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An Irish Emigrant’s Tale of Squalor, Survival, and Success

Here in that restive state of awareness called “Geezerville,” most of us have researched our genealogy, for better or for worse. My research, attempted in 1971 in an Alameda High School History class, yielded results in the “for worse” category.

Alameda Post - A graphic was a green beer that says Happy St. Patrick's Day

To my humiliation, I discovered that the Michaels clan of County Offaly, near Dublin, were a nefarious bunch of violent, drunken louts, most of whom died in their teens, dead drunk in a peat bog, drowning in two inches of water.

When they weren’t drinking, they made a living selling “Poitin,” a powerful Irish moonshine made from grain or potatoes. They insidiously sold the dangerous brew bottled, calling it “St. Michaels’s Curative, for all ailments.”



Peat Bog

Eventually a band of women, who were widowed after their husbands became addicted to St. Michael’s, forced the criminal Michaels family to join the Potato Famine-induced hoards who emigrated to the United States.

Fortunately, my research ended there, only to resume years later when my beautiful young cousin Mandy Sapphire invited me to a Michaels clan St. Patrick’s Day party out in Banta, a few miles south of Tracy. St. Patrick’s Day fell on a weekday that year, so I had to decline because I worked nights.

Mandy was disappointed, as she wanted to share some Michaels clan lore gleaned from Grandpa Ardith “Rembrandt the Housepainter” Michaels before his passing. As an opportunity to date the gorgeous Mandy Sapphire was too good to pass up, I took off work, and offered to treat her to a St. Patrick’s Day feast at my favorite restaurant, the Royal Oak Pub (now China Villa) on Harbor Bay Landing.

The Royal Oak’s cuisine was often hit or miss, and the St. Patrick’s fare was a big miss, with salty, stringy, tough corned beef, mushy cabbage, and mealy potatoes. I was embarrassed, and Mandy Sapphire made things worse by saying, “Damn, I’m so hungry!”

Adding to my misery was an annoying performance by some noisy Irish step dancers and a terrible accordionist, who knew but one tune, “The Irish Washerwoman.” After hearing the tune for the tenth time, I grabbed Mandy Sapphires’s tiny hand and led her out of the Royal Oak, and down the lagoon pathway to El Caballo (now La Penca Azul) for some enchiladas.

Alameda Post - a green rose

Not wanting to waste this opportunity with Mandy Sapphire, I handed her a single green rose that I had tucked in my jacket. After two margaritas and some great chicken enchiladas, she was happy, and began her surreal tale of the Michaels clan in America.

“Gil, we are descended from some really ungodly people!” she exclaimed.

Upon hearing “ungodly” I couldn’t resist asking her, “The last time I saw you, you were a Jesus freak. What’s up with that?”

She glared at me and snapped, “I grew out of that, especially after the pastor groped me and said some vile words. What a hypocrite! Have you ever been groped?”

I laughed and said, “Many times, but it was consensual, loving groping.”

Alameda Post - the sign for La Penca Azul

Alameda Post - green enchiladas

She responded with a cute little smile. I asked, “So what’s so ungodly about them? From what I learned in high school, they were just a bunch of drunken moonshiners who got booted out of Ireland.”

She replied, “It’s what they did when they got to America that’s ungodly. There were four of them, our great grandfather, Matt “the Mauler” Michaels, a prizefighter; his common-law wife, Bridget, a cook; his brother Mark, a moonshiner; and his wife Muriel, a courtesan.”

“Jeeze, what a group, just what America needed.” I offered. “So get to the ungodliness!”

Mandy Sapphire started her story. “Before they left Ireland they needed money, so Muriel caught the eye of a rich counterfeiter. She set things up so Matt the Mauler confronted them and threatened to beat the counterfeiter to death unless he paid 10,000 Irish pounds. He paid up, and working with a crooked banker, Matt and Muriel laundered the bogus money and converted it to real U.S. dollars—around $12,000, which is like $250,000 today—so they were rich when they left Ireland. When they got to New Jersey, Matt spotted a hotel and saloon for sale, so he bought it after intimidating the seller into lowering the price.”

“Was Matt the Mauler a scary guy?” I asked.

Alameda Post - counterfeit money

“He was. Grandpa said he was about 6-foot-2, 280 pounds, and was missing an eye after getting hit with a bottle. He and his brother liked to go into saloons and bet a thousand dollars that no one could take him in a fight. The contestants had to pay 10 dollars to try, so Matt and Mark made a tidy profit from the fights, which Matt never lost. The only man to ever knock Matt down was a guy named John Dempsey, father of Jack Dempsey, the former heavyweight champion. Matt got up and beat him to a pulp. Matt was a very bad, mean man, and I’m ashamed to be his great-granddaughter.”

I laughed and said, “I dunno, I would really enjoy meeting him, a 280-pound bar brawler with one eye. So what were the others doing while Matt was mauling people?”

Alameda Post - an old hotel

Mandy Sapphire resumed her tale. “They fixed up the hotel and saloon, lived upstairs, and Bridget opened a restaurant, selling Irish dishes like cottage pie and stew. She was a success—the saloon and restaurant were full all day. Grandpa was a toddler, and remembers sitting on a bar stool with Matt.”

That sounded legit to me.

“What got them in trouble was Mark and his illegal Poitin moonshine,” Mandy Sapphire continued. “He was selling it at the bar, and must have made a bad batch, because he poisoned a guy. Right after that, the family sold everything and ran. They made it to ‘Dogtown,’ an Irish community in St .Louis, Missouri, and got right back into the hotel, saloon, restaurant, and prizefight business. Mark wasn’t allowed to make moonshine, so he spent his time rounding up saps to fight Matt the Mauler.”

Alameda Post - a silhouette of two boxers

“So how did we wind up in Alameda?” I asked.

“That’s something else I’m deeply ashamed of,” Mandy Sapphire moaned. “Grandpa Ardith eventually met Grandma Bertha, a hospital nurse who treated him after he fell off a horse, drunk. They never married, but had six kids, including my mom Vaughna and your dad Dixon. Grandpa called himself ‘Rembrandt the Housepainter’ and barely made enough to feed the kids and rent three rooms in the family’s hotel.”

The story continued. “One day, he just disappeared. Grandma Bertha had to go back to work at a hospital, and Great-Grandma Bridget fed and watched the kids. Two years went by, and finally Grandma Bertha got a telegram from him, saying he’d met another woman in Alameda and had another son. Great-Grandpa Matt went wild with anger, and even though he was 80, he was still a brawler. He put himself, Grandma Bertha and the kids on a train to Alameda.”

When they arrived, “He hunted down Grandpa Rembrandt and found him living with his new family in a house on Buena Vista Avenue. After beating him to a pulp, he kicked out the new family and moved Grandma Bertha and the kids in. So that’s how we got to Alameda.”

Alameda Post - cliffs in Ireland

I shook my head and said, “My dad Dixon is a reprobate like Grandpa Rembrandt.”

“I know,” Mandy Sapphire replied sadly. “But he’s worse! He had three families and abandoned them all!”

I smiled sardonically and added, “I loaned him $500 after he said he had no food or gas in his truck, and haven’t seen him since.”

Mandy Sapphire laughed, held my hand and said sweetly, “He wasn’t all that bad, because he gave me a great cousin like you.”

I smiled, and said, “Our zany family also gave me my beautiful, wise, and wonderful cousin, a gorgeous auburn-haired, emerald-eyed Irish lucky charm.”

I fondly remember that wonderful St. Patrick’s night, here in that restive state of awareness called “Geezerville.”

Gil Michaels loves chugging Jameson’s and Guinness at [email protected]. His writing is collected at AlamedaPost.com/Gil-Michaels.

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