The lettering on the front door says McHuston Booksellers & Irish Bistro. People ask me about the Irish connection.
People: What’s the Irish connection?
Me: It’s like the French Connection starring Gene Hackman without the Academy Awards, the car chases, the drug running, or the European mafia. Other than that…
Nah. It’s nothing like the French connection, come to think of it.
This afternoon, I whipped the picture from the shelf to describe the Irish connection, then promptly dropped it and shattered the glass. Ooops. The frame was too large, anyway. As a result of my salvaging the picture, I have a chance to scan it in to the blog today.
Family folklore suggests the photo was taken on their wedding day. Michael and Mamie. He spelled his name Michel and her given name was Mary, but she was known as Mamie. He came to the US from the Kingdom of Bavaria and her family rode the boat over, leaving their home in County Tipperary, Ireland.
They had a great marriage, since she spoke no German and he couldn’t crack that Irish brogue. The language of Love, and all that, I suppose.
After their marriage, they joined the many Irish immigrants who were working the new Katy rail line at its Parsons, Kansas jumping off point. From there, tracks were put down across Indian Territory to Texas, opening up a whole new avenue for commerce.
My father would speak occasionally about Mamie and the singing of the Irish songs with his buddies. He had a wonderful tenor voice. Shame on me for not learning the tunes from him then, but I have made up for that shortcoming over the years, Alive alive-oh! Alive alive-oh! Crying Cockles and Mussels, alive alive-oh!
You didn’t ask, but the McHuston part of the Irish connection comes from my dear Mother’s side of the family. Her people arrived on a boat years before the American Revolution, trotted over to the county courthouse, and immediately declared that they had lately arrived from Ireland.
Her family, at the courthouse: Here we are, then. Would ye kindly jot that down in the book for us? A note of arrival, if you will. The name is Houston, and that would be us.
Clerk, writing in the big book: Irish, you say. Like I would not have guessed that. All-righty, then. Huston it is.
And thereby, and forever after, the family lost the O that might have been included for posterity, so others would not call us Huss-tun. It’s pronounced just like the Astros and the Texans and the fellow Sam: Houston.
The Mac part?
In the old Gaelic language, Mac translates to “son of.” Mac Donald described the son of Donald.
Mac Huston describes the son of Ms Huston, who is my mother – the book-lover who instilled that same attachment in me.
And THAT’s the Irish Connection (if it isn’t all a load of Blarney…).
