March 17, 1994
Saint Patrick's Day
"What is it but nightfall? No, no not night but death; was it needless death after all?"
William Butler Yeats - Easter 1916
As I watched the Weather Channel this morning it was snowing in Boston, three to five inches expected. A typical Saint Patrick's Day in Boston, bad weather.
The influences of the Irish are everywhere, even in this historic Spanish city. In the Cathedral of Saint Augustine, there is a side altar dedicated to Saint Patrick. The phone book is filled with Irish names and there are Irish shops and pubs. This afternoon I will have a few pints of Guinness at the Blarney Stone Pub, where I'll listen to Irish music and sing along when I know the words. I'll probably share some Blarney bullshit with stranger and before the night is over and I'm too drunk to walk, I'll cry in my beer and turn a day of celebration into an Irish wake.
Death has fascinated me and has influenced my life from a very early age. When my grampa Truelson died I really didn't comprehend death. I was ten years old and in the final days of being a 5th grader. I remember riding by his home where he was being waked, it was a late Saturday in May and I was on my bike with my best friend Paul, and as we rode by we were laughing and joking, A few days later it was Memorial Day and I marched in my first and only parade, in my Little League uniform. I found out that day that marching in a parade is boring, that it's more fun to watch a parade than be in it.
When the meaning of death hits you, it hits you so hard you never forget it - like finding out there is no Santa Claus. It is something that stays with you forever.
The meaning of death struck me when my grampa Frawley died. I was eleven years old and had just started the 7th grade. I remember the day as if it was today - Thursday, September 26, 1957. On that Thursday morning I was the altar boy for the 7:00am Mass at Saint Mary's and my grampa was there. Just as he attended all my Little League, so, too, did he attend Mass when I was the altar boy. After Mass I rode by him on my bike as he walked home. I was in a rush to get home because I had to get the bus to school. But as I passed by him, I yelled, "I'll see you after school!" And he replied, "See you later!" I would never see him again nor hear his voice.
His death crushed me and killed the little boy within me. His death is with me every day and there are days, like today, when I think of him and cry. On the twenty-fifth anniversary of his death, I left a note wrapped around a tall can of Ballantine Ale at his grave - it was something I knew he would appreciate much more than flowers.
A few memories: he would take me to Red Sox games and before and after the games, he would stop at the Pennant Grille, just around the corner from Fenway Park, for a few beers and Cokes for me. On Friday nights we would go to the Amvets for pizza and watch the Friday night fights on TV. On Saturday mornings he would take me White's Bakery for donuts and Danish pastry. He taught me how to gamble and not a day went by without him challenging me to spell new words.
When I die the first thing I want to do, if I make it to heaven, is to have a few beers with my grandfather. It's one of the things in life I've been cheated of. He was a kind, loving and gentle me, always there for me - to me, he was magical.
But when I stopped by his house that fateful afternoon, he wasn't home. At nightfall it wasn't darkness but death that seized the night, for my grampa was found with a rope around his neck swinging from a tree - was it a needless death? I do not know. I only know that his death stole life away from me - and I'm still waiting for him to come home.
3:30pm - Monterey Inn - Saint Augustine, Florida
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