My Irish Dad

My father and I spit into a tube and sent away our DNA years ago. The results came back to reveal that my father is 76% Irish.

"Wow, Dad," I exclaimed, "you are really Irish!"

I'm not sure if it's an Irish trait but my dad was a teller of stories. He loved telling stories about his family more than anything else. I knew all about how he used to scare his sister at night by stepping out his bedroom window onto the porch roof and climbing into his sister Betty's window to play all sorts of pranks. My favorite is when he scared her by putting feathers on her bed. Apparently, my aunt was afraid of feathers.

Whenever we drove through Baltimore Dad would point out landmarks of his childhood. 

"My dad died on the 5th floor of that hospital, " he said as we turned the corner on University Parkway by Union Memorial hospital. A few blocks before he recounted the story of the movie theater where he didn't get a job. His friend was able to secure a position but he couldn't.

"I couldn't fit into the uniform."

Growing up a huge, old portrait of an elderly woman hung on the living room wall. The frame was dark and ornate. The lady in the picture referred to as Aunt Annie, had a scowl on her face and eyes that seemed to follow you around the room. According to my dad, Aunt Annie came over from Ireland on a boat that had nothing except oranges for food. Family lore says she was kind of a cranky gal. Also, she never ate another orange after her journey to The United States.

I'm missing my Irish dad today but am glad I have all his stories to remember him by.