Tales of the South Side: My Favorite Year 1959! That Was Some Birthday!

Seven year old Pat Hickey tickles the genuine whiskers of El Jefe in the living room of Granpa Hickey's bungalow at 7535 S. Marshfield west of Ashland in the Highlands of Gresham.

Yep, I seem to recall the bearded presence of the future dictator of Red Cuba, when my uncle Bart brought him home to meet the family on November 8, 1959.  I had just turned seven at 10 AM and my Dad was at one of his three jobs ( Illinois Medicals Psychiatric Center, The Beverly Theatre, or Home for the Blind) - Ike was about to part the White House, the White Sox won the American League Pennant, but the LA Dodgers the Series, I was in third grade, JFK was a Catholic running for President and Castro visited the US.in April of 1959.  Castro went to zoos and ranches in NYC, DC, Texas and Canada and generally hung around with Chicago Tribune's Latin Affairs Correspondent Jules Dubois.

Dubois had been a Panama suit and hat reporter in Panama and later became an Army spook during WWII.  After the war, Dubois worked to overthrow governments in Central America and also hated Cuban dictator and Mafia puppet Batista.

My Uncle Bart was the tallest of my Dad's six brothers and as Mary Garvey once said, 'That Bart is strictly MGM.'  Bart had been a Master Sergeant in the Marines during the Korean War and afterward a Stationary Engineer.  I am given to understand that during one of his not too infrequent visits to Mr. Kelly's that Uncle Bart pal'd up with Col Jules Dubois.

The Colonel and Bart hit it off and met up for beers periodically.   After the Sox lost the World Series, the two ran into one another and met for steaks at Stockyard Inn.  Dubois told Bart about the guy who had kicked the Batista and the Guineas out of Cuba in January and had charmed the britches off of the Manhattan swells and the likes of Lenny Bernstein.  Castro had visited the States on his own, in full beard and Army fatigues many times.

Uncle Bart cried Bullshit.

The Colonel protested, " On the Square, Batty.  Want to meet him?"

It was arranged.  On November 8th 1959, Fidel Castro wiped his feet on the mud mat in the hall of the Hickey Manse on Marshfield, right here in Chicago.

All of my cousins were there but Eddie who was a freshman football player at Notre Dame and it was my birthday besides, which meant cake.  The cake was from the bakery on 79th & Laflin and it was okay but for the coconut flakes, which I have hated with a generous passion - Lo these many years. Cutting off perfectly good frosting because of coconut flakes is just wrong.  Most of the cousins did not seem to mind and swallowed the stuff without so much as a blink.

In walked Uncle Bart and two guys - one a geezer and the other dressed in Army clothes and beard.  "Split-tails and goofs, quiet down.  This is Col. Jules Dubois and he's a pal and this is his pal Fidel. Fellas, this is my brother Pat's boy -Patsheen -he's what? Sixteen?"

"Seven, Uncle Bart,"  I corrected.

" Did I ask you, wise guy?  Close your chow hole and give your ears a chance until you're talked to . . .it's his Birthday, Chief. What did you bring for the kid?"

Into the excitement and up from the basement came FATHER - Granpa Hickey, formerly of Crinnie Hill, Castleisland County Kerry, a founder of Engineers Local 399, father of seven boys and six girls and a pioneering road rage, unfiltered vocalist. " Bateen, who's yer pals, so?  I heard ye come in the front door when the back way is good enough for Monsignor McMahon.  Hello, I'm Lawrence Hickey, Bart's father, like the story."   A Kerryman pronounces Bart as Bayart, but said fast and says 'Like the Shhtory for no good reason. BTW - Bat is short for Bart, which is short for Bartholomew, and it's diminutive in Irish would be Bat-een, like I am Padsheen, or Patsheen.

GranPa took in a full eyeful of Fidel Castro.

"Fwhat are you doing here in my living room dressed up like Tom Barry's Flying Column?" quizzed the original Crinnie Rage-aholic.

Uncle Bart answer, " He's Castro, Father (with undiminished irony) - the guy on Time Magazine from Cuba."

"That's near Florida, so?"

It was agreed.

Hands were shook all around and Fidel Castro was seated at the dining room table next to the Chicago Pater Familias - " How's things with that crook Batista off in the jungles somewhere?"

Col. Jules Dubois translated for the English challenged revolutionist - Castro lit up like one of his virgin-thighed rolled cheroots - " Ah Bueno, Senor Hickey! Muy bien! Las personas que saquearon mi pueblo para este año madres Mañana no será bienvenido en Cuba. Al igual que los Medias Blancas y la Sra. Rigné, Ha, ha, ha! "

" So, that's the way of it."

On it went, I suppose, in this manner until the large bag was opened with my birthday present from the liberator and future dictator of Cuba.  We all got beards and imitation Army caps made like those paper painter's caps.  Some haul, huh?

Uncle Bart decided to put El Jefe on the spot, " That's all you got for the Kid? It's his birthday for Crissakes.  Dig, Pepe, and come up with some folding money for the little guy." This was dutifully translated by Col. Dubois.

Castro feined a smile of resignation and oiled these words in his native tongue through his gums and whiskers, "What is this?  A Capitalist trap?  You Yankees!  Very Well, here is five Gringo dollars for your homely nephew with the gapped teeth. I am out of here!  Say good-bye to your foul tempered Irish father. Basta Ya!, Yanquis!"

Within a few months,  Time Magazine's Boy Castro was locked in an embrace with Soviet Communism that still breathes lustily today.

I got to tickle the real whiskers of Castro and pocket a 1959 value 5-$pot from a Commie and never really caught the desire to cut sugar cane.

The Babe Leaped In Her Womb - Older Children of Men Get It

“People dispute the idea that they have a nature, given to them by their bodily identity, that serves as a defining element of the human being,” he said. “They deny their nature and decide that it is not something previously given to them, but that they make it for themselves.” Pope Benedict XVI

We had a very nice Mass this morning.  Babies and toddlers were sporting their Christmas togs and jabbering all through the service, which to my old hairy ears is what going to Mass is all about. They do not, as some of my more devout friends and neighbors hold, distract from the sanctity of the Mass, but adorn it.

I am a baby sap from a very long line of Hickey males, who delight in the innocent and encourage the cacophony.  My Grandfather, father and many uncles were like minded "children of men."  Little guys of three were tapped on the shoulders by an Uncle Bud, Mike, Pat, Jack Bart, Sy, or Donnie during Mass with nod to celebrant in all of his liturgical splendor and asked, ' Hey, Pad'jeen. . . How about that guy's dress up there?  What gives with that?  Thinks he's Milton Berle?'

There followed a flow of questions from the targeted cherub concerning the guy up on the altar getting all the attention -" Fa'r Garrady got a dress on, Mom!  Why he got dress, Mom?  Mom, He wear'nah dress!"  There followed good-womanly remonstrances to 'Hush, Clam up, Let it Alone, Pay Attention!'

It is good to go to Mass.  Kids fiddle with Golden books, grab toys from siblings, reach for whatever the hell they see and want but have yet to verbally identify, punch, shove, hug, nap and eat dry Cheerios like they were truffles.  These babies will soon conform into devout little ladies and gents of the pew -midget Moms and Dads and will also Hush, Knock It Off and quiet the human voice and heart at its best.

Suffer the older Squares and and Biddies, but  revel in the reason for God's Being -babies.  God's Will, as understood in Paradise Lost is the promise of Life and that is tied to love between a guy and girl that allows babies to join us in adoring Him.

After Mass, I read the papers.  No joy there.  One goof in the Tribune decided to mock Pope Benedict's Christmas message. That is because the Pope refuses to roll over on what constitutes a marriage - a man marries a woman and go half's on babies.  The goof in the Tribune is as doctrinaire as we Catholics, but his faith is grounded not on rock but on paper - Dewey's thoughts, Windy City Times, Boss Cosgrove's e-mails and Eychaner's currency.

Today's gospel which I had absolutely no trouble hearing above the jabber of many babies and toddlers, is very clear in its language - Mary is expecting a child.  A Babe is leaping in Mary's womb, just like all three of my babies, aged 17-26 in 2012, battered and bumped and treated my wife Mary's innards like an inflatable play zone for the better part of her 'confinement.'

Christmas would not be much with this Immaculate Conception.

Luke 1: 39 - 45 39 In those days Mary arose and went with haste into the hill country, to a city of Judah, 40 and she entered the house of Zechari'ah and greeted Elizabeth. 41 And when Elizabeth heard the greeting of Mary, the babe leaped in her womb; and Elizabeth was filled with the Holy Spirit 42 and she exclaimed with a loud cry, "Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb! 43 And why is this granted me, that the mother of my Lord should come to me? 44 For behold, when the voice of your greeting came to my ears, the babe in my womb leaped for joy. 45 And blessed is she who believed that there would be a fulfilment of what was spoken to her from the Lord."

"

The Back Door "Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" When not a Blasphemous Curse

My Grandfather, Lawrence Hickey, inspired a great respect for the power majesty and magically entertaining value of words in me and all of my cousins.

He was a genuine County Kerry Bogman - a Culchie.* Despite the many years here in America he never lost a bit of the Kerry Mountain Bog. A Culchie is said to be any rural rube in Ireland. There is a town in Mayo called Coillte Mach( Culchie Ma) that means woodlands or forest. Some hold that to be the root of Culchie. I believe that it comes from another Irish phrase meaning the "back door." In Irish the term cúl na tí mean 'back of the house' as friends and loved ones did and continue to enter one's home using the back door. My grandmother was cúl na tí girl when she arrived here in Chicago in 1912 speaking only Irish. Nora Sullivan worked as a cook's helper and cook for the wealthy on Prairie Avenue in Chicago. She entered the homes of the Rich Yanks by the back door.

Thus; cúl na tí culture is a paradox - friends and family are associated with the back door and servitude/humility/social class as well.

South Side Irish in my neighborhood of Beverly/Morgan Park/Mount Greenwood continue the cúl na tí culture. No one comes to my front door but deliverymen, precinct captains, and African American Church Folks.

Yesterday, was the Feast of the Holy Family and it put me in mind of the cúl na tí culture and Granpa Hickey. One of my earliest memories is the sound of his Kerry Yowl intensifying with each step closer to our Georgian at 75th & Wood as he marched across the unpaved alley from Marshfield and 75th Street - "Jesus, Mary and Joseph!! Jesus, Mary and Joseph!!!! Mrs. Hickey ( he never called my Mom Virginia or Ginny) Mrs. Hickey Your Bastard of a Husband!!! Is He Home??????" These shouts and imprecations were repeated like monastic plain-song until he tossed open the alley gate and thundered into our yard. The Man had issues - he was a Rage-a-holic before it got on the map. Thirteen children might have had some factor in that issue.

My father had been accused, no doubt by one of his six brothers, to have 'borrowed' a push wheel lawn mower. pipe wrench, assortment of batteries, or good nails from his FATHER's personal horde of items that he had stolen from the Sanitary District.

My Dad worked three jobs and was often absent during Grandpa Hickey's wildly colorful visits to my mother.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph were not so much the Holy Family to us all as they were elements of a malediction poured down on the head of my father. "That Little Bastard!!! Mrs. Hickey!!!! Has My Shtep Ladder from Cook County Hospital!!!! I am painting my sills!!! I am not painting my sills, because that Little Bastard has my Shtep Ladder!!!! Jesus Mary and Joseph open the garage!!!"

No Shtep Ladder ( Step ladder in common vernacular). Our Sameday Visitor would eventually calm down, have tea, and tease the spalpeens ( my brother and I),and then head off to pull the tongue out of the son ( Bart, Jack, Donny, or Sy) who had falsely accused my father - who had in fact taken the shtep ladder, used it and given it to another brother.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph reminds me of the Holy Family and also of the odd cúl na tí culture we Chicago Irish possess - one that somehow soothes with a shout. It is a paradox and fun to watch.

Roman Catholic religious festival falling on the first Sunday after Christmas. Although major feast days dedicated to each member of the Holy Family—Jesus, Mary, and Joseph—also exist, the Feast of the Holy Family commemorates their life together and the celebration focuses on religious family life. Because of the flight of the Holy Family into Egypt, a feast for the Holy Family has been observed by the Copts from early times. In Western Christianity, however, a cult of veneration for the Holy Family as a group, rather than as individuals, did not arise until the 17th century and was not officially recognized until the feast day was instituted in 1921. Originally celebrated on the Sunday after Epiphany (January 6), the Feast of the Holy Family was moved to the Sunday after Christmas in 1969, bringing it within the Christmas season.

* culchie is a term sometimes used to describe a person from rural Ireland. It usually has the pejorative sense of "country bumpkin", but is also reclaimed by some proud of their rural origin, and may be used by either side in banter between town and country people. However it is often derogatory, used by those living in Dublin for anyone who lives "outside of the pale" or "down the country". In large cities such as Cork, Limerick and Galway, the term may be sometimes allocated to anybody who comes from outside an urban area. The same is true for Belfast and the rest of Northern Ireland, where the term is also popular.[1] Generally the term is more humorous than abusive in rural areas, as opposed to the more offensive term "muck-savage". Culchies are seen as simple people who have a fairly direct manner, physical strength, limited social skills, and a rich accent.[citation needed]