I come from a large family that is of English, Irish and Scotch
descent. We are the ultimate WASPs (white, Anglo-Saxon, Protestants), although a
couple of my sisters have embraced the Catholic faith. I respect them very much
for that and at one time took some workshops with a priest so I could become
godfather to my darling niece, Molly, and my close friends’ son, Jacob. Growing up we lived mostly in the suburbs,
ate white Wonder bread, and on my part, because it was important to my father, spent
a lot of time taking care of lawns.
I think it is interesting that many of us in my family married
people who were in some part Irish. My
mother as a Redman; my older sister, Melissa, is now a Corcoran; my brother
married a Norton. I married a girl with
the last name of Doyle. We lost my mother
when I was just nicking 25. When my Dad
remarried he wed a nice girl named Virginia Caine Murray. When Ginger became a part of our family so
did her two children, who then became my siblings. I love them very much and have never used the
word step-brother or step-sister. They’re
just my youngest sister and brother, the Murray kids. My father and his wife had
a lot of grandchildren and they all have Irish, biblical or family names. There
is Benjamin, Matthew, and Meredith Kelly; Molly, Becca, Patrick, and Emma;
Madeline and McKenzie; Connor and Delaney; Michael, Charles, and Grace; and
Hannah and William. Holidays are a lot of fun around our houses. We trade the off where we will all get
together. We always celebrate Easter at
my house and I look forward to it every year.
My father was always a big fan of Christmas but he also
loved St. Patrick’s Day. We used to have parties at our house with all of the
neighbors and our friends. After Mom died, Dad started a tradition where we
would all take the day, and the next day, off work and congregate at the parade
in the city. We would then camp out in some restaurant or bar with the
intention of spending the entire day and night together. Eventually our family
gathering turned into a big pub crawl that a lot of other people joined in on. It got so large that we had to start
reserving rooms and tables at places like Ireland’s, Andy’s Jazz Club, and Irish
Eyes down on Lincoln Avenue. On one St. Pat’s Day, at Andy’s, my college roommate
and high school friend, Jeff, the one who spent four years in the service in
Korea and Japan, stood up and made a
very touching speech about his girlfriend, Kathleen. He then pulled a box out his pocket and asked
her to marry him. That was a fun South Side wedding to stand up in. At the end of
every night we did three things: we went
to visit my father’s friend, Mr. McMahon and his wife; we picked up my wife,
Karen, who was always studying to get her Master’s degree, took her to a bar by
our old apartment called The Duck Club, and then everyone who hadn’t gone home
already had a final toast to our mother and slept on the floor at our place. I loved getting up the next morning and
finding my family and a bunch of friends there, sleeping happily and peacefully.
As we all got older,
started our careers, bought houses and began raising children, the tradition
winnowed off. When Dad got sick it
stopped completely. My father passed
almost four years ago, but still every year I, and I’m sure my siblings do too,
celebrate St. Patrick’s Day with a toast to our dad, the ringmaster
of a very special circus.
When my wife and bought our first house, and started
contemplating a family, we decided it was important to find a church home. We
went and visited a lot of places and settled on one nearby close to Irving Park
Road. One of the reasons we liked it was
that it was a beautiful building that had been there for many, many years. Its
steeple and stained glass windows were gorgeous and inviting. We also liked the pastor, Nicholas. He is a very down-to-earth guy I used to talk
to about philosophy and poetry. He shared my affection for T.S. Eliot. Mostly,
we liked all of the people we met. Some
were older and had been a part of the congregation since they were baptized,
got confirmed and married there. They went
through it all again with their kids, many of who still attended with their own
children. You got a sense that there were
many life cycles in that church and that appealed to us. After we had been
there a year I asked Nick what more I could be doing. He said, “I’m glad you asked. I have two
ideas. I would like you to serve on the church council and I would like you to
chair the social committee.” I said, “That
sounds good. What is entailed in chairing the social committee?” He answered, “We do two big events each year.
Our congregation has a lot of Scandinavians so we do a St. Lucia’s potluck smorgasbord
fundraiser right around Christmas and we do a big St. Patrick’s Day
dinner. We have lot of lapsed
Irish-Catholics who go here, so it’s a large affair.” I then asked him, “So, who else is on the committee?”
He smiled and said “Right now, it’s you.
and then whoever else you can con into doing it.”
I was able to con two other people who I had met on Sundays
to work with me. One was Big John, a man
of German and Ecuadorian descent, whose kid was our babysitter when my oldest
was born. The other was JoAnn, a single
mom and interesting woman who still styled her hair in a flip, just like Mary Tyler
Moore in the late sixties and early seventies.
Together we all did real good job of planning parties, getting people in
the church to help us and come out, and the three of us became very close. As our St. Patrick’s Day event got bigger and
bigger, JoAnn took care of all the corporate and family donations for the auction
and the ticket sales; John made sure all the logistics of food and tables were
in order, and that we had really cool Irish music on the sound system we set up
in the church basement. My job was to manage all of the details,
market the event, and be a face. I had
to emcee the event. Each year, after the
event was over, John, JoAnn and I would go into the administrative office, count
the money we had received and make sure the books were in order. It usually got pretty late in the night. JoAnn drank wine coolers and worked on an
adding machine. John and I drank what was left of the beer, did what she told
us to do, and generally made her crazy. When we were done we would have someone
pick us up and drive us home. We spent St. Patrick’s weekend like that together
for many years.
When Karen and I had our kids we named the young children of
John and JoAnn as third godparents to our kids along with some of our siblings. After we moved to the suburbs John and JoAnn’s
families all came to visit us for Saint Patrick’s Day and Easter. Other times we would just get together in the
city or the suburbs. One day I came home
on the train from where I worked in the city and after I changed clothes, Karen
gave me a beer, and told me that John had died of a sudden heart attack. Not long after his funeral, where his wife,
Bernie, asked me to do the eulogy, we found out that JoAnn was dying of cancer.
I was pretty entrenched in my career
then and I would say to Karen, who visited her a lot, “I’ll go see JoAnn when I
can.” I never did. The last time I saw JoAnn was at her wake. Her
daughter asked me to go with her to the casket and pray. I did and kissed JoAnn’s
lifeless face, still so beautiful.
That night I went outside and sat on the steps of the
funeral home to cry. A woman, named Stephanie, came and sat next to me. She
offered me a cigarette. I took it. Stephanie is a philosophy professor at DePaul.
She
rubbed my back while we smoked and talked. She said, “T.S. death is fucking ugly and fucking
brutal, but it is a fact of life. I know you have lost a lot of people and you’ll
remember them forever, but you also need to think about who and what has not
left you yet; all the good things in your life. You need to think about the
things that make you happy, and where your passions lie. Do your friends proud.
That’s what they’d want.” I probably wouldn’t
have listened to her like I did but she is someone I like and respect; she is someone
who is intelligent and knows a lot about the world. Stephanie always could be
coarse at times, but she, in her direct way, always said things that made a lot
of sense to me. Besides that, she was
also our pastor’s wife, so she already had a degree of credibility with me.
While there are a lot of things I think about on any St.
Patrick’s weekend, there are two things I think about the most. One is that it is anniversary of the day, now
three years ago, that I was officially diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease, and
our lives all changed. I hate that it was on St. Patrick’s Day but I don’t
control these things. The way I look at
it, I’m still alive; I’m enjoying and embracing life, I’m opening new doors all
the time, so a date is really just a date, but you have to be angry that it is a day like this. Still, it is not one
to be marked in sadness, but one to be marked in joy.
St. Patrick’s Day is also the anniversary of the night that
I took a young, pretty, and smart girl I had declared my love for on our first real
date to eat corned beef and cabbage at Murphy’s in Champaign. We later went to
meet friends at O’Malley’s and she held my hand; occasionally kissed me. It was the first time we went public in letting people know that we were no longer just best friends. I guess I must’ve done OK on that first
date because she has stood by my side ever since, and still does. That was 29 years ago. It was the best St. Paddy’s Day ever and what
I think about most on this holiday when it rolls around.
Tomorrow night for Sunday dinner my family will make a
traditional Irish meal for our children and whoever stops by. Later on, I will
light some candles for the ones that have gone home before me and the ones I treasure
now. I will send messages to my siblings
and I will drink a toast to my father. I
also imagine I will have a little beer, because as Benjamin Franklin once said,
“Beer is evidence that God loves us and wants us to be happy.”
Blessings to you all, whoever you are, and wherever you
may be, for a wonderful St. Patrick’s weekend and day. May you have many good memories. I know you will. T.S.
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