Getting my Irish up!

I know, the name of my blog indicates that I am Polish, and I am. At least, half of me is Polish. The other half, given to me by my father, is Irish. I am a 50/50 split! Since today is St. Patrick's Day I thought I'd take some time to tell you about my Irish father.

My Dad was a great guy. He was born in Waukon, Iowa, the son of a dreamer and a supporter of dreams. His parents, Catherine and Michael Kelleher, had come over from Ireland with their respective families and met here in the US. My grandmother was a go getter. For a time, she rode a short leg of the Pony Express in North Dakota! My grandfather was, in his life time, a farmer, a sheriff, a business owner, and a politician. He thought the US was a land of opportunity so when he saw one, he took it! They had a passle of chidren - Margaret, Myrtle, Hazel, Donald, Francis, Theodore, and Vivian. Vivian, with the feminine but very British spelling, was my father. Vivian Bryant Kelleher.

His brother's Donald and Francis both died as children when they, along with my Dad, all came down with the flu. This was sometime in the 1910's mind you, so the flu was epidemic then. My Dad said he became feverish and drifted in and out of consciousness. When he finally came to and could think straight, both his brothers had already been buried. That was the first time in his life my Dad had ever been ill. There was a second time in his life but I'll get to that later.

My Dad was proud to be Irish. He was almost always called "Kelly" - short for Kelleher. He worked various jobs - a gardener, farming, and then later, factory work and Union organizer at J.I.Case in Racine, WI. But the larger part of his working life was as a small business owner. He owned and operated Kelly's Tavern in Kenosha, WI. It was a great corner bar with an attached restaurant (where my mother cooked Thursday through Saturday). Dad was the chief and only bartender working 7 nights per week, holding court with the regulars and, believe me, spinning a yarn as long as a mile. He was almost stereotypically Irish in that he would actually instigate arguments. Sometimes he would read something out of a set of encyclopledias he kept hidden behind the bar. Then, when some lowly patron was just in for a shot and a beer and some conversation, my Dad would ply him with a question. A question about something he'd just read about. And when the unsuspecting sucker would take the bait my Dad would "set him straight" with all the inside info he'd just studied up on. If the poor guy stepped it up into an argument, my Dad would reach down, pull out a Funk and Wagnall, and prove the guy to be an idiot. My Dad got a kick out of doing that to us kids as well. We often would storm off, red faced and frustrated, yelling, "Daaaad!!"

My Dad took his Irishness serious. He loved to read about Ireland and about the people there. He had a lot of books he'd picked up over the years and he would page through them with a sort of wistful look in his eye. He would read aloud from a well used book of Irish humor which he found a wee bit funnier than the rest of us did. I gave him a birthday card once telling him that when I grew up and could save the money I would take him to Ireland for a vacation. I never got that chance.

When my Dad was 78 he was diagnosed with Leukemia. This was the second time in his life that he had ever been ill, the first being that bout with the flu that claimed his brothers. Being unusually healthy at the time of this diagnosis, my 78 year old father opted to meet this challenge head on. He decided to do the chemotherapy and transfusion therapy that was determined to be the best course of treatment. He would go into the hospital for these treatments and be there a night or two and then return home. Each time, he returned a little weaker and more bruised. I was at the university when this happened. I think I was 22 years old. I got used to Dad being away for a day or two at a time. I could see him waning but he still had his Irish spirit and sense of humor so it was hard to see how ill he really was. Finally, he was unable to eat solid food and had resorted to jars of baby food for his meals. Yet, he still could argue like an Irish dock worker and tell a tale to make your head spin.

Then, one morning, as I was sleeping in my room, I heard my Mom call out to me. I got up and ran to my Dad's room. He was lying in bed with a fixed gaze, his fingers holding the St. Patrick's medal he wore around his neck. My Dad was dead. I called 911 in the hopes he wasn't but deep down I knew he was.

In the days that followed, while we made funeral plans and awaited the arrival of his out of town family, I kept thinking about all the wonderful things my Dad had given me. My humor, for sure. My voice - my Dad was a great singer in his right. My sense of purpose and right - my Dad was among the first to sponsor a Vietnamese family to come to the US after that war. My sense of fun - my Dad loved to be around people and enjoyed a good party. He gave me many, many gifts. And a love for my Irishness.

At my Dad's wake, so many people arrived to pay their last respects to my father we were overwhelmed. We had no idea how many lives my father touched during his time. The funeral director had to open an additional room to accomodate and line formed outside of people waiting to get in. My Dad wasn't a celebrity. He was just one man, living a life, loving his wife, raising his kids, trying to do what he knew was right, sometimes succeeding, sometimes not, spinning a yarn, having a laugh, touching lives and holding up his Irish head with pride each and every day.

Happy St. Patrick's Day, Dad! I love you!

My wish for you...

I wish that you will always know your inner gifts and appreciate how unique and special they are.

I wish that you never lose your spirit of adventure even when life rears up and tries to take it from you.

I wish that you will reach that place within yourself that knows who you are and trusts that the path you choose is the right path because it is the path you are comfortable with and willing to endure.

I wish that will always see the world with eyes wide open, hands outstretched and heart ready to take it all in.

I wish that one day you will come to feel at peace with yourself.

I wish that you will always know that there is at least one person in the world who loves you unconditionally, accepts you for the amazing person that you are and understands you implicitly.

I wish that you will understand that those quirks that you try so hard to find some explanation for and reason them away are the very same things that make you so amazing and should never be taken away from you or given away by you.

I wish that time will be kind and all the need for patience will be rewarded beyond your wildest dreams.

I wish you love and joy and adventure and security and happiness now and for the rest of your life.

And most of all, I wish that you will always know, every single day of your life, that I love you.