Sunday, March 17, 2013

32. I Never Kissed the Blarney Stone

In Honor of St. Patrick's Day, which happens to be my husband's birthday, I wrote this 'completely fictional' story.  I'm not Irish and the only resemblance to truth is that I never kissed the Blarney stone, either.  The day I was at Blarney Castle the cold, damp weather had me too sick to leave the bus.

All my life I was told our family had the Irish gift of gab. My friends and the friends of my two older brothers and younger sister loved to come to our house and laugh. They said it was such a relief after the gloom and doom found in their Scandinavian homes. When a new friend came to the house, my father would ask him, “Are you a friend or a best friend?” The poor kid would stammer out, “I don't know.” And my Dad would explain, “Well a friend is someone you can call to help you move. A best friend is someone you can call to help you move a body.”
      Rollicking good humor was not a surprise as both sets of my grandparents, the O'Malleys and the Branagans, came from Ireland. Their genes must have been strong. Both my parents and all my siblings were experts at turning frowns upside down. I was the black sheep of the family. I was 'the quiet one'. At family parties, my aunts and uncles and cousins would tease me and try to get me to laugh. They would tell me that I somehow missed 'kissing the Blarney Stone.' This is a slab at the top of a tower in County Cork. You have to bend over backwards with someone hanging onto your feet to smack it with your lips. Everyone who did this is guaranteed to 'never again be at a loss for words.' I was always at a loss for words.
      My older brother, Dennis, liked to warn everyone that “ahh, still waters run deep, you know. One day Mary Margaret's goin' to open her mouth and then watch out.” I had a lot of thoughts surging through my brain but I had no reason to talk as the air was already filled with everyone else's. I was happy. Who wouldn't be happy surrounded by people who loved you.
      This was back in the days when grandparents, their married children and grandchildren all lived within walking distance of each other in an Irish parish. All the O'Malleys and the Branagans lived in St. Ita's, parish on Chicago's far north side. We had a lot of family get togethers.
      A typical joke told at these gatherings was “Did you hear that Old Man Finnegan's dog died? Poor man he was so upset he asked Father Mike if he could have a funeral for his best friend, Jack. The priest asked, “Are you talking about your dog?” Finnegan replied, “Yesur aund he wus the bestes' friend aught cud 'ave.” The priest smiled and shook his head. “I don't think I could do that. But there's a new church just starting up that might be willing to do it.” Riley thought a while and asked, “Do ya ken a donation of $50,000 wud be enuf at sich a church?” Father Mike stared at him in amazement, “But sure and you didn't tell me the little fellow was Catholic.”
      Like everyone we knew, our family didn't have a lot of money. But we weren't starving and we knew we'd all get a good education, come what may. And, if we knew what was good for us, we'd better get good grades to warrant the family money used to nourish our minds, as well as our stomachs. Of course, it went without saying that our souls would be nourished every Sunday at the 9 a.m. Mass.
      To save money I commuted to the local Catholic women's college, Mundelein. The boys at near by Loyola University called us Mundle Bundles. A term that would be politically incorrect or sexist today. We didn't care. We ignored them. We were more interested in the guys who went to Notre Dame. Although I didn't go away for college, I had a wonderful opportunity to tour Ireland between my junior and senior years. The pastor of our church, Father Malcom was going to lead a tour of Irish Catholic shrines and he needed someone along who could help getting the old people on and off the bus, and generally make sure they weren't left behind. He knew I helped take care of Granny Maeve when she had her hip replaced the previous summer, so he offered me the job. No pay but I got my room, board and traveling expenses.
      At the farewell party the family threw for me, Uncle Tim said, “Now you be sure to kiss the Blarney Stone this time.” It was the first time I'd have the opportunity so I didn't have a clue what he meant, but neither did anyone else.
      The tour was lots of fun. Although some of the group were physically challenged, they all laughed their troubles away. A few were crabby, but I could usually jolly them along. The day we were to visit Blarney Castle and the famous Stone turned out misty and cold. That was something they never tell you about Ireland. The reason it's so green is that it's always 'wet'. I had been looking forward to seeing if kissing the slab would free up my tongue a little.
      Alas, it was not to be. There was no way some of the members would be able to climb up the Tower. I volunteered to keep them occupied in the 'teahouse and shop' while the others tried their luck. Father Malcom consoled me. “Mary Margaret, you've no need to kiss the Blarney stone. With all the talkers already in the family, what they really need is a good listener and God has given you that special gift.”
      I guess I am a good listener. I went on to graduate school and became a psychologist. I spend a lot of time listening.
      When I got my doctorate the family gave me a party. Dennis yelled, “Now that Mary Margaret's a certified psychologist, can you tell her what you call an Irishman who's bouncing off the walls.” Everyone yelled back, “Rick O'Shea.”
                                                             The End

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