I'll Catch Yer Shark Fer Ye
I Was Framing Pictures Yesterday, and I Came Across This One...
The fellow on the right is my paternal great uncle, James Fitzgerald. More precisely, he was Fr. James Fitzgerald. He was an amazing guy. My maternal grandfather died in 1978, so I have very few memories of him. He was a fine fellow and all that, but he was fairly inactive toward the end, so we didn't interact much. He had a harsh brogue as well, made extra grackly by Tiparillos, which spooked me a bit. My paternal grandfather lived down in Florida, and despite the occasional random package of books (he sent me a spelling dictionary, some Hardy Boys mysteries, Reader's Digest's Strange Stories, Amazing Facts-which to this young Fortean was a godesend, and a little league ball and bat-because he apparently thought I was a real boy, not an artistically inclined poof), I had no contact with him. Fr. Jim lived a lot longer (he died when I was in high school), so I remember him more as my "grandfather" than Grandpa Quinn or Grandpa Kelly.
Pastor of his church at St. Dionysius (really) in Cicero, he was a marine chaplain and came under fire during the Guadalcanal Campaign. One of my favorite stories involved my Mom remembering his going down to my Dad's basement office and seeing a plaque my dad had on the wall that said, "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. For I am the meanest motherfucker in the valley." My Mom recollected being embarrassed that he'd seen it, imagining his pious sensibilities had been offended. My Dad, on the other hand, said something like, "Are you kidding? He thought it was hilarious. That tough old S.O.B. was a marine!" I always remember him being the least priest-like priest I knew. In many ways he was a typical South Side Irish priest of his time. He had snow on the roof and I saw him in his Roman collar and dress blacks, sure; but mostly he lounged about in slacks, loafers, and a golf shirt. He had a way of speaking through slightly gritted teeth. In my memory he reminded me of a typical 40s movie tough guy-like George Raft-but he was never intimidating or scary.
Fr. Jim loved a good whiskey, but he was never drunk or sloppy. I think he smoked Chesterfields too. When we visited him at the rectory (he had his own house, actually), he'd let us into the church. My sister Joann would play the organ, while he'd give my sister Eileen and me a bag filled with coins, and show us how the coin sorter (used after the collections) worked. I think I remember him letting us eat unconsecrated eucharistic wafers too, but I can't confirm that. He knew all sorts of nifty bar tricks. My favorite was the trick where you roll up a napkin and light the top part, causing it to lift up into the air. A generous cuss, he would always bring a big box of candy to family gatherings, and for my confirmation he secretly passed me an envelope and told me to open it in private. I opened it in my bedroom to discover the first hundred dollar bill I'd ever seen. Boy oh boy, he loved to golf and fish, and the catch above was just one of his angling triumphs. He had one of those marlins stuffed and mounted. We inherited it when he passed on, but, thirty or more years old by then, it was already pretty battered and didn't last long.
He died in his late 70s, I think, still a strong and vital man after 50 years in the priesthood. If I remember the story right, he had a heart attack while driving, but manged to coast the car to a stop before he passed. When he died, Cardinal Bernardin came to the service, which was pretty astonishing to me.
I miss the guy a lot. I have many happy childhood memories of him, but I wish we'd had time to talk as adults. I need to get to his gravesite when the weather changes.
And yes, in some small way, I'm sure he inspired Fr. Dan.