Ricochet is the best place on the internet to discuss the issues of the day, either through commenting on posts or writing your own for our active and dynamic community in a fully moderated environment. In addition, the Ricochet Audio Network offers over 50 original podcasts with new episodes released every day.
Group Writing, Memories: The Welsh Boys Hit the Emerald Isle
Since we’re talking about memories, I need to add some context and continuity in this tale of the Welsh invasion of Ireland. I’ve mentioned before that, in this day and age, I feel profoundly grateful for the fact that I’m a man who viewed his father as a personal hero.
During the First Gulf War, well before Desert Shield transitioned to Desert Storm, my Dad had a heart attack. My dad and wee little brother were on the way home from the gym, little brother driving them in his classic (i.e., used, got-it-for-a-good-price) Camaro. The Old Man started feeling some pain in his chest and left arm, and started rotating it in the car as if to relieve a cramp. He made the joke, “Jeez, either I did too much in the gym today, or–HAH!–this is the big one.”
Once they got back into the house and Little Brother ran upstairs to take a shower (so that he good do whatever it is that single young men with a classic Camaro do), Pops realized that this really was the big one. He didn’t feel like he could make it to the (old-school, hardwired, on-the-kitchen-wall) phone, so he lay down on the living room floor and put his feet up on the couch. With an elephant delicately sitting its tooshie on his chest, he patiently listened for my brother to get out of the upstairs shower. When he heard the shower cut off, and thought he heard the bathroom door open, he called my brother’s name and heard a distant “Yeah, Dad?” from upstairs.
Not optimal.
He called his name again. “What’d you need, Dad?” Little Brother was a man on a mission and getting ready to use a blow-dryer to enhance the efficacy of his nocturnal ops. (A blow dryer, geez. Couldn’t you just be gay or something?)
Dad called his name again and Little Brother tripped his anger line. We Mongos (okay, you know from the title we’re Welsh, but, you know, I want to be consistent) are so known for our calm and equanimity. Little Brother stormed down the stairs, towel around his waist thundering, “What’n hell are you–” and saw the Old Man, on the floor, feet elevated on the couch, and immediately veered to the kitchen phone and dialed 911. I knew some of the EMTs that responded (we’d gone to high school together) and they said Little Brother narrated Pops’ health history and current meds/issues like he had ice water running through his veins. Little Brother even directed the EMTs to have the ambulance take Pops to a hospital that was 15 minutes further away than the closest hospital because they were well known for having the premier northern Virginia cardiac care facility.
[Aside: Cool, c,alm and collected in a life-or-death crisis. Man, Little Brother would’ve been a great gunslinger. West Point screwed the pooch when they cut him loose for not being “adequate” at integral calculus. I barely scraped by calculus. Know how many times I’ve needed that skill for mission success? Let’s start at zero, and work down from there.]
I’ve posted before about how Pops didn’t send a Red Cross message or anything else that would get me home for a couple of weeks. When me ‘n’ my platoon trundled back to a call center set up at Brigade about three weeks after the heart attack, I called home. The first words I heard were, “You’re hearing my voice, so you know I’m okay.” Then I got the whole story. Then, I got very, very peeved that the Old Man hadn’t launched a Red Cross message. I could’ve had a couple weeks at home without the crushing, non-stop responsibility of being a brand-new Platoon Leader. I could’ve caught a frikkin’ break. I could’ve had two weeks at home with beer, girls, and (most importantly, sorta) plumbing and showers.
The Old Man told me to pound sand. Told me my place was with my men, even if nothing was happening in the stark, scorched, unabiding sands of Saudi Arabia. And he was right (dagnabit). If Desert Shield had kicked off into Desert Storm and I wasn’t there with my guys, it would have killed me.
For the rest of his life, Pops kinda rode the bow-wave of medical science. Medical science always seemed to be six-months ahead of whatever was about to kill him. Worked for us.
When I got back from a tour in Iraq in late 2009, my parents told us they were springing for a Disney cruise for the whole family in 2010. This raised my suspicions. I mean, I appreciated it, but my born family is, shall we say, parsimonious. What’s the catch?
The catch was, I figured out upon seeing the fam in the Port-of-Miami was that the Old Man figured that this was the last time he was going to be able to see the whole family together. Frankly, if I hadn’t known it was Pops, I wouldn’t have recognized him. Pale, thin, wan, and bald (not bald in the I-know-I’m-bald-so-I’m-just-going-to-Bic-it, but chemotherapy bald, not that that’s what he was undergoing, but the dude looked like he was on death’s doorstep) I got it immediately.
He thought he was close to checking out, and wanted at least one more chance to see the family all together. He was relegated, on the cruise ship, to a little electric scooter. It had a flag, like a little kid’s bike flag on it. When people didn’t get out of his way, he’d just start bumping them in their shins or calves to “make a hole and make it wide.” I almost think he hoped someone would get obstreperous about it, so he could rise to one last grand melee. Could just be me projecting, though. But I doubt it.
Since my folks had funded the cruise, they set the rules. The only real rule was, everyone ate dinner together every night. We spent a lot of time together despite that rule because me and Little Brother thought that Pops was on his last leg.
The first night of the cruise, getting ready to go to dinner, The Lovely And Talented Mrs. Mongo noticed a wet spot on Pops’ shirt. Up high. Like in the pectoral area. “Oh, Bill, you’ve got a wet spot here…” and she started blotting the wet area.
“Eh, ” says Pops, “that’s just the wound.”
You want to get Super-Nurse wound up (see what I did there)? Say that. She literally ripped his shirt open and saw where his Implanted Cardioverter Defibrillator had been implanted, and where the insertion point was so septically (?) infected that the bad wound was literally pushing the wire leads out of the skin (because of, what, lymph? bad infection stuff? pus?, I don’t know). Apparently, he’d beaten the infection to a stand-still homeostasis.
What I do know is that the Lovely And Talented Mrs. Mongo threw a Schiff-fit and said that if the Old Man didn’t agree to get that issue seen to the moment they got back to the Dallas-Fort Worth area, she would have the Captain have Pops removed in Key West, and life-flighted to a facility in the health care system in which she’s an executive, and the ship would damn well do what she damn well said. (Have I ever mentioned how much I love the Lovely And Talented Mrs. Mongo? Because if I ever gave the Old Man that speech, he’d’ve deviated my septum.) The Old Man acquiesced, and we continued our cruise. Lovely family time.
When he got home, he fixed the problem.
A year later, my folks called and said they were sending Pops, my brother, and me to tour Ireland. More specifically, to tour the Ring of Kerry, from whence we all sprung from the loins of. (I know this sentence sucks, but I so enjoyed writing it.)
Pops looked 100% better than he had on the Disney tour. He needed a wheelchair (most of the time), but we had an incredible trip. Our tour guide, Mick (Michael, thus Mike, thus Mick in the brogue) was awesome.
After about two hours with us, he stated, “Yer ol’ man coulda been born here; looks like he’s straight outta Kerry. You two bis, look like Russian Spetnatz or something.”
As we toured the Ring Of Kerry, we had Tralee on our hitlist, because me dear Aunt Kathy had been the first American Rose of Tralee.
Our, driver, Mick (Mike, whatever, dude) listened to us with, let’s say, a wee bit of skepticism. Bunch o’ yanks, woof’in shite. Then, when we hit our B&B, located over an Irish pub, Mick repaired to his own hostel/hotel and did some research. Yeah, my Aunt Kathleen was, in fact, the first American Rose of Tralee. She’d won the local beauty contest, in Holyoke, MA, and that garnered her a slot in the Rose of Tralee beauty contest in Ireland.
When we were verified as no-kidding relations to my Aunt Kathleen, 1970 Rose of Tralee, they literally rolled out the VIP red carpet for us. When Aunt Kathy won the local contest in Massachusetts, she got a “contestant + 1” ticket for Ireland. My paternal grandfather and eternal douchecanoe claimed the +1 ticket. So, my aunt had no support person to help with her makeup, dress, hair, anything. Nope. She was in on her own and won it on her own.
Rose of Tralee. Badass.
When, on his own time, Mick made some calls and figured out we weren’t just poseurs on the whole Rose of Tralee thing, and Tralee kind of rolled out the red carpet for us.
Though my family had pictures of Aunt Kathy winning the beauty contest, the local paper didn’t publish until Monday, so there were pictures my family had never seen at the local library. Mick had called ahead (apparently, when you’re not BSing, people will go out of their way for you), and they had the newspapers laid out that no one in my family would’ve ever seen because the paper was published after my Aunt and douchecanoe grandfather had left country.
When they spread the old papers in front of the Old Man, in Tralee, there were pictures no one in my family had ever seen before.
The Old Man kind of teared up when he saw those pictures of his little sister that none in the family had seen before.
Little Brother had to run outside, and spew into the bushes, on account of our drinking the night before. Which was awesome, because an elementary-school group of kids had been walking by, hand-in-hand, when he did, and his example started a chain reaction of some of them a-spewing.
I called the Old Man a wuss (just because he was crying), and he signaled me to come closer, like he wanted to whisper in my ear some long-held family secret. So I came closer. He punched me right in the junk, and as I bent over, took my collar and rammed my head into the table.
“Have a little respect,” he said.
Yessir.
Later, we hit the Cliffs of Moir. Because Pops was in a wheelchair, the guides told us Pops could see everything at the first level viewing station. As my brother huffed and puffed pushing the Old Man’s wheelchair up the path of the cliffs, I told the guide, “No matter how much effort it takes, we are determined that my brother will get the Old Man to the top viewing station, right, brother?”
I’m hilarious, but my brother didn’t think so. Dude was kind of almost horizontal pushing Pops up the mountain. It looked way hard.
The Irish trip was at/about September 2011.
One thing Pops, Little Brother, and I all have in common is that we’re not talkers. Don’t get me wrong, prime the pump with a little Irish whiskey, and each one of us could be a troubadour. But, each one of us could go months without talking to each other (or anyone else, frankly, drives the Lovely and Talented Mrs. Mongo crazy), then pick up the phone, and talk like there’d been no gap.
So, with a wild hair, I picked up the phone on December 18, 2011, and talked to the Old Man. We talked for a couple of hours. During the conversation, he said that after our Ireland trip his bucket list was complete. I told him he’d outlive us all. He laughed and told me I had no idea what I was talking about. We had a great talk. I was sitting on the back deck, smoking a fine, Cuban-seed, Dominican-grown cigar. It was just a great talk.
Pops died that night.
I’m glad I called him that day. I’m glad we talked about the trip. I’m glad I heard that his bucket list was full up.
Published in General
Thanks to Boss Mongo for sharing these great memories of a great man, and reminding us of the importance of keeping in touch with family.
This post was offered within December’s theme: “Memories.” Thanks to everyone who chipped in; the month is filled. If you have not been following these posts closely, do stop by the handy guide to monthly themes and browse a bit during the 12 days of Christmas!
January’s theme is up, so stop by and sign up for “Winter of Our Discontent.”
Dat’s just beeyooteeful. I love family moments like that.
Another great story by the Boss Man. When are you going to get a book contract. You’re a great writer and your audience needs to expand significantly.
Thanks for sharing these wonderful memories, @bossmongo. I felt like I was right there. Love the real Boss. You gotta watch us nurses. We can take you out!
I laughed . . . I cried . . . A simply wonderful, outstanding, post. Thank you.
Although, I have to admit that I was a bit aggrieved at the start:
Having not paid much attention to the title, and just reading based on the avatar and post author, I thought I’d caught you out in a monumental moment of historical revisionism, and (pedant that I am) was all set to take you to task in a comment that began:
As described in this BBC article titled, appropriately enough, if one is from parts somewhat East of Hibernia, Barbarians Attack. From the article:
I can’t imagine why.
Some beautiful country there (Wales). I’ve never been to Ireland; it’s on my bucket list, too.
I laughed.
You’re the only guy I know who can do a major tug on my heart and have me laughing at the same time. What a wonderful post–one of my favorites, for sure. Thanks, Boss.
Great story Boss. To expand on the invasion idea,my Great Grandfather went back and forth from Ireland to Wales . He was in Ireland for planting and harvesting, Wales to dig coal. The history is a little confusing but when my grandfather was born my grandmother died in childbirth. Grandfather was taken by his aunt and my Great grandfather went to Wales and never returned. Skipping forward a generation my Father born in Pittsburgh married a Welsh American who had an Irish grandmother .
That’s funny. My family did the same thing between England and Scotland. It was usually termed as “waiting for the heat to blow over.”
What I learned in Ireland is there is no surname Welsh, there. It’s Walsh. Apparently Ellis Island in-processors were either hard of hearing or apathetic. What Mick did say, though, that the name Walsh denoted families that came originally from Wales. When a yeoman archer mustered out after 20, he was issued a plot of land in Ireland as part of his retirement. Loyal Welshmen were supposed to help pacify the island. That’s a bad plan.
Another great essay about a lovely man. The photo of the two brothers with their dad is lovely as well. I’m reminded of Victor McLaglen.
Yes, it is. I don’t know which one in the photo is Boss Mongo, though. I suppose the one on the left if “Little Brother” means younger brother. Of course, hard living can make a person look older, so I don’t know. My younger brother has been taken for the eldest, which I suppose can be accounted for by the fact that he works harder than I do.
The one who doesn’t have a neck.
What an incredible gift you have, @bossmongo. Thanks so much for sharing your family stories with us. I’m sure your dad is grinning down at you for memorializing that perfectly timed head slam.
Is Welsh/Walsh a common surname? My great-grandmother on my mom’s side was Margaret Walsh of Brooklyn, but what’s intriguing is that in the family tree I’ve just started delving into, Margaret’s father is listed as Thomas Walsh-Welsh who was born in County Mayo and died in (wait for it) Berkshire, Massachusetts. His father is listed as James Walsh-Welsh from County Kerry. Could we possibly be distant cousins, @bossmongo, or are Welsh and Walsh so common that there are gazillions of us out there?
My maiden name is Welch, but in some of the records I’ve found it is spelled Welsh. And, what do you know? My ancestors were coal miners in Wyoming. I guess you can take a man out of the homeland, but you can’t take the jobs away. If you’re good at it, you’re good at it.
Great story @bossmongo! I’m so happy that you were able to take him on that trip! And good job following your instincts and calling him that night.
Welsh: ranked 1,166 out of 162,253 most common surname in US.
Walsh: United States ranked 295 out of 162,253
England/Wales ranked 105 out of 500
Welch: United States ranked 284 out of 162,253
England/Wales ranked 434 out of 500
Mongo has a neck. It just happens to be as wide as his head at the top and his shoulders at the bottom.
@arahant, doing the work that Mongos won’t do.
When the first two came over, Ellis Island was still known as Little Oyster Island. People still screwed up the spelling for one branch. It was easier to just go with the new spelling than it was going to be to get the bounty land warrant corrected.
I’ve never quite gotten over my astonishment that Mr. She’s Grandpa got to this country with his unspellable and unpronounceable name all present and correct (as I’ve said often, if proper names were allowed in Scrabble, I could win the game in one go). I combed Ancestry and other records for years looking for his port of entry and couldn’t find it, and then one day, while looking for somebody else (Mr. She’s Aunt Helen, who’s a story in herself), I found that Grandpa had actually entered the country through Galveston, on the SS Koln, departing Bremen, and arriving in the US on March 9, 1908. I haven’t researched, and don’t know if Galveston was much of an immigration port, but perhaps they weren’t so busy, and had a little more time to spend getting the names right. Grandpa’s isn’t quite, in the machine-read copy, but in the original it is.
He was a coal miner on his way to Englewood, CO, and he came to this country with his wife and oldest daughter (the aforementioned Aunt Helen). He traveled all over the West, and then eventually settled in PA, by which time he had seven children, and where his four sons became steelworkers or one sort or another.
Seems to me a lot of German, Czech, and Polish immigrants to Texas in the mid-19th century came via Galveston.
I have two great grandparents who likely hail from Kerry. One great grandmother was a Sullivan and one great grandfather was a Mahoney. Both emigrated to the US around the turn of the 20th century. The old man looks like family. You and your brother on the other hand…
Another She story?
I can’t wait.
Bless your heart. Could be . . .
Sob.
What a blessing for you to have had that opportunity. Thanks for sharing.
I’ve got cousins in Pops’ home state of MA with the surname Welch. Never met them. Two of them (older, I think, than Pops), were on Whitey Bolger’s crew.
Just for comparison, here is my last name:
United States ranked 4,016 out of 162,253
Y’all are downright numerous.
We have a proclivity to procreate like locusts.
14,070th.
Yeah, but how long ago did your family migrate from Scotland?