The beginning . . . .

Despite having the last name of Murphy, three grandparents with heavy Irish accents and growing up in the predominantly Irish Southside of Chicago – – or maybe because of it  – – I never had a desire to visit Ireland. But twenty years ago, after being required to accompanying my elderly mother on a trip to the home of our ancestors, much to my surprise, I fell in love with the “old country” the first time I set foot on its soil.

It was a feeling deep in my gut . . a feeling like I had finally come “home.”  I don’t know if it was the crazy two-hour drive on the wrong side of the road from Shannon to Killarney with my mother in the back seat frantically and repeatedly telling me to move to the other side of the road and my daughter and me in the front seat terrified yet thrilled to be navigating the narrow twisting roads in the dark or . . . .  if it was it the warm-hearted “welcome home!” greeting we received when we stopped in a little pub for directions.  Or maybe it was waking up the first morning to the wonderful and multiple shades of green outside my window and the sounds of gentle laughter coming from the kitchen below of our B & B.

All I know is that I was smitten.  No, more than that.  Time spent in Ireland seems to rejuvenate my soul.  Since that first visit, I’ve traveled Ireland numerous times: with family, with friends and with colleagues from work; but with each visit I always make sure I have time to be alone.  I need that time alone to  allow the tranquility of the countryside, the softness in the air, the mist from the sea, the laughter from people to soak into my pores, my soul, my psyche.

Well, now that I’ve declared my undying attachment to that little island, I’d like to share with you just a few of the places I like to go and things I like to do while visiting the land with which I’ve become enamored.   For what it’s worth here they are:

Dublin is an interesting city and full of historic sites, but I don’t usually go to Ireland to visit another big city.  I go to Ireland to soak in its amazing beauty, interact with its warm-hearted, witty people, reveal in its sometime lively and sometimes haunting traditional music and, of course, to visit its pubs.  In my experience, these are best found in the west of Ireland.

Two of my grandparents came from the west of Ireland and that’s where many of our relatives still live; so that  may have something to do with my love affair with the west coast of that lovely country.

After leaving Dublin, my first stop is usually Doolin in County Clare. I am sure that the Cliffs of Moher and driving through the Burren are already on your list of things to do. But one of the towns I would not miss is Doolin.  Known for the traditional music played in the local pubs, Doolin is situated right on the ocean. If you visit Doolin walk to the end of the road (the road that passes in front of the pubs) and stroll along the coastline. It’s rugged and beautiful. If you enjoy horseback riding nothing is more invigorating than an early morning a ride on the beach. There also are  a lot of nice hiking trails near Doolin. An exceptionally beautiful 12 mile hiking trail is right on the ocean between the Cliffs of Moher and Doolin.  If you are up for a long hike, start at the Cliffs and hike to Doolin and you’ll be rewarded with some of the most outstanding views in Ireland  – – with the sea on one side and the lush countryside on the other.  Then when you arrive in Doolin you can recuperate with a bite to eat, a pint, and maybe a little traditional music, at one of the many pubs.

Gus O’Connor’s Pub – located on the picturesque main street – is one of the most famous.  They offer traditional Irish music on the weekends and is a place you can bring the entire family. Children are welcome in pubs throughout Ireland. I would say that the pubs are for meals as well as a little libation. 😉

When in Doolin, we usually stay at the Seaview House B&B; its well situated on a hill that that overlooks the town and the sea. But there are many well-run B & B’s in Doolin and most within walking distance of the pubs.

The Aran Islands are off the coast of Claire and Limerick. In fact, one of the ferries leaves from Doolin. I believe another ferry leaves from Galway Bay.  If you go to the Aran Islands, pick a calm day as the crossing can be pretty rough if the seas are up— although it’s not a long journey.

I love the Aran Islands. They’re probably my most favorite place on earth. To me, the Irish  phrase “a terrible beauty” comes from what you see there.  It must be the rockiest place on earth; the islands are made up of limestone. There is mile after mile of stone walls and that, combined with the limestone and greenery is breathtakingly beautiful.

I visit the Aran Islands to hike, walk, or bike and take in the fresh sea air.  (Be warned, it’s quite hilly).  The largest of the Aran Islands and the one most visited is Inishmore (the two smaller ones are Inishmaan and Inisheer).  There are only about 1200 people who live year round on Inishmore and most speak Irish (but are fluent in English too).

You can also take a ride in one of those horse-drawn carriages with the tour guide who will take you to its many Celtic monuments and churches.  Before heading back to the mainland, stop for a pint, fish and chips and traditional music in one of their pubs.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . to be continued…………………………………..

My husband and I have a favorite neighborhood restaurant we like to visit.  It’s the kind of warm, homey place where everyone knows everyone else.  If they don’t know you, they know your neighbor, or your cousin, or your brother, or your first grade teacher. Start talking to the people in the next booth and there always seems to be a connection, sometimes it even goes back to the “old neighborhoods” or even the “old country.”  Somehow there is always a connection.

We go there so frequently; our kids like to joke that we have booth # 1 at Fox’s Beverly Pub.  Fox’s is a modest little restaurant on the Southside of Chicago that that is known for (despite billing itself as an “Irish American” Restaurant) its pizza.   The inside is a welcoming blend of exposed brink, well worn old wooden booths and dim lights.  Most of the wait staff has been there for years, most are related to one another and come from the neighborhood.    A small bar at one end is home to a small group of regulars. But in fact, the whole place is usually full of regulars.   Which is why we, like so many others, enjoy going there.

Local lore has it that Fox’s started out as a speakeasy during prohibition.   I’ve never been able to confirm that – but what I can confirm is that it was orginally owned by Al Compone’s sister …. reportedly as a deli.

Sometime in the 50’s or 60’s, Tom and Therese Fox’s owned a pizza place originally located on west 99^th street close to the Rock Island railway station.   Tom, who grew up at 71^st and May, was an apprentice electrician when he and his wife moved to the Beverly neighborhood in 1962.  In 1963 they brought and took over small carry-out pizza business at 9908 Walden Parkway.

At the same time, Al Capone’s youngest sister, Mafalda Capone Maritote, owned and operated the deli at 9956 South Western. In a story published in the Chicago Tribune on November 6, 1994 and written by Scott Broden, Tom Fox related that he and his wife knew Capone’s sister and would sometimes swap take out orders with her.

“On Sunday nights she’d call us up for a couple of pizzas, and she’d send us a dozen corned beef sandwiches,’ he said. Pizza and sandwiches had been traded for a couple of years when, in 1965, Fox got a phone call from Maritote.  ‘She said she wanted out and asked us to take over,’ Fox explained. ‘I said I couldn’t handle that much business, and she said, `Don’t worry, I’ll make you an offer you can’t refuse.’[1]

Eventually Tom and Therese transformed the deli into a little restaurant and carry-out pizza place and renamed it Fox’s Beverly Pub.   They’ve subsequently opened several more restaurants, but to the people of Beverly there is only one Fox’s and it sits on the northwest corner of 100^th and Western.

People who have raised their families and moved out of the area still return often for the pizza and, I believe, to see who they will run into.  Emily and Chris relocated downtown several years ago but are frequent visitors as are Holly and Bob who moved to the suburbs but can be seen eating there almost as often as the locals.  Some of the more loyal regulars even have gotten their name on Fox’s marquee when they died.  “We will miss you, Roger!” was one sad farewell posted.

Memories of times spent there often go back years.  I remember going to Fox’s during the blizzard in 1979.  The streets were impassable with the 29 inches of snow that had accumulated.  After hours of shoveling, we, along with a group of neighbors, tossed aside the snow removal equipment, hired babysitters for our then-still-little-ones, and trudged six blocks through deep snowdrifts to the warmth of the old wooden booths, hot pizza and cold beer offered by Fox’s.  There we met and partied with others from the neighborhood also seeking respite from the realities of Chicago’s bitter winter.

And then there are the characters that have frequented Fox’s over the years.  There was old Mr. Kelly who once worked for the CTA and whose lovely wife  was deceased.  He lived alone above a storefront insurance office several doors south of Fox’s.  Mr. Kelly, with head full of unruly snow-white hair, would eat there every night, sit and the same corner booth by the kitchen and order a cup of soup, a plain cheeseburger and a cup of coffee.  Mr. Kelly would stare down at the table while he ate but otherwise loved to talk to the wait staff.  He not only knew all of their names but their birthdays and other special occasions in the lives.  Mr. Kelly liked to go to the all-night adoration at St. Bernadette’s church (located several miles away) on Friday nights but didn’t drive.  So the waitresses would take turns dropping him there on their way home and he’d catch a ride back in the morning. All the workers at Fox’s made sure he was well cared for and, as he grew weaker with age, got home safely.

Other interesting patrons include re a married couple who can be seen at the bar almost any night of the week.  He’s a meek-looking man probably in his 60’s, just under 6’ and maybe 190 pounds.  He’s a bartender at the  Hilton hotel on Michigan Avenue.  His wife, on the other hand, is well over 6’  – – – maybe 6’6” – – – and built like a linebacker for the Chicago Bears with hands as large as Michael Jordan’s. She’s a psychologist who counts at least one of the waitresses amoung her clients.  Who rules in this relationship?  It’s the meek-looking bartender who seems to always insist on speaking for both of them.

Fox’s decorates for all the holidays but St. Patrick’s Day is the best.  And parade day would’t be complete without a stop at Fox’s for some corned beef and cabbage, a cold beer and a lot of traditional Irish music, Irish step-dancing by local school children and the Shannon Rovers playing the bagpipes.

My husband and I love running into neighborhood friends at Fox’s.  People we wouldn’t otherwise see anymore.  One is Maureen C, a retired CPS principal and a former Mercy nun who was in the convent with my sister and who carpooled with me when our boys were in preschool; our boys remain close friends.  She also is one of the funniest  – –  and nicest  – – people I know.

Now, in addition to consulting, Maureen teaches an adult education class on Irish History at the local college; because of her tremendous personality as well as her depth of knowledge, there always is waiting list to get into her class.  Maureen is at Fox’s most Monday nights with a friend and most Thursdays nights with her sister and niece.

Jack O, father of 13 who is now in a wheelchair, either hangs at the bar or, if with his wife, in one of the booths.  Jack came from the same old neighborhood as I did, St. Justin Martyr in West Englewood. My brother tells the story of how Jack’s older sister won a talent contest on the Morris B. Sacks radio program back in the ‘40’s.  His sister won with the help of the nuns at St. Justin’s.  They had every kid in the school fill out and mail in a post card voting for her.  It was probably the only time in history that a tap dancer won a talent contest on the radio.

One night in in particular stands out in my mind.  When my husband and I were courting we would often find ourselves at Fox’s late at night.  One cold, snowy January night we turned the paper placemat over and planned out our wedding.

The stories of Fox’s are endless  . . . . and maybe someday I will add to this brief ramblings about it.  But now, well, its Saturday night and we’re off to Fox’s!

[1] Chicago Tribune, 11/6/1995, Scott Broden

My sister called one hot summer’s day in 2014  asked if we’d like to join them on a trip to Morocco. Thinking she meant Monaco I readily agreed. Morocco, it turns out, is a long way from the glitz and glamour of Grace Kelly’s adapted country. But we enjoyed the medinas, the kasbahs, the desert – – and especially the people – –  far more than we would have ever anticipated!

Morocco (for those who can’t place the country) is in Northern Africa across the Straits of Gibraltar from the Costa del Sol in Spain. A developing country, it is 98% Muslim. Maybe best known as the setting for the movie Casablanca (although the movie itself was shot in Hollywood, not Morocco), it is boarded on the north by the Mediterranean Sea, on the west by the Atlantic Ocean and to the east by Algeria. To the south is an African country called Mauritania. In addition to its beautiful coastal areas, Morocco is characterized by rugged mountain interiors and large portions of the Sahara desert. And we visited them all! Traveling for sixteen days, we spent time wandering the old Medinas and Kasbahs in towns such as Tangier, Fez, Tienghir and Marrakesh.

Medinas, for us city-folks who live in the 21st century, are centuries-old walled sections of a city that contain numerous narrow and maze-like streets… if you could call them streets. They are more like small lanes; once in a Medina it’s easy to get lost and difficult to find your way out unless you have a guide. People still live and work in the Medinas.  Kasbah’s are the market areas within the Medinas. With stalls full of goods the Kasbahs are bustling with shoppers.

Since refrigeration is scarce, shopping for food is a daily event for woman. Men own and run most shops. The “shops” are not what we would recognize as a shop or store. Rather they are a series of small stalls on the sides of the narrow lanes which can be owned or rented. Women make their bread daily and most (without ovens of their own) take it to a local baker to be cooked. The baker’s oven is a large hole in the brick wall. He keeps wood burning on the sides so he can slip loaves of bread in the middle.

Down the road, our travel guide took us to visit another Berber family; this one a semi-nomadic family. The men were at the market that day while the women tended the children and the animals. The semi- nomadic families relocate twice a year so their homes are a bit more substantial than the nomads who move about every 3 – 4 months. Once again we were invited into their home and through a translator were able to ask them questions. The dwelling they lived in is completely dismantled when they leave and the wooden logs on the ceiling are taken with to use at another location.

Margaret  – – affectionately known as “Billie”  – – was the last of the children in my father’s family and was the light of their lives, especially my dad’s.  Twenty-three years older than Billie, he adored her and spoiled her.  Then in March of 1927 tragedy struck the Murphy family

My grandparents left four-year-old Billie with older sister Mary’s teenage friend to babysit while they attended a funeral of a close relative.  The older children were either working or in school.  Aunt Doris, only two years older than Billie and her constant playmate, remembers not wanting to go school that day and trying to stay home with Billy.  But her parents prevailed and six-year-old Doris went off the school with her older brother Jimmy.

Doris knew something was horribly wrong when she rounded the corner after school that day and saw a crowd of subdued and somber neighbors in standing in front of their home.  My dad got a call at work and someone finally tracked down grandma and grandpa Murphy at the funeral.

Billie was in the hospital fighting for her life.

There are two stories of what happened to little Billie that day.  The first is that she was trying to make herself a cup of tea and when she reached across the stove to pick up the whistling kettle the sleeve of her dress was ignited by the open flame.  The second, and according to aunt Doris the more probable scenario, is that four-year-old Billie found a package of matches in an upstairs bedroom and did what we all fear a little child might do: she decided to play with them.

What we do know is that her dress caught fire.  Bille frantically ran down the stairs shrieking and aflame.  When the sitter saw her, she panicked and ran outside.  Billie followed  – – – screaming and with her clothes still on fire.  A couple of nearby workmen saw what was happening, ran over and rolled Billie on the ground.

But it was too late.  Despite being rushed to the hospital Billie died at 3:00 am the next day.

Billie had always wanted red slippers.   So my dad, who was totally devastated, ran from store to store in an almost blinding compulsiveness to find her pair of red slippers.  Aunt Doris says he finally found a pair of red shoes in a downtown store.

Billie was waked in their living room and buried in her new red shoes.

I’m not keen on heat and humidity but hot summer days can be good.  To sit by the pool and watch grandchildren jump and splash in the water, my head covered with a big straw hat, a cool drink in hand and I know all is right with the world.

It is hard to beat a beautiful, warm Indian summer day. The leaves on the trees are shades of bright orange, red and yellow, the sky is blue, the clouds are puffy and the wind gentle.  The day is perfect.

Winter days, especially in Chicago, can be brutal.  The days are dark and short, the snow blows with a blinding force, temperatures plummet to subzero readings, and the wind can freeze your lungs.  But it is also a time when neighbors help neighbors dig out after a twelve inch snowfall, shovel one another’s sidewalks, help push cars out of drifts, build snowmen and smile as the children make snow angles up and down the block.

Spring is a time when the winter gloom has receded with the snow and my fall-planted tulips are beginning to peek out from the barren patch of dirt in front of my house.   But I think my absolute favorite days are those in the month of May when the bridal wreath bushes running the length of our backyard are bent over with the weight of thousands of delicate tiny white flowers and the yard is fragrant with their heavenly aroma.

About fifteen years ago, I took a position as the executive director in a small NGO (non-governmental agency, a non-profit) that was founded and run by one of the Kennedy cousins.  By “the” Kennedy’s I mean one of President Kennedy’s nephews.  During the course of my employment I had occasion to attend a retreat his mother, Jean Kennedy Smith, graciously hosted at her home on Long Island.  So my husband and I  . . .  both of us Irish Catholics from Englewood . . . found ourselves sleeping in a bedroom Rose Kennedy slept in, playing touch football on the lawn, and taking long walks by the ocean with a Kennedy.  It was surreal.

To put my experience in perspective, you have to understand where I grew up.  I came from a predominantly Irish Catholic blue-collar neighborhood.  My father first worked in the stock yards and later as a bus driver then a supervisor for the CTA.  As a supervisor his job was to stand on the corners and time the buses to ensure they were running on schedule.  He did this in all sorts of Chicago weather, 100 degree heat, sub-zero cold, blowing snow, pounding rain.  No matter what the midwest winds thew at him, he was out on the streets of Chicago working to make sure his eight kids had bellies full of food and got a good education.

The other men in our neighborhood did the same.  They were mailmen, pipe-fitters, railway workers.  They worked hard and they worked long hours.  They came home tired and dirty but they always got up and went to church on Sunday.  They joined the Holy Name Society and the Knight of Columbus and made sure their kids attended catholic school, learned their catechism, obeyed their mothers and went to church on Sundays.  Most families were first or second generation Irish.  If second generation, as my parents were, they more often than not, lived with or next to their parents.

Right after his Catholic faith and his family, on my dad’s list of “what’s important” was the Democratic party.   When I began to date and would bring a boy home, it was okay if he wasn’t Irish – –  but God help me if he wasn’t a Democratic.  Further, in the 1950’s my grandparents and parents could still remember the signs that in earlier times could often be seen in store windows: “Irish Need Not Apply.”  Despite the hard-working, family-oriented ethic of the majority of Irish, there had been widespread discrimination against them.

So it was no wonder that when John Fitzgerald Kennedy was nominated for Vice President of the United Stated on the Democratic ticket on a hot August day in 1956, my mother called my brother and me in from playing to get down on our knees and pray.  I was only nine years old and really didn’t understand much about politics and nothing about the nomination process but remember looking at the small black and white television in our living room and seeing a young, handsome man and what seemed like thousands of people cheering.  So I was fervent in my prayers that this Irish Catholic man would win.

Kennedy came close but didn’t get it.  Lucky for him or he would have been on the losing ticket.  But the exposure raised national awareness of this bright, photogenic young senator who would beat all odds to win the presidency four years later.

Many remember the Kennedy/Nixon debate in September 1960  for important reasons: it was the first televised debate and thereby forever changed how politicians are viewed and evaluated, and importantly it helped catapult Kennedy into the presidency. I remember it because I was there.  Well, sort of.  My brother Patrick was a student at Loyola University at the time.  Loyola was a just a few blocks from the CBS-TV station were the debate was held.  So excited were we as a family that an Irish Catholic was running for president that Patrick took my younger brother Jackie (then 11) and me (age 13) to Loyola with him that day so we could walk over to the station and maybe catch a glimpse of this exciting candidate . . one we considered our candidate.

As a thirteen year old the entire day was exciting for me.  Being in a college with my older brother and his friends was an out-of-this-world experience for a high school freshman.  But the best was when we got to the t.v. station and Jack Kennedy arrived in his shiny black car and Patrick pushed me through the crowd.  I remember his hard shove on my back, then hurling past bodies and landing pretty much in Jack Kennedy’s smiling face.   Well, I think he was smiling.  In my mind he was smiling a big beautiful smile.  In retrospect it may have been a grimace due to pain in his injured back.

Patrick also took my five-year old brother, Tommy, and me to Midway earlier that day to see Jack Kennedy when he landed.  That was even better as there weren’t may people there and it was in the days you could actually go onto the field.

Of course we all campaigned for Jack Kennedy, rejoiced when he won, and followed all that he did and achieved as president.  We were proud Americans and proud to be Irish Americans. Along with the rest of the country, we were devastated and wept when he was murdered.  But President Kennedy did more than make us proud to be Irish, he inspired us to do more for our country, to do more for others.  Patrick spent two years volunteering in Africa in the Peace Corp, which was started by Kennedy, and I served in VISTA (Volunteers In Service to America) another Kennedy program.

The era of “Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country,” and the heightened awareness of civil rights shaped many of our lives back then.  When I left for VISTA my dad in all earnestness said to me, “I worked all my life to get you kids out of the ghetto, now all you want to do is to go back into it.”

The non-profit Kennedy organization I worked for developed low-cost, high-tech prosthetic devises for landline victims in developing countries.  So years later I still was working in social services.  But I wish my dad was alive to see me strolling with my husband across the Kennedy lawn, or walking along the sea-side with Jean Kennedy Smith or playing touch football with a Kennedy nephew.

Now I don’t consider any of that the highlight of my life.  It was unexpected and I enjoyed it, but far greater things have happened to me – – – including the happiness brought to me by my children and grandchildren, enjoying the company of my siblings as we age, and sharing life with the man I love.

But I do wish my dad was alive to see it.  He would have loved it!

I was nine years old in September of 1955 when my only sister entered the Covent.  That same month four of my six brothers left home to enter various seminaries spread across the country. My two younger brothers and I were left at home with our mother who did not take the loss of her eldest children well.

Looking back with the hindsight of a mother now myself, I can more readily understand her falling apart at the sudden loss of her oldest five children. The house at 7311 S. Marshfield went from one of constant noise: laughing, yelling, door-banging, music-playing by teenagers and young adults to … well … almost nothingness.  I was a painfully quiet girl, Jackie was six and Tommy was only seven months old.   The three of us together couldn’t create the activity of my gone-away older siblings.

I recall the day my sister left.   After we dropped her at the Covent, my mother cried all the way home.  When we walked through the door I thought the tears would subside. But I was wrong. My mother proceeded to walk from room to room and in each room she would prostrate herself on the nearest chair, bed, whatever was handy and sob. Not just cry but sob in big loud globs and scream (yes scream) that Mary … or Joe, or Art … or Ted or Mickey … take your pick … was gone…. her life was over…..  how could she go on without her children?

I was only nine and an immature nine at that.  I followed her and her hysterics from room to room.  I watched as she clung to their left-behind clothes or one of their possessions and sobbed over it.  Looking back, I’m not quite sure why I felt the need to follow her.  Was I trying to comfort her?  Protect her? Or, more likely, was I trying to remind her that I was still there?  Sort of my way of saying:  “Hey mom!  You’ve still got me!!  I didn’t go away. Neither did Jack or Tom.   Don’t I count?  Don’t we count?”

So then I did what my immature brain must have come up with to compete: I cried for my lost siblings and I cried just as much as she did   It worked: now she paid attention to me.  But the attention was “poor Jeffie.  Poor little Jeffie misses her sister so much.”  So she told me I had to pray to God and to the blessed Virgin Mary every day that Mary would leave the convent and come home to us   She would get me up for mass every morning and remind me at night to pray.    It was up to me to bring my sister home.

In this I failed.  My big sister gave more than fifteen years of her life to God and the church.  By the time my she decided that the convent life was no longer for her, I was married with a baby of my own.  And my mother no longer cared.

Ted, Jef, Art, Mary, Joe, Mickey / front row: Mom, Tom, Dad / Visiting day at St. Xavier’s