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.”
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