Feeling blue

I lived with my brother Jack and his wife Joanne in a two level house on a peaceful little street in south Queens.   The only interruption in calmness our neighborhood suffered was the ocassional nerve-shattering clamor of low-flying airliner making its final descent to land at the nearby airport.
Early one day in late spring or was it early summer, I really can't recall. . . Let's just say the day was sunny and warm.  Anyhow, I decided to continue the project that Jack and Joanne started earlier in the week.  The result of their labors lied before me, an empty four-foot high aluminum swimming pool with a wooden deck attached.  Most of the work was completed except for two finishing touches, filling the pool with water and painting the deck.

When the water that was pouring out of our tiny garden hose reached the half way mark on the pool, I started to feel uncomfortably warm.  Yet I pressed on with a paint brush in my right hand and a gallon of royal blue paint in my left.  Or was it a paint brush in my left hand and the paint bucket in my right. . . sorry, nevermind.  I'm getting off the point here . . .

What was I saying? Ah yeah,it was hot out and I was ready to paint.

Why bother to take a break now, I unreasonably thought, the project is half finished.

However my reasonable self countered, Remember it's only 10AM and the day is sure to get even warmer

Yea, yea. . .You forget I have shorts on. My unreasonable self  chided back.

Then you're perfectly dressed to wade in that cool water instead of painting that hot deck my reasonable self jumped back in.

If I do that, my unreasonable self maintained, I won't be able to surprise Jack and Joanne with a freshly painted deck.

My reasonable self strongly implored.  Then paint, if you must.  And promise me to take your pills, you have epilepsy, don't forget.

So onward I went to that unpainted deck, thinking more quietly so my reasonable self couldn't overhear, I'll take those pills right after I put the first coat of paint on the deck.

If your angry at me right now, I don't blame you.  It takes a  fool to paint in the heat, but a bigger fool to paint in the heat and skip medicine.
Since I had thrown logic to the wind that day,  I started from the bottom step until I found myself  painted into a corner on the very top of the deck.
I looked at my goof and then unreasonably noted, "At least this is fast drying paint.

This is a gem.  My reasonable self began laughing, Stuck up there in the heat and without your medicine, huh?  Yes, yes. . . I overheard you talking to yourself again.   Just jump off there, will ya. . . I ammm daaa ya yaa . . .

Voices began to disappear, even my own.  My back suddenly felt like it was being tightly wrung out just like a dish rag and I saw myself tumble all the way down the freshly painted steps of the deck.  Then that can of royal blue paint somehow emptied its contents onto my head.
As I gradually came out of my stupor I knew I had a seizure. No broken bones, no injuries, just a face that was aglistening royal blue.  My biggest fear at the time was not being able to clean up the mess I made.  Sure I showered and scrubbed but I found it invain.   So I draped an ol trench coat around me, plopped a big hat on my head and sheepishly strolled around the corner to secure the aid of my brother where he was visiting Joanne's family.
I really don't think he was expecting the sight of a blue-covered man that stood humiliated at the door, so he   announced
"Hey everyone, a smurf. . ."

you may think that this tale taught me this lesson.

doctors prescribe drugs for a reason

if taken daily one must never ever evade.

you're wrong if you thought I learned that, my friend

cause at times I obey my unreasonable end,

and fall victim to more seizures, I'm afraid.

Desperately seeking Spaights

My family is scattered to the four corners of the globe and I had hoped this past July to visit one particular section of one of those corners.  There are those who call it Eire or Ireland and there are others who call it the Emerald Isle, but my grandparents simply called  it  "back home", for you see it was the land of their birth and youth.

I carefully prepared for my visit.  I was thorough and I researched more and more as each day passed.  After finding hotels and scheduling train trips and notifing relatives,  I was confident in assuming that I covered all of my bases. Still no matter how many "i's I had dotted and how many "t's" I had crossed, it wasn't until I heard the awful snap of my wife's ankle that I remembered the old adage,"The best-laid plans. . . often go awry" 

Although the anticipated visit to Ireland was postponed, I never stopped envisioning that magic land.  I wondered if the rolling hills in Clare were really as soft and lush as I had heard, or if rainbows appeared after each rainfall like on post cards.  Is it possible that the library of Dublin looked that grand and majestic or do the waters of the Shannon remain so uncomparably still.  I needed to know if the lads and lassies there are always smiling and helpful. Do they treat even strangers like their own, or are all these questions only true in my dreams.

You can me resolve my conundrum, dear reader.  All I ask is your time.  "But, what could I ever  possibly do?" you may ask.

My answer, "Well, it's quite simple.  Instead of me dreaming each day I was in Ireland, you could bring Ireland here to me"

This is why I am asking my overseas friends and relatives, no need your name is or was Spaight, just to send me a heartfelt note of good cheer.

Thoughts on minding "lil' buddy"

Thirty-five years ago, my brother Jack and his wife Joanne asked Billie and I to mind their young son Danny for one night.  We said sure then headed to their house.  I listened carefully to all of their directions and some sound advice after which they bade us goodnight. 

What could possibly happen?  After all, I was a grown man and my wife was with me for support. I figured I'd have a ball with my nephew.  He may have been a mere child of five but "lil buddy as I always called him, could spin a yarn with the best of them

I turned to my him and asked "Well, wha'da'ya'wanna do?'

He immediately said "Let's get a video"

I nodded and thought "what harm is that?"

The nearest store that rented videos was down the street from  P.S.100.  It was busy and it had a huge selection ranging from action to drama to mystery, not to mention a bulk of cartoons for children.

I asked lil buddy which cartoon I should rent, but he shook his head and said "none."

I was surprised, no. . . I was shocked.  That's right I was downright shocked.

"Well wha'da'ya'want?" I asked Danny.

He pointed at the far side of the store that housed science fiction. "How about this, Uncle Jimmy?

"Do your parents let you watch Freddy Kruger?" I asked.

"All the time.  I just haven't seen this one yet." he smiled.

Well we left with the store with Midnight on Elmstreet safely tucked under my arm. And we were both happy as we walked back home. I even thought "this minding thing is pretty easy."

Not an hour into the movie, lil buddy was screaming his head off in fear.  Louder and louder he cried then turned to me and shouted, "I hate you!!!"

That's when I fell apart too.

So thanks to me getting "snowed" by lil buddy, Billie had to watch two babies for the rest of the night.

My mahogony server

How could I forget the mahogony server in my parent's dining room.  I'm not implying that it was ugly (which it was) or that it smelled (it reeked of Pledge furniture polish) or that is was the least bit unsafe (I cut my elbow on it's square metal door knobs when I was two years old).  No,no. . .that server was  the family file cabinet.  Sure, it had a few kinks here and there but that server served the family well.  And stored some precious memories to boot. 

The long top drawer which stretched end to end was filled with monthly bills, old report cards, and cards my mother saved for one reason or the other.  Right below a much leaner drawer pulled out to show utensils in green felt-lined separator compartments.  Dinner forks, about eight, then salad forks, spoons large and small, and knives rested neatly in columns side by side by side 

Below the utensils were two bigger compartments, one piled with linen tablecloths and  embroidered napkins. Underneath was more accessories like pot holders, oven mits, towels, and dishcloths, even an apron if it fit.Those were the four drawers of our server, but wait, I haven't finished.  On each side of the smaller drawers a long cabinet was fixed.  The left one opened to store liquor the names ranged from Hennessey, to Jim Beam,then Black Label to J&B. Oh yes, there was a shaker and strainer in front of them all. 

Now the other side was the important side.  It had treasures galore.  On the back top shelf of the cabinet were my dad's store ledgers, right above it lied a wide book of checks.  The bottom housed a brown metal strong box and an accordian type filing case the contents of which only mom and dad saw. 

That concludes my little tour of our server, 'cept what made me hate it so.  The culprit were it's brass colored door-knobs.  Yes it was those tiny trapezoidal door knobs on that smelly mahogony server I still blame.  Who wouldn't? They caused my very first cut.

Favorite Sons

        "Baby Jimmy" was Jim and Muriel's bundle of joy. He had been the center of their attention for a little over four and one half years. Not unlike many first born infants, "Baby Jimmy" apppeared as if he could do no wrong no matter how loud or often he cried or   how many diapers he soiled. Whatever he did simply brought smiles to the faces of his proud parents'. They even went one step further by retaining a photographer's skills to capture their son's antics in print. Thus, a  display of "Baby Jimmy" in bare-bottom poses hung on their wall for years . 

   

     Moreover, a day never passed without hearing someone marvel: "Cute Baby Jimmy did this," or "Cute Baby Jimmy did that," and on and on and on. . . .   

     But who knows what was really running though "Cute Baby Jimmy's young mind. It might have been obvious, like,  "C'mon guys. . .enough is enough already. . .some of this stuff that I've been getting away with. . . wasn't cute at all."

    

     What little Jimmy needed most now was a compadre, a pal, a partner in crime—yes, a brother. 

   

     It was late one spring day when Jimmy's dad prepared to share some very good news. First, he whisked his son up and settled him on his lap

     "Geez, not again," Jimmy thought. "What 'cute' thing did I get away with this time?" His daddy lovingly grinned at his son but Jimmy's eyes looked away to  his daddy's arms instead.   The shear size of which made Jimmy ponder, "must be as big as my tummy."  Then south his sight travelled to his daddy's  flourishing tummy.  My dad wasn't  fat , he decided,  ". . .yup, the're just more muscles he has no other place to keep."

     But true to form, little Jimmy began to fidgit and up he reached  to rub the coarse stuble on dad's cheek.  It was then that Dad leaned to his left and reached to pull out his wallet.  All the while keeping his son steady with only one bulky arm.  Still, Little Jimmy bounced about more and leaned in closer to breathe in his daddy's hair.  It was there that the aroma of dad's Brylcreme always made him feel safe.

     "Easy kidd-o. . . I've got a question for you." his dad asked the boy.

     "Yeah, Dad?" the young lad answered while looking at the thick leather wallet.

     Dad opened his billfold wide to fan all the fiftys and hundreds with his thumb. "See all this?  Well, this is what the doctors want in order to give you a little brother. . ."he explained then looked at his son and asked, "wha'da'ya'say?"

Jimmy quickly nodded his approval and slid off his dad's lap to attend to another more pressing problem - which new toy to play with, the garbage truck or his new Lincoln Logs.  

     The following day when his dad was at work, Little Jimmy stayed with Nana Smith where he awaited the arrival of his mom and his brand new brother, Jackie.  It wasn't long before he heard a familiar voice announce at the doorway "Guess who's here?"  Nana excitedly yelped.  She then took her grandson’s hand and bent down to him and said "C'mom, Jimmy, it's your mommy with your new baby brother, Jackie." Jimmy bolted to the door just as his mommy walked in.  He wrapped his little arms around her whom he hadn't seen for days.  All the while, Nana was cuddeling baby Jackie as she headed out of the room.  After everyone was settled, Dad and mom presented me with a gift-wrapped package and said with a smile, "This is from your new brother, baby Jackie."  Jimmy shredded the wrapping paper and was surprised with two sparkling cowboy toys that Santa had forgotten to leave him.

   Little Jimmy blurted "Yippeee" and ran out of the kitchen towards Nana who was bent over the linen-lined white bassinette in the parlor.  Dad followed and then hoisted his son high so he could look down at Jackie, his new brother.  Jimmy waved his new toys high above him, his smile became giggles and warmly uttered, "Thanks, baby Jackie,  you're the best."  Then as if on cue, Jimmy once more started to fidgit and squirmed as his dad lowered him to the floor.  Little Jimmy couldn’t wait to play with his new toy.

     As those days became weeks, and those weeks turned into months, Little Jimmy was happy to hear voices marvel again.  But remember,  dear reader, the only child was now the older child and that meant the torch had been passed to young Jackie.   

     Suddenly those very same voices now bellowed,  " Ewwww . . .Jimmy did this???" also chuckled with, "Awww . . .look. . . cute baby Jackie did that.”

Sewer Water, Dilantin,

and a Dog Named Penny

Sewer Water

I was a wee lad of five years old when I moved into my new home in South Ozone Park, in the borough of Queens in New York City My new brown and white house was nested among other similar two-story houses, which were shaded by many aging maple trees on the block. When the sun peeked out from the clouds, the neighborhood looked beautiful, and when the snow fell, the trees looked wondrous; but when the rain poured, my father looked downright angry. For every heavy rainfall, Idlewild airport chose to close its floodgates, which caused the drainage system on my block to fill up with sewer water, flooding the entire neighborhood. While my dad and our neighbors suffered through these floods, I reveled in the experience of being surrounded by rising water, totally unaware of the destruction that these floods caused. Each time a car tried to pass through the sewer water, the resulting waves hitthe surrounding basement windows so hard that they broke, and the water cascaded into our homes, destroying furniture and many valuables. So, every year, we examined the outside foundation of our basement for cracks and then brushed on a thick layer of water resistant tar to prevent possible leaks from future floods.
Needless to say it was quite a chore, and nobody was happy about this situation. Finally my dad proclaimed “enough is enough,” and, together with a friend, collected hundreds of signatures for a petition that demanded the installation of a new sewer system for the neighborhood. . . .

Dilantin

My dad never saw the fruits of his labor; he passed away a few years before construction for a new sewer was even begun. He did see other changes—some good, others not so good. Dad saw Idlewild airport renamed JFK International airport, his friend who had helped him with the petition entered into community politics, and his older of his two sons (me) diagnosed with epilepsy.
Then, as the years passed, the neighborhood changed slightly, with new people, housing renovations, and the occasional new car. Just when my brother Jack and I needed our parents the most, they were both taken from us. They died within a few years of one another. We relied on Dad to manage the upkeep of the house and needed Mom to manage the finances as well as my medications—Dilantin and Mysoline
We remained there, a good many years afterward. Clearly, I was not prepared to live alone. I must confess that poor financial decisions and neglect forced the bank to put our house into foreclosure. I still lived there, and, once, after choosing to skip my daily dosage of dilantin, (because it was more expensive than Mysoline) I decided to examine the neighborhood excavation of the street for the new sewer that my dad worked so hard to obtain. It was finally under construction. And I was so proud. . . .

A Dog Named Penny

Wanda Alberti was tallish a brown-haired woman about what my mother’s age would have been. Wanda lived in a two-family walk-up a few blocks away from me, but she was also near sewer construction. She lived alone with her little dog named Penny and was a very caring woman whom, I believe, reached out to anyone in need— even though she lived in dire straits herself.
One day in late October or early November, Wanda chose to walk her dog, Penny to the sewer construction site.She stood there, holding her dog’s leash and witnessed a scene that she probably never forgot—one that I never remembered entirely. She saw a young disheveled man (me) fall near an open construction pit and have what is called a psychomotor epileptic seizure. Rather than continue to stroll away with her dog, she opted to come to my aid. I don’t remember exactly what she said but I do remember that I felt comforted after she said it. When I slowly regained my composure I realized I had just made a friend for life. We met each day to learn more about one another. I needed a friend at the time, and I believe Wanda wanted to be sure I stayed healthy. She joked and laughed frequently and often told me that I reminded her in so many ways of her own niece, Billie. I didn’t know how to react to that bit of news because unfortunately Wanda heard voices when nobody else did. (Billie, when told about me reacted the same way; she asked her mom if I were but a figment of Wanda’s imagination.)
I was wrong this time—since Billie did exist. I eventually met her at Wanda’s apartment on November 27, 1983, and we ate dinner and spoke and laughed and shared some information our pasts. We made gross jokes. Billie and I got along like gangbusters—so much that I started to fall in love with her and could not imagine that there could possible be another person like her. In fact, when we said goodnight to one another, she said that she hoped she hadn’t been too gross. I reminded her of one of my gross jokes and she blurted out: “OH, you are ALL RIGHT!” and promptly kissed me!
Billie and I were married two years later and Aunt Wanda was one of our two maids of honor, while Jack was my best man.
That is how these three very different things caused three turns of events that resulted in one never-ending love story. . . .

A much easier way of meeting Billie is to visit http://billiespaight.blogspot.com

The Day Muriel met Jimmy

Muriel Smith lived in a railroad-style, four-room walk-up on Third Street in a section of Brooklyn her mom jokingly referred to as “beautiful downtown Gowanus.” Make no mistake—this neighborhood was hardly the prettiest section of the borough. No, not by any stretch of one’s imagination. Gowanus was a conglomeration of residential apartments, commercial factories, busy overhead subway trains, and, worst of all, ugly, smelly coal barges that traversed the nearby canal. Despite of all of this, Muriel remembered this time as the most beautiful part of her barely sixteen years.

One block away, on Second Street, in a very similar type of apartment as Muriel’s, a young lad (only a few months younger than Muriel, but wait a second. . . .the difference in age is an entirely different story.) Now what was I saying?. . . .Yes, a young feisty lad named Jimmy Spaight lived with his parents, siblings, and aunts down the block from an old corner candy shop.

Jimmy spent his time either practicing piano, playing with his dog, or getting into trouble with his mom. He was the youngest of three children and, often, he was not included in his older brother, Eddie’s musical exploits. Nor did Jimmy have the patience of his sister, Anne to spend time with more artistic endeavors.

Then, on one particular day—whether it was the result of chance, fate, or a simple sweet tooth—Jimmy wandered down the block to buy some candy at the candy shop. On that same day, Muriel rode her new bicycle around the block to the very same corner candy shop. Once she emerged from the store, Muriel discovered she had a real problem on her hands. Several neighborhood bullies took her new bike and begun to tease her unmercifully. Just then, from out of the blue, as Muriel (my mom) warmly recalled, Jimmy (my dad) arrived to wrangle away her bike from the bullies and return it to her.

This, I am told was how their young romance was born. It was a love story my parents always enjoyed telling, and it was one that their children were never tired of hearing. Many years later, on their tenth anniversary my dad gave my mom a charm bracelet.

Now guess what the first charm was?

You’re right—a bicycle.

Mister Kelley and the blazing inferno

 The house where Jack and I lived can best be described as a quiet home in the middle of the suburbs where nothing much happened to anyone. We lived on a peaceful tree-lined street, sheltered from anything that just might appear on the six o’clock news. That’s right, our community was without murders, burglaries, and other assorted forms of mayhem. Well, if there were any, I certainly don’t remember them.
But I do recall an incident that involved my mother, Jack, me, my best friend Joel DeStefano, and a Bunsen burner. It is known to this day as the “The Mr. Kelly’s Car Wash” episode.
Jack and I were playing with our respective toys that we received from Mom and Dad Santa that previous Christmas. I was upstairs in my room with Joel, trying to figure out how to use my new Gilbert chemistry set. Jack was. . .uh . . . .(truly, my memory is a bit hazy about the exact whereabouts of my little brother). My mother was gathering the dirty clothes that were in the nearby bathroom and—luckily for us all—she was in the right place at the right time.
Joel and I busied ourselves with the chemistry set that we put on a radiator cover near a window in my room. The experiment that I chose required certain chemicals to be heated. So, I lit a Bunsen burner and turned the flame on high. Unfortunately, I did not have the foresight to remove the window curtains. If I had done so, there would be no story to tell.
Well you guessed correctly—one mishap led to another until a spark from the burner struck the curtains. Then, Joel and I realized we had a doozey of a problem—how to explain burn marks on the new drapes to my mom.
Alas, it was too late and I knew my fate was sealed; my Mom passed my room and saw the tiny flame that went astray. She dropped a basket of laundry and ran over to my chemistry set, all the while shouting, “Get me some water!” Then she threw the chemistry set on the floor to avoid a larger incident and tried to pull down the curtains. Mom was acting like a regular fire marshal. I, however, remained calm and returned with a small plastic cup of water without spilling a drop—an accomplishment I was quite proud of at the time.
And my poor brother was suddenly there, but he panicked and darted out of the room like a bat out of hell. He ran so fast to escape that he tumbled down most of the stairs until he lay on the bottom landing, fearing the entire ceiling might collapse on him at any minute. Yet, unbelievably he never shouted “help me!” or the more traditional “Fire!” Jack’s mantra while escaping this blazing inferno was the more creative, “No, no. . .not my Kelly’s Car Wash!!”
Those were the days when toys were toys, small fires remained small fires, and Bunsen burners were not child-proofed.
 

Grandpa's Dresser Drawer

I was a child of two maybe three years of age, a most inquisative and innocent young lad, so to speak. Still, I can promise you this, whatever I did that day I pray never ever to do again.


Grandpa and Nana Mamie Spaight lived on the shady side of Seventh street less than a stone's throw from Prospect park. They made their home on the third floor of a limestone-faced building that stood adjacent to Saint Saviour's Parochial grammar school in the Park Slope section of Brooklyn. The size of the couple's apartment was stately by anyone's means, but to a young child's eyes it appeared to be humongous.


Seven lofty rooms were more than enough space for me to roam.  Let's see, after entering through the black oak doorway to the apartment, a hallway greeted me which led in two directions. If I chose to go right, I'd pass the double sliding doors to the master bedroom which in turn opened into a  massive living room that overlooked the street below.  However, if I decided to turn left at that same hallway at the door, I was in for a tour.  That hallway connected two more bedrooms, and a  bath to a lavish dining area. On the far side of the large linen-draped banquet table, a single swinging door opened into an eat-in kitchen strewn with cabinets and drawers and irish porcelin dishware.  A dumbwaiter for easy removal of garbage was nestled in a corner right next to one last room--  another bedroom that was once reserved for use by servants of many years past.


On one of my visits with my parents to see grandpa and Nana Mamie I charted a more challenging course in the apartment.  After making my presence known in all of the more frequented rooms of the place I decided to take Gene Roddenberry's unspoken as yet advice, that is "to boldly go where no man has gone before. . ." -- Grandpa's and Nana Mamie's bedroom.


First, Uncle Eddie had captured my attention  with an explanation of why my Aunt Catherine, who lived with them, collected so many religious                             statues. I think he said "Aunt Catherine was deprived of toys as a child.  She is using these little fellas" he pointed to a statue of Saint Joseph, "she uses these fellas to re-enact the battle of bunker hill"  I rolled my eyes and thought "Gimme a break, Uncle Ed.  I may be two years old, but I'm not fallin' for that one." I turned to leave.
As if he had heard my thoughts, Uncle Eddie threw his hands in the air and sighed, "Geez. . .they can't all be gems, lil' buddy."


I walked down the hall toward the front door and looked at the picture my Aunt Paula drew of the neighborhood gas tanks and knew I was getting closer to my goal.  Yup, there it was.  Two big sliding doors that opened to grandpa's bedroom. Pretty soon I faced a weighty  problem, the sliding doors were open barely a crack.


Like the story goes. . ."I huffed and I puffed" and I slowly made enough space  for little ol' me to enter this chamber of secrets.   Everything was neat and adult looking,  no toys or freshly wrapped presents.   "Wait a second," I walked to grandpa's dresser. "What's this?"  I climbed on the bed so I could close the top dresser drawer that was open.  Looking inside, my sight fell upon an open aquamarine pocket-sized box with my favorite candy inside. 


All the adults were in the dining room either talking or looking at family photos til they turned to see me smiling and holding grandpa's box of chocolates. 
"Oh, lord!" exclaimed Nana Mamie.
My parents rushed to me and grabbed the box out of my hand then chided "where did you get this????"
I was beginning to feel I had done something wrong, so rather than explaining my point of view, I did what any two year old does in a similar situation, I began to sob.  But sobbing was not enough this time, I wailed louder and louder and even louder than that"
When I began to catch my breathe I answered my parents in, what I call "baby-cry-talk"
It went something like this," I. . .I (crying noise) Uncle Eh-huh. . .Eh-huh. . .Eh-huh (more crying noise) no toys. Op-en, op-en, op-en (louder crying noise) Sor-huh-Sor-huh, I'm sorr-y"
Uncle Eddie was making funny faces at me to help settle me down and at the same time began to giggle.  Grandpa put two and two together and turned to his son and vehemently admonished, "This time Eddie, you've gone too far.  You know the lad loves his chocolate, so why did you have to show him where my "special" chocolate was??"
Eddie raised his hands "Hold on, Dad. . .I had nothin' to do with this"
Nana Mamie calmed everybody down by saying "There's no need to worry, now.  If ever you've read the label on the back of that box you would know little Jimmy here will be just fine. . .sure, he'll have a wee bit of a tummy ache.  But I guess it will teach him a lesson that he must stay away from his grandpa's Ex-Lax"


Needless to say my car ride home was how should I phrase it, a moving experience.

Another tale of blarney

Eddie Spaight propped his five year old nephew upon his knee and spoke about his  Irish sojourn of many long years ago.  The little boy's eyes widened with awe when he heard that his uncle's arrival to the Emerald Isle was met with much anticipation by family and neighbors alike.  He told little Jimmy he was greeted with cheers of welcome from all the neighboring farmers as he walked along the dirt road towards his grandmother's cottage.

Eddie continued to entertain his "little buddy" as he lovingly called young Jimmy with his carefully crafted tale of how he became a gifted teller of stories. Gently tweaking Jimmy's nose while peering over his alligator glasses he began "After I left your great grandma's house, I travelled to a place called county Cork." Little buddy tilted his head a wee bit then questioned,"Huh?" "Yup, Cork." Eddie nodded and went on to explain,"that's were the Blarney Stone is kept."

Eddie informed his little buddy that the Blarney Stone was slab of rock that was blessed with an almost mystical power. He said that whomever  planted a kiss on the stone would in turn be granted a gift of eloquence,  a power of proise, a dexterity of diction, or more simply put, an artistry of "B.S."

Like many people Jimmy had always dreamt of possessing that skill to spin a good yarn.  Now he knew where to go and what he must do to acquire it.  So he decided that his goal for this day in Ireland would be to trace the very footsteps of his uncle that would lead him to County Cork and visit Blarney Castle.  It sounds like a  fairly mundane achievement, but he wanted to express his tales with passion, and thanks to kissing the fabled stone at Blarney, Jimmy thought maybe, just maybe he would be able to do just that.

Aunt Paula's eyeglasses

I continued to tap my foot on the plush carpet in front of the small bank of  hotel lobby elevators and clutched the paper bag that contained my tuna fish sandwich.  On the wall in front of me, between elevators number three and four, columns of embossed numbers  blinked red then white to show the location of each car.  The strong fishy smell from the sandwich  began to make my mouth water but  I was sure that Billie would be  satisfied with the Mug root beer and cheddar cheese & onion potato chips I  bought for her.

A clear crisp jingle woke me from my musings and I noticed the letter "L" above elevator number four was now red as the heavy doors to the car whisked open.  Once inside I pressed floor number eight on the wall panel and  began to think of my Aunt Paula.

I had just got in the habit of calling her Aunt Paula  instead Sister Paula when she passed gently into God's hand last December.  She served the Catholic church as a nun/teacher/and sometimes as a counsellor for more than half a century.  Not only was it her vow, but also her joy to help others while always maintaining a life of simple means  for herself.  I remembered the many times she would use the money her brothers forced into her hands  to purchase flowers for the chapel alter, or  to pass  on to a  parishoner in need, or to simply drop in a poor box.  She was the embodiment of charity.  

 Someone once said "the world can't be hell, there are countless saints among us. We just don't know their names yet."

Well I did know one and her name was Paula.

Aunt Paula also carried on a correspondence with her cousin, Mary who lived in the county of Clare in Ireland.  Mary's letters to Aunt Paula described her life and family and even her desire to come to America.  Every year, Mary would send her cousin a cluster of Shamrocks packed in an empty  cardboard container                           of milk to help celebrate St. Patrick's day.  Aunt Paula gave her cousin what little she had--her prayers.  Each of them longed to meet the other and visit , however brief.  They just fancied "maybe one day. . . " But those days turned into months, then those months became years and on and on and on.  Sadly, they never met each other.  Mary's dream was snubbed out by her demanding husband who forbade any such trip deeming it as foolhardy.  Knowing this, aunt Paula, chose to pass the money she had inherited on to her nephews so they could one day realize her dream of going to the land of her father's birth.
A soft "bing" echoed and the elevator door swooshed open to my floor.  My room, number 818 was down the hall just past the big ice machine.  When I slid the magnetic card into the opening below the doorknob, I heard muffled voices from inside the room.  I entered to see Billie snapping pictures of Evan, my cousin Michael's son.  As I walked closer I noticed Michael was taking pictures of Billie taking pictures of Evan.  It was evident all were having a grand old time.
"Michael, just the man I want to see." I exclaimed.
"Jim?" he said
"I just realized something when I was riding up on the elevator.  I can't leave without giving you this" I reached for the small leather case I had safely packed in my suitcase."
"Here." I presented the case to my cousin and he opened it to see a pair of thick lensed woman's eyeglasses." He gulped.
"Are these. . ." his voice trailed off and I finished with "Yeah, Aunt Paula's eyeglasses.  I figure if your grandmother and my aunt could never meet, what better place  to leave this, than with you"
Everyone in the room remained silent until Michael smiled and realized, "You know, I really believe that your aunt and my Nana have met at last.  Don't cha' now?"

Malachy's memories

I held the single-page lunch menu and perused it for the third time until my eyes widened when my gaze settled upon "Prime roast sirloin of Irish beef and potatoes." With that little chore out of the way, I placed the mimeographed list back on the cedar table in front of me and saw that Billie had already done the same.
     "I'm glad we could get a table so quickly," she said adding: "It's quite a line out there."
     Orla, Michael's wife, turned to Billie and smiled, "Darlin', it never hurts when you know the owner."
     Michael lowered his menu and said, "Orla, here, went to grade school with Bobby Byrnes' wife, Fiona. We eat here whenever we go to Limerick."
     Flan inched his chair a bit closer to the table and lightly traced his finger around his lips then faced his cousin, asking:  "What's good here, Mike?"
     "Do you like fish? Michael asked.
     Flan raised his left eyebrow and quipped: "Am I Irish??"
     This caused a wave of chuckles from the clan of grand-uncles, grand-aunts , and secondcousins who were sitting around the longest table at the famed restaurant.
     "True. . .true. . ." one of my cousins admitted.
     "I always have 'herb crusted fillet of cod,' when Fiona and I eat here," said Michael.
    "Mmmmmm, sounds delicious" Flan said.
     "Me too" echoed most of the clan.
     Billie and I were silent.
     Almost on cue, a young waitress with flaming red hair and a light green order pad in hand approached the table of cousins and smiled: "Good day to yous, me name is Coleen and I'll be bein' yer waitress. Can I be of help, now?"
     As Coleen was speaking. menus were passing hand to hand so she could take them when she left. A few minutes later she was scribbling the last order on to her green pad then smiled and turned away.
     I busied myself by counting the mortared grey stones that formed the wall behind me. Every so often, my gaze was captured by the framed pictures of past rugby champions,  next to some autographed tote bags from sponsors of the team. One blue bag that was stenciled with the word "Toyota" hung beside a similar red and white bag that bore the name "1st Limerick Bank." Then my eyes traveled to the old wooden wine barred that stood upright and had been transformed into small tables for two. This was not outdone by the exspansive black fireplace in the opposite wall.  I knew now why my cousin returns here so often. As I was about to check out the flat screen televisions that hung from the overhead beams, a questioning voice delayed my inspections.
"Hell-o, Earth to Paddy. . . .Earth to Paddy. . . ." Billie nudged me.
     "Oh, wow, sorry."  I looked to see the entire clan smiling as they looked my way.
     "He has this habit of counting things. Strange things." Billie informed them all. They looked my way, and asked "What was it this time?"
     I calmly answered and pointed my thumb to the area behind me, and replied: "There's 537 rocks in the wall here."
The laughter was interrupted by the appearance of a middle- aged woman, with her brown hair tied back, and dressed in a pink paisley-covered dress.
     Michael grinned in surprise, while Orla immediately stood and greeted the woman with open arms. "Fiona, how are you?"
    Fiona Byrnes kissed her old friend on her cheek, and then turned to face the small reunion of Spaights. "I'm so glad yous made it. Michael told me he had planned on this for months." She looked at Michael and asked, "Where are your American cousins?"
      Michael leaned back in his chair and answered,"right over there, Fiona.  That's Jim and his lovely wife, Billie."
     Fiona walked behind us and we turned around to face her.
"I hope our little town has kept you interested" she said.
"Ya know, if you haven't already, you should plan on takin'
a trip to the Frank McCourt museum. I hear that his brother oftentimes shows up to give walking tours of the neighborhood."
   Billie spoke up enthusiastically,  "Paddy and I went on that tour the day before yesterday. It was wonderful and yes, Malachy showed us around."
    Within a short while both women were talking to each other like old friends. And I began to think of the very tour of which they spoke. . . .

Back on March 16th, when I booked our flight to Ireland, our only plan aside from meeting one of my Irish relatives was to go on the famed "Angela's Ashes Tour."  The tour was an idea created by Malachy McCourt, the brother of the Pulitzer prize winning novelist, the late Frank McCourt. Malachy loved his brother intensely and shared many of the chilhood experiences that his brother wrote so eloquently about in his famous memoir.
After crossing the Sarsfield bridge that spans the idle river named Shannon,  we turned left on the short Liddy street till we saw Honan's Quay which led into our destination at Arthur's Quay. But please don't ask me what a "Quay" is.  I do know that it was a trip which lasted barely five minutes. We saw a small group of older men huddled together and one of them raised a hand to signal we were in the right place.  I quickly found out that this white-haired man was Malachy McCourt, himself.  His reddish complexion, snowy-white hair, ample stomach, and alligator eyeglasses made me think of my favorite uncle.  I stopped my staring long enough to realize another couple had joined our small group which prompted Malachy to commense the tour.  Our first stop was Leam House  at the end of the Quay.  Malachy pointed out that this place was a hospital where his brother was treated for Typhoid fever at the age of four.  He added certain passages from Frank's book to spark our imagination into feeling his brother was right there among us.
"After a terrible illness, I knew I was going to be okay.  And the reason I knew was because one day while being examined, the doctor reached over me and farted.  Now, what kind of a docter would dare fart standing over a dying youg boy?"
Our group then meandered through another short way.  Malachy said it is called Barrington Lane and it is the place where Angela(his mom) met Malachy (his dad).  Although the house itself was demolished, he pointed out that it would have resembled any of these houses that remained.  Onward we travelled through a row of attached two-story houses that framed a cobblestoned street all called Carroll's Row.  The group stopped to hear that Frank, like many young men who reached the age of 16, was led into South's Pub at the corner for his first pint of ale.  To his friends dissapointment, Frank became sick after finishing his first glass and ran out of the back of the pub to head home.
After Malachy described the impoverished and disease-ridden conditions of those times, he smiled to see a sea of sullen-looking faces.  He finished up with, "Does anybody have any questions for me?"
I don't normally ask questions, especially when I'm in a group, but something was gnawing at me ever since I first saw the tiny band of snowy-haired older men.  I decided to leave caution to the wind, then raised my arm and said, "Yeah, Hi, my name is Jim and I wanna know this: does every old guy have white hair here. 'Cause If so, could you point me to the back of the line where I can get some."
"Uuugh" I blurted, after Billie's elbow rebounded off my stomach.
She said "Don't you think you're a little late to be worrying about that now?"
I smiled and joined the rest of the group laughing.

"538" Flan finished. "Aye, 538"
I returned to the present and asked, "538 what?"
My cousin answered, '538 stones, Jim, you missed one."

I smiled wide knowing my short stay in Ireland has given me memories and loved ones that I will always treasure.

Shoulder-to-shoulder Spaights

Saturday was a bright and cheery day in County Clare. The rain, which was expected, passed over and the massive farmlands were showered with glimmering rays of sun instead. An early morning mist blanketed the grass, which dimmed the land to a frosty shade of green. Gone was the wave of heat that caused so many farmers discomfort and a pleasant cool breeze soothed everyone instead.     Donie Spaight lived through many days like today, only this day would prove to be more memorable than any of those days that passed. He eagerly awaited for the arrival of some guests. Special guests. He looked up the dirt road that led to his cottage in Derryfadda to see it empty, except for a few grazing cows and wondered what his guests would look like. Some of them, like Flan and Mary, he remembered at his daughter, Suzanne's wedding a few years back. But Michael, Antoinette, Una, Carmel, and Christy he hadn't seen since they were youngsters. 
     Donie put up his hand to shield the blazing sunlight from his eyes and squinted again at the road.  This time he saw a tiny billow of dirt rise from behind a beige minvan. Nearer and nearer the van approached leaving a lengthy trail of dust behind it, until Donie could hear the tires crackle on the stones of gravel that carpeted his driveway.  Just when Flan, Mary, and her family stepped out to greet Donie, he saw two more cars in the distance. Flan and Donie hugged, then Mary advanced to embrace her older cousin. "Mary?" Donie gasped, "Don't you look fine. And these two?" he motioned towards her two children. Mary stood behind her son and daughter and made the introduction, "This is Mairtin" and "here is my youngest, Mary."
     "No, yer pullin' me leg. Aern't yer now?" Donie had seen pictures of them as infants, and he forgot that those pictures were more then twenty years old.
     Two more car doors slammed shut, and Donie looked up to see more cousins."How are ya,' Donie. Remember me? called out Antoinette.
     " I most certainly do, young lady," he replied. "But you have to help me with the rest of yer clan, there."
     After the introductions were made, Donie's wife, Kathleen brought out a huge pitcher of freshly squeezed lemonade.  They each filled a glass with cubes of ice and sipped the most welcome cold beverage. Donie did not want to waste such a beautiful day, so he and Kathleen had prepared for an outdoor barbeque. While they sat and caught up on old times, they heard two more car doors close, which was followed by an unfamiliar voice asking: "Hello, Hello, is anybody home?" after which a female  voice queried: "Mmmm . . .maybe ther're in the back?" Donie stood and waved to them. Then he smiled so wide his cheeks ached. Now he began to feel emotional and reverently gasped, "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph and all the saints . . . ." Michael walked to his cousin and hugged him, then announced: "Donie, here is my little angel, Evan, me wife Orla, and . . ." Donie slowly stepped forward, covering both hands over his mouth, all the while unsuccessfully trying to stifle his sobbing and wailed: " Jim and Billie. . .Jim and Billie. . .it's Jim and Billie. . . ." His voice trailed off and he grabbed each to hug them tight as they all walked to the back of the house. They never made it there since the entire Spaight clan had already followed Donie to the front of his house where Jim (aka Paddy) and Billie were warmly greeted by each one.      After Donie swallowed his last bit of Irish soda bread, he looked at all the faces in front of him and silently offered a solemn prayer of thanks and also thought of the many loved ones who passed on. Most assuredly, this Saturday was a bright and cheery day and an occassion Donie will always remember.

Even the doors are colorful

With not much on us except for the clothes on our backs, Billie and I headed south on Drury Street to visit Trinity college, the oldest university in the city. As we continued our journey over a stretch of unfriendly cobblestones, the wheelchair I pushed jostled considerably. Fortunately, there was smooth pavement across the road, which proved to be more manageable and less harsh on our backs. I thought of all the exciting sights that we had seen and even some of the buildings we passed and felt my chest swell with Irish pride—wait—make that third-generation Irish-American pride (if there is such a thing).    I leaned down to see that the passenger in the chair had loosened her grip on both armrests and asked,"Better?"     Billie nodded and turned to me, saying "much better. I think if we had stayed on those cobblestones any longer, I would have needed either an emergency bathroom break or a new dress. Take your pick."     I laughed and bent down closer to suggest "Let's take a shortcut."    "No . . .no . . .no . . .Padd, all your 'shortcuts' always turn into 'longcuts,' and we end up lost." She pleaded and added "just stay on this."     Persistence is not one of my virtues. It never was, and I doubt it will ever be one. Except for one area, where I have this unexplained need for stubbornness. I have to insist that others take short cuts with me. I sometimes think that, if I could transfer all my energy from this area to say, playing a guitar, I would be a rock star right now.     "Ya, know," I hinted, "if we were to make a turn right here, we could see the site where James Connolly led his workers to rally during the Dublin lock-out."     Billie turned quickly.     I continued  with, "Yeah, I think you can still see bullet holes on some of the basement outer walls. . . ."     She lightly patted the back of my hand, which gripped the wheelchair handle. "Are you sure that is faster?"     "Oh yeah, much" I was nearing my goal and uttered:"besides being a short cut, it's historical and free." I stopped and faced her to see her reaction.     Boing!!  Billie relented and advised me: "Well, if you're sure it's faster, how can we pass up the site?" She pointed to the corner ahead of us and announced in her best Captain Picard voice, "Engage!"     We neared the limestone-faced general post office building and slowly examined the chipped basement exterior with awe. We knew we were standing on the same spot where many Irish lives fell to give birth to a worker's right to unionize. I dipped my index finger into one of the tiny holes and muttered: "Awesome." A tiny click  interrupted the silence, and I cocked my head to see that it came from Billie's digital camera, which preserved that moment.     "How did you know about this place?" she asked me.     Then she remembered the countless hours I had spent browsing on the internet in search of memorable places of interest in Dublin.  She  smiled, snapped another picture and said "never mind."We then forged ahead, all the while moving our gaze from the post office to the red brick building that abutted it, and, from there, to the orange-painted doors on the store front across the street. Once again, our attention focuses on an aging warehouse that sported a wall of ivy. All the while, we moved forward turning our heads to and fro then stopping to admire the filagreed street lampposts that decorated the street.     "Shame we have to leave, huh?"     Billie answered by taking one more shot of me.  "As long as we're together, I'm happy."     What a gal.

Entering Dublin

The passenger train in which we sat slowed markedly as it approached the curve ahead. I pressed my nose against the window beside me and peered out at the passing lush kelly green countryside while Billie focused her gaze upon the fabric of the seat she that was sitting.     "Corduroy," She ran her fingers along the ridges, "MY FAVORITE . . ."     I shook my head leisurely and grinned as I continued to gaze at the budding foliage that lined the train tracks.      "Do you know that these seats are corduroy?" Billie asked me.     I smirked as the train entered an aging train yard and nodded, "Yup."    The old train depot we had passed as we had entered Dublin led into a much more modern terminal—our stop. Our bullet-shaped train slowly rolled past several ceramic signs that spelled out in an unmistakable Celtic font, "Heuston Station." When the train eased into the stop, three quick bleeps sounded, and the doors hissed open. Billie clutched her pocketbook and I felt the seat. "Hey, this stuff is corduroy. Did you know that?" I asked.
     She just rolled her eyes and exclaimed, "C'mon Paddy."     The conductor helped me remove her collapsible wheelchair from the train and  onto the station platform, then tipped his cap and wished us a glorious visit to his country.  He asked: "May I give yous a fine suggestion, now?  You want to be savin' your hard-earned wages, so stay away from that cabbie there." He pointed to a green taxi. "Try Brian, there," which was the only other remaining cab at the stop.  "What you do, is tell Brian  'Sean says to treat us well.'"    Taking the conductor's suggestion, we rode along the busy streets of Dublin as our new friend, Brian, suggested a fine old pub where we could wet our whistles later that night.

Dreaming of the path not taken

I naturally sleep late.  Very late.  Oftentimes, I can spend all morning dozing in bed. Some people say I am wasting my time when I could be doing something more useful. Well, if you think that, all I can say to you is: "Thanks for your concern, but not to worry.  I have this all under control."  Ya see, friend,  I am doing much more than appearing to sleep late,  I am concentrating on current events, mulling over baseball statistics, planning on new diet options, and constructing a "to do" list for the upcoming afternoon.  I'm doing all of that, only I choose to keep my eyes shut while I am doing it.     Today, however I shelved this lifestyle. I woke with a start and sat up in bed, brushed the sleep out of my eyes, and walked to the nearby window.  Then, after admiring the golden glisten on the Shannon river below, I stretched my arms and yawned to my wife still sleeping and said: " Yaaa-ee-wwwpppnnnnattttt-irrrrr-yyyand," or simply translated as: "Up n' at'em, we're in Ireland."  My wife simply rolled toward me, scratched her head, and perked up with: 

Wasn't Michael an absolute gentleman? He accepted me right away, and even wouldn't let you put our luggage in his trunk. He did it himself. Then he drove all those miles to that little tavern, so we could have a nice Irish meal. Besides, he didn't want you to pay at all.  No, he said: 'When you come to my country, you don't pay, my Nana wouldn't have it any other way. Maybe when I visit New York, you can get me back and pay.' All I can say is the "Treat" wars don't stop in Ireland. Is all your family like Michael and your brother, Jack? . . . .

     I held up both hands in surrender and found time to question. "wa . . . wa . . . wait . . . How do you do that?
     "Huh? Do what?"
     "How do you come out of a sound sleep and roll right into a conversation without missing a beat. Not even a yawn!" I was truly shocked again. "C'mon, gimme a break here. . .how do you do that?"     Billie just smiled.     "What's on the menu for today?" she asked     "Dublin.  I've been dreaming about it, all last night." I looked up from the map I had taken from the hotel lobby the night before and continued: "I have the time schedule for the next express from Limerick to Heuston Station in Dublin. We have plenty of time to make it so let's get ready now."     I checked my watch on the nightstand and saw it was only 9 AM. I was satisfied and looked forward to the rail journey to Dublin that awaited us on this most beautiful and sunny day.

Fantasy Ireland

 “Look over there, right next to the newsstand, I uttered, and a tear welled up in my eye, “I knew he would be here.”
 Billie smiled as she struggled to wheel her suitcase.  “Yeah, yeah, is that who I think it is?”
I waved at the tall balding young man, “Yup,” I replied excitedly “I don’t believe this is happening”
 As we approached, the balding man broke out a wide smile and began to wave to us. It was evident that he was equally thrilled. He remembered that his Nana once told him that he had relatives in America and that she hoped to meet them one day. His thoughts also included the sheer evil of Nana’s husband, which forbade her from realizing this dream.  It was this memory that affected him so deeply that he began to weep.
 “Michael! Michael!” I shouted as I got closer and closer until we stood toe-to-toe and grasped each other and hugged. Billie grinned from ear-to-ear and realized her new camera was in the bag she was wheeling. In a flash, she freed it from the bag, made quick adjustments, and snapped a picture of the two cousins.
 After she saw the result she announced to all, “This one’s a keeper.”
 Michael laughed, extended his arms to Billie, and in his Irish brogue sobbed: “Git over here, Billie, and give yer cousin a big hug.”
 Our walk to his car in the airport parking lot was spiced with news of each of our lives. I told Michael about all his other relatives in America, and he recounted the many times his grandmother spoke to my Aunt Paula, who had wanted to visit the Emerald Isle herself. I asked if he ever had the opportunity to speak to my aunt.  “”Sure did,” he piped up. “She was a grand woman, Jim.”  I nodded and Billie added “When I first met Aunt Paula, I didn’t know how to act,” and then explained she never visited a convent and approached her visit with trepidation. “But she made me feel so comfortable and welcome. I was shocked to see a Garfield doll in the restroom. Michael, the convent was beautiful, very tasteful . . . and she was so lovable.  Although I don’t always see eye to eye with the Catholic church teachings, Aunt Paula welcomed me all the same.”
 Michael turned to me after shutting the trunk of his car. “Yer know, Jim, I feel a wee bit hungry now. Would yers care for a bite at one of our pubs?”
All of us hopped into Michael’s car and headed to Bobby Byrnes pub in Limerick city, where we ate steak and potatoes and continued our long-awaited conversation.
Yes, day one in Ireland is indeed a day I will always remember. For now, it is still a fantasy.