Kevin Gleeson's Posts - The Wild Geese
2024-03-28T22:17:52Z
Kevin Gleeson
https://thewildgeese.irish/profile/KevinGleeson
https://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/68528707?profile=RESIZE_48X48&width=48&height=48&crop=1%3A1
https://thewildgeese.irish/profiles/blog/feed?user=05udhopwopg6i&xn_auth=no
Black 47's Last Call
tag:thewildgeese.irish,2014-06-01:6442157:BlogPost:95633
2014-06-01T02:30:00.000Z
Kevin Gleeson
https://thewildgeese.irish/profile/KevinGleeson
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84706155?profile=original" target="_self"><img class="align-full" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84706155?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750"></img></a> <strong><span class="font-size-7" style="font-family: 'book antiqua', palatino;">W</span>hen I first thought about</strong> reviewing the last recorded work by a band, I questioned the futility. Why? If they are over, there must be a reason. Yet some infernal sadness tugs at my musical heartstrings, with questions like "Who were these guys?" "Were they good?" and "Will we be…</p>
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84706155?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="750" class="align-full" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84706155?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750"/></a><strong><span class="font-size-7" style="font-family: 'book antiqua', palatino;">W</span>hen I first thought about</strong> reviewing the last recorded work by a band, I questioned the futility. Why? If they are over, there must be a reason. Yet some infernal sadness tugs at my musical heartstrings, with questions like "Who were these guys?" "Were they good?" and "Will we be missing them?”<br/> <br/> So I put on Black 47’s “Last Call.” And listened. Again. And again. First, I'm hearing Springsteen, then Lennon. Direct musical phrasing and vocal duplicity. Again I ask why? For a few hours at work. At home. On drives to central Pennsylvania from NYC, I listened over and over. Not even listening. Seeking. But what? Answers. To what?<br/> <br/> I don't know what milestone I had passed when it struck me. Party band. Good musicians. Good times. Collected. For the Irish. By the Irish. I realize I over thought this CD. Black 47 is not an obsessed and frustrated composer seeking audience and brilliance. These boys have fired the furnace of many a feis. They've kicked their heels up in the sawdust of many a Bronx bar and kept time to reel and rocker alike. I hear the patron's shrieking and the maids giggling. And yes, I smell the pints and the fags burning.<br/> <a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84706175?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="750" class="align-full" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84706175?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750"/></a>What surprised me, musically, is how American they sound. Like Southside Johnnie or the E Street Band. How deliberate and exacting. Almost in tribute to the originals. Does there need to be a reason? Why can't an Irish band sound completely American? Down to the horns? Why not? I have spent years playing with tribute bands that didn't reflect my culture. <br/> Black47 is more than a band. It’s a culture. They have a brave and loyal following. They will, I'm sure, be sorely missed. <br/> <br/> All (but one) of the songs were written by Larry Kirwan, guitarist, vocalist and percussionist -- and principle hell-raiser who has surrounded himself with great players of both both traditional and modern styles. Together, they explore Irish themes with American tone reminiscent of the ‘80s and ‘90s.<br/> <br/> Notable tracks include the tongue-in-cheek "Salsa O'Keefe," spirited "Shanty Irish Baby," and "Queen of Coney Island." Great attention is paid to Irish themes in “Dublin Days” and “Johnny Comes a Courtin.” It is hard to tell which side of the Atlantic this was recorded on.<br/> <a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84706185?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="750" class="align-full" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84706185?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750"/></a>George Harrison reminded us that "All things must pass" and so they do. And so has Black 47. A glimpse of their website, <a href="http://www.black47.com">www.Black47.com</a>, reveals a strong fan connection. To the many who have enjoyed them for the past 25 years, "Last Call" is a sound effort and a fitting tribute.</p>
<p></p>
Book Review: Joseph Buggy's 'Finding Your Irish Ancestors in New York City'
tag:thewildgeese.irish,2014-02-18:6442157:BlogPost:78471
2014-02-18T21:30:00.000Z
Kevin Gleeson
https://thewildgeese.irish/profile/KevinGleeson
<p><strong><span class="font-size-7" style="font-family: 'book antiqua', palatino;"><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84704080?profile=original" target="_self"><img class="align-full" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84704080?profile=original" width="750"></img></a> I</span>t's funny, but when I mentioned to a close friend</strong> that I was going to be reviewing this book, she said "Oh, I found all of that on Ancestory.com". Fair enough. Some people visit one website and are satisfied with the history they come away with. For my friend (being third…</p>
<p><strong><span class="font-size-7" style="font-family: 'book antiqua', palatino;"><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84704080?profile=original" target="_self"><img src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84704080?profile=original" width="750" class="align-full"/></a>I</span>t's funny, but when I mentioned to a close friend</strong> that I was going to be reviewing this book, she said "Oh, I found all of that on Ancestory.com". Fair enough. Some people visit one website and are satisfied with the history they come away with. For my friend (being third generation removed from Ireland into America), that might be enough. But what about the rest of us? Those of us with family still in Ireland who had grandparents, grand aunts and uncles, even parents who came to America for the first time -- us the <i>first born</i> Americans? Surely we've been told the story of our emigrant parents again and again. Or have we? Have we been told what ship they arrived on? Where they lived and worked? Where they went to Mass, were married, and even buried? Did we hear about the poverty they suffered? The almshouses and sanitariums they had to endure? Do we know the <i>truest</i> story of the Irish of New York? Frankly, aren't all the Irish who came to New York our family and isn't this OUR story? Indeed it is.</p>
<p>Joseph Buggy has committed himself to the task of collecting and documenting (by the most thorough investigation of Irish emigrant resources assembled in one book) every possible source. With the skill of a cataloger and library reference manager, Joe has created a 165 page master work titled "Finding Your Irish Ancestors in New York City". This is a smartly researched guide, divided into simple, organized categories that aid in the quest for roots. Novice and scholar alike will be impressed with the breadth of discernment the author has practiced here. Logically following an organized script with period explanations of our ancestor's New York, this is as much a deep history of New York City itself and the roles the Irish have played in its development.</p>
<p><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Finding-Your-Irish-Ancestors-York/dp/0806319887" target="_blank"><img width="264" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84704140?profile=RESIZE_320x320" width="264" class="align-left"/></a>With more than a page of abbreviations to be used in the following text I was launched back in time to federal and NY State census data from 1850 in all five boroughs and was steered to numerous free websites for further access. Through NY Municipal Archives and seven other records centers, I was steered to vitals records for births, marriages, deaths and geneology holdings. I was impressed by how some Irish became naturalized US citizens by fighting in the Civil War and the reminder that, prior to 1922, Ireland was part of the United Kingdom.</p>
<p>The history of the Catholic Church was a focal point for Irish growth in New York. Six pages alone are devoted to locations for obtaining records. I found most fascinating the almshouses that, prior to the American Revolution, provided assistance to the destitute; the hospitals on Blackwell's Island (now Roosevelt Island); and the sad stories of widowed mothers and children in Bellevue Hospital and Randall's Island trying to avoid poor houses, orphanages, and burials in Potter's Fields on Hart Island. Employment and Newspapers are fully explored (four full pages). Some of the papers still exist (The Irish Echo).</p>
<p>Strategies are discussed for searching and "priests in the family" can be of great assistance also. The "FAN club" deserves mention. FAN stands for Friends, Associates, and Neighbors. Collateral research is explored. Where the Irish lived is given attention and the Catholic Churches that opened provided clues. Lower Manhattan at first over to Brooklyn, and eventually Hell's Kitchen, Inwood, Bay Ridge, Flatbush, Woodside, Sunnyside, and Breezy Point developed high concentrations of Irish ancestry.</p>
<p>With the Famine years, counties of Kenmare, Kerry, Sligo, Cork, Tipperary, Longford, and others are reassembled in the Bowery, City Hall, and the notorious "Five Points". The "Wards" of the city are delineated and boundaries defined with clarity against current street names. Even the Emigrant Savings Bank provides detail to the lives of our ancestors. Joe finds passenger lists from shipping lines and immigrant associations and lays them out in full view.</p>
<p>From the founding of the first Catholic Church in New York City, St. Peter's in 1785, to the building of the New York and Harlem Railroads in the 1830s, and the Famine years thereafter, the author fills 68 pages with detailed church and cemetery contact information--an unusually thorough investigation. 16 pages of periodicals and articles are provided. One of most impressive collections of websites and links every assembled and a comprehensive bibliography close out this book.</p>
<p>To my third generation Irish friend and her total satisfaction with Ancestry.com I can offer no correction but for myself and every other New York City Irish-American, Joseph Buggy's "Finding Your Irish Ancestors in New York City" is a good find indeed.</p>
<p></p>
Respect for JFK’s Legacy an Enduring Part of This Family
tag:thewildgeese.irish,2013-11-20:6442157:BlogPost:63486
2013-11-20T13:30:00.000Z
Kevin Gleeson
https://thewildgeese.irish/profile/KevinGleeson
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84701774?profile=original" target="_self"><img class="align-left" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84701774?profile=RESIZE_480x480" width="350"></img></a></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><strong><span class="font-size-5">N</span>ovember 22<sup>nd</sup>. Strikes a sullen chord.</strong> Any year -- and yet this year, it is the 50<sup>th</sup> year. Striking a crescendo of deep and bitter sadness.</p>
<p>Maybe it’s because I was raised in a house where John Fitzgerald Kennedy’s picture (clipped from the Sunday Daily News memorial…</p>
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84701774?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="350" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84701774?profile=RESIZE_480x480" width="350" class="align-left"/></a></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><strong><span class="font-size-5">N</span>ovember 22<sup>nd</sup>. Strikes a sullen chord.</strong> Any year -- and yet this year, it is the 50<sup>th</sup> year. Striking a crescendo of deep and bitter sadness.</p>
<p>Maybe it’s because I was raised in a house where John Fitzgerald Kennedy’s picture (clipped from the Sunday Daily News memorial issue), along with a clipping of his “Ask NOT” speech, were both lovingly taped on a clean piece of white paper and hung in a plain brown wooden frame and displayed with the greatest prominence in our living room; even higher than the wedding photos. That same picture (in the same frame) hangs in my son’s house in Milwaukee -- with the same respect. He is a world studies and American history teacher.</p>
<p><strong>Left, a book my mother recently gave me from UPI, published in 1964.</strong></p>
<p>Or it might be because if I went to my cousins’ house in Maspeth, they had a felt rug painting of JFK on the wall. Or over in Middle Village, the whole family would sit around the record player and howl with laughter as Vaughn Meader enunciated “and the rubber swan … is mine” in perfect Kennedy Boston accent. Or perhaps my mom would be playing the LP with all of JFK’s major speeches with comments by Ted Sorensen. Either way, the only other person on this earth (or maybe above it) who rated higher in our families’ hierarchy was the Pope.</p>
<p>In the winter of ’67, my mom took my brother, my sister, and I to Rockefeller Center to see the tree for Christmas. As first-generation American children of Irish immigrant parents—leaving the familiarity of Queens for Manhattan was a tremendous adventure. The décor that year was as festive as it is today. New York always shines at Christmas. My mother became very excited and leaned down to tell me “LOOK KEVIN!! That is Robert Kennedy!!!” And sure enough, there in a light brown suit jacket, despite the bitter cold was New York’s Senator Robert Francis Kennedy making a beeline straight for my mother (who was ready to die). My brother and sister immediately took up refuge behind my mother’s legs as she pushed me out from under her coat—forward to the Senator. Senator Kennedy leaned down. All the way down. And I looked up into a pair of perfectly grey, happily smiling, compassionate eyes. Eyes that were used to looking at children. Eyes that had seen much sadness and yet contained delight. I said “Hi Mr. Ken-dy!”. He patted me on my head and said “Hey Kiddo!” and was off. </p>
<p>My mother purchased the Revell<sup>©</sup> John F. Kennedy Oval Office scale model kit complete with rocking chair; a PT-109 portrait over the fireplace mantel; and oval carpeting. My mother explained that she “wanted me to build this with great care.” She especially helped me paint his face, hands, and suit. She called my attention to how he sat (with one leg crossed over and hand on his ankle) and what color the walls were. Detail was important. Colors matter.</p>
<p>Maybe it’s because the house I grew up in contained the full Warren Commission Report and that I was asked to read it while my classmates were reading Huck Finn. So that when we had a history fair at school, I recreated Dallas’ Dealey Plaza with excruciating detail. A perfectly scaled Elm Street Book Depository done in balsa with every window hand-cut. The road. The car. Even a metal wire tracing the bullet path. I attached a self-typed report synopsis from the Warren Commission report and actual newspaper clippings from the Dallas Morning News, dated November 22, 1963. Fifth grade.</p>
<p align="center"><b>‘We wept as a small family unit – together.’</b></p>
<p>And as I approached the altar towards the Archbishop for my confirmation in 1972 he asked “and what name have you chosen?” – to which I answered “John” (of course). That summer my small (newly divorced) family took a Casser Bus Tour to Washington, D.C. from Port Authority. On my mother’s meager salary from Blue Cross as a subscribers service operator, this was a BIG step in independence. Divorce was scorned even then. As we stuck the portable coil heater in cups to make tea in our single room at the Conrad Hilton, we had arrived indeed. We were going to make it. We went to Arlington National Cemetery, and we kneeled before the eternal flame on the graves of John Fitzgerald Kennedy and his son Patrick and we wept as a small family unit—together.</p>
<p>I purchased the Revell(c) PT-109 scale model kit and again paid loving attention to the details: the torpedo tubes; the decals; the control panels; the young Lieutenant JG John F. Kennedy; his shades; the guns; and again the family helped with content by providing articles. The Woodside Branch of the New York Public Library could not acquire enough JFK books for the young boy from 62<sup>nd</sup> Street down from Roosevelt Avenue.</p>
<p>In fact, when I often visited Grandma Bridget McGuinness — she was ready for me. As head nurse at Forest Hills Hospital, she had access to magazines and newspapers — and she kept this grandson supplied. LOOK, LIFE, TIME, Newsweek, Reader’s Digest, US News & World Report, Saturday Evening Post, Long Island Press, Newsday and on and on. She kept years of material for me. And I read it ALL. My weekends with Grandma were special. She would make tea, and we would talk politics, economy, news, history, science—whatever. She fed and I read. “Bridie” McGuinness was magical. Even though she had a Barry Goldwater puppet.</p>
<p>As I got older I bought my own books and embraced ALL the conspiracy theories. I carried a chip on my shoulder for years. I bought Ted Sorensen’s book of JFK’s speeches complete and read them all. JFK. RFK. MLK. X. I read everything. I got excited when Oliver Stone’s JFK came to theaters. I thought we were going to get somewhere. I was still an angry young man.</p>
<p>More recently I bought Ted Kennedy’s autobiography, and, I confess, in certain parts, I blubbered as a child would. The love is still strong there. And at present, I am enjoying “The Patriarch,” the biography of Joseph Kennedy Sr. (and I may be interested in reading Rose Kennedy’s memoirs). It is with uncontrollable pride that I learned Caroline is our proud ambassador to Japan, much as her grandfather was to the Court of St. James. God bless her and keep her safe on her way.</p>
<p>My kids are grown. They vote Democratic. For better or worse, I have passed my torch to a new generation. I have developed many and varied interests of art, science, and music. I enjoy life. November 22<sup>nd</sup>. The saddest of days. Every November 22<sup>nd</sup>. The end of Camelot. The dimming of the Light. This one—the 50<sup>th</sup>. A final curtain in the closing scene. RIP JFK xo</p>
<p><img/></p>
Warfield Makes It Easy: 'Let Ye All Be Irish Tonight'
tag:thewildgeese.irish,2013-11-18:6442157:BlogPost:61330
2013-11-18T01:00:00.000Z
Kevin Gleeson
https://thewildgeese.irish/profile/KevinGleeson
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84701672?profile=original" target="_self"><img class="align-full" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84701672?profile=original" width="720"></img></a> <strong><span class="font-size-5">”T</span>hey could take our land, starve our poor,</strong> destroy our homes and plunder our institutions; they could deny us education, but they could not destroy our music and song” No truer words were ever spoken. These are by Derek Warfield himself.</p>
<p>Derek Warfield is a singer, songwriter, mandolin player and a founding member of the…</p>
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84701672?profile=original" target="_self"><img src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84701672?profile=original" width="720" class="align-full"/></a><strong><span class="font-size-5">”T</span>hey could take our land, starve our poor,</strong> destroy our homes and plunder our institutions; they could deny us education, but they could not destroy our music and song” No truer words were ever spoken. These are by Derek Warfield himself.</p>
<p>Derek Warfield is a singer, songwriter, mandolin player and a founding member of the Wolfe Tones, performing with the band for over 37 years. He has written and recorded over 60 songs and ballads.</p>
<p>Warfield has performed his music and songs at American Civil War events and commemorations at such sites as Gettysburg, Sharpsburg and Harrisburg with his band, The Sons of Erin.</p>
<p>Derek now tours with his new band, Derek Warfield and The Young Wolfe Tones.</p>
<p>Their most recent release “Let Ye All Be Irish Tonight” is a tribute to historically popular Irish music and the song culture that evolved from it in America (Warfield Music CD004). </p>
<p>The song list is a collection of gems: Let ye all be Irish Tonight, The Three Flowers, Step it out Mary, Song of the Celts, Boys of the Old Brigade, Dusty Dublin Streets Set, Sweet Kitty Neil, Admiral William Brown, "Mandela" The Legend, Boys of Fair Hill, Cead Mile Failte, Paddle Your Own Canoe, The Galtee Mountain Boy, Let Mr. Maguire Sit Down, Oro se do Beatha Abhaile, Dying Rebel, Flower of Scotland, The Stone of Destiny Set, Patsy Fagan. </p>
<p>This CD is a historian’s delight and an archivists treasure; complete with liner notes; all of the lyrics; precious photos; detailed descriptions; as well as a thoughtful and well researched collection of Irish history told through music from the eighteenth and nineteenth century to the present. Rebel songs, ballads, jigs, reels, pub songs, and cultural jewels unfold into a memorable Irish experience. The songs are presented with a professional mix of traditional lead and backing vocals; tenor banjo; mandolin; Uilleann pipes; piano; string; and orchestra arrangements; guitar; bouzouki; bass; button accordion; violin; flute; and the bodhran.</p>
<p>Having been raised in a family of Irish musicians and drilled from a young age through the meters of the Clancy Brothers, Tommy Makem, and Paddy Noonan, this CD is a ‘must have’ for any serious Irish audiophile. The fact that it’s fun, fast paced, and played with the skills of one of Ireland’s premiere songsmiths only makes it more endearing. <strong>KG</strong></p>
<p><img/></p>
'Sandy'-Whipped Rockaway -- One Year Later
tag:thewildgeese.irish,2013-11-18:6442157:BlogPost:61234
2013-11-18T01:00:00.000Z
Kevin Gleeson
https://thewildgeese.irish/profile/KevinGleeson
<p><img class="align-full" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84701624?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750"></img></p>
<p><strong><span class="font-size-5">I</span> made several trips back into the devastation</strong> after that initial writing. The work never got easier. In fact it got much harder. Age on a man is often internal and aches and pains are the wrinkles.</p>
<p><strong>Above, Cross Bay Blvd and a ship washed into the median. See more pictures below. Photos by Kevin Gleeson</strong></p>
<p>One friend in particular deserves a mention here – a year later. Living in east Rockaway on…</p>
<p><img width="750" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84701624?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750" class="align-full"/></p>
<p><strong><span class="font-size-5">I</span> made several trips back into the devastation</strong> after that initial writing. The work never got easier. In fact it got much harder. Age on a man is often internal and aches and pains are the wrinkles.</p>
<p><strong>Above, Cross Bay Blvd and a ship washed into the median. See more pictures below. Photos by Kevin Gleeson</strong></p>
<p>One friend in particular deserves a mention here – a year later. Living in east Rockaway on the bay, his house was covered with ocean a</p>
<p>bove the first floor windows for a day. His initial consideration was to move. Pack it up. Get out. But having three dogs, he struggled with the idea of putting them up for adoption. The dogs were big dogs, and older. He knew with the glut of abandoned animals running the streets (homeless) after the storm – they would probably be put down. He was devastated.</p>
<p>It was actually through a mutual friend in Virginia that I learned of his plight.</p>
<p>Apparently, his house had been “red tagged” as unsafe for habitation but his garage was given a “yellow” temporary shelter rating. So our man moved in with his dogs for four months while he worked on his house. Through the winter of 2012, he would run the gas powered heater for an hour till they were all sweating and then shut it off till an hour till they were all freezing. Such love hath man for beast that he suffered such through the entire winter in the garage.</p>
<p>I made arrangements to come down on my “off day” with tools and help in any way possible. I had been helping others. My day job required my driving through the blackout into lower Manhattan and helping (in my graphic way) with making maps to connect New Yorkers by bus with the working subway lines (remember we had flooded tunnels)? I even had to test the emergency bus lines that were being created between Uptown and Brooklyn.</p>
<p>Manhattan, at 4:30 A.M., in a blackout defies explanation. As a born and bred New Yorker, to see no power below 23<sup>rd</sup> Street is ‘scary’. Flares. People</p>
<p>crossing intersections in the dark. No street lights controlling traffic. As you drive further south (back in time) the streets get smaller and curvier. By the Brooklyn Bridge/City Hall area, parking becomes almost impossible. Impossible to see. Except the stars. Thousands of them. Over lower Manhattan. Never in my life had I seen the stars in Manhattan like this. Hundreds of cars with broken windows (from the flooding water pressure) and many with flapping plastic covering the doors. I worked on the 8<sup>th</sup> floor, but often was required on the 14<sup>th</sup> floor. With one elevator working on a generator for emergency use, I climbed more stairs in those powerless several weeks that I did in a lifetime. Far better than a gym. But I digress.</p>
<p>East Rockaway, near the water, after the storm, was a mess. Most of the homes were boarded up. Broken glass. Furniture and rubbish everywhere. Many homes were completely abandoned. Red Cross trucks were still delivering white plastic container meals to women pushing strollers with kids doubled-up in the seats. Occupy Wall Street bicycle crews brought food, blankets, and clothing. War zone like. When I got to our man’s house, I met the dogs and fell in love immediately. Big, beautiful, white, happy, playful creatures. I decided right then to work my Irish ass off to get them all back inside. He had a home full of steamfitters who were currently working with him on the Freedom Tower. I was quite surprised when he asked if I was “afraid of </p>
<p>electric?”. Never taunt a Tipperary man.</p>
<p>1950’s BX cable, sharp, jagged, cold, cut and hung halfway from the ceiling to belt high is particularly rigid after having existed in an unheated, open space for months on end. Wires don’t want to bend, cut, or twist. Our man pointed me to a case of outlets, switches, and junction boxes and took off with the crew to purchase building materials. Alone, I wired the ground floor. When the vans arrived, we unloaded a ton weight of sheet rock, plywood, and insulation. Power, now been restored to the rooms, allowed us to see as the tools buzzed, ripped, drilled, cut, and slashed. In one day, we insulated, wall boarded, sub floored, and wired the entire ground floor. First in and last out that day, I went home with bloody, sore hands, arms and legs.</p>
<p>There were a few more construction parties, as there were all over the Rockaways and Long Island, and I got into my share of a few of them. In time, professional contactors made their way into the mess from all over the country, and as insurance and FEMA monies arrived, the scrappy “work crews” were replaced with certified men and women.</p>
<p>I need to finish by saying that one year later, many houses are still empty, torn down, or under repair. I can tell you that three dogs and our man are comfortably resettled back into their home by the sea and that the work continues for many others.</p>
<p>New Yorkers are resilient, resourceful, and helpful. We often get mislabeled as snotty, mean, or rude. But in the mud, the cold, and the wind, I met many warm people who worked hard so that three dogs and their man could continue to make their home in the Rockaways. One year later, this work continues. <strong>KG</strong></p>
<p align="right"><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84701701?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="750" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84701701?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750" class="align-full"/></a></p>
<p align="right">Sand everywhere three blocks from the beach at Rockaway130s.</p>
<p align="right"><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84701749?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="750" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84701749?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750" class="align-full"/></a></p>
<p align="right">The Army and the police near B116.</p>
<p align="right"><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84701878?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="750" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84701878?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750" class="align-full"/></a></p>
<p align="right">Friends on at a “work party” in front of some of our work and myself, smiling and covered with @#$%.</p>
<p align="right"><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84702006?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="750" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84702006?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750" class="align-full"/></a></p>
The Irish of Laurel Hill (Part Two)
tag:thewildgeese.irish,2013-10-02:6442157:BlogPost:53690
2013-10-02T12:00:00.000Z
Kevin Gleeson
https://thewildgeese.irish/profile/KevinGleeson
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84700912?profile=original" target="_self"><img class="align-left" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84700912?profile=RESIZE_480x480" width="450"></img></a> <strong>We might have been called “narrow-backs” or “Micks” or “Donkeys” but the Irish of Laurel Hill were joined together as a community.</strong> My dad was in the Holy Name Society. He read the Epistles at Mass in St. Theresa’s. We would travel to Gaelic Park to watch Uncle “Mick” or Uncle Martin beat Kilkenny or lose to Kerry; all while we yelled “UP TIPP!” at the top of…</p>
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84700912?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="450" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84700912?profile=RESIZE_480x480" width="450" class="align-left"/></a><strong>We might have been called “narrow-backs” or “Micks” or “Donkeys” but the Irish of Laurel Hill were joined together as a community.</strong> My dad was in the Holy Name Society. He read the Epistles at Mass in St. Theresa’s. We would travel to Gaelic Park to watch Uncle “Mick” or Uncle Martin beat Kilkenny or lose to Kerry; all while we yelled “UP TIPP!” at the top of our lungs. We’d run under the bleachers pinching sips from unwatched beer bottles and collecting fallen change to buy sodas from the bar. There was always a great game under the sun, with both the American and Irish national anthems and flags receiving full respect and at solemn standing attention.</p>
<p>In the neighborhood, we played in backyards, out front on the sidewalks, around the corner; and in our case “under the bridge”. The pedestrian bridge was on 45<sup>th</sup> Street and ran north to south across the Connecting Highway which would become the Queens Midtown Expressway and eventually, Long Island Expressway. The Brooklyn Queens Expressway was not built yet. We would not ever cross the bridge unless we were with our parents. I still remember the “blimps”, with their droning motors flying low overhead on their way to the World’s Fair in Flushing.</p>
<p>We would play with Colleen and Michael Duffy, “T.D.” Flynn, Francis Conway, and Tommy and Eileen whose grandparents owned the candy store on Laurel Hill Boulevard between 45<sup>th</sup> and 46<sup>th</sup> Streets. For a nickel we could fill little brown bags with string candy, dots, red pennies, candy cigarettes and gum. We played army with ash hurling sticks as guns (never having heard of baseball or football). We stood at attention and sang the “Marine Hymn” as Irish-Americans returned with honor from Vietnam. We played in garages and dog houses. Put on shows. Made Indian paint with bricks and water. Chased butterflies and cats. I remember Uncle Martin donning his Army Reserves uniform to direct traffic on Queens Boulevard and Greenpoint Avenue during the Great Blackout of ’65. How proud we were of him as new Americans to see him in full uniform.</p>
<p>My father was the first of his generation to come to America, become a citizen, and buy a home. He and my mom planned to fix up the home, sell it and keep upgrading. The American Dream. That’s why it was such a shock for them in 1966 when Mayor John V. Lyndsay notified them (by mail) that their home was going to be demolished. 325 other families, mostly Irish, got the same letter. This was devastating news to the neighborhood of Laurel Hill which was going to be not only torn in half by highways, but also plowed over for clover leafed interchanges of the BQE/LIE. Many were able to receive fair market value from the City and buy affordable housing elsewhere.</p>
<p>Joe Cassidy, of the New York Daily News came to Laurel Hill to write a story about the disaster under the headline “Highwaymen of ‘Progress’ Killing Laurel Hill”. Joe sat in the backyard with my dad long into the night. A few beers were put down. The story, was published on Monday, November 21, 1966. It appeared on half a page. Page 5. This is a quote from the last paragraph: “ But neither they, nor any of those still remaining, have been told what they’ll be paid for their homes which will go for a road that at best will only transfer the twice-daily traffic snarls from one place to another. In their dealings with these of its citizens, the City has acted shamefully. Meanwhile, in the name of progress, the bulldozer is replacing the baby carriage throughout Laurel Hill. And soon, only traffic noises will be heard in the backyard where Rodger Gleeson used to sit on summer evenings and play Irish melodies on his little accordian.”</p>
<p>For reasons of which I am still unsure we were among the last families to leave in late 1967 to early 1968. My father so loved the soil he had devotedly fertilized and tended for years that even after we moved to another home in Woodside on 62<sup>nd</sup> Street, we came back to the old house and filled metal garbage cans with that dirt for the new house. Eventually, trees grew and flowers bloomed from that soil in Woodside.</p>
<p>The construction equipment came into Laurel Hill, Queens from 1966 to 1968 and removed a community. They left in its place, an elevated system of highway overpasses and underpasses. Few thoughts return to the displaced whose homes are now buried under the center lane of vast highway pavement. The Irish of Laurel Hill are survivors. They loved life out loud and in color. They celebrated their successful Atlantic crossings and their common culture. They taught their children to appreciate and respect ethnicity. All ethnicities. My dad is gone now and although his neighborhood of Laurel Hill is no more -- the people who came from there, enhanced the character and added value to every part of this City. They still do. We will always be the proud Irish of Laurel Hill, Queens. <strong><em> </em></strong></p>
<p style="text-align: right;"><strong><em>– Kevin Patrick John Gleeson</em></strong></p>
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84701119?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="750" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84701119?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750" class="align-center"/></a></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>News photo by Charles Payne</em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"></p>
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84701087?profile=original" target="_self"><img src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84701087?profile=original" width="290" class="align-center"/></a></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>My mother, Gloria Anne, and her mother, Bridget “Bridie” McGuinness, in front of 50-77 45<sup>th</sup> Street, Laurel Hill. Now under the LIE/BQE.</em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://thenewwildgeese.com/profiles/blogs/the-irish-of-laurel-hill-part-one?xg_source=activity" target="_self">Read PART ONE of this series.</a></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"></p>
The Irish of Laurel Hill (Part One)
tag:thewildgeese.irish,2013-10-02:6442157:BlogPost:53458
2013-10-02T12:00:00.000Z
Kevin Gleeson
https://thewildgeese.irish/profile/KevinGleeson
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84700795?profile=original" target="_self"><img class="align-left" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84700795?profile=RESIZE_480x480" width="450"></img></a> <strong>I recently saw a post on Facebook about the former neighborhood of Laurel Hill, Queens, NY.</strong> The post described how progress for the City destroyed a community. I wanted to jot down some of my memories to speak (for those who no longer can) about a time, a place and a people.</p>
<p>The house I grew up in (50-77 45<sup>th</sup> Street just off Laurel Hill Blvd.)…</p>
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84700795?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="450" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84700795?profile=RESIZE_480x480" width="450" class="align-left"/></a><strong>I recently saw a post on Facebook about the former neighborhood of Laurel Hill, Queens, NY.</strong> The post described how progress for the City destroyed a community. I wanted to jot down some of my memories to speak (for those who no longer can) about a time, a place and a people.</p>
<p>The house I grew up in (50-77 45<sup>th</sup> Street just off Laurel Hill Blvd.) is no longer there. It was destroyed along with hundreds of other homes to finish the Connecting Highway (where the LIE and BQE cross in Queens). The neighborhood, Laurel Hill, is gone now too. From 1966 to 1968, 325 families were forced out. The remaining residents were absorbed into Sunnyside and Maspeth.</p>
<p>Our house was just up the block from the footbridge that spanned the Connecting Highway over to “Sandy Field” and the Old Calvary Cemetery. It was so close to the Newtown Creek that I heard the tug boat horns in my bed at night. It was down the block from Saint Theresa’s School & Church and a five block walk from the 46<sup>th</sup> St (Bliss Street) train station on the 7 line. With names like Flynn, Gallagher, Duffy, Moran, Crowley, Fitzmaurice, and ours, Gleeson; the neighbors were a collection of immigrants from “the other side”.</p>
<p>My dad was a Tipperary man. He was one of six ; five boys and one girl (twin girls died just after birth) born in Lossett, Hollyford, Thurles, Tipperary. They lived eight in a one room house with a central fireplace/stove for cooking and heat. A ladder put through the ceiling provided access to the upstairs room where the five boys slept. They pulled the ladder up after themselves and proceeded to rough-house much to the consternation of my grandmother, Sarah Ryan Gleeson, who was powerless to do anything about it.</p>
<p>Milk produced by their single cow was put in a dairy container and left by the side of the road at the top of the hill leading up from their house. The driver from the “Creamery” passed by daily on horse drawn lorry “wagon”. He would take the pitcher of fresh drawn milk and leave butter and processed milk as “trade”. Rainwater was collected in a barrel from a downspout off the shale roof for cleaning and washing. If you took a walk down the hill in back of the house, through the tree line you emerged in a meadow on the side of a small mountain. If the local bull of the field was not too tense you could run the field and clear the fence on the other side. Just beyond was a cold running stream with submerged milk crates tied to the trees. This constituted the only refrigeration for milk and fresh cooking and drinking water. There being no electricity, the family would entertain themselves by gathering around the fire and either singing and playing Irish songs or reading from the Bible. I dare say that more musicians came from that house than preachers.</p>
<p>My grandfather, Patrick John Gleeson, worked hard to provide for his large family. Six months a year (when the ground was soft) he would farm the local fields; put in the hay, dig potatoes, cut peat bog, and do odd handyman work. In winter, when the ground was too hard, he would leave his family in Sarah’s care and take the ferry over to England where he was a laborer on the roads. Black topping his way across Great Britain with pick, spade, and shovel made him a very strong man. An English friend of mine, Allen Taylor, who grew up in the English countryside remembers the Irish road workers of the time and said “You wouldn’t want to pick a fight with them”. My father, Rodger, being the oldest, was expected to lead his younger brothers in chores. They would be “farmed out” to local landowners to do field and farm work. They might be expected to miss school to help deliver a cow or bring in a neighbor’s hay. The hard, mountainous, and rocky Tipperary soil made for hard backs and strong arms and legs. The boys were expert at catching and killing badgers with traps. Their strong bodies carried over to the football pitch where some of Ireland’s finest hurlers were born. Hurling, or Irish field hockey, was a local sport. The Gleeson boys became some of Tipperary’s best hurlers. The Blue and Gold of Tipp. My father and his brothers Michael and Martin did well enough to earn athletic visa’s to the “States” to play in the “All-Ireland Finals” at Gaelic Park in the Bronx. My dad arrived by the S.S. United States steamship (with a trunk) to a sponsoring uncle in Teaneck, New Jersey. He played goalie for the Tipperary team and promptly joined the U.S. Army to gain citizenship. After serving during the Korean Conflict in Fort Dix, NJ and Germany, my dad settled in the Bronx.</p>
<p>My mother, Gloria Anne McGuinness was born in the Bronx but raised in Scraghe, Tyrone, Northern Ireland and schooled at Enniskillen Convent for Girls. She was raised by Hugh and Alice Gormley, successful sheep herders and landowners in Tyrone, not far from Drumskinny (where Tyrone, Fermanagh, and Donegal share borders). This was a very <i>political</i> area. Hugh was called upon as an “expert” on all sorts of farm animals. He was respected by the English and the Irish alike. Alice served as a lovely stepmother to my mom who had a pet lamb, pony, and plenty of cats and dogs. Although my mom’s mother, Bridget McGuinness (nee McGoldrick of Donegal and Monaghan of Fermanagh and Leitrim) worked in the U.S. as a head nurse; she sent money for my mom’s upkeep. My mom was teased for being an “American” at the convent. She received a “classical” English-European-Continental education with trips to France and England. She learned French, Latin, music, history, art, arithmetic, as well as how to “set” tables, fold napkins, cook, sew, and run a “proper” household. As compared to my father, she was a very refined and dignified young woman. At eighteen, she moved back to the United States to live with her mom (for the first time in 18 years). They lived in the Bronx.</p>
<p>My mom worked in the subscribers service of Blue Cross (the complaint desk) and my dad had stints as a bus driver, landscaper, carpenter before landing a job at First National City Bank (now Citibank) as an office supplies clerk. Dad went to Brooklyn College to study fiduciary taxes, statistics, and accounting to work his way up at the bank. They met at an Irish dance in the city and were married not long after in 1958. After a brief apartment rental stint in Harlem on Riverside Drive they bought their first home in Laurel Hill, Queens. It was an old house that had oil cloth on the floors; a front sun room; four-family attached; basement; built after the war for working middle-class families. It was wood framed with cinder block foundations and walls of lathing and plaster sculpted to moldings in every room. There are plenty still standing. One by one, my father sponsored his brothers into this country. The house in Laurel Hill became the center for many musical and cultural activities. My father played a mean accordion, as did his brother Mike. Uncle Martin played the guitar. The first renditions I ever heard of Bob Dylan, the Stones, and the Monkees were played down in the basement. Neighbors and relatives played spoons, drums, and sang with authenticity about “My Old Irish Home, Far Across the Sea”. The women sang ballads with voices as pure and sincere as the day they were first composed. The musicianship was outstanding. I was encouraged to play accordion at 5, and organ at 9, but I settled on the guitar and have been playing over 40 years (with some success). The jigs and reels could get quite dangerous as “wee young one’s” had to get up off the floor or risk being run over by couples competing in the “Stack of Barley” and the “Four Hand Reel”. The booze would flow and neighbors would share the latest news from “home”. A lot of talk centered on “The Troubles”. </p>
<p>Irish plumbers, electricians, and carpenters would exchange labor to get each others houses set up. The Irish Echo was on the table, the Irish Programme was on the radio, and tea was on the kettle. You were lucky to get a good job in a “Big Company”, or bank, or with the City. My father rented a garage in New Jersey where he kept push lawn mowers, hedge trimmers, rakes, shovels, and pruning shears. On weekends would take the bus over the bridge (George Washington) and work ‘sun up to sun down’ landscaping. I have tremendous empathy for immigrants who work equally hard today and share the same pride in their foods, ethnicity, and culture. At one time, and not so long ago, we Irish were the world’s landscapers.</p>
<p>A picture of John F. Kennedy (some on velvet) and the Pope hung on the wall in every house I ever entered. Holy water fonts were on the walls as well. You could bless yourself as you travelled from room to room. I remember sitting in the kitchen (at 4 years old) while my mother ironed. Suddenly she ran outside to the street. Following her to the street, I saw every housewife the length of the entire block crying and consoling each other. The date was November 22<sup>nd</sup>, 1963.</p>
<p></p>
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84701053?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="750" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84701053?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750" class="align-center"/></a></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>The Gleeson one room house in Tipperary. Out front Sarah Ryan Gleeson and Michael Gleeson (GAA Tipperary Hurler)</em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"></p>
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84701147?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="750" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84701147?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750" class="align-center"/></a></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>(L to R) My brother Martin Gerard , my toothless self, my sister Colleen Marie, and my father Rodger Joseph </em><em>on the 48<sup>th</sup> Street overpass above the old LIE in Laurel Hill, Queens 1965</em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"></p>
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84701206?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="750" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/84701206?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750" class="align-center"/></a></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>Pictured in 1986 are my uncle, godfather, and GAA Tipperary hurling all-star forward Michael Gleeson; Uncle Patrick “Packy” Gleeson; and my father, Rodger Gleeson enjoying a playful moment back in Gaelic Park, Bronx where they began their journey in “The States”.</em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://thenewwildgeese.com/profiles/blogs/the-irish-of-laurel-hill-part-two" target="_self">Read PART TWO of this series.</a></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"></p>