Too Bad They Didn't Have Blogs in 1913

Grandpa dropped out of school when he was fourteen years old. Had to help his parents raise a family of three girls and five boys.

I know. Gotta love the Irish.

Four years later, Grandpa's father was shot to death.

Times got even tougher.

Rumor has it my great-grandmother pleaded for clemency on behalf of the shooter because he was drunk when he did it and had eight kids of his own to raise. (Insert favorite immigrant joke here. Or snide comment about where my liberal roots come from.)

Recently, the local paper back in Pennsylvania ran a story about the violence that erupted that year and mentioned my great-grandfather, the shooter, and the goddamn bird that caused all the problems in the first place.

Seriously? A canary? I can't imagine all the stories surrounding this event that are forever lost to all of us.

I can't imagine losing my father to violence at the age of eighteen and being responsible for a large family as a result.

My grandpa took care of his siblings and mother because family comes first. That's the lesson to be learned from such a tragedy. This story also reminds me that I come from some remarkable immigrants. Nana came from a similar crew of eight kids as well. When they married, Nana and Grandpa trimmed the number down and had only six kids.

Slackers.

Out of six children, four gave them only nine grandchildren. Which happens with third and subsequent generations - they discover birth control and higher education which leads to fewer kids. As a result, those grandchildren, my cousins and I, are better educated and financially secure than my great-grandparents could ever imagine.

We are the result of *their* sacrifice, hard work, and honor.

So I'm kinda proud of my immigrant background today. I'm kinda proud of my Irish ancestors who kept it together.

For us.