T h e p l e as u r e s o f l i f e d e pt.
Shining Irish Eyes Pat Donahoe’s big, fat Irish birthday bash
By Tom Allen
I’m about as Irish as Chef
Boyardee. As far as I know, not a drop of blood from the Emerald Isle flows through my veins. I’ve heard that on March 17th, everyone is Irish. Sorry, not me. Two years ago I downed a plate of corned beef and cabbage. Too salty. I’m a bass, not a tenor. Ever hear of an Irish bass? I don’t know the words to “When Irish Eyes are Smiling” or “Danny Boy,” my kids say I look goofy in green, and I’m pretty sure I’d be seeking other employment if found at a pub, hoisting a third pint of Guinness, pinching anyone not wearing the appropriate color on St. Patrick’s Day.
I’m not Irish, but a few months ago, I discovered an Irish branch in my family tree, albeit only a twig. Mary Frances “Pat” Donahoe, my father’s first cousin, turned 90. He and my mom, along with my wife, Beverly, and me, were invited to what was billed as her Irish birthday celebration. Pat’s part of a big family. I sometimes envy folks surrounded by large families, families from American subcultures who immigrated to this country at the turn of the twentieth century, where relatives kiss you on both cheeks and feed you baklava and pierogies; families where all fifty-seven cousins know your name. Pat is my great-aunt Ada’s oldest daughter. Like my grandmother, Ada was a Methodist. In 1921, Ada married John Francis “Frank” Gallagher. Their union raised a few eyebrows among Ada’s rural Protestant relatives. Frank was an Irishman and a Catholic. But according to my dad, Frank’s sense of humor and undeniable love for Ada soon won the family over. Pat was born a year after they married, her sister, Lib, two years later. Another daughter, Sarah, died in infancy. The children were baptized into their father’s faith. When Pat and Lib were quite young, Frank became ill, requiring a lengthy hospital stay. He died in a railroad accident not long after. This was the desperate 1920s. Unable to support her children, Ada sought help. Her sisters became a safety net, offering Ada room and board. Pat and Lib could have lived with various aunts, but that would have meant the girls living apart. Frank’s brother, a priest, found Pat and Lib a home at Raleigh’s Nazareth Catholic Orphanage. The girls lived there through their teenage years, cared for by the Sisters of Mercy. Holidays and summers were spent with their mother and aunts. Dad says the girls married well. Lib and her husband, Norman, had six children. Pat and her Irishman, Don, raised eight. By the time Pat’s ninetieth birthday arrived, her family tree was bent to the ground with fruit — eight children, twelve grandchildren, four great-grandchildren. Widowed in 1976, Pat moved around the country, helping her own children raise their kids. Last year, she moved back to North Carolina. This Irish get-together was a first for me. Years ago I attended an Irish
wake, a rather subdued gathering, I thought, considering their reputation. I left just before they prayed the rosary. After that, I’m not sure what happened. “Party back at my house,” somebody said as I left the mortuary. Pat’s birthday gig took place at daughter Suzie’s home in Cary. By the time we arrived, a family multitude had made its way to the celebration. Grandkids bounced around in an inflatable house. Others splashed in a backyard pool. Adults gathered under a tent, a comfortable atmosphere for drinks and eats. Laughter prevailed. Everyone seemed to know everyone else. I knew not a soul, but so far, it all seemed pretty sedate — no one had thrown an unsuspecting grown-up into the pool; a table hadn’t been cleared for dancing an Irish jig. But I wondered, at what point would all Dublin break loose? Pat was sitting in a gazebo just off the deck, wearing an emerald chiffon blouse and green Hawaiian lei. I hadn’t seen her for at least forty years. My jaw dropped. She looked just like her mother, my great-aunt, Ada. They could have been twins. Introductions and hugs were exchanged. My dad took his seat next to Pat. His younger brother, who’d arrived earlier, sat on her other side. Her sister Lib was there as well. A slow procession of family made its way to the gazebo. Pat smiled and greeted each one, but for the next three hours, she and Lib laughed and reminisced with my dad and his brother. Family was everywhere but nowhere was that closeness more evident than in that gazebo. How many summers had they played together under my grandmother’s pecan trees, I wondered. What secrets had they shared? What memories did they create? It was as if they picked up right where they’d left off, years ago. I walked around and chatted with Pat’s kids and grandkids. They came from all over — Michigan, California, Texas. Nicer folks I’d never met. On top of that, no one doused me with green beer or made my dad wear a button that said “Kiss Me, I’m Irish.” They did tell me stories about Pat, about the values she’d instilled, the example she’d set, and the unconditional love she continued to offer. We noshed on roast beef sandwiches and grilled vegetables from a splendid buffet, surrounded by photographs from Pat’s past, anchored by a copy of When Irish Eyes are Smiling, signed by members of her family. T-shirts and a cookbook with Donahoe family recipes were offered as favors. One of Pat’s daughters told me the pound cake recipe, although bearing Pat’s name, belonged to my grandmother. My dad perused his copy all the way back to Moore County, smiling every time he read his mother’s treasured recipe. I left the party inspired, ready to break into a bass rendition of “Danny Boy.” Most of all, I found myself grateful for the gift of family, resulting from the courage two young girls and their mother found in the midst of a tragic loss. The luck of the Irish? Maybe. Or more likely, a matter of pure grace, perhaps aided by a nod from the Emerald Isle’s patron saint. Happy St. Patrick’s Day, Mary Frances “Pat” Gallagher Donahoe. Eat a plate of corned beef and cabbage for me, keep those Irish eyes smilin’, and always remember . . . Erin go Braugh! Ireland forever! PS Tom Allen is minister of education at First Baptist Church in Southern Pines. You may reach him at t_w_allen@yahoo.com
PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . March 2013
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