| Ãàðîëüä Êîííîëëè Harold Connolly | |
| Ïîåçäêà çà Îëèìïèéñêèì Çîëîòîì The Journey for Olympic Gold ãëàâû 22 | |
Chapter Twenty-two
Hard as I tried I never
won a single major collegiate competition; I simply was
not good enough. But I did
succeed in improving the school record in the hammer by
five and a half feet and
at least contributed that much to my Alma Mater, which I grew to
love deeply.
Boston College did not
transform me into a profound scholar, a sapient
philosopher, or a
visionary entrepreneur. Like thousands of others, I received a fine basic
liberal arts education,
which prepared me for the professional goal I had chosen, that of a
teacher.
It took my association with the Jesuit Fathers
and the atmosphere of Boston
College to incite my quest
for knowledge and my interest in teaching. Far more
significant than the
training for professional and material goals, which I could have
received at any other
university, was my teachers’ spiritual influence. They convinced me
that the adherence to
definite moral standards in personal decisions and the existence of a
concerned, supernatural
Creator would sustain me throughout life, especially when it
became trying.
For the commencement I
rented the customary black cap and gown; and the
graduation gift, Mom and
Dad gave me was the official Boston College graduate’s ring.
To my mother, especially,
the ring symbolized the grand finale of her determination to
secure my higher
education, and I dreaded disappointing her by not wearing it. Yet
displaying the
ostentatious jewelry clashed with my interpretation of the humility I
learned from my Jesuit
teachers. It seemed presumptuous to show off belonging to a
higher educational bracket
than did many of my friends who took differing directions.
Despite mother's
declaration that the ring manifested pride in my school, which I
genuinely felt, the few
times I didn't wear it were not to disappointing her. The solution
to this dilemma eluded me,
and I spent time after time pondering about a way out without
hurting my parents. Then I
had an idea.
The next night I dropped
by Uncle Jim’s. As usual, engaged with his string of
nightly visitors, the
Senator acknowledged my entrance with a motion of his hand
towards one of the old
wooden chairs strewn about his kitchen-office, and I settled down
to wait for a free moment
to get in a private word. The delay did not bother me - I always
enjoyed listening to the
Senator’s conversations, each time with greater admiration for his
understanding of the needs
and fears of the people in Somerville, and his ability to
distinguish at first
encounter, the credibility of the entreaties with which he was
bombarded. This short,
rotund man, whose childhood poverty had not permitted him to
finish high school, could
discuss any practical topic with keen perception never failing to
uncover what was hidden
under the surface of any issue. His inmate intuition and
uncanny assessments of
human character more than compensated for any shortcomings in
Uncle Jim’s academic
education and were directly responsible for his stable political
survival. To me he was a
graduate Magnum cum Laude from the University of Life, with
practical knowledge that
far outstripped anything that I had learned at Boston College.
During the evening I
noticed Uncle Jim glancing furtively several times at my
new college ring, his eyes
betraying a touch of melancholy which revealed to me what
should have been obvious.
This “Brick Bottom” Senator never had but always wished
for the opportunity of a
college education, like that he had helped make possible for his
brother and sisters and
probably many others. Jim was obviously acutely aware that his
Senate colleagues, who
rose to higher political leadership from more affluent
backgrounds, were all
university trained. Seeing him now with new understanding and
recalling the innumerable
occasions on which he helped or surprised me with his devoted
attention, and just
bursting with joy over finding my chance to reciprocate, I waited until
the last visitor left.
“Uncle Jim, I came to see
you for a certain reason. You know how grateful I am
for all you have done for
me, and how highly I value your judgment and wisdom. You
never studied in college,
yet your advice has been the greatest source of my education.
Now I’ve received a
college ring, but I want you to have it and wear it. Please, Uncle
Jim, accept the ring as a
symbol of my love and respect for you.”
He shook his head saying,
“Dinny, I know you mean well, but you alone should
wear that ring, proudly;
you earned it.”
“Uncle Jim, please, just
try it on.” I removed the ring and put it on his finger. It
fit perfectly. The
Senator’s eyes filled as he fought back tears; he studied his hand in
speechless astonishment. I
put my arms around him.
“So long, Uncle Jim,” I
said and left him with his thoughts. I finally became
supremely happy that my
mother had given me such a wonderful graduation present. It
was where it belonged on
Senator Jim’s finger; something that should had been his a long
time ago. My uncle never
removed the ring from his finger. My mother soon recognized
what I had done, but did
not reveal her feelings on the matter, and we never discussed it.
* * *
Seven years later, on
September 28, 1960, Uncle Jim got up as usual to get ready
for Red to drive him to
the Senate. He took his shower, stuffed his yesterday’s laundry in
the basket his cleaning
lady emptied twice a week, buttoned up in a new white shirt, and
reached for his favorite
heavy cufflinks, but never affixed them. Half an hour later Red,
found him lying across his
bed on his back, dead.
“A stroke,” diagnosed Dr.
Rubin, “I kept telling Jim he should find time to take
care of himself. What a
sad loss -- such a person!”
Jimmy Gallagher, a dear
boyhood friend of my uncle’s stopped at a gas station on
his way to work, where he
overheard the mechanics talking about “a terrible thing.”
“What terrible thing?” He
asked.
“Haven’t you heard?” said
one of the attendants, “Senator Jim’s dead. You know,
he was too heavy, and no
one could make him take care of himself. What a shame, the
man had a heart of pure
gold.”
“What are you saying? It’s
impossible! I talked to him only yesterday and he
was O.K.”
“Well, he’s gone today.”
Gallagher drove directly
to uncle Jim’s house, pushed his way through the
gathered throng and walked
in. He emerged a short while later and drove straight to the
nearest tavern.
Jim Gallagher had prided
himself for staying on the wagon for over twenty years,
but when he came to the
crowded wake, he could hardly stand; only his lifelong
conditioning enabled him
to mumble the recitation of the rosary along with the other
mourners at the wake. The
rosary over, but all still kneeling in solemn quietude,
Gallagher heavily raised
his body to make the few steps towards the Senator where he
slumped back to his knees
at the open coffin. Tears streaming down his cheeks, he gazed
at Senator Jim, and was
heard to whisper, “ Happy New Year in heaven, you big fat son
of a bitch. We loved yuh.”
The Somerville police
department cordoned off four blocks to keep the four
thousand people who
attended the wake in line. Twenty- five persons at a time were
allowed to file in to view
the coffin. Men and women wept openly. They had lost their
pal and best friend.
The funeral was the
largest the city had ever seen. The Speaker of the United
States’ House of
Representatives, John McCormack, flew from Washington to be with
his dear, good friend. The
Governor of the State of Massachusetts, the Attorney General,
the entire membership of
the State Senate and House of Representatives, plus all the
pages of both Houses, all
the city officials of Somerville, all his old political opponents
and friends filled St.
Joseph’s Church and overflowed into the streets. Thousands of
people to whom Senator Jim
had devoted his life, the very same citizens who had voted
him down when he ran for
Mayor, and then turned around and gave him the greatest
majority of his life, when
he ran the following year for re-election to his Senate seat,
lined the streets of
Somerville, hats in hands and heads bowed for their Senator as the
long funeral procession
moved to St. Paul’s cemetery.
Shortly after the funeral,
my mother remarked: “They wanted to take off the ring,
but I asked that he be
buried with it on. I was sure that’s how you would have wanted it.”
Copyright © 1999-2002 Harold Connolly |
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