Irishman of the Year

The Joyce clan, as I see it, began in Vailsburg, Newark, an upper middle class section of a now formerly upper middle class city.

My great-grandmother, whom I never had the pleasure of meeting, ruled her flock with an iron fist. Though Irish, the descriptions that have been passed down to me lend themselves better to the notion of a Victorian matriarch than a second generation mick. Difficult to say which came first; the upward mobility or assimilation. Chicken? Egg? I kid I kid. I am sure she was a wonderful woman. A wonderful woman who happened to dress like Queen Elizabeth I.

Bob, my grandfather, went to Notre Dame. His brother Jack went to Dartmouth. Upon graduation they set out to succeed their father in running the family business, a commercial contracting operation. For the purposes of the following anecdote, perhaps little else in terms of detail is warranted. Be that as it may, I am inclined to include also this generation's affinity for alcohol, canoodling, plaid pants, the United States of America, topsiders, and being Irish. For all of which was quite substantial.

Without further ado...

Though not sure what governing body resides over such ceremonious occasions, I can resolutely say that there is a certain organization in New Jersey that doles out an award for Irishman of the year. I can also say with confidence that my Uncle Jack, my grandfather's brother, from whom I seem to have inherited my unruly eyebrows and thick hair, has won the award at least once. And also that the ceremony had been attended with a religious fervor by all of the adult men in the family until the death of my grandfather in 1996, may he Rest In Peace.

On one of these occasions, as I'm sure was the case with all of them, an O'Connell, a Daly, an O'Brien, a Kerwin, and the Joyce brothers all overindulged. The Daly, a relation by marriage to my grandfather's sister, was an attorney with an affinity for golf and plaid pants that was without vice. This must have been one of the rare occasions he was able to extricate himself from the control of his domineering wife, my aunt. Normally, she told him when to jump and how high. Which was usually not often or not very high. Exceptionally vulnerable to the active ingredients in whisky, much like a child in a candy store to the ill-effects of a sugar buzz, he was an absolute mess by the ceremony's conclusion. Weekend at Bernie's style.

When all was said and done, my father, uncles, and grandfather (my father's father in-law) were reluctant delivery boys. And I can't help but laugh at the notion of my grandfather and my dad joining forces, as dew glistened on manicured suburban lawns and birds sang their morning songs, to prop up my uncle up against the screen door of his home only to ring the doorbell.....and sprint back to the car and speed away.

I can only imagine the inadvertant hilarity that ensued when my aunt found her true love that morning, drunk as a skunk, propped up against their front door as lawn sprinklers hummed away up and down the street and adjacent neighbors went for their morning papers, scratching their heads at what had befallen the Daly residence at its front entrance.

If you're interested in hearing my interpretation of the exchange, which includes impersonations, all you have to do is hand me a couple beers and ask. It's pretty good if I do say so myself. Just ask my mom.