Happy Birthday Uncle Willy

Uncle Willy walked down the rows of large cooking pots and giant skillets, some of them over wood fires, and some over gas burners, all emitting mouth watering aromas.

“Get your fingers back, old man” Uncle Willy grinned into the laughing face of a middle aged woman holding a steaming platter.

“If you didn’t hide the forks . . .” The woman handed him a fork with a piece of fried catfish on it.

The man on the platform raised one white gloved hand above his head, and tapped the mic with the other. The crowd slowly quieted. “Now I present the grand marshall of this independence day parade, our own Uncle Willy O’Reilly” The crowd cheered as the old man, in blue slacks, red and white striped shirt and top hat with stars on it, made his way to the podium. He stood erect smiling over the sea of faces, a lot of them as familiar as his own.

“Good morning all, I am so happy to be chosen as grand marshall of this parade. I was born on July 4, 1913. I am ninety years old and I still think it is wonderful that the whole country sets off fireworks for my birthday.” There was a spattering of laughter from his audience. “Seriously, I am honored to share my birthday with the greatest nation on earth. I have lived through a lot in the last ninety years, and the committee has asked me to share a little of my life with you all today. I’ll try not to keep you from Aunt Mary’s catfish.” He turned as if to speak to someone off stage. “An hour? she says it will be an hour before it’s done.” more laughter he paused then continued. “You all know me as Uncle Willy, I taught history for many years at the local highschool, I have helped with community theater, and the after school homework center. I have made a lot of friends of all ages throughout my lifetime. Here recently some of my young friends have been encouraging me to research my ancestors. I told them that I know who my ancestors are, we are american, not first american but american. My Mother’s family has been here for many generations and my father came over from Ireland and was part of the crew that built and repaired the railroad track mostly east of the Mississippi River. I have shared with some the true roots of my heritage and have asked today to share what being American means to me and to my family. One of my earliest memories is running for my life, in the riots of East St. Louis IL in 1917. It was just days before my fourth birthday when a bunch of white people, men and women and even some children, ran at the building where I lived with my sister, some aunts and cousins, threw bottle bombs, shot at us and some even chased people down and beat them with boards ripped from our homes. Until that day I was a happy little light skinned, black boy, running around causing mischief for my older sister, aunts and cousins. I had a black family where I lived and a white family that my dad took me to visit every now and then. I loved them all. My mother died when I was very young. I don't remember her, but I do remember Da. The last time I saw him was seared into my brain with gunshots and fire. His red hair blended in with the flames of the building behind him as he stood between Ida and me and fought off the other men so we could run. That was also the last day we were black. My guess is that I am somewhere around twenty percent black. That makes me eighty percent white. In 1917 particularly in East St. Louis one percent black made you black, with less respect, and fewer options. Truly I am and always have been one hundred percent american. I spent most of my formative years in St. Louis MO as an orphaned white boy of an Irish father and Italian Mother. My sister and cousin did a good job of raising me and when I was nine a man named Lyle entered our lives. He was like a big brother, second father and best friend all in one. He learned our secret when it was still dangerous to have negro blood and he protected us. He is the one that told me over and over that America is the great pot of gumbo, almost everyone is a mix of something and another. The most important part of being american was becoming. Taking what your ancestors gave you and becoming. He encouraged me to become. Become a leader, a man, not white or a black, not Italian or Irish but simply American. Yes I am the great grandchild of a Slave and her owner, I am also the son of an Irish immigrant who could barely read and a beautiful lady who free of charge taught people who couldn’t afford to go to school. I’ve been forged by the separate but equal which I have learned that St. Louis MO pulled off better than most places. I have been shaped by prohibition, and mob wars, I was influenced by two world wars, Korean and Vietnam. I am proud to be an american. Am I proud of every thing our county has done? Of course not but I’m not proud of everything I’ve done either. America is the greatest country on earth. No offense to any of my friends and family in other places. I have been stirred in with many others to become part of this great america. I am free, you are free, what you do with that freedom is up to you. Become. Become someone your descendants will be proud of. Take all the ingredients of what you are, and mix them into a strong american gumbo. I don’t know why they say ‘as American as apple pie’ when gumbo is a much better illustration of what America is. Every cook’s gumbo is slightly different but the basic ingredients are a roux, onions, celery, bell peppers, a stock most often, chicken, meat, rice and of course the Okra, where the dish gets its name. Roux is a french word for the basic starter sauce. Onions came over on the mayflower, rice and Okra arrived with slaves from africa, peppers came from central and south america. Celery is believed to have originated in the Mediterranean, and brought to America by the dutch. Almost every immigration group brought a chicken or two, Christopher Columbus intentionally left pigs behind, It is possible that the Shrimp is the only ingredient that came of its own accord. Now you can add whatever you want to the mix. I like to eat my gumbo with a giant slab or two of native Mississippi river catfish on the side. I would suggest though, if you want a German flavor that you add bratwurst not sauerkraut.” Uncle Willy paused for some laughter, then continued. “I have been asked to do an exercise to help us feel America. This exercise may not be as jovial as the rest of the day but I promise it will make you feel and hopefully think, and won't stop you from enjoying the wonderful food we can all smell. Those of you that were in my classes at school and the homework center are familiar with what I am about to ask you to do. I am going to ask everyone that is not cooking or watching small children, close your eyes, you may join hands with the people on either side of you if you and they like. Close your eyes, breathe deeply, count slowly to three and let out your breath slowly. One. . . two . . .three clear your mind, breathe easily. it is 1776 you feel the clomp clomp of horses hooves and the rattle of wagons, leaving town, heading towards you, you see wagons filled with men in ragged clothes, some holding a musket, cutlass or other farming tools there is a large loud long explosion, and a new nation is born. Now it is 1825. You are in the south slaves are providing a good life for a part of the white population, and receiving a base existence for themselves. You spin north factory workers were doing the same for a few owners, with the illusion that they were in control of their own destiny. 1862 you are moving west, in wagon trains and the railroad. More explosions, cannon fire and blood. When the deafening silence falls a deep festering wound has been cut open, exposed and some of the infection has been cut out. It is now 1900 you are still fractured but you are constantly told that you are fractured equally, the wound is not healing well. You see more factories, automobiles, airplanes and parties. Fortunes are made in the store front, and back alleys. When Jazz is in full swing the bottom falls out, fortunes are lost. When the dust settles, the drums of war sound again, you send your best to Europe to preserve freedom, and bring hungry children home with you. The 1950s are calm and even fun; If you are white, but the wound hasn’t healed; you have ripped it open in various places and is festering badly. It is the 1960, jazz is back, there is also rock and roll, party, you dance, you cry, you reluctantly enter another conflict to preserve freedom. More healing more wounds, It’s the eighties, the music is fine, the wound is healing, it looks almost healed but some of the treatments tried don’t work as expected and you keep picking at it. The fight for democracy is still mostly overseas. In 2001 the fight for democracy is evident right in your heart. Today, July 4, 2003 you celebrate the 227th anniversary of your birth. You are America, The Past is Yours, the present is Yours, The future is what you make it.” Uncle Willy fell silent. No one spoke or moved for a long moment. “You may open your eyes and continue to celebrate your birthday, but don’t forget you are america. Are you going to continue to pick at wounds? or are you going to heal yourself.” He shuffled his note cards and put them in his back pocket “Everyone proud to be an American shout Yankee doodle.”

The crowd erupted in Yankee doodles and someone started singing, the band started playing, when the song was over the Mayor stepped forward. “Thank you Uncle Willy, that was interesting.” Uncle Willy stepped back, doffed his big top hat at the cheering crowd and turned toward the steps from the platform. The mayor adjusted the microphone “They tell me the gumbo is ready, Three different large pots and a lot of add-ons, as well as hot dogs and hamburgers. This celebration has been provided by various organizations, coordinated by the library. If you haven't made a donation and would like to do so, the booth to the west of the gumbo is collecting. The fireworks, in honor of Uncle Willy, will start in about an hour or so. Enjoy the food, and company thank you for coming.”

Uncle Willy made his way slowly to the edge of the stage and was assisted to the ground by his cane and a little boy about nine. The crowd started breaking up, Uncle Willy was quickly surrounded by a group of children of all ages, they chattered excitedly about school, summer activities, the food and fireworks. Uncle Willy staggered a little and a couple of the boys caught him. “Grandpa come sit in the shade and I’ll get you your food.” Uncle Willy allowed himself to be ushered to a lounge chair set in the shade. One of the girls handed him a glass of Iced tea.

“Thank you” he leaned back and relaxed into the cushions, took a long drink and sighed.

“Let me get you a plate of gumbo and fried catfish. You just rest here.” Lyle said and without waiting for an answer he ran to get the food. There was a crowd around the long table laden with food, but when someone realized that Lyle was there to get food for Uncle Willie he was promptly sent to the front. A few minutes later Lyle was back at his great grandfather's side with a huge plate of gumbo and fried catfish.

“No way am I going to be able to eat all of that. The old man laughed softly. “You think I have an appetite like yours.”

“That's okay” Lyle grinned and winked, “ I would have had to get to the end of the line so I just had them fill the plate as full as they would and got two forks”. the old man chuckled, then lay back in the chair and put his hat over his eyes.

“That speech took a lot out of me, son. You start in on the plate, I'm going to close my eyes for a minute or two” Lyle sat cross legged on the grass beside the old man's lounge chair and dug into the plate of food soon there were other children sitting around on the ground eating and talking quietly, some older, former students of Uncle Willy's brought their lawn chairs and over and set around the edge of the group. Uncle Willie snored softly for a few minutes and then shuddered and gasped for breath. Lyle dropped the plate onto the grass, spilling part of it. “Grandpa, are you okay?”

“I'm just very, very tired. The old man struggled to sit up in the lounge chair. Lyle adjusted the back so he could set up a little easier. “Let me have a little bit of that gumbo” Lyle handed him the plate and a fork Uncle Willy took a few bites and looked around at the little crowd of his former students, students from The Homework Center, his students that were grandchildren of his first students, and smiled at the group. Light chatter resumed among the younger children, the older ones and the adults watched Uncle Willy closely. Lyle squeezed into the lounge chair with his great-grandfather and when Uncle Willy decided to lay back, he helped him lay the chair back and then lay next to him.

“You rest all you want Grandpa I'll be here when you need anything.”

Uncle Willie held Lyle to him and said Softly “I may fall asleep and not wake up son, but don't you worry you'll see me again and then maybe you can teach me how to make gumbo.” With that the old man lay his head back and relaxed and fell asleep.

Lyle lay with his head on Uncle Willy's shoulder and in a few minutes he realized that his great grandfather’s breathing had changed. Tears started trickling from his eyes, his mother, who had been hovering at the edge of the group, stepped around some staring children and asked what was wrong before Lyle could answer she realized that her grandfather, her favorite person in the world, was leaving them.

“The fireworks are starting, that’s your favorite part.” she sat on the ground and grasped his hand.

William Ian O’Reilly smiled slightly, and gently squeezed her fingers, but didn’t open his eyes. At some point in the celebration, Uncle Willy, father, grandfather, great grandfather, teacher, friend slipped away surrounded by those he loved and loved him.