“Granda, who is Breccan Colwell?” I asked rushing toward my grandfather with an old book I had found on the top shelf of the parlor bookcase. “This dusty, old book must have belonged to him because his name is here.”
Eamon Colwell set the Sunday paper on the small table next to his rocking chair and accepted the opened book. “Where did you find this?”
“On top of the bookcase. Nan told me to wipe off the dust, so I climbed up on a chair.” I picked up the paper, noticed the photo of the brand new Empire State building on the front page and turned it over to check the sports section. “This book was kinda wedged in the corner. It looked really old, so I pulled it out. Do you know who it belonged to?”
Eamon studied the faded signature on the title page for a time then smiled. “I certainly do.” He turned a few pages until he found an illustration. “I used to read this when I was your age. It gave me nightmares.”
“Who was he? Shoot! The Cardinals lost yesterday.” I tossed the paper toward the table.
“We always called him Bone.”
“Bone! What kind of a name is that?”
“It wasn’t really his name, but it’s what we called him.”
“We who?” I asked taking a seat in Nan’s chair since she was cooking dinner in the kitchen.
“Me, my brothers and all my cousins. Even your grandmother,” Granda answered. “Breccan Colwell was my paternal grandfather. He would be your great-great grandfather, Fynn.”
“Did I ever meet him? When was he born? Where was he born? Did he come from the old country? What did he look like? What did he do for a living? Was he a bank robber like Pretty Boy Floyd?” I asked without pausing for breath.
Granda shook his head. “Pretty Boy Floyd, huh? Is that what they’re showing on the newsreels at the Strand now?”
“No. I heard about him from Devlin Maloney. What do you remember about your granda?”
Nan stood in the doorway holding her rolling pin. She wiped some flour from her forehead and said, “I grew up about a mile away, and I remember listening to him tell stories about growing up in Contae Chiarraí. He also loved to scare all the kids by telling stories about ghosts and undead creatures.”
“Where?” I asked not hearing about the ghosts.
“County Kerry. Southwest part of Ireland. Bone only knew a few words in English,” Granda answered.
“He understood, and could speak more English than he let on. He grew up in a time when the Irish and English didn’t always see eye to eye.”
“When have they ever?” Granda chortled.
“I want to know more about him. How did he get the name Bone?”
“Okay, I will tell ye. As near as we knew, he was born around 1820, or so, on a farm outside of Killorglin. I don’t think he knew the exact year. He had several siblings, but he was the only one who lived long enough to raise a family.”
“You were born in Ireland, right?”
Granda nodded. “On the same farm, and in the very same room as my granda. August 8, 1852. My mother remembered the date because it was during the Great Potato Famine, and several of the local people either died or moved away.”
“I read about that, but didn’t really understand why so many people starved.”
“I will tell you what I remember another time.”
“Okay, but tell me why you called him Bone? Was it because it was easier to say than his real name?”
“Nothing like that. I remember the locals calling him Bone, and when I asked him why, he would shrug. I later learned it most likely was because he would butcher hogs and an occasional cow.”
“That’s boring,” I replied. “Do you want me to put the book back?”
Granda turned back to the title page. “Carmilla by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu,” he said softly. He stared at his wife.
“I shall put it back,” Susanna Bennett Colwell said taking the book.