THANK YOU MOM!

Me Mother was a Gilligan. And even more Irish than that sounds.

It was a different time – even without DNA swabs we knew our nationalities: I was Irish, Lithuanian and German. There’ve been times when that last thing could cost you your Spotify podcast…

We lived in ‘like’ neighborhoods. My Dad’s family retained our original name of Chesnulevicz and lived in a Lithuanian neighborhood. We lived in an Irish Catholic neighborhood, and ditched the nulevicz. Apparently, marrying Irish was not looked upon fondly by the Lithuanian side – somehow our car was vandalized whenever we visited.

My Mother loved her Irishness.

My parents were married on St. Patrick’s Day. A treasured part of the annual anniversary celebration was the recreation of the ‘giving of the dowry’, which unfortunately, turned out to be my Mom’s dental bills.

St. Patrick’s Day corned beef was my favorite meal, all of it boiled, which left the soda bread a bit soggy.

 In a lovely cosmic twist, My Captor is decidedly Irish, her favorite day St. Paddy’s, and her Corned Beef dinner better than my Mothers. Sorry Mom – did I mention I’m being held captive?

And their St. Paddy’s Days are the real deal: No green beer and drunken Protestants to be found.

Notre Dame football was a Saturday radio ritual, and we were taught “never bet against the Lady”.  The early results of my Uncle’s weekly research on whether whiskey shots improved ND’s chances were inconclusive, so the research continued.

She had her share of Irish superstitions:

She knew her departed relatives were OK when they reappeared and reassured. It happened with her Brother and Father.

As she died, her fingers “picked her way to heaven”, and she ‘saw’ the Rooshie and the Dooshie, angels that escorted her to the afterlife.

Rain at a funeral meant the departed was happy, a clap of thunder they’d been accepted into heaven. But wakes were conducted at home in those days, and after enough Jamesons anything is believable.

And she believed “one out, one in”, a new arrival replacing the departed.

A howling dog was a sign of impending death – or the neighbor’s dog was in heat. If Fido came back smoking a cigarette we knew we’d be okay.

It was bad luck to not pay your bookie. My cousin – One Eyed Larry – agreed.

She talked about the Blarney Stone and the gift of gab possessed by the Irish, and her.

Sundays were for Hibernian meetings, the Irish historical society. It seemed focused on whiskey tasting, and made me want to be a history major.

And when my Father said they had contributed to the IRA, I’m still convinced he was planning for his retirement.

In a cruel Cosmic twist, my Mother’s sole bucket list item was an unrealized trip to Ireland.

In another lovely cosmic twist, my Captor and I were lucky enough to visit ‘the old country’; a future post will recap that visit.

But isn’t there’s always a cautionary tale? My Mother neglected a serious health issue and died at 64. In a really cruel cosmic twist, my kids barely remember her. Still frustrated by that, but living life with that lesson…

Did we underestimate how strong willed she was? She delayed the inevitable until we arrived, so she could meet Emily.

And waited for the room to clear, to be alone with my Dad when the inevitable finally arrived.

Like so many of their incredibly selfless generation, my parent’s goal was a better life for us.

When I was young, my Mother and I spent hours around our kitchen table, and I shared with her my ever evolving dreams for the future, including becoming a writer.

This is my 100th post, and each has been both a thank you – and a prayer – to me Mother.

For 99 more posts like this –each with a St. Patrick statue – go to beersatthenifty.com

At the site, leave a comment on this post, and then check the box that says “Please notify me of future posts” and you will be sent the newest Sunday update automatically.  

Or just forward this to everyone you know. Forward it to those you aren’t fond of twice.

And check out our Instagram page beersatthenifty. New post every Sunday. Where’s Pa now?…

What Can I Say?  Boz Scaggs

Memories of my Mother dancing with her grandkids to the Silk Degrees album. A good day to rediscover that album, and to discover Boz’ earlier catalog. White Soul at its finest.

And give yourself a real treat: Loan Me a Dime, with guitar solo by Duane Allman. Yow.

Three a.m., It’s me again
And wouldn’t you know, Things would have to end this way?

I did my best, The perfect guest
Knew when to go, Perfect you knew when to stay

Come on, tell me, That you love me dear
I’ve been feelin’ down some too

After all this time, Now ain’t it clear?
I’ve been waiting just for you

Can’t you see the people
Just stop and stare?
Don’t it make you wonder why
I just happened to be standing there?
Can’t you see it in my eyes?

Ooh, you got me
Actin’ like a fool, girl
(What can I do?)
Ooh stop makin’ like
A little schoolgirl

Could be your lucky day, baby
(What can I do?)
Ooh, talk, oh, talk to me, girl

Oh, to make you know baby
(What can I do?)
Oh, to show you that I care
(What can I say?)
Oh, I’m down on my knees
(What can I do?)
Please, please, please
(What can I say?)
What can I say?
(What can I do?)
Ooh, what can I do?
(What can I say?)

“Notre Dame Victory March” The lore? Written by Knute Rockne’s mistress The truth? You can’t handle the truth…

Presented grudgingly, because my Mother loved it, but if you attended enough weddings in Chicago you heard it a LOT.

Rally sons of Notre Dame
Sing her glory and sound her fame
Raise her Gold and Blue
And cheer with voices true:
Rah, rah, for Notre Dame
We will fight in every game,
Strong of heart and true to her name
We will ne’er forget her
And will cheer her ever
Loyal to Notre Dame.

Cheer, cheer for Old Notre Dame,
Wake up the echoes cheering her name,
Send a volley cheer on high,
Shake down the thunder from the sky!
What though the odds be great or small,
Old Notre Dame will win over all,
While her loyal sons are marching
Onward to victory!

Danny Boy  Covered by virtually everyone! Even Mahatma Gandhi.

O Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
From glen to glen and down the mountainside
The summer’s gone and all the roses falling
‘Tis you, ’tis you must go and I must bide

But come ye back when summer’s in the meadow
Or all the valley’s hushed and white with snow
‘Tis I’ll be here in sunshine or in shadow
O Danny boy, O Danny boy, I love you so

When winter’s come and all the flowers are dying
And I am dead, as dead I well may be
You’ll come and find the place where I am lying
And kneel and say an “Ave” there for me

But I shall hear though soft you tread above me
And all my grave shall warmer, sweeter be
And you will bend and tell me that you love me
And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me

O Danny boy, the stream flows cool and slowly
And pipes still call and echo ‘cross the glen
Your broken mother sighs and feels so lowly
For you have not returned to smile again

So if you’ve died and crossed the stream before us
We pray that angels met you on the shore
And you’ll look down, and gently you’ll implore us
To live so we may see your smiling face once more
Once more

Keep Me In your heart for a while Warren Zevon 

Know I’ve used it before, but isn’t it heartbreakingly beautiful? Zevon to his wife, released a month before he died…

Shadows are fallin’ and I’m runnin’ out of breath
Keep me in your heart for a while
If I leave you it doesn’t mean I love you any less
Keep me in your heart for a while

When you get up in the mornin’ and you see that crazy sun
Keep me in your heart for a while
There’s a train leavin’ nightly called “When All is Said and Done”
Keep me in your heart for a while

Keep me in your heart for a while

Sometimes when you’re doin’ simple things around the house
Maybe you’ll think of me and smile
You know I’m tied to you like the buttons on your blouse
Keep me in your heart for a while

Hold me in your thoughts
Take me to your dreams
Touch me as I fall into view
When the winter comes
Keep the fires lit
And I will be right next to you

Engine driver’s headed north up to Pleasant Stream
Keep me in your heart for a while
These wheels keep turnin’ but they’re runnin’ out of steam
Keep me in your heart for a while

Streams of Whiskey  The Pogues

Last night as I slept
I dreamt I met with Behan
I shook him by the hand and we passed the time of day
When questioned on his views
On the crux of life’s philosophies, He had but these few clear and simple words to say

I am going, I am going
Any which way the wind may be blowing
I am going, I am going
Where streams of whiskey are flowing

I have cursed, bled and sworn
Jumped bail and landed up in jail
Life has often tried to stretch me
But the rope always was slack
And now that I’ve a pile
I’ll go down to the Chelsea
I’ll walk in on my feet
But I’ll leave there on my back

Because I am going, I am going
Any which way the wind may be blowing
I am going, I am going
Where streams of whiskey are flowing

Oh the words that he spoke
Seemed the wisest of philosophies
There’s nothing ever gained
By a wet thing called a tear
When the world is too dark
And I need the light inside of me
I’ll walk into a bar
And drink fifteen pints of beer

I am going, I am going
Any which way the wind may be blowing
I am going, I am going
Where streams of whiskey are flowing
Where streams of whiskey are flowing

I leave you with one of Patricia Gilligan’s favorites:

Irish Wedding Toast

“May love and laughter light your days and warm your heart and home.

May good and faithful friends be yours, wherever you may roam.

May peace and plenty bless your world with joy that long endures.

May all life’s passing seasons bring the best to you and yours!”