My father has a memory of my great-grandmother Rose that he shares from time to time. He was outside playing with his sister Kathleen one day when she called them back home. She led them to a small room and dug out a big photo album. My dad was sure that she was going to make them sit there and go through old family photos for hours. A young boy at the time, he squirmed and looked longingly out the window at his Cape Cod summer day.
But Grandma Rose quickly flipped to the very back of the album and pulled out a stack of carefully folded, faded newspapers. One after another, she opened them up to the Help Wanted section. There, she handed him ad after ad marked with big block letters: no Irish need apply.