I never knew my grandfather; he died in 1923. My mother loved him dearly, and, since she was the baby of the family, he may have indulged her a little more than her brothers and older sister. However, the father of four is not supposed to play favorites, so, when he took her with him to a vaudeville show one afternoon before WW I, he made her promise to keep it a secret, just between the two of them.
In fact, since he had been planning to take the afternoon off and attend a matinee all by himself, keeping it a secret from Grandma was part of the deal.
Harrigan, That’s Me
A popular song of the day, (the 1910s) written and performed on Broadway by George M. Cohan, was:
“H, A, double-R, I, – G, A, N spells Harrigan
Proud of all the Irish blood that’s in me
Divvil a man can say a word agin me
H, A, double-R, I, – G, A, N you see
Is a name that a shame never has been connected with
Harrigan, that’s me!” – Lyrics by George M. Cohan, 1907
But the version that delighted my mother at that vaudeville matinee was a parody – not “Harrigan” but “Hooligan.” A hooligan was a bad boy, a ruffian, a gang member; in The Adventure of the Six Napoleons, Arthur Conan Doyle wrote that the breaking of the first statuette “seemed to be one of those senseless acts of Hooliganism which occur from time to time, and it was reported to the constable on the beat as such.” 
The song parody that caught my mother’s fancy was:
“H, O, oho, L, I, – G, A, N spells Hooligan!” and continued along the lines of “that’s the name that people call me….” Every chorus ended with the triumphant shout, “HOOLIGAN! That’s Me!”
Hooligan, That’s Me!
Being a quick study, my mother had learned the lyrics by the end of the performance, and she repeated them over and over in her mind, savoring the joke.
That night, at dinner, she and her father said nothing about their secret trip to the theatre.
In the 1910s, children were seen but not heard at the dinner table. They didn’t talk, and they certainly did not sing. Mother and her brothers and sister ate in silence, except for the clinking of silverware and an occasional, “Please pass the salt.”
But, in her head, little Helen was singing, “H, O, oho, L, I, – G, A, N spells Hooligan!” all through the meal.
Suddenly it burst from her mouth at full volume: “HOOLIGAN! That’s Me!”
“What did you say?” asked her mother. “You are not a hooligan! None of my children are hooligans!”
Little Helen squirmed. “It’s a song,” she murmured, digging herself in deeper.
“A song? Where did you hear a song like that? You tell me who taught you that song. I’m going to tell their mothers!”
Grandpa knew the jig was up. He confessed that he took his little girl to a vaudeville show.
My mother was grateful to him, but she never did tell me what happened after that. And she didn’t teach me all the lyrics to “Hooligan, that’s me!”