Mother’s Father, Cornelius Patrick Moakley

Daddy Moakley and me in our back yard at 19 High St., Dorchester

The Moakleys came from Sherkin Island, near Baltimore, County Cork, Ireland. They settled in East Boston, but the terrible East Boston Fire left them homeless, and they moved to a part of Boston called The Cove, where, not surprisingly, my grandfather and his brothers all became volunteer fire fighters, and when Boston began hiring full time paid fire fighters, my grandfather applied for the job. You were supposed to be seventeen to qualify for this job, and he was only sixteen, but he lied about his age.

The Moakleys had operated a fleet of gravel barges back in the old country, and it has been said of the Moakley family that “They always just assume that everyone is interested in boats and fire engines.” So it is not surprising that young Cornelius got himself assigned to the fireboat.

Unfortunately, one winter day, while fighting a fire on a wharf, Daddy slipped on the ice that covered the planking of the wharf, fell into the harbor, and caught pneumonia. When he got well he was assigned shoreside, at Ladder 7, Meeting House Hill, Dorchester. Dorchester was in the midst of a building boom, what with so many homeless families from East Boston needing places to live, and much of the Moakley family had moved to Dorchester. They ran a tavern nearby, on Freeport Street, where they did a thriving business serving lunch and liquid refreshments to the workers at the busy boatyard located across the street.

On the way to the Moakley Tavern, young Cornelius passed a less crowded tavern, run by the Cosgriff family, from Tipperary by way of Montreal and Burlington, VT. Their tavern was at 41 Linden St., just off Dorchester Avenue, and catered to farmers who stopped there overnight with their horses and wagons on the way to market their produce in Boston. And the proprietor’s several pretty daughters waited on the customers.

One of them was Alice Jeanette, who married Cornelius on September 27^th, 1900. They lived for a while at 208 Hamilton st., where my mother was born, and later on Topliff St., where Uncle John was born, before buying a three-decker at 19 High St., half a block from the firehouse. That’s where I grew up. Mother persuaded Dad to rent the second floor, while my grandparents and Uncle John occupied the first floor.

As a teenager, Daddy sold newspapers in the Soth End with a friend, John F. Fitzgerald, Senator Kennedy’s grandfather. Later, “Honey Fitz” was elected Mayour of Boston, and it was the custom in those days, for a new mayor to replace high ranking public officials with his friends, especially those who had helped with his campaign. After every election there was a complete shakeup. People accepted this as a natural fact of life, but eventually Civil Service took over, but not till much later. It was also the custom for the newly promoted people to give a gift (bribe) to the Mayor. Daddy refused to pay the bribe. “I would never do such a thing”, he said. He remained a private, the lowest rank in the Fire Department, till he retired. The other firemen said he was better qualified than any of the officers. He was the one they turned to for advice.

Daddy’s love for boats did not go away after his icy bath. He bought a summer cottage at 69 Squanto Rd., Wessagusset, where we used to spend summer vacations, and was one of the founders of the Wessagusset Yacht Club. His yacht was only a large dory, but he got the family out to the islands for picnics with it. When I was a boy it was unusable and stored permanently under the back piazza. How he managed to own a summer place and send his son to college is a marvel of frugality.

69 Squanto Road