My Hero

Those of you who have been following my blogs might have noticed that my dad doesn’t figure too highly in my childhood reminiscences. This is because he didn’t figure too much in my childhood. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t his fault. When I was still quite young, he joined the merchant navy and was away for long periods. My main memories of him are frequent postcards from far-flung corners of the world. Every 6 months or so, he would come home for 2 weeks, always bearing gifts from exotic locations. Then he was gone again, leaving behind admonishments to look after mom and do well in school. This only lasted for about 8 years, but left a marked impression.

My grandad, on the other hand, was my hero. Although he died when I was six, he left behind a wealth of stories, myths and legends. Not least of which was the mystery of a horseshoe-shaped scar on his head, which he always maintained was from being kicked by a horse. The consensus of opinion though, was that it was caused by a bottle in a bar-room brawl.

Like many Liverpool men of Irish descent in the early part of the 20th century, he decided to seek fame and fortune in the colonies. So 1905 saw him set sail from Liverpool to New York. He arrived, not quite penniless, but with no real game-plan, apart from possibly contacting relations who had made the journey years before. But, as the saying goes. “The best laid plans……..” . One of his first jobs was as a barker, enticing the crowds to view the attractions in Luna Park, at Coney Island. He soon tired of this and headed inland to Chicago, where he worked as a railroad construction worker. From there he moved to Ames, Iowa, again working on the railroad.

About 1915 saw yet another change of direction when he arrived in Pipestone, Minnesota. There, he increased his standing in the community by becoming a school teacher and working as a part-time law enforcement officer. He remained there for several years, until America entered the first world war in 1917.

In a fit of patriotism, he headed north, crossing into Canada, enlisting in the Royal Winnipeg Rifles as part of the Canadian Expeditionary Force. Being quickly shipped out for Belgium, he was promptly gassed at the last battle of Ypres and evacuated back to a Canadian nursing home in Sussex UK. His experience couldn’t have caused him too many problems as, whilst he was convalescing, he met and married grandma and my dad was born in the same nursing home in 1921.