John OBrien
Chapter 3
Chapter 3
John
November '90
My life is about to change. I’m John. My daughter Sharleen and my granddaughter Victoria are about to leave home. I’ll be alone.
“Dad, I want to live on my own. It’s time.”
“Okay. But what about child care? You’re gonna’ do your college and take care of Victoria? How are you going to do that?”
“You did it.”
My other two children are already out and on their own. For the last eighteen years I’ve been a single parent, working toward this time. And now the time is here. You'd think I'd have known.
My youngest daughter had a child in High School. The last four and a half years we worked together to raise this wonderful new child. Now my daughter Sharleen is 21 and wants to live in her own apartment near the college with her daughter. “We’re going now, Dad. Okay?”
It's a new life for me. Alone for the first time in my life.
“Dad, maybe you’ll meet someone.”
As each of my three children left home they left belongings.
“Dad, my new place is so small I don’t know what will fit. Is it okay if I leave some of my stuff in my bedroom, the garage, where it is, where it was when I last used it?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll come and get it as soon as I see where it can fit.”
This last move has left cartons in the living room, the hallways, children’s slide, walker car, toys, primary colors, finger paintings on the fridge, crayons on the walls, solitary baby shoes of every size that I line-up in case I find the other so I can save or throw both together, school books, diplomas, pictures in sports, pictures in caps and gowns, children at the beach, young adults in formal wear for the prom, all the markings and reminders of the only part of my life that I value, all the reminders that the best of things must come to an end, all the reminders of the mad whorl of life that may have seemed like work but now are testimony that I have been so lucky.
There’s four bedrooms but at night I lie down in the sleeping bag in the midst of what I don’t understand. I’m not at all sad, don’t cry, don’t even get up in my own face, nose to nose, and ask myself, “What’s going on, guy, are you OK?”
I open one eye. It runs across the floor, climbs the hearth, stops at the single baby shoes. That’s what I am – a baby shoe – a solitary baby shoe. We’re the same. Once we had a purpose, a holy purpose. Now what? You don’t bronze one baby shoe. And me? What will God do with me? Nobody knows what to do with a solitary baby shoe. Nobody knows what to do with me. This is correct, us being together. We’re stuck.
But there’s nothing wrong with that. Over the next year I will slowly come to realize that nothing’s wrong. I’m in a magical time. I kinda’ thought that I was okay but my life must look so different to others, and to myself, that I worried that I might be in some kind of downer.
I’m not! I’m in an incredibly serene and quiet night of the Lord. I came down a different road so I look strange. But I’m fine. I’m lying in the surf letting the waves wash over me. If the waves cover my head I’m waiting for them to recede and hoping I don’t have to move. If you see me don’t save me. I’m watching a sunset and asking the world to back up and come forward again through that last scene. It’s the last rose of summer that I’m turning in my hand. I won’t put it down.
Maybe I’m in ‘The Rapture’. I read about it. Nobody knows how to get here. I won’t leave. I’m stuck. But I’m about to meet Julie by chance. Maybe God doesn’t let people stay in The Rapture. Or we wander out of it by foolishly looking down from this branch we’re on. Then we correct ourselves, keep looking up, keep looking up, get back to where you never knew. Stay.
The Irish Immigrants – The Hibernian Soccer Club
For the last five years I’ve been hanging out with a group of young Irish lads, immigrants, about the same age as my own children. Together we founded The Hibernian Soccer Club and entered the oldest soccer league in North America – The San Francisco Soccer League, founded by The Italian Verdi club. I’m an officer, a sponsor, a cheer-leader, and I buy pizza after practice. Derek Duffy says, "O'B, are you ordering pepperoni pizza again?" Hmmm, "Derek, you're right. We need a change. Tonight - double pepperoni." I listen.
Tuesday, December 11, 1990
We were at soccer practice. Tom and Mick Graham say to me, “Hey O’B, we have to leave early. We have a billiards tournament tonight.”
“So – pool is more important than soccer practice? Aha! Aha!”
“This is the semi-finals. We’re up against a bunch of ‘Narrowback’ cops and firemen. Can you come over and cheer for us after you’re done with practice?”
“Sure. Where are you competing?”
“At Terry’s Lodge – 15th and Irving.”
“I’ll be there.”
A Collision Of Four Cultures, Three Irish, One American Welfare
A ‘Narrowback’ is an American of Irish descent. But it seems to be reserved for someone who has arrived at a cushy job, won’t help you and may thump you. These soccer players are direct Irish immigrants. They don’t call me a narrowback. They perceive me as different. I’m here to enjoy myself and help them. If they break a bone in soccer we’ll get them health care or send them back to Ireland where they can receive care.
Our story begins. We’re on our way to an Irish immigrant bar. They’ll be up against American Irish police and firemen. I’m sort of a coach and sponsor. We’re all going to meet Julie, the lady on Welfare whom the police ignore. But she’s good looking so she’ll attract some attention.
Now you know the people in our story and where their lives have brought them. It’s been a bit of a foot race to get up to speed. Now I want to slow down and tell a story. Let’s move on to Terry’s Lodge, 15th and Irving.
Chapter 3 - Page Copyright John O'Brien 201 Redwood Cir. Petaluma Ca. 94954