he’d moved away from his farm and into the town of Donaghmore, where he lived with his unmarried daughter, Mary, in a small row house.

Da would take some of my siblings and me to visit Granddad on Saturdays in the blue Leyland van that Da used to deliver goods from our farm and shop. The back of the van was usually filled with wooden egg crates stacked with eggs placed delicately in their cardboard cartons. Once we sold the eggs, the empty wooden crates were turned upside down and put back in the van to be used the following week. We kids would sit on these crates, there were no seatbelts back then, and when the van hit a bump in the road, we’d all fly six inches in the air before landing back down with a thud, squealing as Da laughed. It was good fun for a bunch of little rascals like us.

When we got to Granddad’s, we raced out of the van and into his house, where he usually watched wrestling. With an army of rambunctious grandchildren storming in, he’d give us a swipe with his walking stick to quiet us down. It wasn’t a hard smack, but it had a certain amount of authority to it. We never doubted who was in charge.

Granddad was an average-sized man with a slim build. He wore glasses and always carried a walking stick, taking short steps to keep his balance. He was strong, but years of hard labor on the farm took their toll. Like my dad, he was well-dressed and wore a trilby hat nearly every time I saw him. He almost always smoked a pipe. He’d remove his tobacco pouch from the side pocket of his waistcoat, pack the tobacco chamber, and strike his match. Then, it was a slow pa-pa-pa-puff until he drew a mouthful of rich smoke. He and the row house always had the comforting smell of tobacco.

Aunt Mary was a short woman with a curly brown bob hairstyle. She wore flowered sundresses with brown tights and flat shoes and balanced reading glasses on the end of her nose when she read the newspaper. She was always smiling, and I remember her as a happy, kind woman who made us tea and sandwiches on our visits. She loved to hear stories about the farm and the country, and she had a deep, hearty laugh.

The best part about visiting Granddad was that he lived right next to a sweet shop. Sometimes, he or Aunt Mary would give us a couple of pence and send us children out so the adults could talk. We would rush over to the sweet shop. There, our eyes hungrily took in all of the options: bonbons, caramels, lollipops, gum, and jellies. With my hands pressed against the glass case, I usually chose lemon drops, but I was happy with whatever I could get.

Granddad would come to visit us at the farm on occasion, and we tried to be well-behaved out of respect for him and our parents. He was the patriarch of our family, so his visits required some amount of good behavior. If we got out of line, he would be the first to discipline us with the back of his hand, which was not uncommon in those days. Together, he, Da, and my mother, who we called Mummy, would sit in the kitchen visiting, sipping tea, and nibbling on the triangle-cut sandwiches she made. We kids would circle like vultures aiming for a scrap of sandwich or maybe an extra biscuit.

When Granddad was 96 and I was about 14 years old, Da got a call from Aunt Mary telling him the end was near. Da went to see his father for the last time, and Granddad died the next morning. There was no talk of grief or feelings. Our family was sad that Granddad passed away, but he also lived a good, long life, and even at 14 years old, I knew that was the goal. My own dad hoped that he should be so lucky.

My dad, Patrick (Pat) O’Neill, was born on March 2, 1922. He was the second of six children and grew up on a farm in Clonavaddy. His family, devout Catholics, attended Mass every Sunday, said their prayers before meals and at bedtime, and invoked the Lord’s name only respectfully. All eight members of his family squeezed into a small two-bedroom house on their farm. His family, like all of the others in the neighboring townlands, used their land to grow potatoes, carrots, and other vegetables to feed themselves. The kids helped with milking cows, collecting eggs, and tending livestock. As a young man, my dad was known in his family for his insatiable appetite and speedy metabolism. He could put down five spuds at the dinner table without a second thought.

Da attended Cranlome School in the townland of Aughnagar and was, by all accounts, a good student. He was very good with numbers. At school, his teacher, Master McDermot, taught him how to play Geese in the Bog and The Little Brown Jug on the fiddle, though I never heard him play. Since nine years old, my dad had worked on the farm of his uncle, Tommy Loughran. He spent his days fencing the fields, attending to the cattle, or cutting and storing hay as winter feed. It was hard physical work, but it kept him strong and fit. He left school at 12 years old to work full-time on the farm.

In 1945, just after the end of World War II, my dad, like many of his peers, went to England for work. England was smack in the middle of some aggressive post-war reconstruction, and for many young men, this meant a guaranteed wage they couldn’t find in Ireland. At 22 years old, my father was tall, six-foot-four-inches, and strong from years of farm work, so he was a desirable laborer. He took a boat from Belfast to Liverpool and, from there, took the train to his first construction job. He traveled all over the country, North Hampton, Birmingham, Coventry, London, and even to Scotland. He stayed in different homes as a boarder, always working construction. He learned how to operate bulldozers and excavators, expertly directing each lever and knob until the earth was pushed or shoved or flattened into place. As a devout Catholic, he attended Mass every Sunday, no matter what city he was in.

Da’s devotion extended to his family as well. Every two weeks, my dad wrote his mom a letter. He would fold the stationary around the money he sent home, seal the envelope closed, and drop it in the red letterbox on his way to work. He did this, without fail, for 16 years.

My dad regularly returned to Ireland to visit his family, and on one such occasion, Uncle Tommy asked him to buy the farm so that he could retire. It was 1961, and Da was ready to return to Ireland and happy to oblige. He purchased the farm, all 48 acres of land, and the house with a small shop attached to it. There, he sold groceries like bread, milk, orange juice, ice cream, heating oil, and other everyday items. He also sold livestock food, dry goods, nuts, and meal. He was still deadly at arithmetic and added up folks’ groceries in his head when they came to check out. If anyone questioned his accuracy, he’d just hand them a paper and pencil and wait patiently while they did their numbers, always seeing that he was right.

Because a lot of the neighbors didn’t have transportation, my dad bought the blue Leyland van with a sliding door and stocked it with all the items most people needed for the week. Monday through Friday, he visited different townlands, stopping by every single farmhouse. The neighbors would come to the van and pick out the supplies and groceries they needed for the week.

My dad was friendly and liked to have a chat and a laugh before moving on to the next delivery. Making deliveries was his chance to socialize, and he heard all the news in every townland. He was a tall man, always bending down to hear what a neighbor was saying or pinching their sides when he told the punchline of a joke. He became quite well-known throughout the townlands as a craic (fun person) who could take the piss out of anyone. During the summers, when I wasn’t in school, I would join him in the van. I got to see my father as a neighbor and a businessman during these visits. If we were lucky, a neighbor would make us tea and sandwiches, which was always a highlight for me.

Like his own father, each day, Da dressed in his shirt, tie, jacket, and hat before beginning work, a practice he maintained all his life. He tended the 35-40 head of cattle and 12 pigs. He started fixing up the farm, and over the next 20 years, he renovated the main house, built cattle shades to protect the livestock in the winter, and upgraded the shop. He was always a busy man.

One day, when returning home from his deliveries, he saw a young woman with vibrant ginger hair walking her bike along the road. As he got closer, he saw she had a flat tire. As any good neighbor would do, he pulled over the van. I see that you have a flat tire, can I give you a lift? I can throw the bike in the back of the van and take you home if you like, he suggested. She agreed, and Da loaded up her bike. He made small talk as they drove the two miles to her farm and learned her name was Mary Clark. There were several dance halls in the area, and he asked Mary to join him. Mary agreed, and that weekend, my parents danced together for the first time.

I can imagine my parents in that dance hall. It would have been packed with other young people—it was the only pastime in the area. The men lined up on one side of the room, all of them dressed in suits, waistcoats, and jackets with freshly polished shoes, smelling of soap and whiskey. Though the dance hall was dry, the boyos usually had a nip outside to loosen their dancing feet.

Back inside, the women lined up opposite the men. They’d be wearing freshly pressed swing dresses with their hair styled in the latest fashion. A dance band would be at the front, on a small, elevated stage. They’d bang out a jig or a reel for groups to dance to or a nice waltz for the couples. I can imagine my dad walking straight towards my mum, taking her hand, and leading her in a waltz. As they moved their feet 1,2,3—1,2,3—1,2,3, their eyes locked, and they held each other’s gaze for a long moment.

My mum was nearly ten years younger than my father when they met. She was 29 years old to his 38, but the age difference was not uncommon at the time. I don’t know much about their courtship, though I’m certain it included more trips to the dance hall. Then, on June 18, 1963, on a sunny day in Pomeroy, Pat O’Neill and Mary Clark got married.

My mum, Mary Clark, was born on July 3, 1932. She and her family lived on a farm in Cornamaddy, about three townlands over from Clonavaddy. She went to a different Catholic church than my dad, and since most young people met through their churches, they hadn’t met before.

Mary’s dad died of an illness or disease when he was in his 40s, and she was just 14 years old. I can only imagine the confusion and pain of that loss at such a tender age. Her grandmother took in her older sister, Josie, to help ease the burden on their mother. My mum was taken out of school and took on a lot of additional responsibilities to help her mother keep the farm. The work was almost never-ending.

The loss of her father and her older sister was a devastating blow. Josie would visit the farm, always polished, well-fed, and well-dressed. She was a stark contrast to her siblings working on the farm, who were muddy, hungry, and ragged. This created a divide between Josie and the other siblings, who resented her good fortune. Josie was left feeling isolated and missing her family. Mary and Josie would never find a way to close the gap that those heart-breaking circumstances created for them.

Beyond this, I know little of my mum’s early life. I know it was difficult, filled with pain and loss and a lot of hard labor on the farm. There were early mornings, long days, and little money. Perhaps that’s why she was reluctant to talk about it and revisit old ghosts.

My mum’s mother, also named Mary, had a hard life after her husband died, and her eldest went to live with her mother. She picked up the pieces of her life and soldiered on. The cows still needed to be milked, the pigs still needed to be fed, and the crops still needed to be planted. It was a lot of work with a husband, let alone on her own. She was now solely responsible for her children’s survival.

I knew my grandmother as a soft-spoken, kind woman who didn’t hesitate to put us in our place. She was small in stature with white hair and glasses. She was straight-backed and always wearing a tea-length dress with a pinafore over it. She cooked constantly, and I loved her Irish stew filled with beef, carrots, peas, parsnips, and gravy. Then, on the side, she made silky mashed potatoes with tons of butter. Every time I tasted them was heaven on earth.

During the summers, each of my siblings and I would go stay with Granny for a week. I remember when I was around ten years old, and it was my turn to visit. One early cold morning, to help Granny, I decided to light her oil stove and warm the kitchen. I struck the match, and she immediately smacked my hand away. What do you think you’re doing? she asked. I felt embarrassed. She was kind but neither gentle nor patient. She took the matches from me and lit the stove herself. As I watched her, I realized I needed to tilt the flame spreader by lifting it before applying the match to the wick. Then, light the wick in several places before lowering the flame spreader. She didn’t teach me, I had to learn by watching.

Granny lived with her unmarried son, Jack, in their farmhouse, and he helped her take care of the farm. He was a hard worker and a physically strong man. He was average height and stocky with a strong build. He walked with a limp from when his right leg was badly injured in a farming accident. Uncle Jack always had his red hair combed back. He was also a real character, a funny man who liked to take the piss out of anyone, and he especially liked to play pranks on people. When he was much older, and Granny was long gone, Uncle Jack had two in-home care assistants that visited him regularly. Once, they came in, and he was lying unmoving in his bed.

Oh, dear. I think he’s died! cried the first assistant.

Well, you should check. Touch ‘im, suggested the other. The first assistant cautiously approached him and gave him a little shove on the leg. Uncle Jack remained still.

Oh, no. He’s surely died! said the first assistant.

Maybe we should check his pulse? the other suggested. The second assistant walked over to Uncle Jack and, holding her breath, carefully put her two fingers on the side of his neck. All of a sudden, Uncle Jack sprang to life, grabbing her wrist and shouting, I’m alive! I’m alive! laughing uncontrollably. The two in-home assistants screamed in fright and ran out, yelling in surprise before collapsing into laughter. I always loved my Uncle Jack’s sense of humor and his willingness to take the piss out of anybody—even me.

When I was around seven years old, Uncle Jack and I were out in the field. He was preparing to move the electric fence that kept the cattle in when he said to me, Heya, Patsy. You know what would be great? If you pee on this fence right here. Being none the wiser, I dropped my pants, sent an arc of urine to the fence, and received the shock of my young life. Uncle Jack howled with laughter.

Jack was kind to me, too. I liked being on their vast farm because it felt endless and was filled with lots of exciting machinery. Uncle Jack let me drive the tractors and go with him in his old blue Land Rover to tend his fat bleating sheep. He taught me all the bad words to scandalize my mum, who would gasp and chase me out of the house when I’d declare, Well, fuck that!

My parents' marriage brought these two families together. Shortly after their wedding, my mum moved onto my dad’s farm. Together they did the daily chores: serving customers as they entered the shop to buy groceries; planting potatoes, carrots, and cabbage; tending to the cattle, feeding them, or fencing off the fields so they wouldn’t wander. My mum was accustomed to hard work and never shied away from it. She learned how to order and stock the goods for the shop, and she became the cashier. Her household duties included making meals, washing clothes and bed linens, and keeping the house in order. There was always work to be done, and my parents did it like a dance. They were in total harmony, never really speaking about what they were doing, just doing it.

Occasionally, on the weekends, my parents returned to the dance hall and spent the evening dancing the four-hand reel. Their arms extended out at a ninety-degree