I’ve always enjoyed St. Patrick’s Day. I felt drawn to Ireland even though I never knew why until I learned that my great grandmother Marion O’Rourke was probably from Ireland or descended from Irish parents or grandparents. There is little or no information about Marion who died three days after my grandfather was born. Even though Grandpa never met her when he became a father to a girl he wanted to name her after the mother he had never known. 

Grandpa never spoke about Marion until I finally asked about her. I suspect the he did not know much about who she was. None of my efforts to find her in records have been fruitful. While I don’t know for certain it seems as though she gave birth to her baby boy without any kind of medical assistance. The event was no doubt difficult for her and resulted in her death that does not even seem to be duly noted anywhere. 

I had some problems with the births of my daughters. The first time I was in labor for over eighteen hours and the baby kept turning to come out breach because of an extra bone that I have. The doctor thankfully knew how to turn her around and all went well until the day after she was born when I began bleeding profusely. It ended up that I had not eliminated the placenta so the doctor had to give me a medication that started the labor pains once again until the placenta was out of my system. A similar situation occurred with my second daughter but because the doctor had seen what happened the first time around he carefully planned to make sure that my labor was faster, that the baby would not come out breach and that the placenta would successfully be eliminated. 

When I first heard about my great grandmother dying so soon after having her first baby I began to wonder if she may have had the same problems that I had. It was sad to think that there was not a medical doctor available to help her like my doctor did with me. I have always wondered how different my grandfather’s life would have been if his mother had lived to raise him into a man. 

As it happened Grandpa’s grandmother took care of him until he was about thirteen. Then she too died and he was an orphan in need of a guardian. Suddenly his father arrived ready to finally take on the responsibility of his care. Grandpa was suspicious of his father’s motives in finally stepping forward when he had been gone for thirteen years. Grandpa had a small inheritance from his grandmother and he wondered if his father was more interested in getting his hands on the money than on taking care of his son. 

Grandpa ultimately chose an uncle as his guardian, a man who was a graduate of the Military Academy at West Point. He boasted that his uncle was a fine and honest man who guided him to a time when he was able to go off on his own to see the world as an adult. Once again sadness entered Grandpa’s life as his uncle died from typhus that he contracted after a hurricane in Puerto Rico in 1900. Death and abandonment seemed to be two features of Grandpa’s life and yet he found the gumption to carry on all alone. 

My grandfather was born near the end of the nineteenth century. He had already witnessed a great deal of history when he set out on his own. When World War I arrived he was already too old to be drafted. Instead he traveled around the United States finding work as a lather. Along the way he visited many states and built edifices that still stand including the San Jacinto Monument and the State Capitol building of Arkansas. 

He was an adventurous but lonely soul who does not show up in census records until after he married my grandmother. By then he was already in his forties. a seemingly seasoned bachelor who fell for my grandmother the first time he ate her cooking in a boarding house in Oklahoma. She was a widow with a grown daughter from her first marriage. Somehow the two souls fell for each other and tied the knot. Eventually they had two children in their middle ages, Marion and my father, Jack. 

I always thought of my grandparents as being old people because they were already in their seventies when I was born. They were a happy couple who seemed to be on a perennial honeymoon. Grandpa’s eye would twinkle at the mere sight of his wife and even after her death he would speak of her with reverence, as though she had somehow perfected his world. 

My grandmother was eighty eight years old when she died but Grandpa would always lament that she had “died young.” He would live eighteen more years after her death but never failed to bring up her name and call her his buddy until the day he died at the age of one hundred eight. 

Just before Grandpa died I visited him in a nursing home. He had begun to suffer from dementia for the first time in his life. He told me that I had just missed seeing my grandmother. Rather than arguing with him I said that I was sorry that I did not get to see her. 

A few nights later I was awakened from a deep sleep and to my amazement I felt the presence of my grandmother. She sweetly explained that Grandpa was tired and that God was ready to take him home and give him some rest. It was a dream that felt so real, especially when Grandpa died the very next day. 

Grandpa had lived a long and lovely life. By the time he died he had lost his son along with his wife and most of his friends. He had even watched some of his grandchildren leave this earth. Through it all he remained steadfastly dedicated to his family and he kept a positive outlook on life in spite of all of the misfortunes he had known. He was my hero and always will be. He showed me how to survive even the toughest experiences with courage and  dignity. I think of him often.