As an Irish Catholic, I extend an invitation to all who are open to reading this book: to share the humanness and joy I have witnessed in my life. My stories are intended to give a unique perspective of the times in which I've lived. There are many other events in my seventy-five years that I could have chosen to write on, but I'm hopeful that those I've selected portray the times, the grandeur and beauty of my faith, and the comfort and sincerity that it affords. I'm hopeful also that I will always be able to recognize the doves and the demons in my life and that all others can do the same.

Doves and Demons

An Irish American's LegacyBy Andrew McKenzie

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2012 Dr. Andrew McKenzie
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4772-5174-4

Contents

Preface........................................................ixDove Lizzie....................................................1Jesus Thou Art Coming..........................................5What Is It to Be a Child?......................................13Battle of Insecurity...........................................17The Great Train Debacle........................................23Ireland........................................................31Two, Two, Two..................................................35Seminary Days..................................................45The Love of My Life............................................57Close Encounters in the Military...............................59Meeting Harry S................................................69Spirituality...................................................75The Francis Thompson Effect....................................77Seeking a Career...............................................83Fort Dix, New Jersey: Walson Army Hospital.....................97The Docks......................................................101Ohio at the Crossroad..........................................111Ohio "Nuisance"................................................117That's What Friends Are For....................................123Eleanor Anne and New Babies....................................131King Hussein and Breda O'Farrell Tierney.......................137Paul...........................................................141Education......................................................147Enriching My Life..............................................159Tír na nÓg...........................................165

Chapter One

Dove Lizzie

Elizabeth McKenzie was born on June 10, 1900, and passed on December 18, 1967. She was the fifth of ten children, the child of Tom and Elizabeth O'Farrell of Leighlinbridge, County Carlow, Ireland.

My grandmother Elizabeth was a postmistress and musician. A descendant of the Lawlor family, she was a beautiful, dignified woman whose faith was cultivated in each of her children. She epitomized the model of a true Roman Catholic.

My grandfather Tom was a tall, six-foot-four-inch, burly gentleman, who, in the early 1900s, became southern Ireland's "walking champion." In 1992 on a trip to Ireland, I witnessed a silver cup on the mantel of the fireplace in my cousin Elizabeth's home. It designated Tom O'Farrell as "southern Ireland walking champion," and that's how I learned of his fame.

As folklore has it, walkers were lined up somewhat like runners, and there were rules that they had to follow to stay qualified for the long walk. A particular stride had to be maintained all during the walk, and one's head had to face straight ahead, with shoulders level and arms swaying steadily at the sides. Judges would run alongside the walkers, and if the stride was broken, the walker would be disqualified. Nearly all towns in southern Ireland placed their favorite walkers in the big race. At the time—early 1900s—few roads were smooth, and it must have been quite difficult to keep the stride. I sometimes wonder why my grandfather chose this competition. Was it his form of fitness; was he subconsciously walking away from or toward something; or did his size give him an advantage?

Tom's daughter and my mother, young Lizzy McKenzie, grew up in a most loving, religious home. "Big Tom," as he was known, was somewhat overprotective of his children. Each day Tom would take his children to school by horse-and-buggy to prevent them from passing the two Irish pubs that were set between their home and their school. It was known that he would cross the road to avoid passing any pubs in order to give his children the knowledge that "drink is the curse of the devil." Each of my seven uncles, my parent's brothers, "took the pledge" at their eighteenth year.

Not liquor but music was the important part of the O'Farrell family, and each of the ten children learned to play more than one instrument. The entire family formed its own orchestra, and on Sundays after mass, they entertained themselves with their own playing.

Grandmother Elizabeth played the harp, violin, and piano. She was said to have an exceptionally beautiful voice, and song was a valuable and entertaining outlet for the entire family.

Tom was a successful landowner, farmer, and butcher, and he and Elizabeth assured their children every opportunity available. Elizabeth and her sisters, Baby and Nan, followed their primary education as postulants in the order of the Sisters of Mercy. Eventually Aunt Baby, then known as Sister Columbine, headed the Sisters of Mercy. Nan spent her lifetime in education. Their oldest brother, Pat, went on to school for pharmacy and later opened and owned three pharmacies. Another brother, John, went to work with the IRA and, as "Colonel Jack," gained historic interest and political success. Brother Andrew went on to the priesthood and became pastor of St. Patrick's church in Rathoe, County Carlow. Brother Michael passed away with tuberculosis at age twenty-eight. Another brother, Edward, passed away at the age of twenty-five when he was a Jesuit seminarian. Brother Joseph, or "Poor Joe," was an autistic outcast and finally lived with his niece Breda (Colonel Jack's daughter) at Clonmel, where he died on May 20, 1984.

Daughter Lizzy, my mother, left Ireland as a postulate at the age of nineteen, heading to the Ursiline convent in Cincinnati, Ohio. This commitment was not meant to be, however. Regardless, as the youngest of seven children, "Mom" was simple and pure. She was the most kind and loving person I ever knew. She was a peaceful dove!

Jesus Thou Art Coming

A Hymn for Holy Communion Taken from a Slovak Hymnal

This is a prayer my mother taught us to say each night before we fell asleep. It comes from St. Gregory Hymnal and Catholic Choir Book by Nicola A. Montani, St. Gregory Guild, Inc., 1940.

1. Jesus, Thou art coming, Holy as Thou art, Thou, the God who made me, To my sinful heart. Jesus, I believe it On Thy only word; Kneeling, I adore Thee As my King and Lord.

2. Who am I, my Jesus, That Thou comest to me? I have sinned against Thee, Often, grievously; I am very sorry I have caused Thee pain; I will never, never, Wound Thy Heart again.

3. Put Thy kind arms round me, Feeble as I am; Thou art my Good Shepherd, I, Thy little lamb; Since Thou comest, Jesus, Now to be my Guest, I can trust Thee always, Lord, for all the rest.

4. Dearest Lord, I love Thee, With my whole, whole heart, Not for what Thou givest, But for what Thou art. Come, oh, come, sweet Saviour! Come to me, and stay, For I want Thee, Jesus, More than I can say.

5. Ah! What gift or present, Jesus, can I bring? I have nothing worthy Of my God and King; But Thou art my Shepherd, I, Thy little lamb; Take myself, dear Jesus, All I have and am.

6. Take my body, Jesus, Eyes, and ears, and tongue; Never let them, Jesus, Help to do Thee wrong. Take my heart, and fill it Full of love for Thee; All I have I give Thee, Give Thyself to me.

The kind, gentle lady lifted herself from the cold, hard floor. Since Lizzie was a bit overweight, you knew that her knees had to be tender and sore. For a few times as a child you had joined her, never lasting even close to the hour that she daily spent there next to the big, fluffy bed with the beads dangling from her beautiful, long, narrow fingers. Pain and sacrifice, as small as it might be, was part of life, and somehow it had to be endured.

Somehow it fit with the next moments, when she leaned over you, caressing your face as you slipped under the cold sheets that held the warmed hot-water bottle. All then was at peace as the day ended, and she started me on the recitation of my evening prayers: "Eyes and ears and tongue ... Jesus, tender, meek and mild, pity me a little child ..." They drowned out all the tough struggles of the day.

Peace was present, and this grand lady whom I loved so deeply was there with me as I sank into the arms of my guardian angel "to whom God's love commits me here." And then my day had ended. I was the youngest child of seven, and I fell asleep to the sounds of the polonaise coming from the player piano. For years I thought that all the world fell asleep the same way.

My mother was a spirited person—she must always have been—since the day in Derry, Ireland, when she stood on the deck of the ship Columbia with her two older sisters, Baby and Nan. She was nineteen-and-a-half then, in 1920, and the three talented, spirited sisters were off to America for their ride down "streets that were paved with gold." Their father, Big Tom O'Farrell, stood on the pier, waving his huge, strong hand, giving the appearance of a giant of a man with tears trickling from his eyes. His three precious gems were off to America. Grief mingled with hope in his heart, and the former now seemed to envelop his very soul.

"Let's get off! Let's get off!" screamed Baby, the oldest sister, as they walked yearningly across the deck. Tears streamed from their eyes as they saw their Mom and Dad, five of their brothers, and several cousins grouped with reaching hands, the ship's horn bellowing its departure. "Okay. Let's go!" said Nan as she grabbed the younger Liz's hand and dashed toward the open gangplank that joined the sea to the land. Liz's hand slipped from Nan's fingers as Nan drew back and hesitantly mumbled, "I'm staying."

The two sisters, Nan and Baby, ran down the gangplank, rejoining their roots; but the third and youngest, nineteen-year-old Lizzie—educated, talented, beautiful, and spirited—stood alone on the deck as the huge ship grunted slowly away from the shore. Destination: Ellis Island, New York Harbor, United States of America.

Liz had been educated in the convent by the Ursaline Sisters of Mercy to the equivalency of a college degree with a major in music and the arts. On her trip across the ocean from Ireland to join the convent herself, she met a fine young Jewish couple, merchants who had previously located in New York City with their two children. Having formed a close relationship with Liz, the young couple asked her if she would like to tutor their children in piano. They said she was welcome to live with them in their large brownstone on the upper east side of the city with a fair stipend—at least until she got settled in the United States. She stayed with them for six months and never joined the convent.

About the family with whom she lived for six months, my mother told me, "All people are good. God made it so, Andrew. Never be prejudiced or look down at others. They are all temples of God, and He is in each and every one of us. We're to love others as He loves us."

We had been raised reading about the lives of the saints, and like Liz herself, we had been overprotected. Each of my brothers and sisters saw to that. And Liz herself had been raised by Big Tom O'Farrell, who had overprotected all twelve of his children.

Liz was a gentle, peaceful, joyful dove. A mother of seven, she passed on a love of music, a free spirit of life, a deep faith of God in all people, the beauty of her native land, and a serene sense of wisdom for the true, the good, and the beautiful. Liz was a mystical inspiration for me and a model of how life ought to be lived, despite its extremes of sorrow and joy. As she accepted life, she also accepted death, and a conversation with her just before she passed on showed no regrets and a deep sense of pride that each of her children seemed close to God, were good, and had fulfilled her dreams for them. I will feel that same pride if I am able to say the same about my own children. I hope I am the best father I can be.

I never knew my father, and he never saw me as a newborn on March 5, 1937. In fact, in 1952 when I was fifteen years old, I discovered that my father was not deceased but rather was separated from my mother. A census person came to our door, and my mom asked me to go into the kitchen and have a cup of tea while she spoke to him. I became curious and sneaked by the parlor door to hear what they talked about. Everything seemed routine until the census man asked about my father, and my mom replied that she had separated from him just before my birth. I was shocked because, although he was seldom ever talked about in our family of eight, I had assumed for the first fifteen years of my life that he had died. My mom never spoke unkindly about him, and the most I knew of him was that he worked hard, looked like Gene Kelly, and had come to America as a fourteen-year-old stowaway.

My Uncle Frank, my mom's brother, shared various stories about my father, George McKenzie. Frank had been very close to him in his early twenties, and at the time my father's older brother John came to America, they all lived together, like many Irish families. In 1924 my older brother and sister, Ted and Edna, were infants—two and three years old at the time.

Uncle Frank related various stories to me about my father George. George never wanted his picture taken, since some of his actions were shady. Besides being impetuous, he lived a life of wanderlust and, at times, deception. He seemed to care little about law and order. At one point, Uncle Frank related that George had asked my uncle John to draw up plans for a large cathedral. John was an architect and artist. George, Frank, and one other person, all dressed in black suits and ties, visited various patrons who were posted on a plaque in a large protestant cathedral in New York City. Pretending to be ministers, they sought money for a new cathedral and eventually absconded to Montreal, Canada, with the money. They stayed there a full year before returning to the United States.

Another time, George bought a fleet of trucks to transport food products to various cities. His company was called Mrs. Mac's Foods. One day, Frank and George headed to Shohola, Pennsylvania, where my mother lived with four children at what was named Rockview Manor. About twenty miles from Shohola, George ranted and raved to Frank about various transportation ideas, and as they rounded a sky-view terrace, George pulled over to the side of a tall cliff. He ordered Frank out of the truck, put the truck in neutral, and pushed it off the cliff. Frank stood by in wonderment. "Now what?" he asked George. "We're walking to Shohola," George replied. George was an impetuous man. He housed the demons, while his wife, Lizzie, was home to the doves.

My mom's brother, Uncle Frank, went on to marry a French woman, Aunt Marie, in Montreal, Canada, and raised a family of four: Tom, Eric, Elizabeth, and Anna. Anna died at age eight, and my Aunt Marie spent the last four years of her life in an iron lung with her devoted Frank at her side.

Frank, like his sister Liz, was a devout Catholic, and like mom, he could recite long poems from Shakespeare along with many of his own poems. When he visited us from Canada, he would stay for two weeks, and each day our family would pray the rosary together. I delighted in his company and admired and loved him. Though he told me more about my father than I'd ever heard, he didn't cast any blame toward him. When I asked him why he'd behaved like he had, Frank would only say, "It was the times, Andrew. It was the times." Uncle Frank died at the young age of forty-nine.

My own recent research on my father, George Patrick McKenzie (1898-1972), showed that he was the seventh child of Elizabeth and John McKenzie, born at 27 Grove Street, Dock Ward, Antrim, in Belfast, Ireland. Lizzie McKenzie was shown as the head of family, and the 1911 Census of Ireland indicated that she had borne thirteen children, with nine still living. This census stated that Lizzie was thirty-eight years old and was born in Derry County. Her children's names were Ellen (twenty-one), John (nineteen), Kate (eighteen), Mary Ann (seventeen), Margaret (thirteen), Archibald (eleven), George (eight), Joseph (four), and James (two). On March 29, 1918, George served in the Canadian Overseas Expeditionary Force, indicating that he was born November 4, 1898, and specifying his trade as an electrical worker. He was nineteen years and four months old and five foot seven inches, and the Toronto Mobilization listed him as fit to serve.

Uncle Frank told me that George, at the age of fourteen, had left Ireland, stowed himself away in a ship's lifeboat, and come to America, landing in Baltimore, Maryland. Homeless, he met another young man named Walter Pigeon who also was homeless. The editor of Catholic Messenger took them both off the streets and cared for them until George was nineteen, and he and Walter joined the Canadian Overseas Expeditionary Force together. In 1920 the editor financed a trip to Hollywood, California, for them, where they decided to become Hollywood movie actors. The train stopped in Chicago, and George decided to return to New York City. Walter, though, continued to Hollywood, where he became a successful movie star.

Uncle Frank remarked that George had probably returned because he had fallen in love with my mother Lizzy, whom he eventually married. Though always giving in to his wanderlust, he bore seven children with Lizzy and finally—forbidden to return to her unless he received counseling—left America. He went to Leicester, England, where his family had come from and where there were relatives of his family—never again to return to America.

On one of my trips to Ireland in the 1990s, my cousin Breda brought me to see James McKenzie, who lived in Bagenalstown, a town near Leighlinbridge, County Carlowe. Several members of the McKenzie family live in Bagenalstown. James was the son of my Uncle John and was an accomplished artist, with three sons who each served in the Irish Garda.

I asked James if he knew about my father, through his father John—George's brother—who had once lived in America with him. James told me that a woman from Wales had appeared in 1980, searching for George, and that she was very angry, since he had abandoned her and her three children, similar to what he had done to my family.

James also mentioned that he had a stonecutter's license of our grandfather McKenzie, who was an artistic stonecutter and had sculpted a large statue of the holy family, which stood in front of a church in Wales. At the time in the late 1880s, a stonecutter's license was required by the state in order to be commissioned to sculpt a statue like that. It had been stamped and bore the name of our grandfather.

James was an invalid when I met him and died soon afterward. I never received the license of our grandfather that he had promised to send.

On the Internet, I tracked my father, George Patrick McKenzie. He had died in 1972 at the age of seventy-four. I suspect he may have had even a third family, but to date I haven't been able to find anything more about him. A week before she passed away, my mother talked to me about him and told me she always and still loved him. I pray for him and wonder often about the demons he must have had within him.

(Continues...)

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