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My Irishman
The man of my life.
The man who loved me like no other, silently and keenly.
He believed in me when no other soul seemed to care.
He taught me how to work. Irish work ethic never failed him….large strong, worn hands. Hands that deftly knew how to build something out of nothing. “If you’re going to do something, do it right.” This was his wisdom to me from six years old on.
This Irishman would sit on his back porch and watch patiently as I ran circles in his back field wearing my new Adidas sneakers…running and running till I wanted to drop. “I’m gonna be in the Olympics someday!”, I would yell to him. He would smile and yell back, ”Good! Keep running then!”. He would sit for what seemed like forever as I ran chasing my childish dream never letting me think it wasn’t possible.
He was a mysterious Irishman at times. A dark night driving through town, stopping on the 4th Avenue bridge - he looked both ways for traffic and when no one was in sight he tossed a sawed-off shotgun into the bay. A very mysterious man.
This man liked adventure and the childhood dream of treasure. This man took an old MJB coffee can, filled it with very old silver coins, made me crawl under the house with him when I was 8 years old and said, ”Okay, now dig a hole and bury the coins. On your 13th birthday we’ll dig them up”. This man made me feel as if adventure was a God given right and one should expect it.
This man with the straight, strong, Irish nose sat up all night with me as I watched Neil Armstrong take his first step on the moon. I was 11 years old and no one in my family cared about watching what I had dreamed of doing - walking on the moon - except this Irishman. We sat in silence, both bursting inside with emotion as we witnessed the history happening before us.
This is the man who two weeks later said, ”I’ll help you build a replica of the lunar module only if we use what materials are already in the shop". My Irishman was a creator. So, we built my module. A ten-foot high replica of what had landed on the moon that hot summer night in July of 1969. I, more than anything in the world, wanted to be an astronaut. That Irishman told me, “You can.”
This Irishman - MY Irishman - loved me and was a father to me. He gave to me what no one else in my life had ever given to me - belief in self, belief in dreams and belief in living a life void of fear.
This is for MY Irishman, who I just recently realized I look like. After 40 years of wondering who it is I take after in my family I can now see it is MY Irishman. The eyes, the nose, the cheekbones - I do have roots and I do belong to a family. An Irish Family.
Happy St. Patricks Day, Grandpa. I love and need you, still.
The man of my life.
The man who loved me like no other, silently and keenly.
He believed in me when no other soul seemed to care.
He taught me how to work. Irish work ethic never failed him….large strong, worn hands. Hands that deftly knew how to build something out of nothing. “If you’re going to do something, do it right.” This was his wisdom to me from six years old on.
This Irishman would sit on his back porch and watch patiently as I ran circles in his back field wearing my new Adidas sneakers…running and running till I wanted to drop. “I’m gonna be in the Olympics someday!”, I would yell to him. He would smile and yell back, ”Good! Keep running then!”. He would sit for what seemed like forever as I ran chasing my childish dream never letting me think it wasn’t possible.
He was a mysterious Irishman at times. A dark night driving through town, stopping on the 4th Avenue bridge - he looked both ways for traffic and when no one was in sight he tossed a sawed-off shotgun into the bay. A very mysterious man.
This man liked adventure and the childhood dream of treasure. This man took an old MJB coffee can, filled it with very old silver coins, made me crawl under the house with him when I was 8 years old and said, ”Okay, now dig a hole and bury the coins. On your 13th birthday we’ll dig them up”. This man made me feel as if adventure was a God given right and one should expect it.
This man with the straight, strong, Irish nose sat up all night with me as I watched Neil Armstrong take his first step on the moon. I was 11 years old and no one in my family cared about watching what I had dreamed of doing - walking on the moon - except this Irishman. We sat in silence, both bursting inside with emotion as we witnessed the history happening before us.
This is the man who two weeks later said, ”I’ll help you build a replica of the lunar module only if we use what materials are already in the shop". My Irishman was a creator. So, we built my module. A ten-foot high replica of what had landed on the moon that hot summer night in July of 1969. I, more than anything in the world, wanted to be an astronaut. That Irishman told me, “You can.”
This Irishman - MY Irishman - loved me and was a father to me. He gave to me what no one else in my life had ever given to me - belief in self, belief in dreams and belief in living a life void of fear.
This is for MY Irishman, who I just recently realized I look like. After 40 years of wondering who it is I take after in my family I can now see it is MY Irishman. The eyes, the nose, the cheekbones - I do have roots and I do belong to a family. An Irish Family.
Happy St. Patricks Day, Grandpa. I love and need you, still.
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