It was a Saturday
afternoon in a cavernous shop called “Dick’s Sporting Goods”. While Abe was
making the search for a new pair of soccer shorts into some sort of eternal
quest, Finn Hannigan was roaring the way one year olds do when they are stuck
in a buggy too long. His shouting was being made worse by the fact his five
year old brother Charlie was trying to soothe the toddler’s anguish in his own
unique way, by twisting his fingers when nobody was looking. The sweat was
teeming off me when I saw an older woman staring a little too long at the scene
before her.
Knowing her eyes were
training on my miscreant boys made my cheeks flush the way everybody’s do when
they can’t control their children in a public venue. Eventually, my worst fears
were realised as the busy-body walked towards us. I was rehearsing all of my
potential comebacks in my head when the woman started talking.
“I’m very sorry for
staring but I’ve three boys too and they are all grown up now and just watching
your kids there brought back so many memories,” she said. Not exactly what I
was expecting.
“If you fancy more
memories, you can borrow them for the afternoon,” I said, hoping she had a more
developed sense of humour than a lot of Americans who don’t really “get” jokes
about kids.
She did have a sense of
humour. At least I think she did because she didn’t react to that comment. She
was off on a different tack.
“Where are you from?”
“Ireland.”
“I know that. What part
of Ireland?”
“Cork.”
That was all she
needed. Like most Irish-Americans, the moment they have ascertained where you
are from, they have license to share their own lineage and personal histories.
Her father was from Galway and her mother was from Roscommon. Or it could have
been the other way around. I’m so inured to Irish-Americans waxing lyrical that
I’m not as mannerly or as attentive as I should be around them.
Anyway, we shot the
breeze for a few minutes. She complimented my children. I repeated my offer
that she was welcome to borrow them for a couple of hours to disabuse her of
the notion that they were nice boys. Then the weirdest thing happened. Even
after 11 years in New York, more than a decade bumping up against
Irish-America, this was a first. I noticed tears in her eyes. Real tears.
“Are you okay?” I
asked, now beginning to fear I’d been chatting with a lunatic in disguise.
“I’m fine. It’s just
your accent brings back so many memories. When I was young, the house was
always full of Irish people and I’d go to bed at night listening to all the
different accents talking in the kitchen. And just talking to you now has
brought me back there and made me realise how much I miss my parents, even
still.”
What is there to say to
that? I mumbled an apology though I had nothing to be sorry for. But I didn’t
know what else to do. How do you respond to something so genuine, heartfelt and
sincere, especially when a part of you is wondering whether any of your three
lads will one day hear Irish accents and be transported so magically back to
their own childhoods? Will they have such warm memories too? Will they well up
in public?
An hour later, I
dragged the three hooligans in the door and the wife asked them if they had a
fun day out.
“It was great,” said
Abe. “Dad made a woman cry at Dick’s!’
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