Happy St. Patrick's Day
In honor of my Dad, I follow in his footsteps
My Dad — James Paul Enright, was Irish to the core. He never forgot to wear the green, and he never forgot to make sure I remembered I was Irish, too. The “wearin’ of the green” was almost a sacred ritual at my house as I grew up.
So in honor of “his day,” I share a few quick stories about him. His birthday was the day before St. Paddy’s Day. He was born in South Dakota but his family immigrated to Alberta, Canada when he was ten. His dad had went up first to buy land, and then returned to shepherd his Mom — Nora, my Dad and his five brothers, the 1200 miles or so to near Rosalind, Alberta. The trip did not go well. The car broke down soon after they crossed the border. As my Dad recalled, they had to walk five miles to the next town to get help; his littlest brother Leonard, age five, kept saying, “Such a long ways to Canada” as he trudged along, but the car couldn’t be repaired and the family went the rest of the way in a box car.
Things did not get better. The family’s resettlement resulted in their being “poor as church mice” as my Dad used to say. Christmas meant attending Midnight Mass and his dad bringing home a bag of hard candy. His father made my Dad quit school at the end of 8th Grade … there were more brothers to feed. My Dad was on his own.
He tried farming/went broke after a year. He was a star baseball player and hockey player. He told me he would have made the majors in baseball, but his shoulder went out; he was a pitcher. But he was a hard worker and a fun kind of guy. I have pictures of him — my favorite is the one with his fellow lumber jacks. Dad was the one in the back row holding the bottle up. As a little girl, I asked him “Why? Why hold that bottle up?”
Dad answered with a perfectly straight face, “You see all these guys? When I got the picture back, I wanted to know which one I was.” Another picture he showed me was an car on top of a telephone pole … Why? Oh, it was Halloween and a trick.
Then the Great Depression attacked with venom. Rumor had it there were jobs in Montreal. My Dad and his favorite brother Maurice hitch-hiked and road the rails more than 2000 miles to get to Montreal, but alas — no jobs there either. They had $2.67 between them to get back. They did.
The next time my Dad tried for a far-away job, letters passed before between my Dad a second cousin who lived in Des Moines. The cousin whose last name was Gallagher, wrote back, “If you can get here, I can get you a job on the Rock Island section gang.” Dad made the 1800 miles trip by himself … hitch-hiking and hopping on to rail cars. I understand he stopped at a few bars and played some cards for food along the way.
The cousin introduced him to my Mom. He was drafted to WWII, where the Army tested him as having an over 140 IQ, and he came home safely to marry my Mom. Dad adored her, and always said, “Your Mom would never had married me if she had known me up in Canada.”
Dad was a great guy, had a gazillion friends, and worked for the Rock Island as a signal maintainer all the days of his life. He had a gazillion friends, was repeatedly elected Chief of the Iowa/Nebraska/Kansas/Missouri section of his railroad union and always, was a dedicated Catholic and Democrat.
He never forgot his past, how one of his grandfathers had slipped out of Ireland and was smuggled onto a boat that happened to come to the US. It was the potato famine days, and there had been troubles with an English constable. Another of his grandfathers and more family came in slightly more orderly ways, still poor as church mice. The path they took from Ireland meant some came through Ellis Island, some on to the docks in New York, and also through Nova Scotia. They gathered up … first settling in Wisconsin, then Cumming, Iowa, where Senator Tom Harkin and our grandfathers and great uncles helped build the country church that the first Pope to come to the United States visited, and onward to South Dakota where my Dad was born. Then Canada, next back to Iowa —Des Moines, Neola where I was born, and Atlantic where I grew up Iowa, and back to Des Moines.
I followed to Des Moines and then moved on to Washington, DC. In summary, I’ve come to believe “voting with your feet” for a better life is a family skill. Our other family skill is ongoing … vote, Vote, VOTE! in every election. I will carry on these traditions — “wearin’ the green” today, and this year, voting Democratic in the Iowa primary, the Midterms, and the General election. My Dad would be so proud.
Happy St. Patrick’s Day!
So good to get this part of your family biography, Barbara!