A Little Bit of Heaven On Earth: "Irish-Town"

Once Upon A Time…


Once upon a time, there was a little heaven on earth known as “Irish town.”
Irish town referred to a strip of bungalows between Rockaways Playland and 116th Street in Rockaway, a little finger of land that separated the known world from Nirvana for most of us.

Irish-town’s bungalows represented an escape for most of the people who lived in the hot tenements of New York City. They were an alternative to being swallowed up in an air-less sweltering city, a working man’s alternative to the upscale cavorting of the rich who took off for Long Island or New Jersey for the weekends or even the entire summer, a concept that was even beyond imagining for most of the City’s inhabitants who toiled away year long to be able to afford a bungalow on the ocean during the time between Memorial Day and Labor Day..

The bungalows on the Rockaway shore represented more than the little shanties they were; they offered a chance to breathe fresh air and take a dip in the ocean; they were a temporary reprieve from the cramped apartments in the City that seemed to soak up and hold the relentless heat of a New York summer’s evening; a viable alternative to sleeping on a fire escape hoping that even a breath of air would come your way. . . They were the place where you encamped your wife and your family until you could slip off for the weekends.. They were small and cramped but each featured a little porch area crowded with rocking chairs and benches where you could people watch, chat or simply relax with a cold drink while the rest of the world strolled by looking on enviously..


No, I didn’t spend my summers in a bungalow but I did go out to Irish-town whenever I could. Not only was it the wonderful salt air that you could taste when you crossed the Cross-Bay bridge, it was everything that this part of the Rockaways connoted. It was of course the beach, the broad yellow swath of sand separated from everything else by the long and wide Boardwalk that seemed to stretch miles in both directions. It was the arcades and the hot dog stands and the smell of French fries that invaded your nostrils. It was the blue restless ocean with the sounds of the waves ceaselessly breaking on the shores and lulling you into a kind of peacefulness. The scene was perfect for dreaming impossible dreams of strange new worlds that existed just across the sea. It was the fun of Playland where you could spend the day playing all of the penny machines, or riding the old wooden roller coaster that clankety-clanked above your head, or finding yourself getting dizzy in Davy Jones locker that seemed to reverse gravity, or riding Tilt a Wheel until your stomach discovered a separate existence.

But for me, while all of that was fun, what Rockaway was all about was 103 rd Street.
This was the home of Gildeas, the Leitrim Castle, The Shamrock and perhaps a dozen other Irish pubs that graced both sides of this impossibly short block that stretched from the boardwalk to Rockaway Blvd crowded with passer-bys seeking to get away from the City for a night out by the shore….

There was never any problem figuring what block you were on because 103 rd street was always characterized by the two black Pariahs that stood at each end of the block to gather up the rowdy or the uncontrollable and transport them to the local constabulary where they could sleep it off.

Each of the pubs that lined the block had a separate and distinct personality. And half the fun was to know where to go and when. At the corner, standing about six steps above the sidewalk with genuine swinging doors was the hang-out for the Coney Island motorcycle gangs. A little further down on the other side of the street was where the college crowd hung out wearing their college uniforms, the girls with their skorts and little white dickies and the boys with their chinos, crew cuts and madras shirts…Each of the pubs was also known for their musical preferences. Mostly, I hung around the college pubs which were always blazing away with music turned up to a fever pitch intermingled with laughter and loud conversation.

It was the place to finish a pint, have a good laugh and meet some people. And that never changed.

There was a kind of policy on the block that most observed; you didn’t hang around in the pubs that didn’t cater to your crowd; to do so would be inviting unexpected consequences; but when you’re young and carefree you tend to violate your own rules and, sometimes, even what passed for the rules of survival..

So it was on many occasion that we would spend time at the corner pub watching the bar fights that looked so typically like those Hollywood staged extravaganzas of the old west where somebody gets a chair broken over their heads and they are tossed unceremoniously through the swinging doors except this was not balsa wood; this was the real thing.

I think over the years of being a regular visitor to most of the pubs, that the corner bar offered the best bar action if you were into skirmishes and a little action.. I think I saw more people transported through the doors, and in some cases still sitting in their seats, then I ever saw in the movies.

Mostly, the fights were started by rival motorcycle gang members; or sometimes a college crowd would wander in and that would kick it off and off they went until the police cars sirens started blaring and the coppers would have to come in and bust heads to get things back to normal again.

. But what I really went to Irish town for was the music. I loved the Irish music and I could hang out the pubs and listen and drink a pint and have a ball. And if push came to shove, you could even get me out on the dance floor doing the Savoy which was the favorite dance of the Bronx Irish who used to frequent the place. The Savoy was much like the favorite old lindy with a hop and a circular motion. It was a good test of sobriety because I don’t know if anyone could master the intricate steps having been three sheets to the wind. All I know is that when I was out there, I was having the time of my life.

Time would just seem to fly by. And regularly one of my buddies would have a pint too many and someone would talk him into going around the corner which meant only one thing, the tattoo shop. I don’t know how many of my friends woke up in the morning sporting a tattoo and not knowing how they got it.

And if we had a bit too much of the good times, we would retreat to the boardwalk and hang out on the beach or wander over to 116th street for a hot dog and fries.

Sadly, my old hang-out is no more and those remembering the place seem to be growing fewer with the passing of each year. But when I go by and I see what has become of the old place, I feel immensely saddened. Perhaps the truth is that you can’t go home again and that a great place can only survive over time in your mind and your heart as it has for me.

Nor is it a place you can truly describe to someone who’s never been there. It was kind of a Camelot for the young, a place where you could be whatever you wanted to be. And then go home at the end of the night totally refreshed and face the world for another week. What else could anyone want? I’m sure that in most of our hearts, there is a place like my Irish town and it is within most of us to search it out…

Les Aaron