Happy Holiday's

For those not of the Italian and Polish heritage this Saturday is St. Joseph’s day. Unfortunately the day gets lost in all the drunken Irishmen’s hoopla over St. Patrick’s Day two days earlier. As I have stated before I am not a religious man. However, in my younger years on St. Patty’s day I would celebrate like my last name started with an O’. Then I would attend my Grandma’s St. Joseph’s day table in the basement of St. Albert’s church.

St. Patrick’s day used to a big deal to me. I skipped school on several occasions to hit the parade downtown and I have hit the much better South Side Irish Parade on Western many times. My favorite St. Patrick’s Day would have to be the P.J. Flaherty’s experience. I can’t remember what year it was but I was in my early twenties. My friends Rob, Dell and I were bemoaning the fact that there did not seem to be much going on for that year’s event. The “holiday” fell on a Thursday so, the festivities were a bit tempered. Still, we decided without much of an agenda for the evening that the three of us would go out and grab a beer.

So, we meet at Dell’s house and after debating what bar to hit someone suggested P.J. Flaherty’s. Flaherty’s is a south side legend. It was a gigantic bar located in Evergreen Park on Western Ave. It was huge and had two floors, a gigantic stage, three different bars, and a number of side rooms. I loved the place and to this day it is still my favorite bar of all time. I saw a ton of great bands and had a ton of fun there. So, we head again to just “grab a beer.”

As soon as we walk in we find a number of friends who we had no idea would be there, were in fact there and way ahead of us in the inebriation department. Our friend Kevin was sitting by the bar enjoying a cold one all by himself like a barfly at Moe’s. We ran into Brian Janey, and this girl Lydia we used to hang around with. She has all of her posse with her as well. A Beatle’s tribute band was playing and before you knew it we were closing out the bar at 2 AM. We then head out and grab a burrito. I didn’t walk in the door until the sun was up; meanwhile, I have to be at work at 8 AM.

Being young, and stupid I decide I can make it without sleeping. I also, forgot to change cloths, as I was still most likely intoxicated. I stumble to the train, make it downtown and proceeded to spend the longest eight hours of my life at work. It was what I used to call a Clooney day. Meaning I am on ER, I only leave this chair if it is an Emergency. Looking back I recall that night as one of those great times with much nostalgia. It was a great time in my life and I had so many nights just like that. But I digress.

St. Joseph’s day was always spent in the basement of St. Al’s eating my Grandma’s spaghetti and yucking up with the relatives. Many times it would be the first time I had seen most of them since Christmas. However, it was always the day before that brought anxiety.

Somehow I became elected to be the official transporter of the St. Joseph statue from my Grandma’s shrine to him in her spare bedroom to the church basement. This was done the Saturday before the event was to take place. Over the years I recruited my brother and many friends to help with the precious move. The statue has to be at least 80 years old and is in serious need of a make over. It is not really heavy but is awkward and requires care since it is very brittle. My Grandma even had a special sleeping bag to place him in. The statue is about four feet high and has St. Joe holding a baby Jesus.

I had many trials and tribulations transporting that statue over the years. One year my friend Chuck and I were moving it and somehow in transit baby Jesus’ foot broke off. So, for anyone interested Chuck and I plan on meeting in the far southwest corner of hell when we get there. You would think that would be the worst thing to happen but, I can’t say that it was.

One year I roped my friend Rob into helping me. We get there and realize a wedding is taking place. We get to the church just as the limo with the bridal party arrives. So, we wait while all the bridesmaids get out and scurry into the church. We than carry the statue inside once the coast is clear. Once the delivery is made, Rob and I began to have a conversation on our way out of the basement, which went something like this.

Nick: Did you see some of those bridesmaids?

Rob: Ya

Nick: I like to bend that blonde over

Rob: Ya, there were a couple that were hot.

It was at this point that we get to the top of the stairs to see the bride standing there with her father waiting to walk down the aisle. It was obvious that they heard every word that we said as Rob and I turn ten shades of red. I am sure as a little girl she dreamed of starting out her wedding day that way. Again, southwest corner of hell, everyone.

This year, I will spend both of these days somewhat subdued. I stopped going out on St. Patrick’s Day when I realized it was amateur night. My Grandma now has a muted celebration at her house as opposed to at the church. Still, as the calendar turns to March I seem to always draw onto those memories.