The Irish are wonderful people…
(Pictured: My Nana - not really, it’s Rosalind Russel as “Auntie Mame”.)
They are really - the Irish - wonderful people that is. I have been so chastised for my post on how St. Patrick’s Day is not Catholic. “Honey - you just can’t make sweeping statements about people.” said Hilary Clinton in a phone call today.
Tonite I’ll write some memories of Irish people I like…
Maureen O’Hara - I love her! I don’t know her though.
Sinead O’Connor - I love her music - but she’s a Bishop now, I think.
Bono - I think he could be the antichrist.
George Clooney - I get so sick of people saying how much I look like him.
Carmel Quinn - Oh please!
Life with Nana - a screwball comedy.
Then there is Nana. Ethel Rooney. To tell the truth I know very little about her family, her education, or anything before I was born. I adored her and Bumpa. They moved to San Francisco before I was born and so my image of them was always very sophisticated. And they really were.
I never knew what gay people were before Nana told me about her hairdresser who dressed up in women’s clothing, entertaining at some club by night. Her best friend was a lesbian businesswoman. Nana worked in the designer shop at Magnin’s in San Francisco, so she always mingled with the carriage trade. She was proud of the fact that she was the only gentile with a lengthy clientele list, and the Jewish sales ladies hated her. (Gee, I wonder why, not that she may have worn her Irish Catholicism on her sleeve or anything like that.) She was rather chic however, despite that Irish nose. She always wore hats and gloves - dressing only in Chanel. (My mother told me they were knock-offs.)
Bumpa was an engraver and had his own shop, He was rather mellow, and adored Ethel - who partied with or without him. He kept house and cooked because she had to entertain. (I’m telling you that he wasn’t fond of the Irish thing in her either, good Austrian that he was - with a suspected Jewish heritage in the mix.) When Nana would get too rowdy he would calmly repeat, “Now Ethel…” (I wish I got his looks, he was very handsome, and quite an intellectual.)
Both were devout Catholics - Nana went to confession a lot. Story is that a Monsignor was invited over for supper one night - she always had priests over to dinner - and he sneaked up behind her while she was stirring something on the stove, grabbing her shoulders. She shrieked and used tons of profanity and hauled off and hit Monsignor over the head with a spoon. She hadn’t expected it would have been him. (I’m sure he knew that part of her personality from Confession.) Yeah, she had a temper. By the way - she was probably pretending to be the cook, Bumpa would have prepared everything, while she was probably just tasting.
My Grandparents often went on pilgrimage to Guadalupe, or the various missions in California, and she always made certain I got many ex-votos and pictures from their trips. She doted on me because I wanted to be a priest. She had pretty much pushed her two sons through seminary, so intent was she that she should have a priest in the family. (Jewish mothers want doctors, Irish mothers want monsignors.) Fortunately both uncles left the semminary before nearing ordination - imagine how many others didn’t quit - and they are the liberal ones now.
She always promised me she would buy me a jeweled chalice when I was ordained, until I revealed I wanted to be either a Carmelite or Franciscan. That upset her. “You’ll have nothing there, it’s a horrible life, you must be a diocesean priest, then you can own things and do what you want!” She was convinced I’d get over that poverty thing.
Bumpa died shortly after Jack Kennedy, and soon Nana came back to visit us in St. Paul, all dressed in chic black clothes - very much like Auntie Mame. I’m not kidding, one little black cocktail dress she wore was very respectable from the front, yet it was cut very low in back - just like Auntie Mame’s in the movie. (I remember my mother asking if she borrowed it from her hairdresser.) Acting very much the grieved widow, she grabbed my hand and said, “You would have been so proud of your Nana, I was just like Jackie at Jack’s funeral - no one ever saw me cry - and I looked gorgeous.” (I actually thought she knew the First Family.)
Ethel had a new husband in just over a year. An Irish businessman she and Bumpa had known - he was such a lush. When Bumpa was alive, he could control her drinking, but now she was on her own, married to a lush. They were wild…everyday was St. Pat’s day. He didn’t live very long and she was widowed again. Oh, the drama!
Towards the end, she lived with my uncle in Santa Barbara - and the bar became limited - happy hour was strictly scheduled. When she died she was around my age, or just a bit older, not much over 60. She was senile, now we’d call it ahlzhiemers, yet I maintain it was from the alcohol - as did my mother - no one is senile in their early 60’s.
She was kind of a Tahlula Bankhead personality, very sophisticated and witty. And she was a delight - not unlike an Auntie Mame - yeah, that’s closer to her type. She could take care of herself, and drink anyone under the table. She loved men, some too much, the others she didn’t like got a handbag across the face. She loved to start fights with my mother, and they would go at it. She had a mean streak, and I think she enjoyed getting my mother angry.
She loved my dad, but hated the fact he wasn’t Catholic. Raising my mother, she treated her like a slave, and reluctantly sent her to convent school when my mother expressed the desire to become a nun. When my mother left boarding school, Nana arranged a marriage for her to a promising young man. Total disaster - they divorced - he had thought my mother’s family was rich - Nana was a rather convicing woman. My mother later met my father when he was ‘dating’ Nana. (They weren’t really dating, but she was playing a Mrs. Robinson role with him. It’s a sordid, shanty-Irish tale - shhhhhhhhhh - don’t tell Nana.)
To make a long story short, my mother fell in love with my dad and they married - Nana never forgave her/him. So she beat up my dad with her purse after a few drinks every time she saw him. (My dad was very handsome. Nana was vain and liked handsome men.)
Anyway - that’s where this anti-Irish thing comes from with me. Tomorrow for St. Pat’s day I’ll write about some saintly Irish I have known.
Oh! Nana died a very holy death - she had made the Nine First Fridays. (I’m glad I did as well! There is hope for me.)