The story, as told by my father, goes something like this:
There were three brothers. Lads who were both close in age and heart. They were hard working men, but the tyranny of the English oppressed them. Being good Irish Catholics, they attended mass, the local pub and the secret meetings of the revolutionaries.
Close they were and true lovers of their country. So it was when one brother murdered an English gentleman that the three brothers set out for America, never to return to their beloved Isle.
They settled in the east, eventually moving westward. One married and sired five daughters before committing suicide. It was a black mark upon the family name and it was only whispered about. The daughters lived well into their nineties producing children of their own. One of them was my great-grandmother.
The name of the murder was never revealed, and we have no clue as to which brother had actually committed the crime. The Irish temper, however, continues in our bloodlines to this very day.
And that me friends, is a bit o’ the history of me family, at least according to me Da. It may all be malarkey for he is a great teller of tales.