When thinking of the numerous stories to share, I realized
that my grandfather, lovingly nicknamed G-man by my brother, Danny, and I,
would have undoubtedly and inevitably told a story about Ireland. Most of his
tales took place in old Ireland, in Rathdowney or Coolkerry. They usually
involved a few staple characters- Jimmy, who curtly barked and demanded favors
of everyone. Little Johnny who whined to his “mam” in the most annoying nasal
voice. And Mrs. McCarthy, who still lives just down the road, who wore a shawl
and participated in good-natured but silly gossip with a shrill cackle, her
words drawn-out and carried a particularly strong Irish accent. I’ll never know
if they actually existed in real life…these characters. I never asked because
that would have stifled the magic. His elaborations and additions were the best
part of every story he told.
Charles Haughey Taoiseach once said, “Ireland is where
strange tales begin and happy endings are possible.” My grandfather certainly
thought so. My childhood revolved around chronicles of temperamental fairies,
begrudging leprechauns, mischievous badgers and haunting banshees. Interestingly
enough, in his versions, the banshee resembled a ghost with a playful side. I
did not learn until years later that banshees possess no such fun streak. Every
time Danny and I went to visit, Grandpa would turn off all the lights and don a
creased white sheet. For the next half hour, he would chase us around his ranch
style home wailing and moaning as Danny, Aunt Mary and I would furiously race
and bump through furniture in a fit of giggles, clutching bulky flashlights and
turning back time and again to witness the banshee doggedly hovering several
lengths behind us. When punishment for capture was exacted, the unlucky child
would realize that the menacing banshee was little more than a glorified tickle
monster.
My grandfather possessed such a passion for life and his
vivaciousness lives on in each of our memories. At his grandniece’s wedding in
Ireland four years ago, my grandfather was reunited with his younger sister,
Tess, and spent the entire service gossiping and giggling with her like a
little kid. My aunt Mary, his daughter, shot him her intimidating IHM glare.
Not missing a beat, Grandpa tilted his head, smiled sweetly at her and elbowed
me in the ribs gently. Unabashed, he then proceeded to make a show of hushing
my friend, Ellen, and me, as we were obediently and quietly sitting through the
mass, minding our own business. Later in the service, he turned to Ellen and me
and inquired rather stridently, “Who is this? I can’t understand a damn word
he’s saying? Are you listening? What did he say?” The man in question was his
grandnephew who was raised in England and thus, had an English country accent.
The man also happened to be the officiating priest at the wedding. Aunt Mary
stared at him incredulously, open mouthed, as Ellen and I burst into a fit of
laughter and my Great aunt Tess shared a conspiratorial smile. Who wouldn’t
have fallen in love with him at that moment? He was the pure embodiment of
life, love and good old Irish humor.
But what story about Jack Meehan would be complete without a
mention of music? His storytelling prowess was matched and exceeded only by his
musical abilities. Even as young children, we sat on a mountain of pillows for
hours, transfixed by the majesty of a wrinkled, old man swaying to the notes
from a brassy, old trumpet. When I hosted pool parties for my middle school
friends, I paraded him around like a celebrity, suggesting and even demanding
old tunes and classics for him to play on command. I remember Danny and I
showing him off to our classes on Saint Patrick’s Day at school, “Notice the Irish
accent, it’s real” “Say something, Grandpa!” “Play When Irish eyes are
smiling!” The chatting and playing would stop as soon as the music began; the
world came to a standstill every time he gingerly lifted that trumpet or sax to
his dry, pursed lips. He really came to life playing his music. His cloudy gray
eyes began to twinkle and glitter as his knobby fingers glided effortlessly up
and down the horn with two or three efficient flicks of the wrist. The passion,
respect and love he shared with the world every waking moment of his life
emanated from his horns. You can still hear it on old recordings if you listen
closely enough… it’s still there.
He played for the best of them but still remained humble. During
a visit to Ireland, G-man spent an hour or so teaching Danny and me how to
stack the turf in the bog and didn’t pause for a second in his stories about
life in the country- he whispered tales of how he’d painted his face with shoe
polish one All Saint’s Day and couldn’t remove the black for weeks, when he and
the Ballyroan band had been on the road and the piano had caught fire (which surprisingly
happened on two separate occasions), how he’d sneak in and listen to his
father’s violin lessons from the window outside their three-room cottage, how
he’d met and fell instantly in love with his adoring wife of 50 odd years one
day while riding to work on his creaky red bicycle. I could really go on for
hours…
He was an amazingly gifted man. My grandfather had an
uncanny knack for storytelling, a gripping and powerful control over music and
a compassionate heart. Each and every one of his numerous gifts shared one
common bond: the ability to brighten someone’s day and spread joy to all those
around him.
Today, I shared a few stories about my grandfather with you because
above all, he taught me of the importance of a well-timed pause, an arsenal of
adjectives and a strong hint of humor.
A long, long, long, long, long time ago my grandfather told
me a story. A story that has been engrained in me- has become a part of my very
existence since he first uttered those oft-repeated words. This story was not
of one particular, singular experience, but rather was the history of my
family, the heritage of his dreams and a testament to enduring love.
I’ll cling to his stories because they are and always will
be my favorite part of him. I can’t promise to pass them ALL along or retell
them with such vivacity and flavor but just knowing and appreciating them
should be enough to honor him and those who passed on before him.
I wish I had more time to share these stories with you. I
wish he could say a few of his wonderful words. But his memory is served well
by your love and support. I don’t know how you all will remember him but I’ll
never forget that lilting Irish accent, those smiling Irish eyes and these
wonderful stories- his present, past and future- which I now must call my own.
Thank you.
(Katie Meehan, Granddaughter)
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