“What I want- what’s most important to me- is that I have a guarantee. No more attempts on my father’s life.”
That is what I wrote on the card that I sent after my dad’s heart attack in 2006. Greg was someone who always appreciated a carefully chosen perfectly appropriate (inappropriate) quote. Thanks to a generous donor, I was able to fly to LA for St. Patrick’s Day in 2006, after missing a few years of parties. It was the first time I’d seen Greg since the awful phone call about driving himself to the hospital while having a heart attack (goddamn stubborn bull!). I was so fuckin’ fiercely grateful to hang on my daddy’s arm during the wearin’ o’ the green.
All those March 17ths were kind of strange anomalies in Greg’s personality. He was a kind and thoughtful man, and certainly he appreciated his good friends, but he wasn’t exactly a social butterfly. Those are the nights I remember seeing him shine, leaning up against the kitchen counter looking handsome and catching up with a pal. The famous Suddeth St. Paddy’s celebration has undergone many permutations, from sedate dinner party, to family fun fest, to gangbusters booze-o-rama, and everywhere in between. Guest lists have swelled and shrunk. Then in 2009 there was a wake. Then 2010 was a year of quiet. And now the party is back and it will be different, but this year it feels better to have a different party than not to have one at all. Greg’s not the only one who will never step through the door again (I also miss you, Jenise F, Mark G, Mort L, Liz C). I know that I’ll miss Greg shooting the shit in the kitchen, or smoking in the backyard, or eating standing up, but I’m grateful for the memories.
One of the wilder years, there was a crowd of friends-of-friends that didn’t know what time to leave. The party’s an open invitation and always has been, but that year some folks forgot to take their friends home with them. Turning off the music didn’t work, putting away the booze didn’t work, gentle nudges toward the door didn’t work. You know what worked? When Greg came out the back door with a prop M-16 from one of his plays. It became a running gag of how to end a party.
I remember a different night very late, when we were picking forks out of the plants and pouring beers down the sink and Greg commented, “An alcoholic would never be able to understand why so many people leave half-full drinks laying around the house.” It was that kind of character observation that made my dad an excellent writer. It’s that kind of sharp eye that I aspire to have.
There was also the year that Suddeths far and wide blew into town (Greg’s brother Gary, sister-in-law Vicki, and niece Molly) to see what all the fuss was about. Greg and Gary sang some of the same Irish songs I was used to hearing as lullabies. Those boys sure could carry a tune….
Of course on top of my memories of parties past, Greg’s wake 2 years ago is on my mind as well. The haze is past and I just want to say again that I am so grateful for all that everyone did and said and was. You held Greg’s daughter together. You honored his memory in so many ways.
It’s shocking that he’s been gone for 2 years- when I let myself think it. The Irish melancholy held a grip on my life for a long long time, but slowly the peace in me is beginning to re-emerge. Just because Greg lost his mom young and I lost my dad young doesn’t mean that I need to repeat my dad’s mistakes in order to keep him in my life- I don’t need to be angry or drunk or afraid to prove I still grieve for him. I’ve figured out that it isn’t disloyal to survive- even to thrive- even to be joyful. However I keep going without my dad is between me and him, and it’s nobody’s business but our own.
Sláinte, da.
