Where Do I Come From?

Jasper's

2006-10-30T22:00:00.000-07:00

As a belated birthday present for Dad, I took him to Jasper's in south Kansas City. All my life I've heard Dad's story about the time he and mom and another couple went to Jasper's (at a different location, apparently) on New Year's Eve and waited three hours for a table. Seriously, at least once a year - usually when we're waiting for a table somewhere - Dad breaks out this story. So I thought it would be fun to take him to this restaurant he has built up in his head as the epitome of the dining experience.

Except, as it turns out, it's a different restaurant. The one he remembers was at 75th and Wornall, and this one is off 103rd. It was still good food - a little fancy, a little pricey, a little bit in a strip mall. Kind of took the mystique out of it.

But it did prompt some Dad stories, as I had hoped. One time in the early 60s, Dad had a friend from the country (not Ireland - just a rural area) who wanted to impress his date. Dad suggested Jasper's and warned him about the cost involved. The bill came to $60, which apparently floored the poor kid. I'm pretty sure it was in this same story that Dad said his own date for the evening was the woman who would go on to marry Gov. Joe Teasdale. I'm also pretty sure I've heard that story before. Dad's very into reruns.

But every once in a while, a new one will pop out, usually at these meals out. Stories about learning Gaelic and what an awful teacher his grade school teacher was, about a time he helped save a talent show performance by leading the rest of the kids in song when they all got horrible stagefright. It makes it difficult to take notes when he tells these stories as I'm the one driving to and from the restaurants.

predecessors of all sorts

2006-10-03T22:46:00.000-06:00

Mom and Dad had their big birthday bash last month for Mom's 60th and Dad's 75th birthdays. We had to rent out the Shawnee Civic Center to hold everyone properly. It was a great night (even with the insanely loud quincenera going on downstairs). I had scanned a bunch of old photos of mom and dad and made table tents out of them, reminiscent of Northwest's food court promotions. They were the hit of the night, if I do say so myself. Dad kept moving them from table to table, exhorting the folks from his coffee club to observe what a handsome devil he was back in the day.

In the week preceding the event, though, he got a little melancholy about turning 75. He's gotten generally ornerier of late, mom says, and not just about his age. hmmm...

In other developments over the past three months ... um, actually, not much has developed with this story. Again, some stealth interviewing, but nothing formal. I haven't even transcribed the few hours I've already gathered. I'd like to blame the new job, but really, it's a lot of laziness and indecision on my part. For some reason, watching "House" has trumped transcription.

A couple of months ago, a movie called "This is My Father" arrived from Netflix. It was one of the earlier movies I put in the queue, thanks to that clever recommendation program it has (it features a cameo from John Cusack, and I do like me some John Cusack). It's about a guy who discovers a photo of his mother and a man he'd never seen before, and he discovers it was his father. (His mother doesn't speak anymore, so she's no help.) He flies to Ireland (with his nephew, in an unnecessary plot distraction) and uncovers the story of what happened to this man (who is played by Aidan Quinn). His father had been raised by a childless couple and always felt ostracized a bit from the town. But he finds love with a heastrong Irish girl (as we all are), though, of course, it ends in death, as all stories do. But it's got that bastard farm laborer angle, which gave me a couple of shivers when I realized that was part of the plot, as was uncovering a family secret based on an accidental discovery. I suppose there is no such thing as a new story.

stealth interviews

2006-06-24T23:40:00.000-06:00

For the past couple of weekends, I've conducted what I'm terming stealth interviews with dad. He's taken a deep interest in the state of my yard (as I fully expected would happen once I moved within a 10-mile radius of him), so every time he comes over to fertilize or harass me about using my sprinkler system, I've suggested lunch. Today we went to Waid's in Fairway, or his "old haunting grounds" as he puts it. (Note: I love this feature. He takes two sort of similar phrases and smooshes them - his old haunt and his old stomping grounds. Classic. Another example from an interview: "there's no two ways out of it," a mix of "no way out of it" and "no two ways around it.") Had a good old nostalgic lunch - there's truly nothing like Waid's to bring out the old stories.

Off topic: Bought another Saw Doctors CD and love them even more, if that's possible. I need to come up with a way to get dad interested in listening to this rock stuff. For Father's Day, I bought him a John McCormick CD, and that's really his idea of Irish music. But the Saw Doctors sing about his area and his places, though perhaps not his time. I'm afraid his notion of proper music is stuck in his time, as might be said of all of us in some ways.

Quite Contrary

2006-06-04T21:45:00.000-06:00

You know, there are a lot of choices out there if you want to give your kid an Irish name, some great, unpronounceable, mythology-laden stuff out there. It's a pity that trend didn't catch on, say, 60 years ago in Ireland, because then I would be spared the confusion of a thousand Mary Ryans or Thomas Ryans or John Ryans. I mean, I get tradition and everything, but fer chrissakes. And then, the John Ryans seem to marry more Marys, and then name their daughters Mary, and now my head is going to explode.

All this actually might have been moderately helpful if the lovely family tree I found in a relative's scrapbook had to do with Dad's side of the family, not the side his Aunt May (real name, naturally, Mary) married into. I'm rather irrationally jealous of how far back the Ryan family can trace ancestors (although, theoretically, they could just say they're related a Thomas Ryan from 1800 whatever, and pretty soon they'd hit one of the fish in the barrel.

Had a nice lunch with Dad today, who's in one of his reminiscing moods because he and Mom attended Jack's memorial service yesterday. Whenever we two go out to lunch, talk invariably turns to the Ryan family or his life in Ireland, so I knew this would be a productive meal. I snuck out my little purse notebook and took haphazard notes because he speaks more freely when he's just rambling, rather than when I try to steer his reminisces with questions. As soon as I tried to do that today, he protested that he didn't remember stuff. I think he remembers more than he says - it's a matter of unearthing them, I think. This is a tricky dance I'm attempting with a pseudo-reluctant partner.

Mom saw an article in the paper a couple of days ago about a woman who was recently diagnosed with terminal cancer, so she decided to host her own living wake. She said she always wanted to attend her own funeral and hear the nice things people would have to say. Then, after Mom told me about this article, she said this big multi-person birthday party we're having this fall would be like - a celebration for Dad. I don't want to think about that yet.

Derailed

2006-05-27T01:30:00.000-06:00

OK, I really meant to do more with this month, especially after the enthusiastic start I had. A job search and some welcome freelance projects cropped up, and before I knew it, some of my research materials were due back at the library already. Really, I'm not sure which to do first - complete all the family research or jump into the fiction. I want to simply start writing - it makes me feel like I'm accomplishing something. But I know - from years of reading on this topic - that the background writing work is even more important than the words that appear on the page. Like meticulous wallpaper removal and careful sanding is the only basis for a good paint job, but those early tasks are the most frustrating and slooooowwww. My brother, for instance, is the type to put some of the paint on the wall before we've finished any prep work, "just to see how it will turn out." I want to skip ahead, too.

Past attempts

2006-05-19T00:09:00.000-06:00

A few years ago, I began an ambitious family tree project for my mom's side of the family, which is substantial. She's one of 10 kids, and her mom was one of 8, so doing this right is no small task. I had intended it for a Christmas present, so once the holiday had passed, I let the research drop. I want to take it up again, but Dad's story beckons. Still, it would look like I had accomplished so much more by fleshing out Mom's side because it's a much easier task (domestic, preserved, etc.). Unfortunately, any attempt at a proper tree for my family looks like an ice storm has attacked one half of the plant - mom's life goes on and on for generations, while Dad's stops at his name.

Anyway, I dug up the Agnew research this evening and found earlier notes on Dad's story tucked in there - addresses in Kansas City where he lived, past jobs (I had forgotten that he was a baker for a while, or that he attended Rockhurst for a couple of semesters in the 60s).

Saw Doctors and snooping

2006-05-15T11:05:00.000-06:00

I’ve been listening to a lot of the Saw Doctors, and it’s putting me into an unexpectedly homesick mood. The oddness of this will become clear in a moment.

When I first started my research into Dad’s family, one of the first things I discovered about his hometown of Tuam is that a band called the Saw Doctors originated there. Now, I hardly ever buy CDs without knowing more about a band, but I made an exception this time and bought their “Live at Galway” CD. I’m now deeply into them. They write and sing about their hometown and the surrounding land with such love and truth about this corner of the world that I want so badly to know better. It makes my chest tighten slightly with a feeling I can only call longing because, really, homesickness isn’t accurate. I’ve been to Tuam once, ever so briefly, and I was more concerned at the time with the bus schedule and whether or not this cabbie knew where the hell we were going. It costs $1,000 to fly to Ireland and back to Kansas City. $1,000.

I’ve done sporadic research this week on the book front. Tried to interview Dad some more yesterday, and he begged off again. I know this is his story and it’s rather painful to him – the years of loneliness, the secrets kept from him – but it’s my story as well, and he’s a big key to the answers I seek. Mom dug out Dad’s birth certificate and sundry other papers last week, and Dad came in all blustery, “What are you doing in my personal private papers?” He gets this way sometimes – overly theatrical, chest-puffing, man-of-the-house attitude. But I think there was a core of honesty in his affrontery over my interest. He’s not ready to be an artifact yet.

My first naming

2006-05-07T19:29:00.000-06:00

All week I've been thinking about names. I've been doing some writing with placeholders like "Name" or "Dad" instead of solid identities, which strikes me as rather backward. The trouble is, every time I begin to think about names, I run into roadblocks. Can't use this one because I have a cousin with that name. Can't use that one or my friend will think it's about him. Can't use that one because it's too common. Can't use that one because who could pronounce it?

I've been reading my baby name books and an interesting volume called "The Secret Universe of Names," which provides characterizations for names based on the sounds the letters make. For instance, my name indicates that I am both soft-spoken and coquettish, which I'm afraid is a taaaad off base. But it's intriguingly accurate in other descriptions. I imagine it's a matter of odds - make the description wide-ranging enough, and you're sure to hit the target sometimes.

Primarily, I wanted to choose names that are authentically Irish but still pronounceable (which, naturally, is harder than I thought it would be). Then I read my other baby name book, "Beyond Shannon and Sean," and I've resigned myself to an American-Irish hybrid kinds of names for my main characters.

Anyway, I've been hung up on this for at least two days. Every time I sit down to write, I remember that I still need to flesh out these characters in my head. It's a lot like painting, this business of writing - there's a helluva lot more prep work before you get to the fun part of slapping paint on a wall.

This is no hour to be starting something, but...

2006-05-07T01:03:00.000-06:00

OK. So. This is an object lesson on the trouble with meetings. Suppose I hadn't gone to that two-day work mini-conference consisting of topics that affect me only tangentally. Suppose I hadn't brought my own little vade mecum journal with me, just in case a poem hit me on the head. Suppose my mind hadn't started to drift once talk turned to creating exciting new marketing platforms for your client base. I suppose if none of that had happened, the idea for this book/project/thing wouldn't have found fertile ground.

So. Here's the book/project/thing: I want to find out where I come from, which is turning out to be harder than it sounds. My wonderful dad is from Tuam, which is north of Galway in Ireland. He never knew his parents, and the people who raised him probably could have told him about them, but it simply wasn't discussed. All I have is a. my dad and his specious 75-year-old memory, b. a birth certificate, c. the name Mary Cooke. That's it. Man, I don't even know where to start. So far I've discovered that when it comes to genealogy, the internet is simultaneously a great resource and a great collection of crap.

My overly ambitious plan is to not only uncover the story of my dad's existence, but also to use the experience of researching my genealogy as fodder for a novel I'm working on. I'm not optimistic about my chances of learning the whole story, so I plan to create my grandmother and grandfather in fiction.

Anyway, I'm crashing into multiple ambivalencies with this: How much of my dad's real life should become fiction? Is it lazy writing to rely so much on real people when creating fake situations? Will I piss off my family with this pick-pocketing of anecdotes and characteristics? Who is more likely to be annoyed: My brother, who doesn't exist in the novel, or my sister, who suddenly is married and the mother of my nephew?

I expect this blog to cover the process of genealogy research and a new writer's tip-toeing into writing a novel. I promise I will try not to whine much. I can't promise the temper will be contained, however. The Red Fury must have its say.