Ostler 8.1

My husband’s grandfather, George McHugh is quite a character. At first glance he may appear quiet and reserved, but within minutes of meeting him it is impossible to avoid being charmed by his colorful personality. He is of slight build and stands only 5’ 7" but exudes an inner strength and vitality that make him seem larger than life. Grandpa is a wonderfully animated storyteller. He always stands while speaking so he can toss his arms wildly about, thrusting his shoulders forward to accentuate a point. Once, while sharing a story about his experiences in World War II, he paused momentarily while a somber look crept over his face. He leaned forward, glanced quickly from side to side and placing a hand beside his mouth as if to share a bit of top secret information whispered in his unmistakable New York accent, "I won the war…..don’t tell nobody." He roared with laughter and we all laughed along with him, hoping to hear more of his wonderful parables.

One of the strangest and most interesting of Grandpa’s tales took place in New York City sometime around the late 1930’s. Grandpa was a young Irish-American in his early twenties, and ran with a pretty tough neighborhood crowd. At that time, whenever there was a death in the family, it was common for the wake to be held in either the relative’s home or in the local pub. Grandpa had attended several of these events while growing up in a predominantly Irish section of Brooklyn, but will never forget the wake for his neighbor, poor old Matt Murphy.

Matt Murphy was well known for having a weakness for gambling, particularly poker. Unfortunately for him, he lacked both the skills needed to be a decent player and the willpower to walk away from a losing hand. He constantly owed people money and never held a job long enough to catch up on all of his debts. When he passed on, he was laid out in the local pub where family and friends could pay their last respects. There used to be an old Irish tradition at wakes whereby callers would show their affection or disdain for the deceased by either kissing them or hitting them. The story goes that poor old Murphy owed so many people money, the line of angry visitors ran out the door and continued all the way down to the end of the block. Within an hour, old Murphy’s lifeless corpse was becoming so beat up, the police had to intervene and take it away. According to Grandpa, a couple of the officers had apparently known Murphy too, and got a couple of whacks in before closing the casket. Grandpa joked that he never played cards in the old neighborhood again and, leaning forward in his secret-sharing stance, whispered, "When I go, make sure ya’ give me a closed casket just in case there’s anybody I forgot to pay back."

Grandpa McHugh has certainly had an interesting life growing up in Brooklyn at a time when the neighborhoods were small enough for everyone to know each other. He grew up during the Great Depression and experienced World War II first hand. I love listening to Grandpa’s stories because although some of them take place under unpleasant circumstances he always manages to use his quick wit to find the humorous side of any situation. I guess that must be how he has maintained such a positive attitude toward life after all these years.