St. Patrick's Day - Nana and the Orangmen

Growing up with my Irish grandmother only about a mile away on my bicycle, I used to ride over there to see her. She used to tell me stories about how she met my grandfather; who I never met, he died before I was born; and about growing up. But, I was always confused about her stance concerning St. Patrick’s Day. Moreover there seemed to be something going on about “orange men” that confused me even further.

Of course, at the time I had no idea about the religious and political differences which divided Ireland over a thousand years ago. And, even now; at 60 years of age; it is still something I am trying to understand.

First off, that’s Nana above. Born Mary Burke, she was the daughter of my great great grandparents Thomas and Ellen Burke, who moved from Ireland to Brooklyn in the 1850’s. He was a blacksmith and a wheelwright. She stayed home and idid what women did back then; had kids; one of whom was my grandmother “Nana.”

Even my Dad used to joke about not wearing green on St. Patrick’s Day and that orange would drive the average Irishman to drink. Later on I got the joke, but as  a kid I couldn’t understand the thing at all. And then when the Irish-Protestant Troubles kicked up again when I was about 13, I gave up trying to figure it out. I mean if these guys; who both worshiped the same God as far as I could see; were going to kill one another who was I to interfere. As for the orange men; well they sort of faded away into a fairy tale; more of a family joke type of thing.

But this year I resolved to find the answer to that ancient question which has tugged at me since I was a kid; what is an Orangeman and why does his mere existence drive the average Irishman to drink? So, with the help of Aunt Gloria; who is an expert on Orangemen; and the assistance of Wikipedia, this is what I have learned.

I figure that the Williams family didn’t want to be considered Irish; but then my Welsh great grandfather Isaac married an Irish woman, my Nana, pictured above. So, it probably started as a joke between them, but then that wouldn’t explain why Nana no longer wore the green after he passed away. Nor would it explain why my Dad especially used to deny being Irish; stressing the English part of the family tree instead. So, we turn to history.

There is an organization called the Orange Institution which holds hundreds of parades throughout Northern Ireland annually. The biggest one is held on July 12^th, in honor of the Battle of the Boyne. Okay, so what was the Battle of the Boyne? Guessing it has something to do with the English and also the division between the Irish Catholic and the Anglican Church. There are also others throughout the year to commemorate the Battle of the Somme. Some of the parades are confrontational, depending on the routes they take.

There are different “neighborhoods” in Belfast where the sentiment runs strong as to whether or not you are an Orangeman; or a Nationalist or Republican. Many of these divisions go back earlier than the Troubles of 1916.

There are also many parades on St. Patrick's Day in Northern Ireland, not just Belfast. Mainly the parade commemorates the Patron Saint Patrick and his place as Patron Saint of Ireland. He is also recognized as the Patron Saint of both Unionists and Nationalists. So now I am totally confused over this Orangeman stuff and besides, Nana was Irish right down to the way she inserted r’s into words like “beirl” and “toirlet”. And if that ain’t Irish, then I’ll eat that hat.

A Thanksgiving Tale

I don’t think I have ever written down the story of George Edwards and the turkey before; but I have told it every year during the holiday season with the usual reaction; disbelief. But, I’m here to tell you that it really happened, and though I was not present at the time these events occurred, I can state that they were related to me by both his wife and children.

This was Thanksgiving Day 1992; which was about 20 years and a lifetime ago. It was like any day at the Edward’s house-hold; George was not drinking anymore; at least not until 4 PM. He would, by that time have consumed several packs out of his daily carton of Parliaments. I’m not kidding; a carton of cigarettes on one match. Do the math. 6 minutes to a cigarette at 20 per pack is 2 hours times 10 packs is 20 hours. Throw in 4 hours of sleep; which is all he slept; and there’s your carton a day. I don’t lie.

Anyway, back to the story; George was the type who did not believe in holidays and particularly despised the entire period from Thanksgiving through News Years. No one was ever quite sure why; though I do understand him more now that I am older; and anyway I’m sure he didn’t know himself.

So, Thanksgiving Day approached and George laid in an extra few cases of beer and several cartons of cigarettes; content with watching some football on television. But, his wife Anne; a sweet woman, and great cook; had decided to invite friends and family for dinner. He vowed not to come downstairs and join in the celebration; electing instead; to remain upstairs in his pajamas and watch TV.

The guests arrived and after some light refreshment and small talk, began to be seated at the table. The table, I might add, was piled high with food, in the center of which stood; gleaming with juices from the oven; a beautiful 25 pound turkey on a silver tray. Remember this stately bird.

As the guests sat down George bellowed from upstairs; he was a former iron worker in the days before cell phones or even walkie-talkies; “Anne, bring me a beer!” Of course Anne was embarrassed and ignored this request, as well as the two subsequent ones which were even less civil.

Finally, George himself appeared at the top of the stairs, clad in an open robe, wife beater tee-shirt and boxer shorts, shouting, “God damn it Anne, when I ask for a m-f-ing beer I ain’t kidding!” Anne was mortified and tried to soothe him with words, enraging him all the more, until finally; clad as formerly noted, but wearing work boots; he took the turkey from the table and flung it out the door of the house and clear across Benfield Blvd. It landed on the windshield of some poor, unsuspecting motorist, who was last seen staring at the heavens, wondering why he was chosen to receive this gift in the first place; and in such an unusual manner. For that man’s children; who were about 6 and 8 as I recall being told; the holiday has undoubtedly been ruined forever. But I still can’t help but laugh whenever I think of George and the outlandish things he did in the midst of a 30 year drunk.
 
Eventually, Anne left George and the house on Benfield Boulevard; I bet you didn’t see that coming; and they remained in touch with one another until his death in the late 1990’s. I think of him often, and have not written enough about him. On holidays, which he abhorred, I tend to think of him a bit more. He was a man of many contradictions, and I wish I had a photo of him to post here. But some of the greatest memories in life are not stored on film; or a camera card; they’re in your head, where they can never be erased.

And when Thanksgiving rolls around; year after year; I can see that turkey sailing across Benfield Boulevard, launched by George; bathrobe flapping in the frigid November air; as the guests quietly departed by the side door. And if you think that’s odd; wait ‘til I tell you about the Christmas tree…

"Drinking With George" by George Wendt

We all know hin as "Norm" on the TV sitcom "Cheers" where he plays a beer loving patron on a stool. Turns out not to be too far from reality.

In this quickly read and amusing book, Mr. Wendt describes his love of beer while mixing in some autobiographical sketches. His love for beer began in his native city of Chicago as a young boy. Armed with a note from his Grandfather or Mother, he would go to the saloon and bring home the beer. At 8 years old he takes his first taste and falls instantly in love with the brew.

Exploring the history of beer, he takes us back several thousand years to explain how beer first was discovered and then refined through the ages. He even explores the micro breweries that are so popular today.

Some of the book concerns ways to make your beer more potent- there are many ways. "Freezing" beer seems to be the easiest. Since water freezes and alcohol does not, you can put beer in the freezer and then scrape off the frozen part, which is water. The remaining portion is a more potent beer. Simple, but effective. The list goes on- freezing beer with CO2 fire extinguishers is another example.

Mr. Wendt describes and explores the differences in American and European drinking customs. His wit and story telling abilities are both on full display here.

The book is not one dimensional at all. The comedy scene of Chicago in the 1970's is fully explored. Luminaries such as John Belushi abound in stories of the legendary Second City, the comedy club that spawned a score of todays most famous comedians.

This was a surprise read for me- I was never much of a "Cheers" fan. Having been at sea for most of a decade I missed alot of TV. But I am glad that I did not miss this witty testimonial to one of Mans' Best Friends- Beer.