esrosedotblog

None of us are Irish except in our heart-sometimes. Except when being Irish means hatefulness.

But St. Patrick's Day is special because it falls on the same date as my Father's Birthday.

He is 98 today. I hope that he is getting a green cake and some other mock-Irish shit to keep up the traditions.

Wherever he is, I am sure that they celebrate this day.

Early in February, the hunt would be on for St. Pat's birthday cards.

There are a lot of them each year as there are as many people born on that day as the ones who get born on Christmas and need the double dip attention.

I grew up in a place where there were no Irish anyway.

Like California, they are few and far between. And those who have the heritage kind of keep quiet about it.

I am not sure why. It is the total opposite of the madness in Boston and New York each year. And the bigotry.

There is still a ban on gay people marching in those parades.

Homo-haters give up slowly and reluctantly.

But that is not the point. My Dad was anything but a homo-hater.

He was slow to get what my being gay was about. But then he met John and things changed very quickly.

It turned out that both of them were on Destroyers in the US Navy and there it was. Click.

My mother and I disappeared as the war stories started and never really ended.

My father took special pains to understand me all my life. I was a piece of work. But he was kind and unbending at the same time.

Tough love administered fairly and evenly.

Late in his life, John and I took him to the place in Charlestown MA where he stayed with my mother when she would visit him on his stops between trips across the North Atlantic.

He got kind of sentimental and softened up a lot and told me that he was proud of me and that he loved me. He understood what it took for me to finally come out.

I figure that in his heart he always knew. I could not hunt or fish worth a shit. I did not fight with other kids, I intimidated them with my mouth. I was a tough nut.

But he nurtured me in a way that I owe almost all I know about manhood from him.

He taught me through example.

For a few years he was my boss in the supermarket he managed.

He never played favorites with me or tried to make it difficult. He let me learn on my own with his guidance.

I still love my Dad today with a deep affection and respect.

We have a shamrock out front of the house. John put it up as decor but when I see it I think of my Dad. It is his and he is with me. He is mine. Forever.

Labels: Father