Note: This is the fourth post in an ongoing fictional series about the holidays and The Cavanaugh Family.
I turned sixteen years old on March 6th, 1904. Geraldine and I were still going steady and happy as larks. For my birthday she gave me a genuine Swiss Army knife—with my name engraved on it. Pa handed me down one of his Winchester rifles as a gift—the stock also with my name engraved on it. I then had two rifles (and a genuine Swiss Army knife) and was becoming a fairly good shot.
Shortly after my birthday Pa and I double-backed on our horse into town. It was Saint Patrick's Day and time for two men to share a beer together. My sister, little Gracie—who wasn't so little anymore—stayed home. She had grown use to taking over our dead Ma's housework, even at the tender age of ten.
Pa and I walked into The Wagon Wheel. It was an old tavern, dark and loud, filled with smoke. Pa ordered two pints of stout, Guinness it was, and we took a seat at a small table in the corner.
Pa raised his glass and proposed a toast:
"May we live the life we love and love the life we live. If we can't do that, may God forgive us—while we sit with the devil, drinking Guinness."
The beer was warm but smooth. The foam stuck to my upper lip and tickled. Pa leaned back in the chair and pulled out his pipe and pouch. He started to fill his Briar.
"Boy, you know we Cavanaughs are Irish. Your Grandpa—my Pa—came over to the States in 1830 from County Wexford. He settled in Philadelphia, the city where I was born."
"I know we're Irish Pa, but I didn't know all that," I said.
"It's true. Your Grandpa was a miner but above that, a Molly Maguire." Pa lit his pipe and nursed the embers with his breath.
"What's a Molly Maguire?" I asked.
"It was an Irish group that fought for miner's rights. Working conditions in the mines were poor. The Mollies sometimes had to do extreme things in order to make things better. Never let anyone tell you The Mollies were a bunch of ninnies—bastards perhaps, but decent bastards at that."
"Yes Pa."
"We Irish also have a strong temper. You've probably sensed it in yourself already. It's important to have a leash on it, understand?"
"Yes Pa."
Pa got up and went to the bar and ordered another beer for himself. Mine was still half-full. Pa returned and pulled his chair closer. He leaned forward, his elbows on the table.
"Boy, remember three weeks ago when I rode our horse to town but had to walk home because she'd gotten sick?"
"Yes Pa, you said she'd come down with Colic and was at Mr. Newman's ranch heal'n."
"Only half true," Pa confessed. "Do you see that loud English bloke at the bar? The one in the duster wearing the black Stetson? He's an old friend, well, use to be. For a prank that which he thought was funny, he fed our horse salt-water while I was in here drinking with Mr. Newman."
"Salt water?"
"Yes boy. Mostly harmless in the long-run but it'll make your steed sick as a loon for a day or so."
"That wasn't very nice of him," I said.
"No, it wasn't. I had every intention, or rather my Irish temper did, to knock him silly. The walk home cured me of that. In fact, I chose to walk home instead of borrowing one of Newman's horses. I had to think things over before my temper got the best of me. I'm actually glad things didn't turn to fisticuffs."
"I'll beat him into his sleep!" I found myself saying. I suppose it was the liquid-courage catching up with me.
"No need boy. His palomino is outside and you're going to ride her home."
"What?" I asked with huge doubt, "He'll go to the sheriff and says it's stolen. Last I heard horse-thieving is still big trouble."
"The sheriff already knows what's in the kettle. He thinks it's a fair enough retribute for what that shyster did to our horse. In fact, the sheriff told most everyone in town not to give the bastard a ride out to our place when he's told where his horse is at. He's going to walk there—just like I had to."
A grin arched across my face. I was feeling tingly and happy—even sly. Pa brought me another beer and I drank it down much faster than the first. I was excited.
Less than an hour later, Pa and I were riding two horses, me on a palomino, up and over the prairies as the sun fell behind the hills. We were both drunk and our voices echoed across the glen as we sang the Irish song Patriot Game together.
My name is O'Hanlon, and I've just turned sixteen.
My home is in Monaghan, and where I was weaned
I learned all my life cruel England's to blame,
So now I am part of the patriot game!
When the song ended, we laughed and started singing it all over again—all the way home.
That night I fell asleep with a grin on my face and an Irish anthem filling my ears. A beautiful palomino grazed outside my window.
And Pa was the best father—and Irishman—on earth.
FiN.
