[I will be posting the work of our recent three winners this week and then for the next two weeks. I hope you enjoy their comments about the writing of their work, our contest judge Sharon Byran’s comments, and, of course, the writing. – Ed.]

Here is Dorothy Ross on why she is writing the novel A Night at the Plaza from which her winning writing is the first chapter:

Some bits of my family’s history are so juicy and intriguing that I decided to fictionalize them. The resulting novel is a combination of a few barely disguised snippets of family lore woven into a fictional account of immigrant life in New York early in the last century.

When I was concocting this story, I felt like a little girl again, playing quietly in a corner of the kitchen while my mother and her sisters sat around the table sipping their tea and talking about the relatives and the neighbors. They forgot I was there, but I was a sponge for their gossip. If one of the aunts became aware of my interest, she would caution the others that, “Little pitchers have big ears.” Then they would whisper their revelations and I would pretend to be intent on my dollie. I still caught just enough of their susurrant murmurs for my imagination to feed on. It all came back to me when I sat down to write my book some seventy years later in far away California.

I submitted three different versions of the opening chapter to the WIR competition because I was uncertain how to begin the story. Sheila’s suggestions were invaluable in helping me decide on the beginning with the best “hook” to capture the reader’s interest. I’m now in the process of revising and restructuring my tattling tale and hope to have the novel, A Night at the Plaza, ready for publication some time this summer.

I am pleased to share our contest judge Sharon Bryan’s words about this selection. She wrote:

This chapter from a longer work is beautifully written, compelling, and moving.  The main character here, the narrator’s Irish grandmother, Megan, is brought to life with specific details of her appearance, her speech, and her surroundings.  The writer has a great ear for spoken and written language: “Over breakfast many years ago, while I stuffed hot buttered scones into my face, Grandma would tell me stories about Ireland.”  I look forward to reading the whole book.

Chapter One, from A Night at the Plaza
by Dorothy Ross

 My Irish Grandmother — Meagan

Like the queen bee who never leaves her hive, Grandma Nora was content to stay at home in her old age. Except for weddings and funerals, she didn’t even go to church.

Grandma owned the big three-family house in the Bronx that was home to my folks and a succession of our Irish relatives. That red brick fortress was a warren of stairways and hallways connecting aunts, uncles and cousins to Grandma, the matriarch of our clan.

Grandma Nora was a gray-haired granny with a funny Irish way of talking, a stout older woman in a fading flowered house dress and an ample apron, sitting in her rocker and knitting. Grandma was always knitting. My brothers and my cousins and I all had sweaters hand-knit by our grandmother in the ribbed and cabled patterns of Ireland.

I was still quite young when Grandma taught me to knit, using bits of her leftover yarn and large needles, suitable for a child’s small hands. I finished many little “Joseph’s coat” samplers of multi-colored squares that served as baby blankets for my dollies.

On Saturday mornings, when I was a schoolgirl, Grandma and I would often have breakfast together in her kitchen–just the two of us. First we baked the scones. Up to my elbows in flour, one of her aprons hanging down to my shoes, I absorbed the secrets of her scones and soda bread–buttermilk, currants, and not too much mixing. “Don’t over-beat it,” Grandma would caution me. “The batter needs to be clabbery.”

Over breakfast those many years ago, while I stuffed hot buttered scones into my face, Grandma would tell me stories about Ireland. She could recite whole sagas from the ancient Irish bards–fanciful tales about Celtic kings and warrior queens, the banshees and the little people.

The day I graduated from high school, I had breakfast with Grandma, just like in the old days. And, just like in the old days, she wrapped one of her big aprons around my waist. I wasn’t worried about getting flour on my clothes, but Grandma always wore an apron when she cooked and she expected me to use one whenever I helped her in the kitchen.

On graduation day, while the scones baked, I waited to see if Grandma Nora had a present for me. I was hoping for cash. I tried to hide my disappointment when she handed me a little stack of steno pads. She had tied them together with seam-binding tape from her sewing basket and tucked this short note under the bow.

Dear Megan,

You’re the only one who ever asks about my life in Ireland and the early years in New York.Your brothers and your cousins don’t seem at all interested. So I’ve been making notes for you about the old days. As you’ll see, I was young and impulsive. I made mistakes along the way. Don’t judge me too harshly, but try to learn from my foolishness.

Grandma Nora

When I thanked my grandmother for giving me her story to read, I was just being polite. But my happiness was genuine when she reached into her apron pocket and brought out an envelope with my name printed on it. It was a graduation card with a very nice cash gift.  I was in no hurry to read Grandma’s notebooks. I assumed they were just an old woman’s ramblings about her childhood in Ireland, probably stories she had already told me years before. But when my party was over, all the relatives had gone home, and I finally got to bed, I was restless. I couldn’t get to sleep. So I opened the top notebook, which Grandma Nora had labeled, In the Old Country.

In the Old Country — Grandma Nora

I was the baby of the family, as pampered as a girl could be on a small dairy farm in the West of Ireland at the turn of the last century.

Then, in my thirteenth year, everything changed. Maggie, my oldest sister married Johnny O’Rourke, the greengrocer’s only son. Her husband would some day take over the family business, just as Joe, our oldest brother would inherit our farm. Then our sister Kate scandalized the village by eloping with the schoolmaster. Maggie had left home to marry a local, Catholic fellow so that was fine. She did just what was what was expected of her. When Kate ran away with her Protestant Englishman, she broke all the rules. Dad swore he’d never forgive her. She wouldn’t be coming back.

Soon after Kate defected, our brother Ned entered Saint Patrick’s Seminary in Maynooth. He told me the school was near Dublin—clear across the country. “But don’t worry,” he said, “I’ll be home for Christmas.”

By Christmas I’d be gone.

*     *     *

Maggie was concerned about my future. She told Mam and Dad that my options were very limited in our village. With no property or dowry to offer, I’d likely marry a poor farmer or a shepherd. She thought I should try my luck overseas. She convinced Mam and Dad to let me join my cousin, Bridget in New York, where many Irish girls worked as maids in hotels. I couldn’t honestly understand how changing linens in America would be better than doing the laundry in Ireland.

Our boat sailed from Queenstown Harbor near Cork City. Tied up to the dock, it looked like a huge metal storage building. Even bending my head back I couldn’t see the top of it.

The first class passengers had porters to carry their luggage. Those of us traveling in steerage were expected to tote our own bags and make our way down the narrow, congested passages. We were crowded into the dimly-lit steerage area: Single men towards the bow of the ship, families in the wide center section and single women aft.

In the evenings the lads would have their bit of fun. One fella played his harmonica, and another piped a whistle. Between them they made music for singing and even a bit of dancing, mostly jigs and reels. When the musicians would take a break for a slug of stout, we could hear the strains of the orchestra from the ballroom on the upper deck.

After a week at sea we anchored at Sandy Hook, New York. I was thrilled to finally stop moving and to look across the harbor at the Statue of Liberty. We were watching the first class passengers walk down the gangplank to the Hansom cabs waiting at the dock, when suddenly men in uniform started shouting orders. We filed off the ship and were hustled onto a ferry for the ride across the harbor to Ellis Island. There I stood for more than an hour in the crowded waiting room before being released into the care of my cousin Bridget.

*     *     *

Bridget had moved to New York a couple of years earlier. She worked as a maid at the Plaza Hotel on Fifth Avenue and lived in a tenement flat with two other Irish girls. A third roommate had just left to get married. I was to take her place in the flat and at the dress factory where I’d be sewing all day.

I wasn’t prepared for the dreary neighborhood where so many poor Irish immigrants lived. Known as the Five Points section of Manhattan, it was a swarm of crowded tenements and rundown boarding houses. Dublin couldn’t have been any worse.

Bridget kept asking for all the news from our village. “Did Mary Malone ever marry John Lynch?” she asked. “And what about the Kennedy estate? I heard it was sold for back taxes. Is that true?” I had to confess that I didn’t have all the answers for her. Bridget was such a sponge for information about County Kerry, I wondered why she didn’t get on the next boat and go back.

We had our tea in the little front parlor. I had expected the tenement flat to be small, but I hadn’t imagined just how tiny Bridget’s place would be. She and Molly and Kitty all slept in one room that was no bigger than the back room at home that I used to share with Kate and Maggie. There was barely space to walk between the four cots. Downstairs, in the back yard behind the clotheslines, were privies the tenants shared with the building next door. They were so filthy and foul smelling that the girls used a slop bucket instead.

After lunch on Saturday, Bridget declared that she had a sick headache. She said nothing helped except darkness and quiet. “Never mind,” Molly said. “We can spend the afternoon at the public library.” I had never heard of such a thing as a place where you could borrow books without paying at all. Molly explained that Andrew Carnegie, a Scotsman who made a fortune in America, opened libraries for the common folks as his thank you gift to the country.

Molly cautioned me to be very quiet and to speak only in whispers.

At a blocky desk, behind a sign printed Librarian, a tall thin woman stooped over a stack of cards, sorting them into neat piles. As soon as we walked in the door, she started shushing us. I wanted to ask where to find a book that would be interesting, not too easy but not hard to understand. The librarian was so busy with her cards that I didn’t dare to disturb her.

I picked up a book called Anne of Green Gables. Glancing at the first few pages, I found that it was about an orphan girl name Anne Shirley, who was sent to live on a farm in Canada by mistake. I decided to take it home and find out what happened to Anne. I thought I’d have to borrow it on Molly’s card because I was so new in New York, but Molly spoke with the librarian and found out that I could get my own library card.

Although the books were checked out for fourteen days and Molly didn’t plan to return for a fortnight, I knew I’d be back the next Saturday. When I walked into the library alone the following week, I headed straight for the reading room, hoping I looked braver than I felt. I wanted to read a good story, but I had no idea how to find one. I had to ask.

Fortunately the Head Librarian, Miss Johnson, was friendlier than the first librarian I’d met. She was shorter and stouter, too, more like Mam. Miss Johnson suggested that I look at Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. “Read a few pages before you make up your mind,” she said. “There are plenty more books on the shelf if you don’t care for Miss Austen.”

I opened to Chapter One and read the first sentence, “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.” I had to borrow Pride and Prejudice to see how that turned out. From then on, most of my Saturday afternoons in would be spent in the library, getting acquainted with Jane Austen and the Bronte sisters, and, of course, Emily Dickinson. I looked forward all week to seeing Miss Johnson. She always had a good suggestion for me.

*     *     *

Early in December we were invited to a Saturday night hooley with some dockworkers from Limerick. Their place on Perry Street was a third floor walkup in an arrangement known as a railroad flat–three narrow rooms in a row, with the parlor at the front, kitchen in the middle, and bedroom at the rear. The furniture was all dark and bulky, making the rooms seem even smaller.

Communal privies were located in the back on the street level, so people were lumbering up and down the stairs all night. Other tenants in the building complained about the noise, until they were asked to join the party.

There was plenty of ale, some biscuits and a bit of cheese. And, of course, spirited singing of songs from the old country. Every so often one of the men would raise his glass and holler, “Up Sin Fein.” Just about every fellow there clambered to his feet and toasted the Republic.

Between the lads and the girls, the standard questions were, “What county are you from?” and “How long have you been over here?”

Sometimes you’d be asked about your work, but the answers were almost always the same–maid or seamstress for the girls, and building maintenance or the docks for the fellows. All that was left was, “Where do you live?” And then it was on to the next person and the same set of questions and answers.

The next morning, Bridget claimed another one of her headaches, so I went to Mass with the other girls. We stopped at Weintraub’s Bakery on the way back for jelly doughnuts. Molly explained that because the Hebrew Sabbath was on Saturday, the City allowed Jewish merchants to do business on Sunday, which was handy for the Catholic communicants coming home from Mass, having fasted since midnight.

Squeezed around the small round table, drinking tea and trying to eat a jelly doughnut without squirting the dark red preserves on my dress, I noticed that the girls were all very Irish looking, but each was different in her way.

Like me, Bridget had the fair O’Brien hair and very pale freckles, but where my eyes were blue, Bridget’s eyes were a lovely green with gold flecks.

Kitty had darker freckles, and curly red hair that refused to be tamed. She looked like a colleen who was ready for fun.

Molly’s straight hair was almost black and her rosy cheeks were clear of freckles. She was the least Irish looking of the bunch.

After the tea and goodies, Bridget was over her headache and said she felt well enough to go out. She suggested we walk over to Hester Street to do some Christmas shopping.

“On a Sunday?” I was flabbergasted. “That’s against the Fourth Commandment.”

“Nora, we’re on our own now, in a free country. We don’t have to do every little thing the Sisters ever told us,” Bridget said. “We go to Hester Street on Sunday because it’s lined with Jewish shops and they’ll be open for business today, just like the bakery.”

“I suppose you’ll soon be eating meat on Friday, too. Aren’t you afraid for your soul?”

“Oh, pooh.” Bridget dismissed that idea, but I was worried about her.

I trailed along behind her on Hester Street; I didn’t buy anything. I still thought shopping on the Sabbath was a sin. I didn’t have any money to spare anyway. I’d been away from home for two months and I hadn’t managed to save much at all.

And so the weeks passed. On most of those Saturday nights in the city, the girls would have a party to go to and they’d take me along. We were all invited to a Christmas party at the flat of some other Plaza maids. On that blustery December night, when we walked through Washington Square, snowflakes were drifting down but melting when they hit the sidewalk. We arrived at the party in high spirits, the snow having put us in a holiday mood.

Bridget met Jack Brannigan at that party. Jack, who also hailed from County Kerry, was on the maintenance crew at the Plaza. He worked in the basement and she was an upstairs maid so their paths didn’t cross on the job. They might never have met if they hadn’t both gone to that Christmas party. The two of them spent the evening sitting in a corner of the crowded parlor, talking and talking, like nobody else was in the room.

I didn’t think they noticed when I left them and wandered into the kitchen. A couple of red-faced County Down men had hit on the idea of opening the window and scooping fresh snow off the sill into their glasses, then pouring whiskey over it. A fellow named Paddy handed me a wet and frosty glass full of snow and Irish whiskey. When I finished it, he packed more snow into my glass and was about to top it off with more John Jameson’s when Jack Brannigan came into the kitchen. Holding me firmly by the elbow, he steered me out to the hall where Bridget was waiting. I was none too steady on my feet, so I was very glad Jack walked home with us.

Washington Square Park had been blanketed with snow while we were at the party. It looked like a Victorian Christmas card. We seldom get snow in the west of Ireland and when it does fall, it leaves a mere dusting on the hilltops, nothing in the villages. The three of us were enchanted by the soft mounds in the New York park. We laughed as we kicked at the drifts and threw snowballs at each other. We only stopped cavorting like children because our shoes were getting wet. Before Jack left us at our door, he and Bridget made a date for the following Saturday.

I asked Bridget if she wasn’t nervous about going out with Jack without anyone else along. “I don’t need a chaperone,” she said. “This is a new country, Nora. I keep telling you, things are different here.” I needn’t have worried. Although Jack was crazy about her, or maybe because he was so crazy about her, he made sure he and Bridget were seldom alone together. After that first date, he often invited me to join them. I got to go to parties and Irish step-dancing sessions and even a playhouse, and Jack paid for it all.

Jack Brannigan was like a big brother to me. He continually cautioned me about drinking too much, especially around fellows I didn’t know. “Be careful of the drink,” he said. “Hooch can be dangerous. Never mind that some men call it Holy Water; there’s nothing holy about being a drunk. And it isn’t a bit attractive on a young girl.”

Jack sometimes arranged dates for me with friends of his, so we could go out as a foursome. One of those fellows was Tim O’Sullivan, another Plaza Hotel employee, who worked with Jack in building maintenance. The four of us had drinks at a pub near the apartment, then walked across town to see a vaudeville show. Tim hardly spoke to me at all during the evening. Between the vaudeville acts, he kept asking Jack about his night classes at the Cooper Union trade school.

Jack proposed to Bridget on her birthday, February twelfth. Even though they’d known each other less than two months, I wasn’t a bit surprised that she accepted. He gave her a Claddagh promise ring with a small emerald inset, “To match your green Irish eyes.” They scheduled a late March wedding at St. Brigid’s in the East Village. They decided it would cost too much to go back to Ireland for the ceremony. “It would be different if Mammy was alive,” Bridget said, “but she’s been gone three years now. Lord have mercy on her soul.”

When no one was looking, my cousin practiced signing her new name. She wrote Mrs. John Brannigan on the back of one envelope and Bridget Brannigan on the flap of another. Molly and I found her married moniker on scraps of paper all around the apartment. We teased her about becoming B. Brannigan, and asked if she’d name her first son Brian Brannigan or her daughter Brenda Brannigan. She just laughed.

One Sunday morning after Mass, Jack came back to the apartment for tea and sweet buns. Bridget was all talk about the wedding and the little flat they would be moving into as a couple. Jack interrupted her reverie to ask when she would stop working at the Plaza. “I guess I’ll stay on at the hotel until we pay for our furniture and have some savings,” she said. “Maybe until a little one comes along.”

“Oh, no you won’t,” Jack said, surprising us all by his strong reaction. “My wife won’t be working. You’ll have plenty to do with the cleaning and the laundry, and shopping for food to cook for me.”

They had more words on the subject, but Jack finally won out. Bridget agreed to quit her job before the wedding. She offered to put in a good word for me if I wanted to work as a maid at the Plaza. I was glad for the chance and her matron agreed to take me on, but not until Bridget left.

During those warm weeks I explored Manhattan on shanks mare on Sunday afternoons. One day I walked north along Fifth Avenue as far as the Plaza Hotel, where I was greeted by the doorman who held open one of the big glass doors. The gilt and marble lobby, with its crystal chandeliers and Persian carpets, was the most elegant interior I had ever seen. I took a seat at a small desk, partially concealed by a potted palm and pretended to be reading a newspaper someone had left. From my perch, I observed the comings and goings of the hotel guests and staff. A woman alighted from the elevator, accompanied by a perfectly groomed French poodle. The dog’s pale apricot coat was the same shade as his mistress’s bobbed and waved hair. The woman’s walking suit was much the same color, only darker. They walked towards the exit doors, stride for stride, noses atilt.

Tired of taking the measure of the swells, I walked into the ladies’ room where I was surrounded by even more marble. I wouldn’t be using that fancy privy once I started working at the hotel.

****

Dorothy Ross tells us about herself:

My first job, as a $50-a-week clerk-typist, was in an office on Fifth Avenue. I reveled in the atmosphere of midtown Manhattan. Curious and ambitious, I worked my way up to the position as secretary to the president of one of Madison Avenue’s largest ad agencies. Then I married, moved to California, and devoted twenty years to childrearing before re-entering the job market as a writer and editor at the University of California at Davis.

It was after retiring from UCD that I started writing personal essays. Readers seemed to enjoy the short, light-hearted pieces about my often comically mixed marriage—he the conservative and I the liberal. My writing focus shifted ten years ago when I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. These days I concentrate on informative and (hopefully) humorous articles, many of which have been published in PD blogs and newsletters. A Night at the Plaza is my first attempt at fiction.