JOHN PATRICK CORBETT (1888 - 1945)
by Robert E. Corbett, December 1997
I knew my grandfather and loved him very much. He died when I was only 6 but I used to spend a great deal of time with him, and he was such a cut-up and so different from the pack that I remember him well.
In his early days of adulthood he joined the navy. One of the honored traditions of the navy was a big celebration for those sailors who were crossing the equator for the first time. Somewhere in my papers is a certificate that he got for this crossing. While in the navy there were two main features of his life:
A number of years ago I wrote the navy asking for a copy of my grand father’s navy file. I have that in my papers too. But, it is primarily inked out. It’s several pages long, talks about his being arrested for this, jailed for that, and then many lines of ink-out and the same procedure over and over. It’s not clear if he ever got an honorable discharge or not. It’s a very fortune thing that he was in service during a time of peace of he might have been shot! However, the various commands under which he served (maybe “fought” would have been a better verb) clearly liked having him despite his trouble making, since he was always bringing fame to his unit with his victories in the ring.
One of the stories he loved telling about his navy days was that he got to Boston once. His father, of course, had come to Boston from Ireland, and worked there for six years. His father had been in debt to his “lace curtain” Irish relatives the Martels. So, John set off to meet these relatives. He found they home, quite a mansion in the Beacon Hill area, and was about to visit when he saw the sign on the lawn: “Irish and Dogs keep out!” Well, that was it for his short temper. Happily he did NOT go to the door or there would have been hell to pay. He just left and never wanted anything to do with the Martels after that.
One of the Martels, James, had visited St. Louis in 1904 for the World’s Fair, but John was off in the navy. His brother Jerry, who was quite a dapper fellow himself, and with much more appearance of “lace curtain” about him (John was strictly “shantytown Irish”), entertained James Martel (who was in his 20s) and I have some interesting diaries from some Brady relatives from that period. (Recall the Bradys were John’s maternal grandparents.)
After leaving the navy and marrying, he was a cab driver. Recall that in 1906, cabs were horse drawn, and for a long time after. When cars finally replaced horse drawn cabs in the mid to late 1920s, Grandpa John brought home an old carriage for his kids to play with and it sat for years in the back yard of the Wade Ave. house (whose backyard connects to my Tamm Ave. house).
John never lost his love of the ring. One of the things he did for his sons (he had five sons and then his one daughter, my Aunt Catherine, as his sole daughter), was to set up a boxing ring in the back yard. Those five Corbett boys, who, of course included my Dad, were notorious fighters as young men.) My Dad, as did several of his brothers, even aspired to formally enter into prize fighting. Dad had lots of stories to tell about those days in his late teens and early 20s when prize fighting rivaled soccer and softball as his primary sports activity.
Grandpa married Kate Dwyer, who came from rural Missouri, the area of Pilot Grove, near Boonesville. Her sister Lizzy Dwyer married John’s brother, Jerry, who also lived in Dogtown (just a few blocks away on Wise Ave.), so the two families were quite close. A few years later when Lizzy and Kate’s brother and sister-in-law both died, the two families took in their children too. At that time John and Kate had all sons and Jerry and Liz had all daughters. So, John and Kate took in the boys and Jerry and Liz the girls. It was in this manner that Randel Dwyer, the most famous saloon keeper in Dogtown, was my uncle.
(More about Kate Dwyer Corbett and Randel Dwyer and his famous saloon, the White House, in another place.)
Of course the Grandpa Corbett I knew was an older man, no longer working. He spent his days on his porch on Wade Ave. rocking in his rocking chair. I remember so vividly being shocked and delighted when he was rocking his chair with vigor one day and he tipped it over backwards. As he was drawing himself up, with a certain loss of dignity, a visiting neighborhood woman said: “Oh, Mr. Corbett, you do the funniest things.” Well, it was the wrong thing to say at that moment, and John exploded, cursing her and running her off his property. I was utterly shocked, but everyone else thought it was about the funniest thing imaginable.
The most popular taverns in Dogtown at that time were O’Shea’s (today’s Seamus McDaniels) and the White House run by his son (adopted informally) Randall Dwyer. But Grandpa Corbett mainly went to O’Shea’s since it was closer and his “crowd” hung-out there. He carried his own tin bucket, as most men did. It was probably about a 24 oz. container and carried “loose” beer (draught beer). He’d often take me up to Shea’s with him and I loved it. One day I was with my Grandmother Wilbourn, my Mom’s mother. We were shopping at the grocery store across the street, southeast corner of Victoria and Tamm. I saw Grandpa Corbett go into Shea’s and I ran to join him. Grandma Wilbourn was a teetotaling Southern Baptist and very skeptical of these drinking Irish Catholic her daughter married into (though she adored my Dad – who wouldn’t!). Well, when she came out of the store, she sort of realized where I had gone, and after waiting a while, finally had to come into Shea’s to get me. She never got over it, claiming it was the only time in her life she ever entered a tavern. I got a spanking for that one! More about that when I write about Jennie Cummings Wilbourn, my Grandmother.
Grandpa Corbett was a stern disciplinarian, as were so many of the Irish (and I gather, most immigrant parents.) My Uncle Rooster (Charles) once was playing hokey from school, a common phenomenon for him, and sitting in a tree in a vacant lot next to St. James Church. (A rather dumb place to go given where his family lived! – just a block away.) His Dad was heading up to Shea’s for his “loose beer,” and saw his son. He dragged Rooster over to the school, barged right into the classroom, pulled down Rooster’s pants and spanked him in front of the startled (but approving nun) and his classmates. Oh, my, times were different in the 1920s.
Grandpa died young, at 62 years of age of a heart attack. But, his two brothers, Jerry and Con both lived vigorously until 91 and 86 years respectively, dancing to the very end. I don’t know what ever became of Uncle Charlie, from whom I got so much information. He eventually moved from St. Louis to Florida or some warmer place and I know he lived to a very old age.
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Bob Corbett corbetre@webster.edu