Annie McGuinnis

Mamaroneck is a small town just twenty-two miles and one hundred years outside of New York City. In those far away days when I was born, it was just one step away from sleepy country. Mom pushed me out into the world just in time for the strange year at the beginning of World War II. I arrived with Superman as the Germans annexed Austria, anti-Jewish riots were in Poland and Howard Hughes had flown around the world in 91 hours. It was a time of great endeavor and pitiless infamy. The world was confused as to whether it would move towards a finer civilization based on science, humanity, empathy, and achievement or revert to the basest and most vicious manifestations of man’s nature. Much like it is today.

I grew up in a family glued to the radio for the latest reports on the war mixed with the action of “The Lone Ranger,” “The Shadow” and the idiocy of “It Pays To Be Ignorant.”

My mother had grown up in the same town, on a small family farm that my grandfather and uncles had chopped into pieces, built houses on them and sold them off bit by bit to survive the lean years, and there were many of those.

Her mother, my Grandmother, Annie Mc Guinness, was born on a farm in the country outside of Dublin. Annie’s father was a landowner and man of some small substance in their town. He made it known he was no friend of the English and spoke openly against their occupation. One night as he and his wife left a town meeting in their horse and carriage, English soldiers pushed the carriage, horses, and occupants over the side of a steep hill, murdering humans and animals.

Annie and her older sister Mary were left alone in Ireland. Saint Mary’s orphanage in Dublin took them in and they stayed until sent for by an uncle who lived in New York City.

When the girls arrived fresh off the boat from Dublin, their uncle had arranged jobs for them “in service” as it was called in those days – they were to be maids in one of the fine homes in the city. My grandmother did not last very long. It was quickly determined by her employers that she had no idea what side of a pan to put on the stove and they showed her the door. She quickly found employment at Hearns Department Store off lower Broadway in Manhattan and it was better suited to her skills, her smile and her gift of gab.

Annie blossomed into a beautiful young woman, long bright red hair and sparkling sapphire eyes not only did her well as a sales lady, she also attracted men. A tall, handsome man with a handlebar mustache, similar blue eyes and red hair, caught her attention. Lingering around her station, he was obviously enchanted with her vivacious beauty. Finally introducing himself, she learned he was a landowner and farmer from Mamaroneck named Horton Forbes Tompkins. The fact that he was a distant relative of former Vice President Daniel D. Tompkins and some of the original settlers in Westchester County meant nothing to her. But she was open to a change from both Hearns and the bustling city New York was becoming. They married and moved to the suburbs, at that time, nothing but a few farms, ranches, and deep forests.

Annie had thirteen children and only five managed to survive to adulthood. Life was tough on the farm and cuisine was not one of their main concerns. Just getting enough to eat was important, and they grew most of it on the farm. She could cook meat, can and grow things, milk cows, sew, knit, and put-up preserves. Taste was not an issue she was concerned with.

I remember being left with her as a kid and she would make “Irish Stew” for me. This meant it was time to hide under the table or anyplace to be scarce. Her idea of Irish stew was left over meat boiled once again with a potato and any old vegetables found in the ice box. (Yes, in those days it was an ice box with a place for a huge chunk of ice and a pan at the bottom to catch the dripping that had to be emptied frequently.) No salt, no flavor, no taste. Yech! The only thing worse was her spaghetti – noodles with heated catsup over them. It was a wonder any of us survived her loving care.

Annie did know how to do certain things. She would slip a raisin into an open can of peach or apricot juice, add a little sugar and skillfully hide it in the back of the fridge. It would ferment very nicely and she would have her own little toke when she wanted.

I am sure she learned this from my Grandfather. He liked to sneak off for a tipple now and again and she did not approve! When he was drunk, she made him sleep in the barn with the cows and the horses until he sobered up.

He was a cheerful, loving and singing drunk, never aggressive, just cute and playful. All us kids loved him and his usual good nature. He would sing to us and let us comb his hair and sometimes even dance around the house with us. He would cavort in a kind of a hornpipe in the living room and we all would have a great time. Annie would sniff his breath and if she got a whiff of alcohol she’d get miffed and throw him out of the house. He'd quietly go off to the barn for a snooze or down to his cellar to continue his tipple and we could hear him singing through the floor. I still picture him sitting in the living room singing “Old Dan Tucker” and slapping his knee to keep time. He loved his Annie from the moment he saw her until the day he died. He had a special look in his eyes when she would walk past, if ever a man could see heaven, it was him. Every photograph I’ve found of him, they are holding hands or he has his arm around her.

One of my clearest memories of my grandmother is from when I was about thirteen. Pops had already passed away and Mom was out for the evening with some friends. I was left in charge of grandma, Gongie, as we called her. A girlfriend was at the house for a sleep-over and the two of us were in the living room watching our miniscule television when we heard a loud thump from upstairs.

Now Gongie was pretty well up there in age by then, and we had both heard the horror stories about old people breaking their hips, so we tore up the stairs together. Sure enough, Gongie was on the floor and as we tried to help her up she started babbling to us.

She was incoherent. No way could we make out anything she was saying. My father had already died from a stroke. Maybe she had a stroke? My heart almost beat out of my chest. Where was my mother? She had gone out to dinner, but where? I couldn’t remember. Like all thirteen year olds, since I was sure I knew everything, I hardly listened when Mom spoke to me. My sister and brother-in-law were in Florida, they were no help.

We manhandled Gongie into the bed. She muttered that she was all right. We brought wet washcloths to put on her forehead. I patted her wrist. That was in scenes from a lot of movies and I figured it must do something.

Gongie dozed off, snoring loudly, and my girlfriend and I left her alone to reconvene in the kitchen downstairs. What were we going to do? As we considered alternatives, another loud “thunk” came from upstairs. We were back at Gongie’s room in a heartbeat. She was on the floor again and this time she had a gash on the parchment thin skin of her forehead.

We looked at each other and started to tear with the overwhelming fright of helplessness.

Again we manhandled her onto the bed as gently as we could. For a tiny woman she was amazingly heavy as a dead weight.

I found hydrogen peroxide and cotton batting and gently cleaned her wound. This was too much for us, we needed professional help and fast!

At that point, the only one I could think of to call was the local priest. No matter what, he was sure to know what to do. Gongie was an ardent Catholic, at least she said her rosary beads all the time and carried them in her pocket. I knew if she was dying, he had to administer last rites.

Shaking, I found the number and called the parish. Thankfully, the priest was there.

I gave my name and the address. “Can you please come right away, my grandmother has fallen out of bed twice, she is mumbling and I don’t know what she is saying, I think she has had a stoke or something and I don’t know what to do, I’m home with a girlfriend and I can’t find my mother, maybe she is dying.” It all rolled out in a torrent in one breath.

“I’ll be over in a few minutes.” I could hear the kindness in his voice. The Cavalry was on its way.

Suddenly I remembered the name of the restaurant where my mother said she was going for dinner. I called but she hadn’t arrived yet. Maybe they stopped someplace else for a cocktail first? Hoping I had the right restaurant, I left a message for her to come home at once, Gongie was sick.

My friend and I kept fearful watch on Gongi for what seemed like an eternity. Then the doorbell rang. We jumped out of our skin!

“You watch Gongie, I’ll get the door.” I shouted over my shoulder as I flew down the stairs.

There was the priest as I flung open the door. “Oh, please, I’m so happy to see you!” Tears of relief flooded my eyes. I might have thought I was all grown up, but I was smart enough to know I had been severely outclassed with this emergency.

I showed the priest to her room, he entered and closed the door behind him. We could hear mumbling through the stout good old New England door. What was he saying? Was he giving her last rites?

The downstairs door crashed open and Mom flew up the stairs, taking them two at a time in a tight pegged spaghetti strap dress and high heeled spring-a-laters, the backless, precarious shoe fashion at the time. Under other circumstances I might have admired her speed and agility.

She flung open the closed door to Gongie’s room and was startled to see the priest holding grandma’s hand. The door was slammed shut this time.

My friend and I huddled outside the door, tears streaking down our cheeks now that we no longer had to deal with the crisis alone. I wept for my grandmother, she was always my best friend and I loved to hang out with her and listen to stories of her girlhood in Ireland.

The mumbling behind the door stopped. Suddenly there was raucous laughter.

My grandmother was dying and my mother and the priest were laughing? I was outraged! My girlfriend looked at me in abject puzzlement.

Mother opened the door and ordered me to get some more hydrogen peroxide, another clean washcloth with warm water, some sulpher powder and box of Bandaids.

Everything ordered clutched to my chest, I tentatively knocked on the door again. My mother reached out and took my offerings. “You did the right thing. I’m glad you called me. Gongie will be all right, don’t worry.” she said as she firmly door closed again.

Relief flooded through the two of us. We had been up to the occasion, whatever it had been. Gongie was going to be okay, we could relax.

Downstairs in the kitchen, we rewarded ourselves with large bowls of vanilla, chocolate and strawberry Italian ice cream.

Mother and the Priest were still talking and quietly laughing as they finally came down the stairs.

“You girls were very brave. You should be proud of yourselves.” The Priest said as he stood in the doorway to the kitchen, my mother nodding assent behind him.

No one mentioned what was wrong with grandma, but my mother was cross with her for days afterward. I couldn’t figure it out, why was Mom being mean with Gongie when she had been so sick?

Several weeks past by. My sister and brother-in-law came back from Florida and life seemed to get back to normal.

One day I overheard my mother and sister in the kitchen. “You can’t believe it,” Mom said, “she had called the Priest when she couldn’t find me. Mother was drunk as a skunk and kept falling out of bed and mumbling, the girls thought she had a stroke and were terrified. Can you imagine how scared they must have been? The Priest didn’t want to tell them what had really happened, but he and I had a great laugh when I finally got there.”

“How did she get to the liquor cabinet, you always kept it locked?” my sister asked.

“I must have left the key out one day. We found two bottles of scotch under her bed and an empty bottle of Irish Whisky on her dresser. All you had to do was sniff her to know what was wrong with her.”

My mother and sister laughed and laughed.

I kept a good distance from my grandmother for a month or so until I cooled off. I never did forget the fear and feeling of helplessness and vowed to never feel that way again.

I finally forgave Gongie when I got older and could think fondly of the two frightened little girls and a drunk grandmother. Since it had not been a regular occurrence, it really did have its humor. And after all, with all she had been through in her life, Gongie was entitled to her little tipple once in a while. I just wish it hadn’t been on my watch!