RIP Joe Liffey – Bay Ridge Will Miss You
Joseph Liffey passed away on peacefully at home on Monday, March 21, 2022. He was 89 years old (he would have been 90 in April).
We were all lucky to know this kind man. Joe was everyone’s friend.
God puts people like Joe here to look after the world. Joe attended church each day because he was reporting in.
Joe’s funeral was held today. The funeral procession traveled to Joe’s home. His family loved him a lot. On the stoop of his home were many flower arrangements and one giant shamrock made from green flowers.
A bagpiper stood and played music as the hearse pulled up for a final goodbye.
We will miss talking to Joe, his big smile, his love for dogs and this community. RIP Joe.
Prayers for his family.
One of Joe’s friends wrote this:
A sad, sincere Irish farewell to the Mayor of 95th St, Joe Liffey, one of the finest gents to ever wear shoe leather, as the Irish of olden days would say. Joe was one month shy of his 90th birthday and a grand import from Nenagh, Tipperary, via our great northern neighbor Canada. I first met him circa 1998 when my debauched bar, Kelly’s Tavern, closed its taps and then its doors, and I decided to slake my thirst at the Harbor Tavern across the street from it. Joe was an Irish mensch from our first meeting, buying me a Rolling Rock hand grenade as he refreshed his screwdriver. When I learned of his surname, I naively said, “No kidding? There’s a river in Dublin with the same name.” “Aw, shit sure,” said Joe with a cackle in his voice, “It was named after me family.” When I told him my father was from Limerick and my mother from Longford, he said the Longford folks were fine to be around, but to watch out for those Limerick fellows from “Stab City.” “They’re not as bad as the Jackeens from Dublin, but best to avoid anyway.” Of course, Joe was joking…about the Limerick folks. Joe was the only immigrant I’ve known from the grand Irish exodus of the 1950s who landed in Montreal instead of the Big Apple. Joe said the county clique was mighty in Montreal and that if you saw one gent from a certain county, you would see all 16 of them. “Ah, jayzus, you wouldn’t see one without the other. They were shadows of each other. I never knew how’d they go on dates with the local girls.” Joe would crack up at the remembrance of this. “There’d have to be plenty of sisters to date the one lad from Monaghan who brought along his 16 buddies.” Joe was a top-tier union carpenter who retired early enough to enjoy it. He used to laughingly say to me, “I may have a bulls-eye on my back, can you leave the bar ahead of me and I’ll follow? Your gray head is as good as mine to them.” I’d ask what was the problem, and he said that retired carpenters lived only a few years after they retired and never got to enjoy their pension. “I’ve been retired 30 years, enjoying my pension every day since—the union doesn’t like this,” as he burst out to exuberant cackling once again. Alas, Joe’s last few years were difficult with health woes, and I hadn’t seen the grand man in some time since he ceased making the short walk to Kelly’s, not even glimpsing him on his porch on 95th St when I would drive up his block. Joe was a pleasure to be a friend of, and I’ll forever miss the days of him at the high table of Kelly’s, holding court with all who came through the doors to chat, laugh, and be slagged off by the seanchai of Bay Ridge. RIP and condolences to his family.
Hugs,
marlene
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