The Irish O’Coffeys

Irish blood ran in my dad's veins, that I knew for a fact.

I heard him brag about his granddaddy who left Gallway county in Ireland when the potato famine hit, who came to New York City an orphan at age 11, who stayed to fight dozens of Civil War battles, marry and sire nine kids, all male but one.

After boasting about his granddaddy, Dad would pull out a whole stack of Irish records which he'd play and sing for me and my sisters. We joined in on the choruses.

We sang about shillelaghs, about Clancy lowering the boom, about Molly Malone, and especially about who threw those overalls in Mrs. Murphy's chowder?

When we ran out of steam, we turned to slow tunes: Danny Boy, Glocca Morra, the summer's last rose, and the little bit of heaven that fell from the sky to become Ireland.

On St. Paddy's Day, Dad slipped out to join the guys for coffee, scissors in hand. He came home bragging that he cut off the necktie of any man who didn't wear green.

My half-German mother didn't say much. Dad's shenanigans washed over her like water.

I was in college when I realized that Dad's Irish father had married an English woman. Which made Dad only half-Irish. And me only a quarter Irish.

Nevertheless, I gave him a genuine Irish shillelagh for his birthday.

And on Saint Paddy's Day, now that I'm 80, I forget my mixed heritage. With Dad in mind, I pin on my shamrock and my brooch that reads: "Very Irish but hardly GREEN." And I march up and down the street to the well-rehearsed tune of Mrs. Murphy's chowder.