I have a picture of myself on the day that I was confirmed. On that day and in that picture, I looked like my Aunt Lucy. Aunt Lou was my Dad’s sister, a veritable force of nature whose depth of character and personality made me proud to resemble her even for a few moments when I was eleven.
Aunt Lou’s story is long and convoluted but her generosity stands out all these many years after that day when I was eleven and looked like her.
Aunt Lucy lived in a very old house in Athens, New York. She kept chickens in the back yard and didn’t trust her neighbor across the street.
Opinionated, suborn like all of the Smithwicks, she was never outdone when it came to funny stories, musical talent, hospitality, kindness and devotion to her faith. She had a special feeling for immigrants, telling us so many times about the hardships our Irish ancestors endured as poverty-stricken people who fled the Irish famine. she found a way to live what she believed.
Bridey Murphy was the tenant who lived in the tiny apartment in my Aunt Lucy’s house.. She was as Irish as they come, complete with a lilting brogue and a sweet singing voice to match.
My parents would pull the car in front of Aunt Lou’s and before we were out of the door, Bridey … who was most certainly my senior, but refused to be called Mrs. Murphy … would be there with some kind of food offering. Aunt Lou was no slouch when it came to food either. But as Irish as Lucille Smithwick Caffrey was, she cooked Italian. I learned to make stuffed peppers from her. I learned Irish from Bridey.
When we sat down to eat, which was always shortly after we arrived, or at least it seemed that way, the table would be laden with things like lasagna, roast chicken and colcannon finished always with a Dugans crumb cake and tea. The roast chicken was Bridey’s specialty. It was simply prepared and wonderfully delicious. The bird was stuffed with onions, rubbed with butter and roasted slowly. My mouth waters at its memory. Bridey would bristle at our compliments with the comment, “Simple food for poor people.”
The Murphys struggled to find a foothold in their new country. According to my parents, Aunt Lou rented the apartment to them for practically nothing in order to help them get along. While the two dwellings were separate there didn’t seem to be any walls between, such was the ease of their comings and goings. Aunt Lou even shared the eggs from her brood of chickens with them. This was saying a lot since my Aunt did not suffer fools or anyone else that she deemed irrelevant or annoying. If Aunt Lou liked you, it was clear that you could be a candidate for sainthood.
When the Murphy’s finally got along, meaning Mr. Murphy, whose first name escapes me now, got a good job, they moved out and another immigrant family moved in. I remember that they were from somewhere in Eastern Europe and they had a daughter about my age who was named Martina. She wore her dark hair in long shiny braids. Giggling, Martina and I would climb the hill behind and Aunt Lou’s house braving attacks from the chickens to gather eggs. They contributed stuffed cabbage and indescribably delicious strudel like pastries to the combined family table. They too lived there until they got along.
And as Aunt Lou herself got along in age and as each chicken in turn became the central figure in a fricassee, the adjoining little apartment remained empty. I can recall sitting at her modest kitchen table, myself now an adult, talking about the fun times we had with newcomers struggling to make it in the United States. Aunt Lou would bluster with something like, “ Sure, and where are they all now that I need someone to fix the furnace.”
I loved my Aunt Lucy and when I roast a Bridey chicken or picture that girl in long braids, I gather up those childhood memories of the irascible Irish woman with the tiny rental apartment and the big heart who helped two families live their American dream. It would be my honor to be thought to resemble Aunt Lou at any age.
