In 1863, George Smullen of Wicklow City, Ireland, married Sarah Woodruff of Liverpool, England. Both bride and groom were twenty one years old. Sarah, a Protestant, was first baptized a Catholic by a priest before he officiated at the marriage ceremony that same day.
The young couple eventually purchased a row house just outside Wicklow City on the Strand, a finger of land surrounded by the Irish Sea, a calm body of water unlike our Atlantic and Pacific oceans.
Thirty eight years later in 1901, both sixty nine years old and still living in their Strand home, George and Sarah reported to Irish officialdom that their long marriage had produced eleven children. Six were living. One was my Grandfather to be, James Joseph Smullen, 15, their youngest. He and his sister, Elizabeth, 21, still lived at home. Four male boarders in their early twenties also lived in the Smullen home. Reportedly, George could read and write but his Sarah could not.
Nineteen years later, their youngest child was married and a father to four children, a naturalized U. S. citizen, and a leather dresser in a Johnstown, New York, leather mill. His wife, Mary Theresa, remained at home, taking care of the kids and earning extra money as a glove maker. My father, James, Jr., was eleven. His brother George was eight, John, six; and Florence, five.
Ten years later, "Pa" and "Ma" Smullen were owners of a two-story, two-family building on Chicago's Wrightwood Avenue, far away from Johnstown, NY. Pa was employed as an electric trolley car conductor for Chicago's Rapid Transit. Still living at home were sons George and John and daughter, Florence. Their eldest, James, was a college student.
I took my first trolley ride when I was but four or five years old. I still recall sitting beside my mother, captivated by the sound of electrical sparks as a steel pulley—on the tip of a long rod on the trolley's roof, held up by steel springs—rode under an electrified thick wire. Whenever the pulley met a junction—there were many—sparks sputtered and crackled. That trolley car didn't turn corners; it lurched around them. I enjoyed each turn, holding on to mother.
She had to tell me the conductor was my grandfather because he didn't treat us any differently than he did other boarding passengers. He stood ramrod straight, outfitted in his navy blue uniform with gleaming brass buttons, white shirt, and dark blue tie. The top of his head was covered by a dark blue Charles De Gaulle type hat with a brass plate on front, identifying him as a Chicago Transit conductor. Around his waist was a thick black belt. Attached to it was a chrome-plated change holder. He reminded me of Sir Edward Lipton, portrayed on a tea tin in our kitchen cupboard.
In addition to collecting money and transferring tickets from boarding passengers, when the trolley arrived at the end of the line, Pa exited the trolley and pulled down the pulley, tied it off, and then loosed the rod on the other end, its pulley now enabling the trolley's engineer to reverse the car's direction. Mother and I remained long enough for Pa to exit and enter the trolley twice.
Inside his upstairs flat and out of uniform, Pa didn't look as impressive as he did in his uniform. He had thinning black hair, combed back, graying at both sides. Bending over and talking to his black and white Boston terrier, he and the mutt seemed to be pals.
"What's its name?" I asked.
"Squeaky," said Pa. One word. He offered no more.
Dad's sudden and unexpected death at age forty two shattered not only his wife and children, but also his parents and siblings. Two days before the funeral, Pa and Uncle John arrived at our home. It was the first time I can recall that Uncle John was wordless. He appeared absolutely devastated.
I was standing by mother when Pa told us he had a dream two nights previously about a red bull in a green pasture. He said the dream meant that somebody he knew was soon going to die. "I did not know it would be my firstborn."
Other than Pa's dream explication, I don't recall his saying another word to me ever again, not even in the latter sixties when Cousin Mary Lee Croatt wished to introduce me to the Pa she knew, one much different than the Pa to whom I was accustomed. He stood on the outside of the lower flat's opened front door, one hand holding the doorknob as if there could be a reason for his quick retreat indoors. He spoke few words to Mary Lee, answering her inquiries, but not one word was offered to me although he acknowledged my presence with a hurried nod. Unlike my maternal grandfather who obviously cared for me, Pa Smullen addressed this grandson with rude detachment.
Returning to that first Chicago visit with Aunt Marie and Uncle George and Cousins Mary Lee, Michael, and Buddy, on the return trip to Racine with Aunt Marie driving the large Buick and Uncle George holding his cane, he asked me shortly after I admitted that I didn't like Ma, "What do you think of Pa?"
I shrugged.
Uncle George's smile disappeared as he fidgeted with the cane's handle. Aunt Marie remained silent, so unlike her. After we arrived at their Hayes Avenue home, Uncle George sat on his easy chair in the parlor. Soon, Marie brought out a fifth of Black & White scotch whiskey. Ice cubes clinked a tune against a glass she clutched in the other hand. She placed both bottle and glass on top of an end table beside his chair. Uncle George's fingertips soon became wet from the glass's dripping condensation.
We spoke not another word about the Chicago visit.
The young couple eventually purchased a row house just outside Wicklow City on the Strand, a finger of land surrounded by the Irish Sea, a calm body of water unlike our Atlantic and Pacific oceans.
Thirty eight years later in 1901, both sixty nine years old and still living in their Strand home, George and Sarah reported to Irish officialdom that their long marriage had produced eleven children. Six were living. One was my Grandfather to be, James Joseph Smullen, 15, their youngest. He and his sister, Elizabeth, 21, still lived at home. Four male boarders in their early twenties also lived in the Smullen home. Reportedly, George could read and write but his Sarah could not.
Nineteen years later, their youngest child was married and a father to four children, a naturalized U. S. citizen, and a leather dresser in a Johnstown, New York, leather mill. His wife, Mary Theresa, remained at home, taking care of the kids and earning extra money as a glove maker. My father, James, Jr., was eleven. His brother George was eight, John, six; and Florence, five.
Ten years later, "Pa" and "Ma" Smullen were owners of a two-story, two-family building on Chicago's Wrightwood Avenue, far away from Johnstown, NY. Pa was employed as an electric trolley car conductor for Chicago's Rapid Transit. Still living at home were sons George and John and daughter, Florence. Their eldest, James, was a college student.
I took my first trolley ride when I was but four or five years old. I still recall sitting beside my mother, captivated by the sound of electrical sparks as a steel pulley—on the tip of a long rod on the trolley's roof, held up by steel springs—rode under an electrified thick wire. Whenever the pulley met a junction—there were many—sparks sputtered and crackled. That trolley car didn't turn corners; it lurched around them. I enjoyed each turn, holding on to mother.
She had to tell me the conductor was my grandfather because he didn't treat us any differently than he did other boarding passengers. He stood ramrod straight, outfitted in his navy blue uniform with gleaming brass buttons, white shirt, and dark blue tie. The top of his head was covered by a dark blue Charles De Gaulle type hat with a brass plate on front, identifying him as a Chicago Transit conductor. Around his waist was a thick black belt. Attached to it was a chrome-plated change holder. He reminded me of Sir Edward Lipton, portrayed on a tea tin in our kitchen cupboard.
In addition to collecting money and transferring tickets from boarding passengers, when the trolley arrived at the end of the line, Pa exited the trolley and pulled down the pulley, tied it off, and then loosed the rod on the other end, its pulley now enabling the trolley's engineer to reverse the car's direction. Mother and I remained long enough for Pa to exit and enter the trolley twice.
Inside his upstairs flat and out of uniform, Pa didn't look as impressive as he did in his uniform. He had thinning black hair, combed back, graying at both sides. Bending over and talking to his black and white Boston terrier, he and the mutt seemed to be pals.
"What's its name?" I asked.
"Squeaky," said Pa. One word. He offered no more.
Dad's sudden and unexpected death at age forty two shattered not only his wife and children, but also his parents and siblings. Two days before the funeral, Pa and Uncle John arrived at our home. It was the first time I can recall that Uncle John was wordless. He appeared absolutely devastated.
I was standing by mother when Pa told us he had a dream two nights previously about a red bull in a green pasture. He said the dream meant that somebody he knew was soon going to die. "I did not know it would be my firstborn."
Other than Pa's dream explication, I don't recall his saying another word to me ever again, not even in the latter sixties when Cousin Mary Lee Croatt wished to introduce me to the Pa she knew, one much different than the Pa to whom I was accustomed. He stood on the outside of the lower flat's opened front door, one hand holding the doorknob as if there could be a reason for his quick retreat indoors. He spoke few words to Mary Lee, answering her inquiries, but not one word was offered to me although he acknowledged my presence with a hurried nod. Unlike my maternal grandfather who obviously cared for me, Pa Smullen addressed this grandson with rude detachment.
Returning to that first Chicago visit with Aunt Marie and Uncle George and Cousins Mary Lee, Michael, and Buddy, on the return trip to Racine with Aunt Marie driving the large Buick and Uncle George holding his cane, he asked me shortly after I admitted that I didn't like Ma, "What do you think of Pa?"
I shrugged.
Uncle George's smile disappeared as he fidgeted with the cane's handle. Aunt Marie remained silent, so unlike her. After we arrived at their Hayes Avenue home, Uncle George sat on his easy chair in the parlor. Soon, Marie brought out a fifth of Black & White scotch whiskey. Ice cubes clinked a tune against a glass she clutched in the other hand. She placed both bottle and glass on top of an end table beside his chair. Uncle George's fingertips soon became wet from the glass's dripping condensation.
We spoke not another word about the Chicago visit.
RSS Feed