I Should Have a Ph.D
In eavesdropping
From my earliest memories, I stood near the piano in our dining room listening to my parents’ conversations in the kitchen. They were Irish and drank an enormous amount of tea. It was one of the Irish cures for everything. I think we know what another Irish cure is. People don’t celebrate St. Patrick’s Day at Rinaldi’s or Schmidt’s. The green beer and the loud singing are a feature of O’ Hara’s or O’Shea’s. But then again, St. Patrick is the patron saint of Ireland.
After my father’s shifts in the boiler room where he worked, he would recount the details of the day to my mother in the kitchen. The kitchen was an important part of our home. It was the centerpiece for communication, tea, and family dinners.
My mother was very supportive of my father. She respected his labor and she loved him. I learned the timing of my mother’s comments which let him know she was following, but not interested in interrupting him. Sometimes the stories I heard were funny. Sometimes they were sad.
Daddy used to describe his interactions with his co-workers which were often delightful. He also freely admitted when he felt insulted, and my mother would listen and encourage him to let it go.
“Ah the poor creature,” she might say, the word creature being embedded into Irish speech with no negative…
