18 February 2005

Irish Eyes

--by Mike Murray

Every March 17^th, my dad would repeat the same old expression (all you lads and lassies from the Old Sod, say it with me). "On St. Patrick's Day, there are only two kinds of people: the Irish and those who wish they were."

My memories of my dad are frozen in time. When I think of him, he is always in his early thirties; I am not yet a teenager. It's always somewhere between Christmas Eve and St. Paddy's Day. My father was -- long before he had first heard the lyrics to Harrigan -- "proud of all the Irish blood" that was in him.

My father's parents emigrated from the Emerald Isle. And much as his dad did to him, I imagine, my father regaled me with stories of leprechauns, rainbows, and pots o' gold. I was thoroughly convinced that riches were waiting for me, if only I could snag the little imp who surely hung out somewhere in the hedges along our yard's border.

I never found the gold, figuratively or literally, during my dad's lifetime. He died when I was twelve. I believe it is accurate to say that he committed suicide. Neither my brother nor I ("Irish twins" we, being separated in age by only 10 months) knows for sure what happened that fateful December night.

All that can be determined for certain is that he was struck and killed by a speeding motorist as he emerged from a bar on Cleveland's Denison Avenue -- drunk -- and stumbled across a bridge. Sure, the driver was exceeding the posted limit. And, yes, my dad was sloshed.

But I vividly recall a conversation he had with my brother and me only a few days before. During it, he said that he wouldn't be around much longer. He said that my brother (his oldest child) would understand what he was saying, and that I wouldn't.

Fact is, he got it backward. My brother couldn't bring himself then -- and he couldn't bring himself, years later, even -- to accept the underlying meaning in our dad's words. I "got it" soon after the event.

True, the night he confided in us, I thought he was indicating that he and my mother were simply going to separate. They'd done it before. But after he opted out of life during his favorite time of year, during a period when things seemed to be going well for him, I experienced my Gestalt.

My dad was gifted. He was also deeply flawed. He was one of those people to whom things came easily. Never one to work hard at academics, he nevertheless achieved good grades in school and registered a genius-range rank on Intelligence Quotient tests.

The fact that he was blessed with cerebral ability was not something about which he boasted, however. He spoke of it as a way of sharing his embarrassment over having accomplished so little, despite his gifts. My dad reminded me a great deal of the Ray Miland character in Lost Weekend. He could rise admirably to meet big challenges. But is was that "day-to-day living," the routine dealing with life's small problems, that got him down.

He was a member of what Tom Brockaw has dubbed America's "greatest generation," having served in World War II. His was a tour that involved the old Army Air Corps (predecessor to the Air Force). I don't really know what he did -- except that he wasn't a pilot, and that he served in the Philippines. I think his duty had something to do with servicing planes as part of a ground crew.

He had a picture of him with his comrades, posing by a bomber. He wore sergeant's stripes in the photo; I don't know what rank was listed on his DD214 form at the time of his separation from the service.

I also don't know the precise precipitator of his later-in-life problems or the exact nature of his demons. But it was easy to see that he was tormented. My memories of him include many occasions on which he was drunk. He was, every inch, an alcoholic.

Sharing space with my happy memories of him (the time he helped me fashion a ring for a girl on whom I had a crush; the trip to a local movie theater to see Babes in Toyland; the family sing-alongs; the hours-long card games; the festive holiday celebrations) are painful recollections.

There was the morning I started out for school, only to find my dad passed out in a drunken stupor on our front lawn -- for all the neighbors to see. (Most kids are embarrassed by their parents' behavior now and then. But that was an especially appalling day by most anyone's standards.)

Between the jobs that he invariably lost due to a predictable pattern of absenteeism following paydays (which sometimes involved brief stays at cheap motels ...for God knows what activity), we took advantage of the safety net that was welfare. I don't know how much of being "on the dole" involved monetary support; I only saw the part that involved the distribution of WWII Army surplus goods.

I remember standing in lines in warehouses with my mom as we gathered up such staples as powdered eggs, liquid vitamins, and some sort of fatty, salty canned meat. My part was to help tote the stuff home. (My mother did a wonderful job of augmenting our meals with such fare, and she was a wizard at commingling powdered milk with the "regular" kind in such a way that it was palatable.)

Then there was the time I had to call the police on my dad. After having consumed a substantial quantity of beer or whiskey (or both), he was out of control. My sister was in her high chair; my mother was trying to get her to eat strained peas or something. The result was predictable: my sister's lack of enthusiasm for the nutritious offering resulted in minimal cooperation on her part. And irritation on my father's at hearing the fuss she was making.

His aggressiveness raised my mother to maternal defense, further enraging him. He began hitting my mom, which drove me over the edge. Running through the neighborhood in a panic, I stopped at a friend's house and telephoned the police. The paddy wagon (yeah, even then I got the irony) came and escorted my dad away. As the officers hand-cuffed him and shoved him into the back of the vehicle, he shouted a pledge to "get me."

He never did. I doubt that he even remembered making the threat when he sobered up. As anyone who has ever lived with an alcoholic knows, grand apologies and deep remorse -- and sincere promises to change -- often follow drunken episodes.

And, true enough, he did try several times to reform. He did make some effort to beat his addiction to booze. I have clear memories of his descriptions of stays in detoxification centers, and of his descriptions of DT-induced horrors.

Having closely observed my father, I can't imagine that anyone would willingly choose to live life from inside a bottle. Regardless of what sets them on that path, alcoholics eventually seem to become almost powerless (emphasis on "almost") to change course.

No, I don't think my dad drank out of hostility or even indifference to his family. I am sure he felt profound guilt over his lifestyle. And that's why I believe he did what he did.

When things were finally going along reasonably well, when he had a job with decent pay and good benefits, he chose to check out. My guess is that he figured he couldn't keep up the good behavior for very much longer. My guess is that he decided to provide for us by way of an insurance death benefit.

He couldn't simply commit obvious suicide; no policy would pay off on that. So he worked with what he knew. Alcohol would, at long last, serve him -- instead of the other way around. On that late-December evening, I believe he deliberately wobbled into the path of a carefully selected vehicle. One that was speeding, one whose driver would be unable to steer away in time to avoid a fatal collision.

When my mother woke me to break the news that my father had been in an accident, I remember asking, "What hospital is he in?" Her tortured pause told me everything I needed to know.

Now, you might think me wrong or misguided. Perhaps I have completely misinterpreted my dad's pre-death prophecy, as well as the events of that awful night on the bridge. I'd like to think I did. But I doubt it. I lived with my dad; I knew him in ways that few others did.

In any event, he was wrong in his judgment about how best to help his family.

As the years have passed, I have come to know him better and better. I have come to understand him more and more, I think. And, while I don't hold him blameless for the way he lived his life (if he realized he was powerless over alcohol, he could have stopped having kids before he exceeded a half-dozen, for example), I harbor no ill-feeling for him.

Quite the opposite.

I appreciate the fact that he refused to accept his parents' offer of a car when I was young. He told me that he didn't trust himself behind the wheel. He realized that it would be unconscionable for him to even think about obtaining a driver's license. (Not much, perhaps. But what would it mean to the daily victims of drunk drivers today if others demonstrated the same small consideration?)

I am grateful for the fuss he made each Christmas season. No matter how tough times were financially, he always managed to make sure we had fruit and nut bowls about the place, a good holiday meal, and presents under the tree. (Although, sure, a "loan" from his folks sometimes made it happen ...just as their benevolence sometimes restored heat or water to the house via payment of delinquent utility bills.)

And, no matter what he might have thought, I sorely missed having him there for me while I grew from adolescence to adulthood. Perhaps he never knew that I was able to separate the "good father" from the bad, that I got much from him at times when he was at his best.

It would have meant so much to me to have had him there at my high school sports banquet, when I accepted a Most Valuable award. I thought of him every time I won a cross country race, every time I broke the string on the track. How I would have appreciated having him there in the stands, cheering me on.

I can relate to the sentiment that Woody Allen expressed in one of his movies, that life is full of misery and suffering ...and that it's over much too quickly. That's kind of the way I feel about my father. Living with him was often difficult. But my time with him was nevertheless too brief.

I don't know that I ever said it during his lifetime, but I'll say it now: I love you, dad. Wherever you are, I hope your Irish eyes are smiling.

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