There used to be a store in Kenosha called Wilson's Variety Store and variety was the operative word! You could get anything in Wilson's! Laundry detergent, hardware, new lamps, mops, buckets, clothing, toys, food - you name it, they had it. They even had small pets in the back and a Myna bird that flirted with the ladies. It was one of those places that if my Dad said, "I'm going to Wilson's!" I would beg and plead to go with him every time.
At Christmas, Wilson's was like something out of a kid's greatest dream. Just as you entered, to the left, they set up shelves full of toys that went up to the ceiling. On the other side they had aisles of ornaments, wreaths, ribbon, wrapping paper and anything else you might need to deck the halls. So it was no wonder when that one wintry day just before Christmas I was begging my Dad to take me with him. We were putting up our tree and discovered that the star we used to use year after year no longer lit up. It had reached the point of no return and it was time to go purchase something new to top the Kelleher leaning greenery. Off to Wilson's! Hurrah!
Now, my Dad was what you might call a "slow" man. By this I mean, he ran on his own time and activities that took anyone else a half hour to compete could take my Dad a couple of hours. He called it being thorough. This annoying habit gained him the nickname "Father Time" from my Mom. His lolly gagging drove her crazy! But, at Wilson's, with my Dad, I didn't care if it took all day! Especially at Christmas time!
When we entered the store I immediately asked if I could go look at the toys. My Dad, being the nice guy he was, naturally allowed me to wander through the toy aisles and look at everything. There were games and puzzles and cool paint sets. But the best aisle of all was the Doll aisle. It was an entire line of shelves that was devoted to nothing but dolls of all kinds. There were the new Barbies and those dolls that were called Flatsies that were insanely popular back then. All of Barbie's friends were there too. And then there were the baby dolls - big, little, boys, girls, infants, toddlers - some cried when you turned them over, some drank from a baby bottle, some even wet in their diapers. I was in awe. But then I saw her. At the end of the aisle, there was a doll that was almost as tall as me. Her hair was a golden blond and she was wearing a paisley dress and patent leather shoes with little white socks. Her name was Kathy. And her talent was that if you held her by one hand and walked somehow she would walk right next to you. It was amazing because she didn't have batteries, no off/on switches, no remote control - just walked with the natural motion of you walking next to her holding her hand. Oh, how I wanted her!!
I ran back to the Christmas aisle where my Dad was looking at each and every kind of tree topper. I nonchalantly asked him if he had found one yet. He hadn't so I started looking at them too. He was looking at stars but there was a row of beautiful angels that caught my eye. I picked one up. She was golden and white and held two tiny lights in each hand like they were candles. I showed my Dad and told him that this was the best one. He agreed and put her in our cart. We headed for the check out and he asked me if I had seen anything good in the toy section! Are you kidding me? He never asked me stuff like that! I told him all about the doll that walked, how pretty she was, how tall she was and how badly I wanted her. I showed him the big box she came in and held her out in front of me hopeful that he would put her in our cart. He didn't. Instead, he said, "Well, she is pretty but we're just here to get the tree topper." Reluctantly, I put her back on the shelf. My Dad, sensing my disappointment said, "Well, maybe I have enough money to get some popcorn on the way out."
Now, Wilson's fresh popped popcorn was the best popcorn in town and they sold it in long paper sleeves. It was always warm, salty and buttery and normally I would jump at the chance but in my disappointment all I could muster was a weak, "Okay..."
Back at home, I tried to be sullen and sulky and bad tempered but it was the Christmas season and we were decorating our tree and I just couldn't contain the inner excitement for very long. Pretty soon I was humming carols and helping put ornaments on the tree. My Dad placed our new angel on the tree and plugged it all in. She was gorgeous. She lit up and the gold thread in her gown shined in the light. Every night after that, when it was dark enough inside and out, we would light that tree and I would lie on the floor just dreaming in the glow. By Christmas Eve, Kathy the walking doll was a distant memory. That night there were so many presents under the tree it was impossible to feel sad! We ate and sang and started opening and I got so many amazing things! After Midnight Mass, I crawled into bed, exhausted from the fun, food, and festivities and fell into a deep, comfy sleep.
The next morning my Mom woke me up and said that Santa had come. Under our tree, there were more presents. Santa never wrapped his presents. That's how you knew for sure they were from Santa. Our stockings were set on the small pile of Santa gifts and we were allowed to just "dig in". Christmas morning did not have the formalities of the previous night. We ate the candy from the stockings even though it was 8AM and played with everything under the tree. Finally, my Mom would insist that we at least get dressed so off to our rooms to change from our PJ's we went. I walked into my room and right there, lying on my bed, was Kathy!! Somehow, that doll not only made it to my house but made her way into my bedroom! It was Santa! I was sure of it. She wasn't wrapped and that made it so. I grabbed her and ran out to my Dad yelling, "Dad! Dad! Santa heard me!!"
My Dad just smiled. It wasn't until a few years later I realized that Santa and my Dad were one and the same. At least that year they were. I believe in Santa. And I believe that Santa is whoever carried the joy of Christmas in their heart and surprises children with those things they love so well.
Showing posts with label my dad. Show all posts
Showing posts with label my dad. Show all posts
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
30 Letters in 30 Days....Day 24. the person who gave you your favourite memory
Dear Dad,
You and Mom gave me so many good memories but one of my favorites came only from you. I was at Parkside and starring as Dolly Levi in The Matchmaker. It was a big role and I was nervous about carrying the lead for the first time. I worked my tail off at rehearsals and felt pretty good about my performance. I felt ready for opening night. And, man oh man, was I nervous.
I don't remember anything about that first opening night performance. It's like that sometimes with acting. You get into a role and become that character and you really zone out the rest of the world. What I do remember is that the audience loved it...and me...and there was an enormous wave of applause at my curtain call. I was completely blown over! But, the best memory part came a little while later when I walked out of the dressing room and you were standing there Dad. You grabbed me in a bear hug and said, "I'm so proud of you!" That was the first time you actually told me that out loud even though I knew that you were always proud of me. I loved that moment and think of it often.
Later, another treasured memory also involves you. I was performing in a series of summer shows at Parkside when you passed away between show weekends. I missed the pick up rehearsal because of your death. I just couldn't rehearse. And I wasn't sure I was going to be able to perform that following weekend either. My director, Lee Van Dyke, a wonderful man to whom I owe a lot, called me and let me know that the decision was purely mine and he would back me either way. I decided to perform. The show must go on.
I tell ya, Dad, I was numb that first night. I vaguely remember being there but what I do remember is giving myself over completely to my performance. It was like surrendering my grief to my art and it was something I'd never felt before or since. When I walked out to take my bow at the end the audience ERUPTED in a standing ovation and applauded for the longest time. I looked to my left and right and my co-stars were all standing there applauding too. I walked off stage with tears streaming down my face and Lee said, "You're Dad would be proud of you." And he was right. I know you would have wanted me to do just as I had done. To soldier on, moving forward and getting on with life even though I was hurting so badly inside.
Oh, there are so many other great memories, Dad. I treasure all of them. I love you...always have, always will.
Your scoochbug,
Mary Beth
You and Mom gave me so many good memories but one of my favorites came only from you. I was at Parkside and starring as Dolly Levi in The Matchmaker. It was a big role and I was nervous about carrying the lead for the first time. I worked my tail off at rehearsals and felt pretty good about my performance. I felt ready for opening night. And, man oh man, was I nervous.
I don't remember anything about that first opening night performance. It's like that sometimes with acting. You get into a role and become that character and you really zone out the rest of the world. What I do remember is that the audience loved it...and me...and there was an enormous wave of applause at my curtain call. I was completely blown over! But, the best memory part came a little while later when I walked out of the dressing room and you were standing there Dad. You grabbed me in a bear hug and said, "I'm so proud of you!" That was the first time you actually told me that out loud even though I knew that you were always proud of me. I loved that moment and think of it often.
Later, another treasured memory also involves you. I was performing in a series of summer shows at Parkside when you passed away between show weekends. I missed the pick up rehearsal because of your death. I just couldn't rehearse. And I wasn't sure I was going to be able to perform that following weekend either. My director, Lee Van Dyke, a wonderful man to whom I owe a lot, called me and let me know that the decision was purely mine and he would back me either way. I decided to perform. The show must go on.
I tell ya, Dad, I was numb that first night. I vaguely remember being there but what I do remember is giving myself over completely to my performance. It was like surrendering my grief to my art and it was something I'd never felt before or since. When I walked out to take my bow at the end the audience ERUPTED in a standing ovation and applauded for the longest time. I looked to my left and right and my co-stars were all standing there applauding too. I walked off stage with tears streaming down my face and Lee said, "You're Dad would be proud of you." And he was right. I know you would have wanted me to do just as I had done. To soldier on, moving forward and getting on with life even though I was hurting so badly inside.
Oh, there are so many other great memories, Dad. I treasure all of them. I love you...always have, always will.
Your scoochbug,
Mary Beth
Sunday, June 19, 2011
All about my Dad...
I've been without my dad for a long time now. He passed away in 1978. So...Father's Day tends to come and go with me and other than a quiet "thank you", I really don't think much about it anymore. But, today, as I was reading some friend's blogs and various post around the Internet, I started thinking of my Dad and some of the things I learned from him.
Things I Learned From My Dad:
1. I learned how to argue. I mean seriously argue. Argue to the point where the other guy just gives up out of shear exhaustion! My Dad was a master at this. While some may see this as a flaw I can honestly say this lesson has had it's good points as well. I was able to haggle a decent price on a new car all by myself. I've been able to negotiate decent pay raises and additional time off with pay at work. So, even if I can make my loved ones crazy at times, I can also talk my way out of a speeding ticket...all thanks to Dad.
2. Spend a little more to get the right one. This is a lesson that was completely lost on my mother and it was the cause of many a husband/wife tiff in their marriage. My mother was/is a firm believer in paying as little as possible for anything. She "settled" for cheap products made to look "like" the more expensive, more durable counterpart and she was always upset and disappointed when the cheap crap didn't work right or broke. My Dad, on the other hand, was of the mind that, for some things, you paid for the better brand, the better product and it would reward you by lasting a lifetime. Some things he would not scrimp on - stereo equipment, steaks, television sets, phones, golf clubs, and candy. Yes, candy. My Dad always had the best candy. And he always shared it with me.
3. Take time to learn about the world. My Dad read books and encyclopedias about other countries all the time. He poured over their cultures, their traditions, their taboos, and their politics. He encouraged me to live beyond the four walls of our house, the side streets of our small city and the borders of our country. My Dad would be proud that I have travelled internationally. He would love spending time talking to and arguing with my Swedish husband. My Dad was Irish and always dreamed of seeing Ireland one day. He never got there. I intend to go there one day, just to share that with his memory.
4. In golf and Scrabble, a little white lie goes a long way. My Dad cheated. He did! He would forget to add strokes to his golf score and turn Scrabble tiles over when we weren't looking so it would look like a blank. He would vehemently deny doing this when caught but he would try it again and again!
5. My Dad could sing. My Dad would walk around the house once in a while singing songs that he made up. He had a beautiful Irish tenor voice and he only sang for us.
6. Every time my Mom told my Dad she was pregnant he would respond in the same way. He would take my mother in his arms and hug her tight and say, "Isn't that the best news you ever heard?" I love thinking of that moment. Of course, I've never witnessed it since I'm the baby of the family but just the thought of them in that embrace makes me smile.
7. My Dad worked every day of his life until he retired. At first, he was a day laborer working for a gardener in Illinois. Then he was a Union man, working at J. I. Case in Racine, WI. Then he owned and operated his own bar and restaurant. He worked 7 days a week until he retired in the '70s. Then he made every free day count!
8. My Dad's chili can beat up your Dad's chili. When my Dad retired he became the chief cook and bottle washer at our house. He spent weeks, months, years perfecting his chili recipe which, I can say with some certainty, was the hottest, spiciest, tastiest chili ever. I have never been able to duplicate his chili in spite of having a hand written recipe. I think the stinker left something out on purpose!
9. No matter how long you live, life is too short. I was going to try to have an even 10 things my Dad taught me but I'm cutting it off short for a reason. My Dad died at the age of 78 from complications from chemotherapy used to treat his leukemia. 78 seems like a good long life but, you know what? It wasn't. I wanted more time with my Dad. Even though I was well prepared for his inevitable death, I feel gypped. I feel like he was stolen from me. I"m sure that my Dad had many more lessons to teach me and I will never have them. He was gone too soon in spite of his age. That's why this list ends. Just like my Dad did.
I hope that you've all taken time to think about your Dads. If they're still here...give him a hug and thank him. Spend time with him. If he's gone, thank him anyway. Just like I did now. My Dad's name was Vivian.... most called him Kelly....some called him Sonny (don't ask...it's a weird family thing). Whatever he went by I know you all would have liked him. And he might have taught you a couple of things too!
Things I Learned From My Dad:
1. I learned how to argue. I mean seriously argue. Argue to the point where the other guy just gives up out of shear exhaustion! My Dad was a master at this. While some may see this as a flaw I can honestly say this lesson has had it's good points as well. I was able to haggle a decent price on a new car all by myself. I've been able to negotiate decent pay raises and additional time off with pay at work. So, even if I can make my loved ones crazy at times, I can also talk my way out of a speeding ticket...all thanks to Dad.
2. Spend a little more to get the right one. This is a lesson that was completely lost on my mother and it was the cause of many a husband/wife tiff in their marriage. My mother was/is a firm believer in paying as little as possible for anything. She "settled" for cheap products made to look "like" the more expensive, more durable counterpart and she was always upset and disappointed when the cheap crap didn't work right or broke. My Dad, on the other hand, was of the mind that, for some things, you paid for the better brand, the better product and it would reward you by lasting a lifetime. Some things he would not scrimp on - stereo equipment, steaks, television sets, phones, golf clubs, and candy. Yes, candy. My Dad always had the best candy. And he always shared it with me.
3. Take time to learn about the world. My Dad read books and encyclopedias about other countries all the time. He poured over their cultures, their traditions, their taboos, and their politics. He encouraged me to live beyond the four walls of our house, the side streets of our small city and the borders of our country. My Dad would be proud that I have travelled internationally. He would love spending time talking to and arguing with my Swedish husband. My Dad was Irish and always dreamed of seeing Ireland one day. He never got there. I intend to go there one day, just to share that with his memory.
4. In golf and Scrabble, a little white lie goes a long way. My Dad cheated. He did! He would forget to add strokes to his golf score and turn Scrabble tiles over when we weren't looking so it would look like a blank. He would vehemently deny doing this when caught but he would try it again and again!
5. My Dad could sing. My Dad would walk around the house once in a while singing songs that he made up. He had a beautiful Irish tenor voice and he only sang for us.
6. Every time my Mom told my Dad she was pregnant he would respond in the same way. He would take my mother in his arms and hug her tight and say, "Isn't that the best news you ever heard?" I love thinking of that moment. Of course, I've never witnessed it since I'm the baby of the family but just the thought of them in that embrace makes me smile.
7. My Dad worked every day of his life until he retired. At first, he was a day laborer working for a gardener in Illinois. Then he was a Union man, working at J. I. Case in Racine, WI. Then he owned and operated his own bar and restaurant. He worked 7 days a week until he retired in the '70s. Then he made every free day count!
8. My Dad's chili can beat up your Dad's chili. When my Dad retired he became the chief cook and bottle washer at our house. He spent weeks, months, years perfecting his chili recipe which, I can say with some certainty, was the hottest, spiciest, tastiest chili ever. I have never been able to duplicate his chili in spite of having a hand written recipe. I think the stinker left something out on purpose!
9. No matter how long you live, life is too short. I was going to try to have an even 10 things my Dad taught me but I'm cutting it off short for a reason. My Dad died at the age of 78 from complications from chemotherapy used to treat his leukemia. 78 seems like a good long life but, you know what? It wasn't. I wanted more time with my Dad. Even though I was well prepared for his inevitable death, I feel gypped. I feel like he was stolen from me. I"m sure that my Dad had many more lessons to teach me and I will never have them. He was gone too soon in spite of his age. That's why this list ends. Just like my Dad did.
I hope that you've all taken time to think about your Dads. If they're still here...give him a hug and thank him. Spend time with him. If he's gone, thank him anyway. Just like I did now. My Dad's name was Vivian.... most called him Kelly....some called him Sonny (don't ask...it's a weird family thing). Whatever he went by I know you all would have liked him. And he might have taught you a couple of things too!
Thursday, March 17, 2011
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 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!
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