Happy Birthday to a Renaissance Dad

At some point, as a family, we decided that on someone's birthday, you could only tell stories about them. I think I started this, on my birthday, the eternal attention seeker that I am. It might not be true, but the McFamily generally goes along with the idea that it holds some stock if you think it's true. (I also swear I invented the word sexting-- or at least used it before I heard it to admonish a sister for texting a boyfriend at the dinner table.)

Today is my father's birthday, and I'm gonna tell a few Dad stories. One of the great McTruths of the Irish storyteller, every story can be improved. Embellishment is not just a right of the Irish Storyteller-- It is an art form. If you've spent time at a McMenamin family dinner table, you can quickly discern this. We are a quick-witted group of chronic interrupters. We learned this probably first on the oversized table at my Grandmother's house on Cheltenham Ave. Our Aunts and Uncles learned this from our Great Aunts and Uncles, and if you follow the thread, it probably stowed away from Ireland. I say this to mention that none of the dialogue is actually "true" in the direct quote way and nothing I say is ever factually true-- but always is as emotionally true as I can muster. This is what I call a McTruth.

My father has always been an amazing storyteller. When I was a kid, he taught first with a story. I think Mom had as much "help" as she could handle and often sent me off with Dad, probably because I kept trying to knock baby Patrick out of his bassinet. My father had been an apprentice of sorts to his father fixing broken electronics. Let me tell you a story about that...It was 1990-something-- after 91 but before 98, we were crowded into Grandmom's row home on Cheltenham Avenue. There were people; everywhere. Young kids hung out in Aunt Betty Anne's room, playing Bedknobs and Broomsticks on her bed. Babies were passed from lap to lap of older relatives who never moved from the soft chairs in the living room unless someone even older enters the room. Aunts and Uncles are making plates of Kielbasa and sauerkraut, meatballs and sausage, hot roast beef sandwiches, and Aunt Ree's famous stuffed shells.

Aunt Betty Anne flit about making drinks for everyone. Grandmom was forever smoking and making sure everyone fixed a plate. There were cakes, candies, and chips on every flat surface and a vegetable tray my mother insisted on bringing. My cousins and I are on the far end of the table because Grandmom said we were the only ones skinny enough to fit back there anymore. Though, I'm pretty sure I caught a look between her thin daughters-in-law on that one.

Dad came in to make a heaping plate. McMenamin men were notorious for this, all kinds of food touching--fit it all on the same plate, try everything. This horrified my sister Maureen's segmenting sensibility.

"Where have you been this week, Danny?" Grandmom asked.

"Actually home, but I was in San Fran last week and a quick stint in Boca the week before. Next week we're headed off to Copenhagen." (None of these places happened in this order-- this is more of a feeling of the conversation-- an embellishment that is close to the truth, not actual truth)

Little Jessie, Grandmom's older friend and long-time neighbor, was sitting at the table. This likely was the reason for the conversation. Grandmom loved telling everyone how successful and well-traveled her son had become. Dad loved that she did this, too. Though he'd likely not admit that-- he'd say it was embarrassing.

"Danny, you have gone everywhere!" Jessie soft-spoke-- a critical error in the McMenamin house.

"Ah, it pays the bills, and it's kind of neat to jump on a plane in Philly and get off, and you're somewhere completely different. Though after a while, hotel rooms all start to look the same, anyway." Dad said.

"They really must appreciate you at Ma Bell if they're paying for you to go all over the world," Jessie said.

"That's because my brother is a Gennie-us," said Aunt Betty Anne, who came in to fix a plate for an older relative-- so he could keep his soft seat in the living room.

"Nah, I just know a thing about a thing or two," Dad said.

"Don't believe him. He is being modest," Aunt Betty Anne said. "He has always been like that."

"It's' true; our Danny fixed the broken refrigerator when he was only four years old."

To which Dad would correct, "Mom, it wasn't broken; it was unplugged."

Uncle Terry laughed. "Some genius, huh, Big Bro?"

"But still, he knew that at four," Aunt Betty Anne joked.

"It was just an unplugged fridge," Dad said.

"But I didn't know that," said Grandmom.

"That's saying something," Joked Uncle Terry.

"Say what you want, but my brother is a genie-ous," said Aunt Betty Anne, dragging out the word genious the way she did to emphasize great importance.

"He probably unplugged it, to begin with," laughed Uncle Terry.

Dad pointed his gun finger at his brother and said, "You got that right, kid."

Grandmom said, "I don't care what you say; that's pretty incredible for a four-year-old. And he's been fixing broken things like that ever since."

--

When I would sit in his messy barn trying to figure out what tool he was trying to get me to hand him. He'd tell me about how he came up with an idea. He would break it down in a story. "Well, it reminded me of this one time..." And his stories were great; they always included his "stupid mistakes," which led to the big hero moment of figuring out the right fix. And they always, always, always included one of his many "butt" references. "So all the so-called experts are standing around scratching their butts (only he wouldn't say butt), and I said, 'did you think about plugging it in?"

I don't think it is unusual for a blue-collar father to teach his child how to fix things. Though, it was probably unusual for a father to teach his daughters how to fix things. Even more unusual, he taught through story how to be a creative thinker. Dad has always been self-deprecating, "any a-hole knows that you don't... but of course I did." But in owning his mistakes, he showed through a story that you keep trying until you get it right.

My father has always been remarkably generous. When I was a kid, I went with him to fix broken things at the school, the convent, a relative, or a neighbor's house. It seemed every weekend we had "our jobs" to do. Dad's job was to fix the broken electronics; my job was to entertain the nuns or grandmoms so they wouldn't breathe down his neck. He'd tease me on the way. "So when we get there, I'm going to tell Sister So-and-so, I couldn't find a babysitter so could she watch you. But kiddo, you're babysitting Sister So-and-so. Do you think you can do that for me?"

When we'd get there, I'd put on all my showmanship and perform a very long one-act theatrical play. Then, if it seemed Sister was going to check on Dad-- I'd say, "But you're gonna miss the best part!" And perform a crazy singing dance ballad usually mentioning Jesus because nuns have a habit of eating that stuff up! I, of course, loved and needed every ounce of nun attention I could get! Then if that didn't work, I'd fane thirst or hunger -- which usually got me a cookie.

On the way home, we'd joke it was a "win-win." And Dad would say I saved his ass back there. And tell me about Sister Mary Farts-A-Lot and her habitual gas, that they renamed the vestibule-- intesti-bule just for her.

Many people know this version of my father. Dirty-Dan king of the inappropriate joke. But the things that make me most proud of my father have gone pretty unrecognized in the world.

My father does a lot of good in the world. If he sees a problem, he tries to fix it, and this usually never gets mentioned in the world. I have seen him send money to people he has never met because he wanted to make sure they could bury a family member. Ana's Foster Mother's grief so moved him that he wired her money to help her adopt a child for herself. He has written checks bigger than I can ever imagine even receiving-- to any one who needed him. He has kept pantries full. He and mom flew to Guatemala to help me with kids-- with no notice--more than once. He has helped people on the side of the road more times than anyone could ever imagine.

After every major telecommunications crisis, he was there, after 911, when no one wanted to go near ground zero. Dad was one of the first non-essentials there to help raise cell towers. Electrical trade magazines named him a "Power God." When I would go to trade events with him, brilliant, well-educated engineers would pull me aside to tell me how even with all their degrees-- they learned from working with "Dan the Man."

When I was a very little girl, my father got a called to help a neighbor. There was an Ethiopian family at risk for deportation. Dad never met them, but he felt called to get involved. Dad was not a lawyer. But, he was a smart man with a computer and determination. Dad, through storytelling, told of the human rights violations this family would endure if they were deported. He and his friend started a petition at our local parish.

Dad wrote letters to the editor and officials. Dad stood with this family at hearings and became a spokesperson for the family, but it didn't work. It wasn't enough. They were still slated to be deported. It meant certain death to the adults. The minor child would be likely tortured and forced to watch the death of his brother and parents. That was how it was in Ethiopia in the eighties.

Dad couldn't live with this. He had a computer and researched laws until he found exactly the case that would save this family from deportation. He contacted a judge in California the day before the child's deportation. They had to round the judge up from a golf game on his day off, but the legal precedent was there, and Dad talked his way into getting those documents in the judge's hands. That family eventually gained citizenship, and their sons went on to do great things.

Dad often did for me what I couldn't with my kids. My son, Ethan would not sit still in a restaurant, and Dad took us to many fancy restaurants. I would flush red, beg, and plead with them to stay in their seat. Dad would ask the waitress for two booster chairs and a roll of duct tape. My kids and I were never impressed with this. However, the main culprit was Ethan. Dad would ask Ethan to come to him. Then he'd say, "we're gonna have a little talk."

"You seem kind of wound up, buddy; you know what I think. I think you need a little attention." And he'd use a quiet voice and sit Ethan on his lap or on the table. He'd talk to Ethan, who would eventually give him a hug, and Ethan would lay his head on Dad's shoulder and usually fall asleep. We'd joke that this tender version of my father did not exist until sometime after grandkids. But the truth was it did.

I was habitually clumsy as a child. So much so it became Dad's job to rush me off to the hospital for stitches or to get something un-wedged from my nose or a new cast. On these trips, Dad would tell stories about some of his crazy injuries. He would pull out that same quiet voice. He wouldn't admonish me, yet again, for running down the stairs without socks. He wouldn't say anything about my need to look in the sink before shoving my hand into a knife. He wouldn't even ask why it seemed like a good idea to put that colored pencil lead up my nose. Instead, he would say, "sometimes we all do stupid shit, like this one time..."

My sisters and I joke we are "daughters of Dan," usually as an excuse for saying something incredibly inappropriate. However, he taught us so much more than just wit and wise-assery. So, if I think something, I'm not going to give you an answer, just like my Dad; instead, I'm going to give you a story, you gotta figure out the F-ing lesson. And guess what--if you don't like it, McMenamins will tell you, "Those who like it like it well, and those who don't can go to--" "Hello Operator?" Sorry, Mom's humor has to interrupt on occasion, too.