The Italian from Donegal who felt at home in Blarney
I was 11 and ran the news-stand every Sunday at our parish church.
Mr O’Flaherty had recently come over to the US from Ireland. The first thing I noticed about him was that he wore a derby hat. I had never seen anyone wear a derby except in the movies.
He came to church every Sunday but did not go to Mass. He preferred to sit out by my stand, read the papers and tell me stories. ‘The Blarney,’ as he called it. He explained to me what the Blarney was: “Something that is true but never happened.”
I enjoyed listening. He talked about Ireland and his people and I told him how we were studying a chapter on Irish history for that year’s school show. The show’s theme was Nations of the World.
All of the grades were to portray different nations. I was in the fifth grade and we were going to be the Irish. We didn’t have any dialogue or anything. We just got up on stage and did a song- and-dance number.
My group was the ‘Donegal Boys’ and we did the shillelagh song complete with appropriate dance steps and shillelagh twirling. We wore green leprechaun hats and vests with fringe.
The school provided the outfits, but we were on our own for the shillelagh. I got a stick from the yard and practised the routine. Besides the dance routine we studied the history and geography of the country.
Mr O’Flahery laughed when I told him I was doing the shillelagh dance.
“But Vinnie, lad, you’re Eye-talian,” as he pronounced it. “That doesn’t matter. Anybody can do anything here. On St Patrick’s Day everybody in Chicago is Irish. So an Eye-talian lad is going to be a Donegal Boy. That would never happen in Donegal, I tell you.”
He laughed, and I laughed with him. I could see he was amused by this odd American way.
His eyes widened when I mentioned the Sixteen and the Post Office, important parts of the Irish struggle for freedom.
“I knew the lads,” he said. “I was not much older than you. Everyone supported them and some of my older brothers were with them. I was their messenger boy. I would scoot through the alleys and backways of Dublin to deliver messages to their posts. Those British were terrible. They took criminals from their jails, put them in police uniforms and sent them to keep us down. Then they hung our lads. We will never forget them. They died for our freedom. They were poets and authors, the best we had.”
During the week I went to school, studied more about the Irish and practised my shillelagh twirling.
Mr O’Flaherty was back the next Sunday. I saw him walking through the parking lot towards my stand. Walking is not the right word. He had a shillelagh in his hand and he was marching as only a man in a derby hat could march. The wind blew at his clothes but he marched on, as though the elements could not affect him.
He did not use it as a cane but as a walking stick, never letting it tap the ground. He slung it back and forth in time to his pace. He belonged to that stick and it belonged to him.
He came up to me, paused for a moment, and held it out.
“Vinnie, if you’re going to do the shillelagh dance you have to have a proper shillelagh.” I accepted it with both hands, eyes wide and mouth agape. It was beautiful and old with cracked bark and the sheen of years on the handle. The brass tip had worn through.
“Take this shillelagh and do the dance right. I got it out of the rubble of the Post Office after the Rising was put down. It belonged to one of the Sixteen. It is a piece of Ireland and has a soul of its own.”
I took it home and practised. It was much better than a stick.
Saturday was the big night. I had the best shillelagh in the group and the biggest smile in the house. Most of the other kids had sticks and a few had stuck a rubber ball on the end to imitate the knob-handle.
I didn’t make a single mistake or drop it like some of the others did. I twirled it higher and faster than anyone else. My “twirling it round me wrist”, as the song went, was perfect. I brought it back to the stand next Sunday to return it to Mr O’Flaherty, but he didn’t come by. He didn’t come by the next Sunday either. I never saw him again.
Every St Patrick’s Day I get the old shillelagh out, lay it on the table and stare at it. I think about Mr O’Flaherty and I get that smile on my face. He taught me an important lesson about being Irish: the value of the blarney. Happy St Patrick’s Day.
Vincent M Lizzo
6963 North Monon
Chicago
Illinois 60646
USA
