St. Patrick's Day 1959

I wake up to the loud music from the records with the thumping, skipping sound in them, Mother’s favorite old Irish records. It’s St. Patrick’s Day and I am off from school because our Monsignor is Irish and he declares it a holiday. Next year I will probably march in the big parade up Fifth Avenue in the city.  I play the fife in the school band, but I’m new and Mr. Callahan says I’m not ready yet.  Mother is already excited about me being in the parade next year.  She says she’ll see me on television, she can’t wait. Every year she watches the parade from start to finish. She has to get everything ready so she can sit down to watch it, and only run out to the kitchen on commercials. It starts at 11 o clock.  I lie in bed under the green bedspread, listening to  'It’s a Long Way to Tipperary'; 'I Had a Hat when I Came in', and 'Harrigan'. 

I start singing to myself as I get up to go into the kitchen, where Mother is just finishing the Irish soda bread and forming it into two round loaves, patting it with her hands. “Good Morning Glory!” She says happily.  She brushes the loaves with milk, then says "put the small chunks of butter on top of the loaves, that makes them crusty on the outside."  Into the oven they go. A few raisins have fallen out of the dough and lay on the pan. Flour and sticky dough lay in clumps on the enamel table, next to the box of raisins, bowls and spoons.  Mother’s hair is done up in pin curls, flat spirals around the top and the sides, held with silver clips. I’ve watched her make them. She concentrates very hard, getting the curl just right.

Next she sets up the dining room table, getting the leaf out of the hall closet, and laying the table pads on top.  The thick pads are kept under her bed.  Daddy keeps shoes under his bed.  All the while she sings along to every scratchy record stacked on the record player.  Then she puts the white tablecloth on, and sets the silverware out, with the cloth napkins beside them.  The good china with the pink flowers comes out of the drawers in the credenza. Everything for the holidays is in the dining room, and the record player is there too.  Today is a big celebration, and of course Uncle John will be coming. So, at his place at the head of the table (Daddy sits at the other end) she puts the silver ring on the napkin.  The silver ring has his initials on it, JFH.  She gave it to him a few years ago on his birthday.  But he didn’t take it home to the rectory with him.  It stays here for when he is here to eat.  Uncle John comes around noon on special occasions like this, wearing his black suit and roman collar. Tonight there will be corned beef and cabbage for dinner, with boiled potatoes and lots of mustard. The cabbage will have bits of bacon in it. The bright green cardboard Irish hats will be brought out. The tall top hat is for Uncle John and the round shiny green one for mother.  Daddy never wears an Irish hat. 

Later this afternoon, after she changes out of her housedress, Mother will go out to the bakery around the corner, where she’ll get the special cake, chocolate with the little green paper flag on top and green frosting swirling around the edges. Mother loves to have a special cake for every occasion.  Last month, we had two special cakes; one that looked like a log cabin for Lincoln’s birthday and the mocha cake with the cherries on top and the little hatchet, for George Washington’s birthday.

Special beer glasses, tall and shapely, will be set out for tonight and even I get to have some beer in my very own, little glass stein. I remember that it makes me burp and feel silly, just to feel grown up. Mother will get all “dolled up” later today, wearing her best green wool dress, with the wide belt.  She has earrings that are shaped like shamrocks with tiny emeralds and pearls, and a pin that matches. Her lipstick will be bright red, and nothing and nobody can shake her good mood today. She seems alive with electricity.

Later that night at dinner…
Uncle John finishes cleaning up his plate and declares “That was a grand feast, Margaret, thank you”. Mother smiles and nods, pleased. He wipes his mouth firmly, puts his napkin down and says “I have a story for you girls.”  His face is reddish and his eyes seem bluer.  Lillian and I look at each other. Some of his stories make us laugh so hard.  Once, milk came out of Lillian's nose, and we were both so overcome, we had to cross our legs till we got into the bathroom. But sometimes the stories are very long, and we have to pay close attention, or Mother gives us the kick under the table and the raised eyebrow. Daddy picks up his glass to have more beer now and looks over at us. 

Uncle John says “A man goes into a pet shop in Ireland. He’s looking to buy a special pet that will be a good companion. ”What’s the man’s name?” I ask.  Mother gives me the raised eyebrow and the glare, but Uncle John says quickly “Mr. Gilhooley, now listen, don’t interrupt.” Daddy lights up a cigarette, looks around for an ashtray. “The pet shop salesman sells the man a beautiful little green and orange bird that he calls a Rarey.  "It might talk to you, but be patient, it will take time."  "Mr. Gilhooley", he says in my direction, takes the bird home and he does turn out to be a good companion, but he doesn’t talk.  The man is patient. He feeds and talks to the bird, but as weeks go by, the bird keeps growing and growing…and growing.  The man has to keep buying a larger cage.  After the third cage, Mr. Gilhooley starts to worry.  He is spending more and more money to feed the bird, and he keeps outgrowing his cages. Finally, he talks to the bird and he tells him, “I’m sorry, truly I am, little friend, but I just can’t keep you anymore. I can’t afford to feed you.  He goes back to the pet store, but the owner won’t take him back. So, what is the man to do? 

One morning he puts the bird into his wheelbarrow, and he starts out on the path to the sea.  The bird looks at the man in a puzzled way. “Don’t you be looking at me like that,” Gilhooley said, “I have no choice”.  He goes to the edge of the cliff, high above the Irish Sea, and he begins to tip the barrow, getting ready to dump the bird below. 
The bird leans out to look waaaay down, then out at the sea, then turns to look mournfully  at Mr. Gilhooley and says very clearly “It’s a long, long way to Tip a Rarey! 

Mother lets out a large ahhhhhh kind of screeching scream, which is how she starts a big laugh, and then  slaps the table as she continues to laugh, holding her napkin up to her mouth. Uncle John is laughing the most.  His eyes water and he has to wipe them. His shoulders shake up and down.  Daddy puts out his cigarette and lights another and smiles over at me.  Lillian and I have a good laugh too, but not as big as Mother and Uncle John, who are winding down now and heaving big sighs like you do after a big laugh. 

And then I feel kinda bad for the Rarey, so I start asking questions. “Could the Rarey swim? Was the man sad? Why couldn’t he just find someplace else for the Rarey to go?” While they are still wiping their eyes, and not answering me, Daddy looks at me and says “It’s just a joke Toots, don’t worry about the Rarey. It’s just a story.” 

Northern Light

Her day was filled with non-stop non interlocking images.  There was the rabbit in the kitchen, the very small boy sitting at the table with the laptop; his little legs straight out in front of him; how old could he be, maybe 5?  Lunch conversation had circled from the lovely almost spring like day which had everyone exclaiming – have you been outside?  And then walking around with no coats on at all, even though March, as we know it is the most unpredictable month.  And so from daylight savings to a comment about living in a tent in Norway several years ago and how the northern light drove her crazy, and then it spiraled downhill fast to suicidal statistic in the suicide belt and then farmers with guns and bad health and depression and then the agricultural amputations in the machinery.  No! No!

Isn’t it bad enough that at some lunches she listened to stories about birthing a horse and how it just “plopped” into one's lap or about hogs copulating, or fishers being so vicious or the hen that lays eggs in the house beyond an eight foot snow embankment and now the eggs will be there for who knows how long?

And in between the deadlines, the conversations heard from cube to cube, the violent sneezing fits, the crouping coughs, the limping, the lamenting, the beautiful sad dog with the blue eyes and the gimping leg who gets walked every hour but doesn’t pee, the girl who brought chili to work because her father and stepmother defrosted it ( it had been made from the garden last summer) but they decided they didn’t want it so gave it to her, but it had kidney beans in it so she made chili and brought it in to share, and then the woman who just went to Cozumel, but had a bad airline experience and had to stay two days in Ft. Lauderdale waiting for a different flight, but still she brought in excellent dark Mexican chocolate to share.  And then there was a birthday but no one knew it, and she didn’t really look her age, the other women commented as they attempted to do knee bends against the wall just for the heck of it, but oh how their knees hurt getting up.  And of course then she had to be given a balloon, because after all, it was her birthday, but then someone accused someone else of withholding the birthday information, but that wasn’t fair –she didn’t know, and then there was all the crap about star wars and the mocking about caverns in pop culture.  And then the deadlines.  The newsletter, the annual report, the 4 panel brochure, the monthly state reporting, the post card print order with all the bleed line problems and the big red REJECT proof or the calm green one that said ACCEPT.  And indeed the weather was so balmy and wonderful to do the 15 minute loop around the plaza, but then someone was mocked for wearing the coat outside.  And the incessant phone ringing, and the freezing internet and the computer warnings, and the deadlines, and the inferences and the mocking….and 5 o’clock was so long in coming.

Shining Shoes

Comes a time
Morning rushing
through you like a freight train
You seek a newspaper
to polish shoes
like he did
On those rushed mornings
Headed for school

He'd look down

my feet ensconced in school scuffed
navy blue,
color of my life

Tersely, firm jaw working

Above a starched white collar
Take those off, they need a shine
Protesting was useless
I’m late, they’re Ok

Already, he’d be at the table

spreading a sheet of the Journal American
fishing out the small round can
from under the kitchen sink
Opening the folded rag, stained brown, and black and blue,
shiny and scented with the polish of a thousand
oxfords, loafers, wing tips.

In stocking feet I wait as he diligently applies the paste,
rubs and rubs and rubs
Then brushes and brushes to his satisfaction.
Here, he hands them over
His voice softer with the tone of a job well done.
My cold feet slip quickly into leather buffed to a comfortable shine,
I feel the insides still warm from his hands.