The Luck of the Irish
I was fast asleep. It was late on a billowing March night on the eve of the feast of St. Patrick when I heard my father urgently whisper up the steps to my bedroom “Jiggs!”
I was sixteen and it was 1973. There was a lot going on. The War in Vietnam still waged on even though Nixon and Kissinger would soon skillfully manage a tactical withdraw that was anything but “honorable.” Watergate would soon predominate the headlines. Roe v Wade changed everything in January of that year and Catholics went to war with each other over the sanctity of life. No small things.
I say this because my dad sometimes woke me up in the middle of the night to bounce some ideas off me that disturbed, impressed or excited him. Sometimes he would wake me up to listen to the end of a ball game on the radio…
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