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My father, Michael Rogers, was a bartender at New York’s legendary Astor Bar from 1936 to 1965. The photo above was taken for the N.Y. Daily News series, “The Correct Thing,” on tipping bartenders. It’s not a good shot of him, as it doesn’t do justice to his hair, wavy and deep black, a color he likened to “the inside of a raven’s wing.” He was born in Drumlish, County Longford, in 1900 or 1903 (accounts vary) and, in 1926, he and his Longford mate, Hughie Prunty, having never visited Dublin, were on their way to New York. They walked from Longford to Cork to travel steerage on a dumpy tub with a devout name, The Celtic Cross. After a long but fun-filled crossing, they arrived in New York. Hughie looked the city over, decided it wasn’t for him, and headed west, to Nevada. My father, on the other hand, headed north to Harlem, where he lived for a few years and later, moved to the Bronx. It was in the Bronx that he met my mother, Rose Flood, a native of Cou