celtic_writer

Bimmy

Uncle John.

There was a popular comic strip so way back when called "Bringing Up Father."

Created by George McManus, it chronicled the life and times of a fellah named Jiggs, an Irish guy from the streets, whose life changed quickly when he won a million bucks in the Irish Sweepstakes.

Even though Jiggs became richer than Roosevelt, he still wanted to hang out with his pre-nouveau-riche friends, including Dinty Moore (yes, as in the stew), the owner of Jiggs' favorite tavern. This type of behavior did not sit well with Jigg's wife Maggie, who was constantly after Jiggs to act more "refined."

Jiggs also had a brother-in-law named Bimmy, who was a bit of a bum. The only time he stood upright was to head to the kitchen or the pub. But Maggie and Jiggs supported Bimmy's appetites, as Bimmy always added such comedy to the story line.

My father, Frank J., called you "Bimmy". After all, you were his brother-in-law, and one of his favorite people in this universe. You met at Fordham. Frank J. introduced you to his sister, our beloved Aunt Cookie. Bimmy and Cookie remained married for 50+ years.

You were never a layabout, but our hard-working favorite uncle, the one who would pile 20 kids - related or not - into a station wagon, careening dramatically around corners while yelling "wheeeeeeeeeeeee" out the window, hell-bent on reaching the nearest ice cream shop before we all starved to death.

The man who would try to escape for a nap in a hammock at clan gatherings, only to have a pig pile of kids jump on top of him, so many that the hammock gave way, with all humanity landing in a heap on the ground.

You loved Labrador Retrievers and circus peanuts, your children and refreshed kitchen floors, your wife and the New York Giants. Singing Irish songs and Dunkin Donuts coffee. And you never bought a un-used car in your life.

And you were my godfather. I still have a photo of you holding me in my christening gown, looking down at me as if I was the most special creature on earth. There wasn't a time in my life when I couldn't wait to see you.

And a storyteller...one of the best I have ever known. Listening to you and my father talk together at the kitchen table late in the evenings when our families would merge was writer's tutelage for me. A beginning, a middle, and an end. Timing is everything. Keep them laughing despite life's foibles...jobs, kids, elderly parents, and mother-in-laws.

I learned of your passing yesterday via modern technology. My niece Emma texted me a message, "You have to call Mom RIGHT NOW!" When I heard my sister's tearful voice, I knew we had lost a good one.

And you were one of those, Bimmy. No question.

The Words of Men

When you visit Key West, there is a story you will hear.

It is a place in Florida...at the southern-most point...before you reach Castro.

If you are listening, you will be told that the writer, Ernest Hemingway, built a wall.

One around his house, down on Whitehead Street.

It is the most crooked wall you will ever see.

Story goes that Hemingway bought the bricks for a penny apiece, then engaged a couple of cases of beer, and one of his good friends, to help him construct the barrier to keep out the world while he wrote.

The buddy's name: Tennessee Williams.

Ernest Hemingway has always been a hero of words to me. And to visit his home in the January humidity, has been like a trip to Mecca.

As an Irish-American child, I learned how to tell a story from listening to the words of men. My father, Frank J., and Uncle John. They knew how to weave them. As a child I was allowed to sit in the kitchen of grown-ups, so way past my bedtime, resting my head on the table, listening.

In high school, I discovered For Whom the Bell Tolls.

And The Sun Also Rises.

A beginning. The middle. Then the end.

Everything is as it should be...as the story goes.

In middle age, I read A Moveable Feast. I continue to live it. So long after the author silenced himself, way up in Idaho, via a gunshot to the head.

When Hemingway was a child of nine, he wrote: "My favorite authors are Kipling, O. Henry and Steauart Edward White. My favorite flowers are Lady Slipper and Tiger Lily. My favorite sports are trout fishing, hiking, shooting, football and boxing. My favorite studies are English, Zoology, and Chemistry. I intend to travel and write."

Hemingway was a man of so many appetites. You see, and feel them, when you tour his southern home. The woman he loved, then left, there. The photos of safaris and fishing in far-off places. The ancestors of cats called Frank Sinatra and Marilyn Monroe, who still sleep on his bed.

And what amazes me most is how such a man of intense pleasure wrote so true, and so carefully.

How he got so much emotion, intention, and life, into such sparse sentences.

"The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places," he wrote.

It is true.

And forever possible.

Sound

Went to DC tonight, to the auditorium at National Geographic, to hear young musicians play traditional Irish music in a presentation called "An Irish Christmas in America."

There were photos of Ireland splashed upon the wall behind the players as they performed. It was wonderful and mysterious, haunting and joyous. A gift. A whistle of old performed by the new.

The Irish recognize sound as their heredity. Proust said memory is in taste, but for the Celts, it is the pulse of the drum, the scream of the pipes, the shrill of a thin penny whistle. All a celebration of good, as well as what is painful. Notes contributing to the recognition of being.

This sound is in the blood, passed on through the genes. Music is story. And story is life.

Years ago, I read an explanation about people who live on islands. They feel they have no escape, so they take on the world as a chip on their shoulder, double-dog daring anyone to knock the block off.

And then they head west, towards heaven, a direction the Celts professed the unknown to be. And the journey brings knowledge. And softening.

It is past midnight here in Mason Neck. The sound is quiet. The crescent moon is gold.

They forecast freezing rain and sleet for tomorrow. I will wait it out.

To the Top of Things

It is fall finally. The squirrel is gone from the house, and the droves of blackbirds have flown through Mason Neck, signaling the spawn of cold.

What is the old saying? You simply put one foot in front of the other.

Off to New England tomorrow, climbing trails to the tops of mountains, a journey that smells of pine.

Doug drove his truck and trailer to my home in northern VA, and said, "Hey, let's go. We can develop and hike and listen to whatever happens along the way." And he will visit a surgeon in Bahstin, to have a growth removed from his ear, a remnant of his experience in Vietnam. Agent Orange. It is cancer, but not melanoma. He will survive. It is a time when I will wait for him. Read a book...perhaps Henry Miller or Herman Melville...in a cold waiting room at a VA hospital in Bean Town, where my nurse friend K has an "in", where he will get the best treatment for a bad experience from the top surgeon.

Marg coughs now. Yet she can still climb to the tops of mountains, smiling the entire way. She just wants to be with the pack. Until she can't take another step. She is the sweetest of Labs. And Walt becomes Rin Tin-Tin, galloping through streams.

Leaves change color. So does life. And all move on.

It is the Celtic New Year in a day or so. I like the newness. The Celts believed in life, and that all comes around again.

Something worth believing.

Cuz's Needlepoint, Derek's Joke, The Best Way to Cook Corned Beef and More

Once again, it's the national holiday.

My cousin Maryann spent many long hours creating this needlepoint piece for me. Cead Mile Failte is Gaelic for "One Hundred Thousand Welcomes." Thanks, Cuz.

There is a corned beef cooking in this kitchen where I sit writing. I was 16 before I realized that beef brisket does not have to taste like shoe leather in honor of St. Patrick. Here's a secret: boil the corned beef as you normally would, but an hour before it is due to be done, take it out of the water, dry it, coat it with peanut oil, mustard, and brown sugar. Then put it on the bbq grill for 60 minutes. Nectah from the Celtic gawds.

There's an Irish fellow named Frankie Quinn singing right now on XM Radio. I think the only singer in his family is the sewing machine. Soda bread will soon be in the oven.

Friend Derek from Mason Neck also emailed this Irish joke:

Jacques Chirac, The French President, is sitting in his office when his telephone rings.

"Hallo, Mr. Chirac!" a heavily accented voice said. "This is Paddy down at the Harp Pub in County Clare, Ireland. I am ringing to inform you that we are officially declaring war on you!"

"Well, Paddy," Chirac replied, "This is indeed important news! How big is your army?"

"Right now," says Paddy, after a moment's calculation, "there is meself, me Cousin Sean, me next door neighbor Seamus, and the entire darts team from the pub. That makes eight!"

Chirac paused. "I must tell you, Paddy, that I have 100,000 men in my army waiting to move on my command."

"Begorra!" says Paddy. "I'll have to ring you back.

Sure enough, the next day, Paddy calls again. "Mr. Chirac, the war is still on. We have managed to get us some infantry equipment!"

"And what equipment would that be Paddy?" Chirac asks.

"Well, we have two combines, a bulldozer, and Murphy’s farm tractor."

Chirac sighs amused. "I must tell you, Paddy, that I have 6,000 tanks and 5,000 armored personnel carriers. Also, I have increased my army to 150,000 since we last spoke."

"Saints preserve us!" says Paddy. "I'll have to get back to you."

Sure enough, Paddy rings again the next day. "Mr. Chirac, the war is still on! We have managed to get ourselves airborne! We have modified Jackie McLaughlin's ultra-light with a couple of shotguns in the cockpit, and four boys from the Shamrock Bar have joined us as well!"

Chirac was silent for a minute and then cleared his throat. "I must tell you, Paddy, that I have 100 bombers and 200 fighter planes. My military bases are surrounded by laser-guided, surface-to-air missile sites and since we last spoke, I have increased my army to 200,000!"

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" says Paddy, "I will have to ring you back."

Sure enough, Paddy calls again the next day. "Top o' the mornin', Mr. Chirac! I am sorry to inform you that we have had to call off the war."

"Really? I am sorry to hear that," says Chirac. "Why the sudden change of heart?"

"Well," says Paddy, "we had a long chat over a few pints of Guinness and decided there is no fookin' way we can feed 200,000 French prisoners."

Happy St. Patrick's Day

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You may also like Tubkin Tendencies and Gillen's Irish Dinner for more Irish recipes.

First Memory

The ancient Celts believed in a deity named Ogma, a god who represented learning.

The first Celtic "alphabet" was comprised of symbols called oghams, a system of strokes on or across a straight line. When The Others arrived and began to "civilize" those who followed natural ways, the Celts created a network of subliminal messages in order to communicate without saying a word. They carving ogmas on standing stones, door posts, and walking sticks. Ogmah communication evolved into actions, such as touching the nose, ear, elbow or knee to convey some secret. These signals live on today. Tune in to a baseball game and watch the pitcher "talk" to the catcher.

Life is quilted with mystery. Einstein said, "As we acquire more knowledge, things do not become more comprehensible, but more mysterious." So maybe it's best to simply start at the beginning. I have a theory that a human's first memory is a symbol chiseled into a wall somewhere in the mind. It leaves an important hint on how your life will turn out. What's to become of you.

My mother painted iridescent stars on the ceiling of my room. I was an infant. Must've been 6-8 months old. Remember these arms clothed in white business shirt (my father) picking me up. I rested my baby cheek against his warm face, and looked up at those shiny points of light, so luminous all on their own.

Dylan wrote about shooting stars, and I saw one tonight as I sat on the back porch steps. It flew fast. And I made a wish, in the company of a bright full moon that reflects as best it can.