Background Info for the "Dishonest Bob from New York City" Tale

Growing up, we were in the habit of inviting ourselves to stay overnight-and for a few days at a time for that matter- at the homes of our country cousins in upstate New York.   We learned this approach from our interesting, amusing, outgoing Grandfather, the original farm boy himself, T.J. O’Donnell, who was born and raised on a secluded farm in a close your eyes for a splint second and you’ll miss it hamlet called St. Joseph’s Pennsylvania.    T.J. was a proud, outspoken Irish-American who loved nothing better than instigating a loud and boisterous argument, only to quietly withdraw a few minutes later - with a barely visable smirk on his face - leaving the rest of the his family in a heated  and noisy verbal battle.  

In his late teens, T.J. left the farm and the rolling hills of God’s country to make a life for himself in the grandest city of them all – New York.    Nonetheless, it was always obvious to me that he left a big piece of his heart in this place he arrogantly proclaimed, The Garden Spot of America.   Although he spent the rest of his life living and working among the busy, hectic streets of the Bronx, Brooklyn, Queens and Manhattan, he always yearned for the old homestead, the surrounding green, rolling hills and the fresh, hay-scented air of God’s country.   He returned to this beautiful spot of earth every single change he got.   

I think that T.J. honestly believed he “owned” this little slice of the country.  Throughout his life, whenever he traveled northwest from New York City to his childhood home and the surrounding area, he never hesitated for an instant to knock on a door, invite himself in, and settle right down in a comfortable chair in the parlor.    Although he came uninvited, he never came alone.     T.J. had his wife, children and grandchildren – the entire O’Donnell clan- in tow.

In my childhood and youth, I thought this was marvelous; it was like being in the entourage of a royal and famous King and honestly, surprisingly, most of these cousins, distant relatives and old friends seemed genuinely happy to welcome T.J. and his gang into their homes.   Maybe it is a country thing or a remnant of a by-gone era, or possibly it was the strength of T.J.’s body language and his straightforward style.  When the homeowner opened his or her front door and saw T.J. standing there with a gleam in his eyes and the look of expectancy on his face, any reluctance on their part disappeared and they stepped aside to let him pass into the inner chambers of their home.  Years later when I had a home and family of my own, I cringed at the thought of that unexpected knock on the front door.  I cannot imagine finding a large bunch of uninvited guests standing on my doorstep, smiling broadly, expecting to be invited into the living room for a cup of tea!    But, back then, I was right there following eagerly behind the great patriarch of our family, thrilled to tag along whenever he suggested a trip “up to the country”.