The Cavanaughs - Part V - Easter

Note: This is the fifth post in an ongoing fictional series about the holidays and The Cavanaugh Family.

Pa was always a quiet man but he became even more so during the holiday of Easter. It wasn't until the spring of 1906, when I was eighteen, that I learned why.

Pa had told me my Grandpa had been a miner in Pennsylvania and had died from the black lung. That was nearly all I knew about Grandpa, except that he was also a Molly Maguire. Pa kept no photograph of him and rarely talked about what kind of man he was. Really though, Grandpa died long before I was born and if I ever did think about anyone in the hereafter, Ma was the only one in my thoughts.

It was this particular Easter that Pa, Gracie and myself took a trip to the city of Muskegon. A friend of Pa's lived there and Muskegon was known to have the best Easter parade west of Saginaw. We caught the 2:15 from Ludington and headed south. It was the first time Gracie and I had been on a train and we stared out the window, occasionally catching a glimpse of Lake Michigan, it's grey water full of chop.

An hour later Gracie slept to the rhythm of the rail as Pa pulled out his pipe and fired up. Pa always mused deep things when smoking his pipe and this time was no exception. I prepared myself by getting comfortable in my seat.

"Boy, being that you never care to ask about your grandfather, I'm going to tell you something about him."

"It's not that I ain't curious Pa, it just seems you prefer not to talk about him," I said.

"True," answered Pa, "but you should know what I'm about to tell you, and you should have known it long before now. I was going to tell you years ago, but with your Ma dying and all, I figured it best to wait."

I raised my eyebrows in curiosity.

"It was on Good Friday in 1865. Your grandpa was mining anthracite coal outside of Somerset, Pennsylvania. At the age of forty-two, he was considered an old-man at the trade but he was planning to retire soon—before the black lung caught up with him. Myself, being all of twelve years old, was looking forward to seeing more of him—and without all that black dust covering every inch of his body. Your grandfather was a hard worker, he was indeed that."

I nodded.

"An immigrant who faked his understanding of the English language—so he could work—misunderstood orders and mined the wrong vein. The mine flooded-out with water and caught Grandpa and six others in the chute. The men were trapped and no one could get to them, although it wasn't due to lack of effort. The whole damn town, including your grandma and myself, waited at the mouth of the mine for three days. Three days they tried to dig them out. On Easter Sunday they finally broke through and found your grandpa and the six others, but it was far too late. From the writing on the wall of the cave, we knew they had lived until late Saturday night. The messages they wrote, as you can imagine, were of desperation and repentance."

"Pa, I'm sorry. I had no idea," I said.

"Tis' okay my boy. Your Grandma decided she would be damned if she raised her only son to become a miner and suffer a similar fate, so we moved here to Michigan and started over. It was the best decision she ever made."

"So we both lost a parent at a young age," I said.

Pa nodded as he turned and gazed out the window. Our conversation was over as quickly as it had started. Shortly thereafter, I also succumbed to the rhythm of the train and woke much later to a whistle that announced our arrival into Muskegon Depot.

Saturday was very exciting, especially for Gracie. I sat with her on a curb at Main Street and watched as the parade passed us by. We both managed to catch some genuine salt-water taffy thrown from the Mayor's wagon. We laughed as the clowns brought up the rear of the parade, carrying shovels, their task being to collect the horses' manure.

On Sunday we all dressed in our best clothes and went to church. I really didn't want to go and was sure Pa didn't either. I hadn't been to a church since Ma died but Pa's friend, being the god-fearing man he was, insisted we go. Being guests in his home, it was the only natural and obliging thing to do. Of course the sermon was about Easter and the resurrection of Christ. I had heard the story when I was younger but had failed to grasp it as I do now, my mind being more mature.

As we turned a page in the good book, I looked over at Pa. He was in a far away place, his eyes distant and his mind turning. I can only speculate what he was thinking but it was probably about his Pa and the other six miners and how through the eyes of an onlooking twelve year old, their salvation out of that mine on Easter Sunday should have been as simple as rolling away a stone and seeing them emerge into the light.

FiN.

The Cavanaughs - Part IV - St. Patrick's Day

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.

The Cavanaughs - Part III - Valentines Day

Note: This is the third post in an ongoing fictional series about the holidays and The Cavanaugh Family.

When I was fifteen years old, back in 1903, my heart was aching for a girl named Geraldine. Her parents owned the mercantile in town and I first laid eyes on her when she delivered some goods to our cabin. You see, after Ma had died of the fever, the town folk took it upon themselves to donate clothing and linen to our family and Geraldine was one of the few who did the delivering. She was a sweet thing to be sure. Her locks were strawberry blond and her face was speckled with freckles. What got me the most—and still does to this day—were her eyes. They were of a kind, gentle nature, as down-to-earth and brown as the fertile Michigan soil. I was sure she must have been a bunny rabbit in her life previous.

Geraldine knew I liked her and I hoped she liked me too. When Valentine's Day came around I knew I had to do something special... but had no idea what. I had no money and really, no special talents. I remember wishing Ma was still alive to help me with my dilemma as she would have known what to do alright.

The day before the holiday Pa and I were chopping wood behind the cabin. I asked Pa how he and Ma had come to meet.

"I was your age and growing up in Keogh," Pa said. "Your Ma's family lived at the next farm over."

"And you took a like'n to her and courted her?"

"And then we married," Pa said with a nod.

"But did you do something to win her heart?" I asked, "Ya know, something romantic and all?"

Pa stopped chopping and tilted his head in thought.

"I don't reckon I did. It just came natural, like we was meant to be."

I shook my head in dismay. It wasn't the answer I was hoping to hear.

"I wish things were that easy for Geraldine and me." I said.

"Listen boy, love is a many splintered thing." Pa's voice was almost profound. "Your gal ain't from a family like ours. She's got all those comforts and she's got a family with money. Now that doesn't mean she's not a good person, far be it. Her folks seem like good people. You just need to do something from your heart and hope she takes it with a lovin' smile. If she does, you'll know it for sure. If not, well, she ain't worth the time it takes to pass the day."

Not only was Pa's lament the most I ever heard him talk at one time, it was also some of the best advice he had ever given me—besides not standing-up in a canoe.

That night Ma came to me in a dream. She had her hands cupped to her chest and was smiling at me like the angel I knew she had become.

"The key to love is not in money or beauty," She said, "The key to love is in the morning dew and the afternoon sun."

And then she was gone.

When I awoke I could tell I had been crying in my sleep. I was sad Ma had left so quickly but at the same time I was excited because I knew exactly what I needed to do. I pulled open my top dresser drawer and rummaged through the items. I pulled out an old skeleton key I had found while walking to school back in the fall. I cleaned and polished it the best I could and slid it over a leather shoe lace.

"Gonna eat some breakfast?" Pa asked while flipping some bacon strips.

"Not today Pa, I'm running late for school. I can't miss Geraldine on the way," I answered.

"So what you going to do about her?"

"I got it all figured up," I said heading for the door. As it was closing, I turned and gave Pa, for the first time ever, a sly wink. It was the same kind of wink he was so prone of doing over the years and I think it amused him.

I caught up with Geraldine about a mile from school. I relieved her from carrying her books and beamed a smile at her.

"I got ya something for Valentine's Day Geraldine."

"No you didn't." She said coyly.

I pulled the shoe lace and key from my pocket and gave it to her.

"And just what is this?" She wondered aloud, "A rusty old key on a strap of hide?"

"It's not just a rusty old key," I answered, "It's the key to my heart."

Geraldine stopped walking in mid-step.

"Is it now?" she said with a curious smile.

"And it's all yours," I said proudly.

She put the necklace over her head and tucked the key under her blouse.

"Well looky there," she said with that lovin' smile Pa had told me about, "it just happens to keep itself right next to my heart."

With our hands clasped and swinging with joy, we continued our walk to school.

Later that day, during recess, Geraldine and I sat outside the schoolhouse on a patch of lazy grass. We watched the younger ones jump rope and play hop-scotch. We laughed as we watched and laughed even more when one of us caught the other stealing a glance. It was a beautiful day for a February in northern Michigan. If there was a chill in the air, I didn't notice, for all I could feel was the dreamy warmth of that afternoon sun, that warmth Ma had told me about in my dream.

FiN.

The Cavanaughs - Part II - Christmas

Note: This is the second post in an ongoing fictional series about the holidays and The Cavanaugh Family.

It was 1901 and Christmastime. I was all of thirteen years old and my sister, little Gracie, was going to be six at the turn of the year. It was our first Christmas without Ma as she died the previous January from Scarlet fever. The town doctor came out to our cabin once a week to check on Ma but there wasn't much he could do for her with what he didn't have. The doctor told Pa we should take Ma to the city but Pa said he could take care of her. Looking back, I know Pa blamed himself for Ma's early demise but really he did the best he could. For many years later on, I blamed God.

Yes'm, it was a bad start to the year. Because of the fear of catching the fever, we had to burn everything in our cabin that could hide the illness. All our linens; clothes, blankets -even that big bear rug -were cast to ashes. When all was done we were living in a shell of a cabin with only the pot-belly stove, some pots and pans and a few dishes. I think when Ma saw what we did to avoid the fever -at her expense no less -she died from a broken heart. After Ma passed the local folk kept bringing us new clothes and bedding from the mercantile in town. Pa accepted them as graciously as he could by forcing himself to swallow his pride. By summertime we had more clothes than we knew what to do with; the town folk knew Gracie and I were growing and they brought us clothes that were a few sizes too big for us, so that we could grow into them.

Anyway, it was the day before Christmas and snow had fallen all afternoon. Pa had rode our horse into town, only telling Gracie and me that he would be back by nightfall. It was the first year we had no tree to decorate. I supposed the tradition of going with Pa into the woods to cut down a tree for the holiday died with Ma. Heck, even if we had a tree we had nothin' to put on it.

Gracie and I bundled ourselves up and played in the snow. We started building snowmen in front of the cabin. Now I don't remember actually planning for our labors to become a snow-family, but that's what happened. The largest snowman was of course Pa, decorated with his favorite hunting hat and holding his Winchester rifle that I had taken down from the hearth. Gracie built her snow-girl in the likeness of herself, complete with a new bonnet that Gracie herself hadn't even worn yet. I built myself in snow, my favorite knit hat and flannel shirt adorning the flakes. Gracie and I made Ma last. One of her twig-arms was holding a kettle while her other twig-arm held our only family photograph... next to her heart. We braided some pine switches together and made a halo for the top of her head.

I was about to heat up some rabbit stew when Pa came in the door. Without saying a word he pulled up three of the kitchen chairs and faced them out the front window of the cabin. Gracie and I sat on each side of Pa and with his arms around us we stared at the silhouette of our snow-family twinkling in the moonlight. I'm not sure how long we sat there but it seemed like most of the night. I knew it best not to look at Pa but I could hear him sniffle every now and then. Gracie fell asleep and Pa carried her to bed while I heated the stew, awaiting our silent dinner.

When morning came I woke Gracie and told her -for Pa's sake -not to be upset if Santa hadn't seen our snow-family and had passed us by. We came down from the loft and saw the same room we left the night before. Gracie looked at me with pathetic eyes and I shook my head in sympathy. Gracie then looked beyond me and out the front window. Her eyes lit up and her frown turned to a beaming smile. I turned and looked out the window. My snowman was holding a brand new Remington .22 caliber rifle and in front of Gracie's was a red wagon with a sled atop it. Ma's twig-arms were no longer holding the kettle and photograph. No, her twig-arms were now lower and touching Gracie's bonnet and my flannel shirt.

Gracie let out a little scream of joy and ran into the bedroom where Pa was sleeping. The scream woke Pa but he was still half aslumber.

"Santa came Pa! Santa came!" Gracie shouted.

"Did he now?" Pa said while wiping his face awake, "Well let's go see what he brought."

Pa stood up from the bed in his long-johns and winked at me as he trailed Gracie into the front room.

With a smile on my face I turned to follow Pa... but not before seeing the corner of our only family photograph tucked beneath his pillow.

FiN.

The Cavanaughs - Part I - Thanksgiving

Note: This is the first post in an ongoing fictional series about the holidays and The Cavanaugh Family.  

This happened back in 1894, although I remember it like it was yesterday. I was 6 years old and my family lived in a cabin in the north of Michigan. A few days before Thanksgiving, Pa set-out to hunt a turkey for our special dinner. He took his double-barreled Winchester down from it's place over the hearth, and I held the rifle as Pa bundled himself up with layers of flannel and fur. Ma wrapped a scarf around his face, all the way up to his eyeballs. 

"Can I go with you Pa? I begged, "Please?"

"Next year boy. You're too young and it's too cold outside—you'll turn to ice."

I'm not sure if Pa knew it or not, but it was the same answer he gave me the year before.

The door to the cabin opened and Pa stepped outside, the howling wind and chill greeted him. I watched as he disappeared into the woods, surely to return with a huge tom that Ma would cook. The leftovers would feed us for a week.

A good thirty-minutes later we heard the echo of gunshots. First there was one, followed quickly by another. After a pause, two more shots rang out... and then another two. Ma had a concerned look on her face. Pa was a good shot, and no turkey needed to be fired on six times with him behind the stock.

Twenty minutes later Pa came out of the woods—empty handed. He opened the cabin door.

"Boy, come with me, and hitch up the horse with the flat-sled."

I knew it best not to ask why and really, I was just excited to finally be a part of something, whatever it was.

Ma's concerned look caught Pa in the doorway. He gave her a wink as he turned around, closing the door behind him.

I sat on the horse and hung onto Pa tightly, as the sled dragged behind us. We made our way through the woods and down the hill of the gorge into the clearing. 

Then, there it was, laying motionless with buzzards already circling overhead.

"That's one huge turkey Pa."

"Ain't no turkey. That there is the biggest, meanest black bear this side of Mackinaw."

"Why'd ya kill it Pa?"

"Had to. He charged me. Son-of-bitch was rabid—he should've been hibernating."

"Are rabid bears good eatin' Pa?"

"Don't reckon so, lest you want to go mad."

We tied ropes around the bear and had the horse pull it onto the flat-sled. Pa and I rode back to the cabin in silence, our rabid, dead bear in tow.

Later that day, Pa went back into the woods and got himself a nice tom with one shot.

Thanksgiving came and we had a feast that couldn't be beat—turkey with fresh maple syrup is heaven sent. The evening was spent sitting around the fire, Pa cleaning his rifle, Ma knitting baby boots.

I sat on the floor, drawing on paper with charcoal. Underneath me was a huge bear rug... a bear rug that had a scowl on it's face that proved it was the biggest, meanest black bear this side of Mackinaw.

FiN.