Page 72 of Don't Tell Me How to Die

“It’s amazing how you can haveno ideawhat he wanted, and then in the very next breath youabsolutely know for a factwhat he didn’t want.”

“Isn’t it great? It’s one of the superpowers you develop as a politician.”

“So what you’re saying is you know, but you can’t tell me,” she said.

“Yes. And even if I could tell you, you wouldn’t want to know.”

“Excuse me, ladies,” Alex said, sliding into the booth next to me. “I have a small problem to discuss with you. I just heard that Misty bought a house in town.”

“Why is that a problem?” I said. “All you have to do is lift your finger, and your project manager will come running.”

“It’s great for the hospital,” Alex said. “But I barely have any time with my wife as it is. With Misty in town, she’s going to occupy a big chunk of the little time I get with you.”

“I see your point,” I said. “You should have married someone less popular.”

The brass bell behind the bar clanged, and my father stood in the middle of the room, one hand on Grandpa Mike’s arm, a microphone in the other. Everyone settled down, and Alex and I worked our way through the throng to get closer to the guest of honor.

“Thank you all for coming,” Dad said. “Is this the finest old coot ever to get behind the stick?”

Cheers from the crowd.

“Pop, what year did you leave County Donegal?”

Grandpa leaned into the microphone. “1950. Right after the war. I was all of seventeen.”

“And tell us all what you miss most about the good old days in Ireland.”

Grandpa smiled. “Rosie Banaghan. I can still picture her. Porcelain skin, silver combs in her red hair, smelled like mountain heather.”

“And she was your boyhood sweetheart?”

“Heck, no. She was me teacher at St. Mura’s, and I was head over arse in love with her. Sadly, I was ten, and she was twenty-four. But now,” he said, playing to the crowd, “I’m ninety, she’d be a hundred and four... there’d be a lot less tongue waggin’.”

The packed house exploded with joy.

“Truth be told,” the old man said, his brogue getting thicker as he worked the room, “there’d be a lot less of anything waggin’.”

It took close to a minute before my dad could get control of the revelers. “Settle down, folks,” he said into the mic. “You’re only encouraging him.”

Dad put his arm around Grandpa Mike’s shoulder, and the throng quieted. “Pop, I know you said you didn’t want a gift, and it might have worked on these guys, but since when has your family ever paid attention to you? After ninety trips around the sun, we had to get you a little something.”

He waved at Lizzie, who was behind the bar. The lights dimmed, and all the TV monitors came alive.

The sweet sound of a tin whistle filled the air, and a single word blossomed onto the screens:Donegal. A few beats later, a second image faded up below it:1933.

The film began with archival shots of the old sod. Some in black and white, some in sepia, a few in the washed-out colors of the era.

People awwwed and sighed and muttered undecipherable tributes under their breath. Not everyone in the bar was Irish, but every one of them—the Cappadonnas, the Speros, the leather-jacketed bikers—was either grinning or holding a hand to their mouths to keep from crying.

Grandpa Mike just stood there mesmerized, his son’s arm still around his shoulder.

And then the music burst into the rollicking sound of the Pogues singing “Whiskey in the Jar.” The screen erupted with the wordsDonegal 2023and suddenly everything was in vibrant color.

For the next ninety seconds the video transported us all to the place Michael Francis McCormick would always call home.

People started clapping, dancing, and singing along, as Grandpa shouted out the names of every church, road, and castle that flashed across the screen. And then a wide shot. A drone camera flew across the bog, swooped over emerald-green pastures hugged by ancient stone walls, and finally settled on a white stucco building with the name Biddy’s O’Barnes proudly emblazoned across its face.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Grandpa yelled. “It’s Biddy’s! Best pint in Donegal.”

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