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Our youngest son was born on March 17, 1987. Our baby has grown up. I don't know where the time has gone.
I remember it was raining that morning when we checked into the hospital at seven o'clock. It poured most of the day. But by 4:30 that afternoon it was raining God's good graces. We had a baby boy.
Our intention was to name him Zachary James. When we laid eyes on him, however, he just didn't look like a Zachary at all.
Since it was St. Patrick's Day, we changed course and went for the Irish. Ryan was a name my wife was fond of, and I recalled that my Grandpa Mullen's mother's name had been Mary Ryan. It seemed like a logical choice.
For Ryan's middle name, our doctor humbly suggested Patrick -- it was his middle name -- and of course, it fit the Irish holiday theme. So Ryan Patrick it was.
St. Patrick's Day conjures up a lot of great memories for this dyed-in-the-wool Irish Catholic. Although, dyed-in-the-kettle might be more accurate.
When I was a first-grader in Catholic school back in the predominantly Irish town of Emmetsburg, Iowa, I had the distinction of being chosen to play the lead in our parish's annual St. Patrick's Day pageant. I was to portray an Irish country lad named Paddy Padraic.
I'm not sure if Sister Mary Ann Dolores picked me for the role because of my acting ability (my resume was blank up to that point -- I was only 7 years old); or perhaps it had something to do with my flute playing.
Let me explain that one. Every one in our class that year had bought little flutes fashioned with an aluminum tube and plastic bell and mouthpiece. They were called flagolets, as in "fladge-o-lets."
Lack of musical talent aside, I was probably in trouble right from the beginning because I mispronounced "flagolets." The day the flagolets arrived, we all excitedly began trying to play them. I said to the nun, "Sister, listen to our flatulence!'
One of the songs in the accompanying songbook was called "The Wearin' of the Green," so Sister chose that one for the pageant because the lyrics spoke of an Irishman named Paddy, so it fit nicely with the script. Some of the children were picked to play the song on their flagolets, others were picked to sing in the chorus. I was given an acting role. Hmmm.
In keeping with the St. Patrick's Day theme, Sister wanted me to wear a green shirt. She sent a note home to my mother.
Now Mom wasn't the type to run right out and buy her son a brand new shirt in March. Mom bought our clothes once a year, in August, when the stores offered back-to-school specials.
So she went through the shirts in my closet and came across a long-sleeved dress shirt that was pink (I believe it was a hand-me-down, probably from my sister). Then she went to the store and bought a package of green Rit dye. (Apparently they were running a March special on Rit dye).
I can still see my mother dunking that pink shirt into a kettle of dye until, like magic, it turned a lovely shade of shamrock green. Which was just fine with me because I never was comfortable wearing a pink shirt to school. I felt like a member of that girl gang from "Grease."
Well, the pageant came off without a hitch. I was one proud Irishman standing on the stage in the church basement in front of all the parishioners and wearin' my green. And Sister Mary Ann Dolores was so happy. She didn't have to listen to my singing or my flatulence.
So as the Irish blessing goes, may the road rise up to meet you, may the wind be always at your back, and may God hold you in the palm of His hand...just pray that he doesn't squeeze.
Happy St. Patrick's Day.
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(I wrote this column several years ago and thought I'd re-run in light of the passing of Monkees member Davy Jones.)
I'm going to let you in on a secret. I had to work up my courage to put this in print. I am a Monkees fan.
Several years ago, one of my treasured Father's Day gifts was a Monkees' greatest hits CD. I asked and I received. The Bible was right…for a change.
Now, I'm as willing as anybody to admit that The Monkees was not a group that ranked especially high on the list of all-time great technical musicians, and that in the beginning they were merely four guys thrown together in 1966 for the sole purpose of creating a silly television comedy series, with the bottom line being, of course, to make money.
The newly invented pop band/TV stars did their job much better than anticipated. In the ensuing years, their TV show not only harvested high ratings, but The Monkees sold millions of albums and endeared themselves to a generation of bubble-gummers.
This all started back when I was about 14 years old and could chew bubble gum without pulling out any crowns.
Listening to Monkees music today sparks some fine memories. Mostly of sitting in the kitchen on winter nights, listening to my favorite AM radio station -- 1520 KOMA, out of Oklahoma City.
After dishes were washed and my parents had retired to the living room to hog our only television, I'd sit on a stool at the counter, with the kitchen light turned off and the darkness illuminated only by the radio dial while the Top 40 lit up the airwaves.
Besides Monkees, there were Beatles, Stones, Kinks, Hermits, Troggs, Buckinghams, Tremeloes, Doors, and Mamas and Papas.
Music has an uncanny ability to touch the human soul and be retained somewhere in the subconscious. How many times have you heard a golden oldie that transported you back to a particular moment in your past? You suddenly remember what you were wearing, who you were with, what the weather was like, and so on. The most minute details of a tiny grain of time become perfectly clear to you again.
When I listen to The Beatles' "Abbey Road," I'm 17 years old for a fleeting instant and cruising the streets of Fullerton, Nebraska with my friend, Steve, riding in his sister's Malibu. Hearing Three Dog Night's "Eli's Coming" reminds me of after-ball game dances at the American Legion Annex.
The first time I heard Waylon and Willie's bar anthem, "Good Hearted Woman," was from the jukebox at J&L's Tavern in Fullerton, and still when I hear that song I find myself back in that bar for a split second. Then I drink a beer as a tribute to those good times at J&L. I like tributes.
Some great musical moments were spent in the kitchen, listening to KOMA. I even have to chuckle at the occasional intrusion. For instance, when my Dad would gruffly holler from the living room to "turn that thing down. I can't hear Gunsmoke!"
Or when he would refer to what I listened to as "that wild yeah-yeah-yeah music."
Dad always claimed that my music made no sense, that it was just a lot of noise and the lyrics couldn't be understood. You know, the same kind of things people my age say about the music children today are listening to.
Except we're right and our parents were wrong, that's all there is to it.
Whenever I hear The Beatles' "Yesterday," I recall an evening when a singer of Dad's generation was on television, doing a rendition of "Yesterday." My dad sat back in his chair, nodded his head, and proclaimed, "Now that's a decent song." When I told him that Lennon and McCartney had written it, he refused to believe me. "Well, they must have stolen it!"
I have to admit that, over the years, Dad was willing to give my kind of music a listen and even grew to like some of it. It must have been when Bing Crosby recorded "Hey Jude" that Dad decided "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em."
I haven't reached that level of tolerance yet when it comes to a good share of the music that today's youth is tuning in to. But then, with Golden Oldies of the 50s, 60s and 70s still playing today on FM stations all over the nation, and popular as ever, why even bother to make concessions?
Go ahead and let this generation of teenagers pierce their tongues and bang their heads to Ludacris, Ke$ha, Black-Eyed Peas, and Timbaland.
Me? I'll be in my kitchen with the lights off and traveling back in time while quietly rocking out to "Pleasant Valley Sunday."
And perhaps drinking a tribute. Or two.
Hey hey I'm a Monkee. Yeah yeah yeah!
Rest in peace, Davy....and thanks for the memories
