Innocents Ablaze

March 25, 1911 was an early Spring Saturday. Kate Leone, age 14 rose early in the fourth floor apartment she shared with the rest of her family. Careful not to wake her little brothers as she got dressed, she double checked that she had her lunch as she closed the apartment door behind her. Walking down the stairs Kate is warmed by the smells of breakfast cooking as she passes the apartments of the other, mostly Italian immigrant families. She smiles at the pleadings and the familiar voices she hears of her neighbors getting ready for another day in the big city. Waiting for Kate on the front stoop of 515 East 11th Street are the other girls she walks to work with most every day. As they walked west on East 11th Street the conversation turned more than likely to some holiday celebrations as Passover and Easter were both on the horizon. Probably they talked about boys. Fanciful thoughts of a new skirt or hat for the holidays would not have been out of the question as Saturday was a day of possibilities, Saturday was payday.

Sadly, Kate and her friends would never cash their checks, or buy those special holiday treats. At about a quarter of five, as the girls packed their belongings at the end of a long work day, a fire broke out on the 8th floor of the Asche Building, home to the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory. It was a perfect storm for an industrial tragedy. The factory was crowded with seamstresses packed close together to maximize profits. The women were told to dump the scrap fabric right at their feet to limit time away from the machines, leaving an abundance of fuel. Most of the girls were Italian like Kate or from Eastern Europe like her friend Ida Brodsky, age 16. The girls had never been trained in what to do in case of a fire. So as the conflagration spread, they panicked. Screaming, hundreds of young women headed for the exits. Most Americans familiar with this story have heard that the owners of the company locked the doors to keep the girls at work and to keep them from stealing fabric. Investigations later revealed that the doors opened inward and the crush of bodies in a panic prevented the girls from simply stepping back and opening the door. The owners of the factory were later aquitted of manslaughter charges.

Some workers found a way to get down. A few lucky girls rode the freight elevator which apparently made only one trip. With the elevator stalled, some girls attempted to slide down the elevator cables, some actually made it, many were found later in a crumpled heap of bodies on top of the elevator. A number of girls found their way to the only working fire escape. This worked for a while until the fire escape collapsed under the weight of so many women. Killing many who were so close to saftey. With the fire spreading quickly and the FDNY ladders only reaching the 6th floor, many girls were left with no choice. According to an eyewitness...

"I walked through Washington Square Park to get closer to the commotion. As I neared the corner of Greene Street and Washington Place I noticed a bale of dark dress goods come out of a top floor window. I thought that someone was trying to save expensive cloth. Then another bale came down, and another. One caught the wind and opened. It was not a bale of goods, it was a young woman." Driven to the choice of burning to death or plummeting 8 or 9 stories to the concrete, many girls chose the latter. Many of the girls, too scared to jump alone, actually held hands in pairs or large groups and jumped together. It was this image, seared into the minds of so many New Yorkers, that proved symbolic of the tragedy of the Triangle Shirtwaist factory fire.

I first learned of this fire in History of The American Labor Movement, a class I took at SUNY Buffalo. Haunted by the stories of these girls I continued to read all I could about the fire. Home on break my junior year I took a pilgrimage to the very spot. I worked on the assumption there would be a small museum, or something to commemorate the 146 people who died in the fire. Before 9/11, this was the worst workplace fire in New York City history. I got off the F train, and like the eyewitness, I walked through Washington Square Park. As I neared the corner of Greene Street and Washington Place I felt myself looking up towards the 8th, 9th and 10th floors. Once in front of the building, I checked the lobby for a list of tenants, figuring the museum would be listed there. Nothing. I asked a few pedestrians, all I got was blank stares. And then I saw it, as I was standing on the corner, the only thing to remind New Yorkers as they pass this historic spot during their workaday lives, a small commemorative plaque on the corner of the Asche Building.

November 22, 1963

December 7, 1941

September 11, 2001

Kate Leone and all of the young women who died that fateful Saturday deserve to be remembered. March 25, 1911 should take it's rightful place alongside the other dates we rightfully commemorate every year.

I would imagine Kate's family and the families of the victims could eventually take solace in the what happened after the fire. News of the fire captivated New Yorkers immediately. A huge public outcry called for: safer working conditions, mandatory fire drills and sprinkler systems among other things. And change came quickly. The FDNY started the Fire Commission, and the State of New York gave it some authority to actually enforce the new laws.

P.S.

I can't explain why I have been so drawn to this story. One of my more "mystical" friends says she thinks I must be related to one of the victims. If you have any interest, Cornell University has a great site devoted to the fire. And David Von Drehle's book was very readable narrative history.

Triangle : The Fire that Changed America by David Von Drehle

http://www.ilr.cornell.edu/trianglefire/

Happy St. Patrick's Day

"Ah, I blame your father." My mother would say. It is partially my father's fault that I feel at home in a bar. Some of my best memories are of my dad and I going to get a haircut up on 9th Avenue in Windsor Terrace. This was back in the day when they still used hot foam and a straight razor. Both of us, closely shorn, me with a lollipop in my mouth, would find our way into one of our neighborhood pubs.


Early on a Saturday afternoon we'd walk into Rattigan's, Gerard's, The Terrace or more than likely Ulmer's. No matter the joint, my father knew everybody. I thought that was pretty cool. We'd walk in and my father would get a big hello from the bartender and the sprinkling of regulars at the bar. "Hey Jimmy howya doin'?" "Hey, Jimmy Spinner, cold Schaefer? If it was Ulmer's, Mary Quinn would usually be behind the bar. I always remembered Mary's name because it was the same as my Dad's mother. She'd place my dad's Schaefer on a coaster. Then she'd peer over the bar at me, "And is this Jimmy Jr. I see here? The little baseball player? We can't get your father to stop talking about you. What do you want young man?" Climbing onto the stool next to my Dad I know the routine. I order a Coke and Mary gives me a high ball glass with ice in it. After some conversation, Mary walks over with a marker (usually a coaster or an upside down shot glass) to say, "Next one's on Billy." And my father would raise his glass in Billy's direction and nod his head. When my Dad has some change on the bar he'll ask, "Hey Butch want to play a game?" Usually the choice would be pinball but in Ulmer's they had Flash Bowling with the heavy metal disk and the sawdust on the lanes. You know the game where the pins pop up into the machine? This was Nirvana for a kid. I had an endless supply of Cokes and quarters and the attention of all my father's friends. It felt like home.

So, it is my father's fault. I remember when my friends and I were just out of college. Flush with cash, we'd spend our weekends partying in Manhattan. Most 20 somethings would be going to "clubs." Sure my friends and I would occasionally go to Limelight or Palladium, but we all seemed to prefer a night at McAleer's, The Emerald Inn or Farrell's. I blame my father.

Considering it's St. Patrick's Day, as a tribute to my old man, (he passed in '85) I figured I'd give you the recipe for a good Irish-American Pub as my father taught it to me. Like a good drink, you have to have the right ingredients:

The bar itself has to be made of wood, marinated in spilled beer and whiskey, aged with the tears and laughter of past decades. You should be able to tell that someone loves this bar, that someone cares for this bar. More than likely it's a family place. Behind Farrell's there's an Eddie Farrell. At Peter McManus's (7th Avenue and 19th Street), there's a McManus family. Usually, if it's an old joint, the woodwork behind the bar is coordinated with the wood of the bar itself. The mirrors, the molding, and the wooden architecture around the bar were usually built by the same company. The name of the company, can usually be found on the center mirror behind the bar. At Boru's, here on West Main Street in Waterbury, Connecticut it says, Brunswick, 1934. Growing up Catholic, the bar and the church always seemed similar to me. In both places there's one person in charge. The decor is similar, the varnished wood of the pews and the bar. Both venues use dim lighting and hushed tones (sometimes). The stained glass of the church, always eerily similar to the colors of the liquor bottles reflecting off the bar mirror. Both places are steeped in their routines and customs.










Next add your Irish bartender. At Farrell's we had Eddie, and we had Houlie (pictured) , which if you're Irish you know is short for Houlihan. Farrell's always had a soft spot for civil servants too, mostly FDNY guys moonlighting. Guys like Vinny "the bartender" Brunton. Vinny bravely paid the ultimate price on 9/11. Happy St. Patrick's Day Vinny. Nowadays we have Duffy. It's been my experience that Irish bartenders come in two versions. You have your smiley, full of Blarney, happy go lucky bartender (Houlie). Or you have your surly, curmudgeon bartender, (Eddie). This guy acts like he's doing you a favor every time he sees you. It's really just his schtick but he's letting you know that it's his bar and you're on probation. It's a select few who are allowed into his "club" and the jury seems to be out on most patrons, especially you.

You also obviously have to have the right crowd. Looking back now, my Dad probably picked working class bars that tended to have more Met fans than Yankee fans. I can also see now, that the patrons of the bar were so happy to see my Dad because then they were not alone. It was their social outlet, their country club. There's a cameraderie in frequenting the same pub on a regular basis. You have to feel the crowd out, it might take a few trips and multiple conversations to figure out if it's the right place for you.

A little lower down on this list of ingredients is music. Tunes are important but not crucial. For years Farrell's had no music and we didn't even notice. You're there to lubricate the vocal chords for conversation. But over the last few years, in a nod to the more refined crowd encroaching from Park Slope, even Farrell's has added music. More than likely it's the music's volume that's the key; and most bartenders will work with the crowd. If music is key for you then it used to really matter if a bar had a good jukebox. Nowadays, with computers and cd's, the volume of choices available make this a non-issue. As long as the patrons play the right tunes, you're in for a good night.

Connected to music on the entertainment spectrum would be sports. This is probably, in an Irish-American bar, a little more important than music. For me, and I hate to say this, but if it's a sports-oriented bar, it's probably going to be frequented by guys I might actually like to have a beer with. So, sports and tv for my friends and I, pretty important.

So there you have it. A simple recipe for an Irish-American pub as gleaned from my father. This might help you find a place to unwind with a frosted mug and a few friends. I hope I wet your whistle for tomorrow. Unfortunately, my wife is working the evening shift Tuesday, so I'll have to be with you in spirit. Happy St. Patrick's Day.

P.S. If you want to read a good book, look for a book by Gwendolyn Bounds called
Little Chapel on the River: A Pub, a Town and the Search for What Matters Most