My Irish Grandparents

It’s funny how memories just pop into your head. What triggers them? I wish I knew. I’ve already talked about my Italian Nana, but I haven’t mentioned my Italian Nanu. He’s a lot to unpack. I think about him often, but like my mother, he was… complicated. So it takes some careful planning and a little mental excavation to go there.

But I have not mentioned my Irish grandparents, and they popped into my head the other day while I was drinking my coffee. They passed a long time ago — maybe that was the trigger. Just time. What’s odd is that I remember exactly where I was and what I was doing when I heard they had passed, but I don’t recall dates like that for anyone else.

Left to right: My aunt Ellen, my aunt Kate, my dad, and my Grandparents. My uncles, Walter and Frank, might have been in Vietnam/Okinawa at this time.

My grandfather went first, at least 54 years ago. I was about eight, standing behind the local school, getting ready for a Little League game, when my dad showed up to tell me. One of the benefits of youth, I guess — sometimes it doesn’t hit you as hard because you don’t yet understand the impact. Looking back, though, I do remember calling him “Nanook,” which is Inuit for “polar bear.” I’m not sure why. Maybe that’s why my wife calls me “Bear.” My kids called my dad “Granda,” which is an Irish term.

I remember my grandfather being pretty handy. I think he worked maintenance at a school. I remember digging through a drawer full of his tools and him making me a little go‑cart — really just some boards banged together from the garage with four wheels, but it was fun. I also remember him always lying down on the floor to take a nap — something every man in the family did. I don’t do that much anymore since I’d probably need EMTs to pick me up.

He drank tea constantly, and when he was tired, he’d just get up and walk off to bed without telling anyone. Then you’d hear someone say, “Where’s Walt?” I guess that was his polite way of saying, “Okay, folks, time to go.” He had a pacemaker — I’d never even heard of one until he got it. And then, suddenly, he was gone.

My Nana passed away when I was 18. I remember taking the call at my friend’s house — I had just gotten back from camping. She died on my dad’s birthday, which made it a pretty lousy day for him for the rest of his life. But I can still hear her voice when I walked into her house: “Come in, honey.” Like coffee with my Italian Nana, it was tea with my Irish Nana.

She made these killer chopped-egg-and-toast breakfasts (with soft-boiled eggs). Jesus, I can still taste it, and I’ve never been able to replicate it. She’s been gone 45 years. I remember sleeping over and her taking me across the street to buy baseball cards. I remember her cat — she called him Kimba, but my Uncle Frank called him Louie, an all‑white cat. Later, she had a chubby little dog.

She was an avid Red Sox fan, and as you may know, the Sox let her down every year. Hell, until 2004 they hadn’t won a championship since 1918 — 86 years. I remember the final out in 2004 and thinking, “She finally got her Sox championship.” I thought of the series with each win, will this be the year? I don’t think I ever mentioned that before.

Going over there on Sundays is still one of my best family memories. There was always laughing and fun, especially when all the aunts and uncles came by. The political banter was priceless. Just another one of those moments where I wish I knew then what I know now. I would’ve wanted it to last forever.

Dad and I are on the right. My Brother and Grandfather on the left. I remember this room quite well.