Such was his front-page blaring of his 1907 campaign to establish a charitable fund for the widow and orphans of firefighter Stephen Meegan who died under a collapsing wall in the Seneca Building fire. For days on end the Courier trumpeted Conners’ benevolence in headlines on the front page, breathlessly promoting the fund, printing the names of contributors: Conners himself gave $200. Joe Gans, lightweight pugilist champion of the world, $100. Judge Thomas Murphy, $10. Vernon Finn, No. 135 Dodge St., age seven, 25 cents.
Stephen Meegan’s widow and her three little ones, having lost husband, father and breadwinner, were extremely grateful at first. Mrs. Meegan had been left destitute, and was close to being evicted from the rooms she occupied on Tennessee St. One month after the accident that claimed her husband, teetering on the edge of ruin and daily reading the headlines praising the generosity of Buffalo citizens on her family’s behalf, but having not yet received a single penny, she called upon Mr. Conners at his office at the Courier. Her previous letters asking when she might expect to begin to receive the donations had gone unanswered.
Her situation was dire.
“He’s not in,” spake the dismissive receptionist.
“Well, Miss, I am the widow of Stephen Meegan, the firefighter who lost his life last January in the Seneca fire, and my children and I, well, we’re wondering when we can expect to receive the funds collected by Mr. Conners for our benefit. I’m…”
“Sorry ma’am,” she interrupted, ”he’s not in. Come back another time. Did you try and telephone him?”
“Oh my, we can’t afford such a luxury as a telephone! There’s no money even for food!”
“Well, then, write him a letter.”
“I have written, I already told you—a number of times. We are in a desperate situation, Miss, my children and me. Can I make an appointment to see Mr. Conners?”
“I don’t make appointments for him, ma’am. Why don’t you write and ask him for an appointment?”
“I am sorry, but I have tried, and he does not answer my letters. Can I leave a note with you to give him?”
The receptionist was caught uncomfortably between her natural compassion for the widow and the strict orders from the Boss to get rid of her. She was just trying to make her go away.
“Of course.”
She could always throw away the note once the widow left, the receptionist reasoned, but if Mrs. Meegan again returned after receiving no response, she may well find herself in the awkward position of conjuring up yet another excuse for Fingy Conners’ avoidance of the persistent, hungry widow.
Mrs. Meegan finished writing, folded the note, and eyes moist, handed it to the receptionist, and thanked her in a genuine and humble manner. She turned and walked away, leaving the receptionist flushed with guilt.
1907: O.L.P.H. Picnic
◆◆◆
CHURCH PICNIC AND
WARD HOLIDAY
GREAT DOINGS PROMISED AT ANNUAL
EVENT OF CHURCH OF
PERPETUAL HELP.
Business and everything else on the South Side will be suspended today to make way for the annual picnic of the Church of Our Lady of Perpetual Help, which is to be held all day on the grounds adjoining the church at Alabama and Sandusky streets. Supt. Michael Regan of the Police Department and Ald. Sullivan, President of the Board of Aldermen, have made the arrangements for the picnic and the day has been declared a legal holiday on the South Side, with the result that stores will be closed and everybody will have a chance to go to the picnic. The 74th Regiment band has been engaged to play a continual band concert throughout the day and evening, and an athletic programme that will give all ages and sizes a chance to compete for some of the prizes has been arranged. In the evening there will be dancing. Refreshments will be served throughout the day.
The Rev. Thomas Lynch and Supt. Regan and Ald. Sullivan will head the reception committee. Supt. Regan has made arrangements of his own for the day and will conduct a nigger baby booth, where shots will sell at the usual rate and the ones with the good aims will get cigars. There will be booths of every description distributed about the grounds which have been prettily decorated for the occasion.
—Buffalo Courier, August 7, 1907
The early August date that every First Ward child and many an adult anxiously awaited each summer dawned bright, warm and sunny amid the bustling eleventh-hour activity taking place on the great rear lawn of Our Lady Of Perpetual Help Church. A frenzy of preparations had been ongoing without cessation for three days. The time for the annual picnic had arrived.
As usual, Alderman John P. Sullivan teamed with Police Chief Michael Regan to co-chair the annual event with assistance from Fire Chief McConnell. Each year they tried to outdo the accomplishments and wonders of the year before. With Buffalo’s feverishly anticipated Old Home Week coming up in just a month, JP, a supervising director for each event, was stretched thin between the arrangements and plans for both. However he was determined that his historic commitment to O.L.P.H. would not suffer because of it.
The lawn fête was held each year as a fund raiser to help pay off the Church’s debt, and 1907 would be the first without beloved pastor Father Richard O’Connell at the helm. Father Lynch had been newly transferred from St. Joseph’s Cathedral to take the dead prelate’s place.
The Perpetual Help church property took up a good portion of the entire block, bounded by Sandusky, Alabama and Vandalia streets. The attractions and concessions were laid out in a logical formation on the sprawling lawn behind the church, as well as the spacious green space along the Vandalia street side.
Located center on the back lawn was the balloon ascension attraction, situated well away from the telegraphy wires and trees. The Moving Pictures attraction would be displayed on a large white screen secured to the windowless wall of the church on the Vandalia Street side. Also from this side, the automobile excursions would take place, providing a chance for those who had never ridden in an auto before to have that experience for ten cents.
Wagons and motor trucks were lined up to unload the tables, awnings, chairs, umbrellas, games of chance, ice and the vast array of food, drink and treats that would be dispensed. The bandstand was still being knocked together. Curious onlookers by the hundreds stood in the streets as early as eight o’clock, four hours before opening, blocking delivery vehicles’ passage and frustrating the event’s preparations.
Grills intended for roasting hamburgers, kielbasa and frankfurters were unloaded from drays. The smell of Texas-style chili began to fill the air. Chinamen toiled, preparing chop suey. There were large barrels of ice tea and mountains of pure ice from Crystal Lake donated by the Sullivan Ice Co. for the tea, ice cream cones, hot fudge sundaes and to keep the Hershey’s Kisses from melting in the August heat. Chunks of ice were sold as well, to lick or to cool sweaty faces or overheated babies.
Fingy Conners dispatched a large motorized truck with a zebra and a juvenile kangaroo for children to pet, and hundreds of unfortunate baby ducks and chicks that were doomed to be given away to children as game prizes. They were transported from Conners’ sprawling poultry farm in nearby Angola. Through his close association with William Randolph Hearst, who owned a luxurious “camp” at San Simeon California, Fingy had acquired a taste for owning exotic species native to a completely opposite climate than that of Buffalo. Most of these creatures sadly died off come winter in the sub-zero temperatures and gale force winds of his farm’s lakeshore location. With the arrival of spring warmth, Fingy would begin each year anew and a fresh selection of ill-fated living curiosities would be delivered to Angola from halfway round the world.
The entire Sullivan clan was careening around inside the side-by-side houses on Hamburg street, the occupants readying themselves. Detective Jim Sullivan’s eldest, Jim Jr., planned to escort Miss Mary Ellen Diggins from Mackinaw Street as was his habit. Jim’s daughter Nellie would attend with a neighbor boy she wasn’t at all interested in, but she did not want to appear in publi
c solo. Jim and Hannah’s youngest, David, eagerly joined in with his gang of cousins next door. Since the alderman was the co-host, he needed to be there to cut the ribbon at noon, and all nine of his progeny, along with cousin David, had to play the part of perfection, at least until the opening ceremony was over and they could lose themselves amongst the crowd.
This meant that everyone had to be in freshly pressed clothes and looking close to their Easter best, because George Hare, the Buffalo Express photographer, would be present. Over the years the alderman had dedicated himself to courting a steady stream of reliable friends at the Express. This ensured that reportage of his persona went beyond that of a Common Council leader and included a variety of stories about John P. and his family at more or less their “leisure.” He finagled as best he could that a photo of himself at the event be included in the following Sunday’s Illustrated Express, which almost a third of the city read.
In the pages of the Express’ rival Buffalo Courier owned by Fingy Conners, favorable publicity for Sullivan was not in the cards. At odds with Fingy more often than not these days, JP had few illusions about things complimentary concerning him or his being featured in the Courier. Having any such an agreeable arrangement with Fingy’s rag would cost him more than he was willing to pay.
City crews had recently completed the task of changing all the street signs, switching the name from Sandusky Street to O’Connell Street, in honor of the late pastor. The church council ladies and gents had spent all the previous day festooning each new O’Connell sign with ribbons and hanging baskets of flowering plants to celebrate this honoring of their late friend and spiritual leader.
Before they left the house, the Sullivan tribe were required to line up military-style for inspection. This was to ensure that all were presentable for engaging the public and to favorably impress their father’s colleagues and constituents. JP was proud—and relieved—that there was little rebellion among his crew. They all understood that their style of living was well above that of their neighbors and that their family’s having a favorable public opinion had everything to do with that. Besides, the kids were proud of their fathers, and each enjoyed their little slice of celebrity as The Alderman’s Kid, or The Detective Sergeant’s Kid.
In order to accommodate the full contingent, two carriages were hired to supplant the family’s Pierce Arrow automobile. The older children had balked vehemently at the public humiliation of riding in a Sullivan Ice Co. wagon pulled by mares, which the Alderman had originally suggested for promotional purposes. Teens Thomas and Daniel were predictably mortified, with younger sister Mazie newly converted to their side in this regard. The carriages waited at the ready out front like parade floats with flower garlands and ribbons decorating them. After all the children were safely crammed in, the horses trotted off toward the church. The alderman waved at and called out to everyone he passed.
Due to a huge crowd dressed in their Sunday finery crowding Vandalia Street, the Sullivans were compelled to alight from the vehicles well down the block and walk to the entryway rather than enjoy the grand entrance the alderman had anticipated. The older offspring were happily relieved of the public embarrassment. Chief Regan was already present, chatting with friends. At the entryway a bright gold ribbon was stretched across a ceremonial gate erected for the event. Father Lynch, parish notables and well-wishers crowded around the Alderman and the Chief. Quite familiar with ceremonies of this sort, the alderman and the police chief first pretended to cut the ribbon for the cameras present, then once assured that the photos had been captured, cut the ribbon for real. The awaiting fun seekers crowded noisily into the church grounds as the 74th Regiment Band struck up George M. Cohan’s wildly popular new hit song If I’m Going To Die, I’m Going To Have Some Fun, some thinking it an inappropriate opener for such a festivity.
The boys were chomping at the bit—Thomas, age 18 and Daniel, 17, Johnny, 10, James, 7, and cousin David, 9, all looking for an out. Police Chief Regan’s son David, 17, was Daniel Sullivan’s best friend, and he joined in as part of the entourage too. The Alderman’s older girls—Mazie 15, Anna 13, Jean 12—were a tad more patient, knowing their time for freedom would come soon enough. Baby Paul and little Mildred were content just to be close to their mother and father.
While neighbors and constituents surrounded the Alderman and his wife, JP’s eyes kept darting toward the antsy boys to communicate not yet. As the crowd of well-wishers grew deeper, the band struck up another George M. Cohan hit, “Harrigan (That’s Me).”
Thomas and Daniel looked at each other in utter horror upon hearing the first notes of the opening flourish. Mazie gasped. As her face reddened she desperately looked about in a panic for some way to escape into the crowd. “I’ve got to get out of here!” she whimpered. More sensitized to impending torture than his siblings, Johnny had already run off.
“Please God, no. Tell me he won’t!” squealed Daniel.
“Oh, I’m afraid he will,” resigned Thomas. “And Jesus Christ, there he goes!”
At the top of his lungs their shy and retiring father the Alderman began to belt out the lyrics to the hit song, substituting “H-A-Double-R-I, G-A-N spells Harrigan” with “S-U-Double-L-I, V-A-N spells Sullivan.”
With every eye now on old Pops, this humiliating and now-all-too-familiar public persecution sent them all scurrying to lose themselves in the anonymity provided by the happy throngs. JP carried on, conducting the band with arms all akimbo in a decidedly spastic fashion, as agonized wife Annie rolled her eyes at Hannah, who was steaming up beneath her bonnet.
Who is the man that the town’s simply mad about?
Sullivan, that’s me!
The ladies and babies are fond of me!
I’m fond of them, too, in return, you see!
Who is the gent that’s deserving a monument?
Sullivan, that’s me!
Safely liberated, the kids reveled in the fun as they encountered friends and ate themselves sick. As the day progressed, they returned again and again to their respective fathers only as a necessity upon their money running out. JP’s older ones were savvy enough having figured out that if they interrupted the Alderman while he was pontificating to a captive audience on some-such or whatever, he would be too embarrassed—if any such an emotion were possible—to deny their request right there in front of a gathering of admirers.
Chief Regan was announced to the crowd with a flourish from the 74th Regiment Band, and all present gathered to the center of the lawn and the waiting spectacle of the aeronautic balloon ascension. It was arranged that Captain Regan himself would be the first to rise up in the contraption, the likes of which proved not much safer these days than they did way back before the Civil War. No one thought he actually would go through with it, but he did.
The Big Chief climbed into the basket with his pilot. As might be predicted, the Chief’s wife Ellen declined to join him. The basket was tethered to an anchor in the earth so that it could rise no more than one hundred twenty feet. This was deemed a safe altitude considering that children were likely to be the most enthusiastic adventurers of the day. But for all who took the dare, each got a wondrous bird’s eye view of their neighborhood unlike anything they had ever seen before.
The Chief rose slowly, up and up into the heavens, to the cheers of the crowd.Regan looked like he was having a splendid time up there, gazing with awe in every direction as the pilot pointed out the green shoreline of Canada and the splendid spire of St. Paul’s Episcopal Church downtown. The Chief squinted to see if he could make out the mist from Niagara Falls, but Buffalo’s smoky industries had permanently sullied the city skies making the possibility of that particular vision a relic of the past.
The Chief’s infused spirit was electric, and once the crowds saw how much he was enjoying himself, even the most timid spectator wanted a ride. From that moment until closing, the balloon ascension was the picnic’s most popular and profitable attraction.
Unlike previous yea
rs, the Chief was not called away even once from his picnic duties, and quite enjoyed the admiration and gratitude of his people. Especially the female contingent, much to the chagrin of Mrs. Chief Regan. Women swooned at his daring and his dashing good looks.
The Chief was the star draw of the soda-water fountain attraction, dispensing Dr. Pepper and Royal Crown Cola, which on this hot summer day, would see no shortage of customers. Only just recently the bootlickers at the Buffalo Express newspaper had christened Police Chief Michael Regan “the handsomest man in the entire Ward.” Regan was by far the most popular police chief the city had ever had.
He was asked to take charge the soda-water fountain concession precisely for this celebrity, but Regan’s main interest was the oversee of the Nigger Baby Booth. He’d had a hard time finding a black man willing to put himself in such straits, but ultimately one of his street cops had succeeded in persuading a Negro who’d been arrested for stealing that if he’d volunteer at the O.L.P.H. attraction they would let him off the hook for his crime.
A large canvas banner over the attraction invited Hit The Nigger Baby! There was no shortage of takers. At the far end, twenty five feet or thereabouts from the table where stood the pitchmen, a grinning Negro dodger, his head covered in a baby bonnet, his face bobbing and weaving, grimaced fearfully through a hole in the back canvas. Painted around the hole was the gaping wide open mouth of a giant alligator in a jungle setting so as to make it appear the Negro had just been swallowed by the monster. The balls were regulation hardballs with red stitching imprinted with the words African Dodger.
Murderers, Scoundrels and Ragamuffins Page 30