However, the following poem I wrote will always be a testament to my stepfather, John, and the spiritual generations after him that enjoy his small, but powerful contribution to Chicago history.
The Leprechaun from Blue Island Avenue
Who Dyed the River Green
"Methinks my own soul must be a bright
invisible green."
~ Thoreau
He’d
touch one magic crystal
to a
bucket of water,
and
there brimmed Ireland,
greener
than a sheep’s hill in spring.
Instead
of chasing rainbows
he
pulled the brightest green ribbon
from the one arching across
State
Street from the lake,
and
wove wet edges of downtown Chicago
to a
new tradition,
a new
passion for the river;
bolted
to the architecture with bridges,
this
wide, wet meander, until today,
as
plain as the weathered deck of a barge.
A new
tradition, too,
receiving
another father
after
losing a St. Patrick’s Day dad
years
before,
a new father,
who
crawled into the world
on the
back of a crab,
who
mixed drinks
in his
father’s Prohibition tavern
on
Blue Island Avenue,
whipping
red grenadine with ice
into Pink Ladies--
lining
up shots & beers with his eyes closed,
swirling
crème de menthe and leaf sprigs
into
long Mint Juleps.
Years
later, nurses pinned
a
fresh shamrock
to my
March son’s receiving blanket
the
day I took him home.
But
way back,
in our
knotty pine rec room,
the
tequila sunrises
tumbled in on themselves
like lava lamps,
made
by a man
who
thrilled to entertain with jiggers of fluids
and
colors and shaved ice
for
all our wedding, communion and even funeral guests.
Who
else could it have been
to
send out the speedboats
like
crazed blenders
into the Chicago River,
dumping
bags of orange crystals
that
exploded into its other,
churning
up a new wardrobe
for
the clang, clang,
workingman’s
river
until
now, clad in railroad overalls,
the
river that found itself
wearing
one long leprechaun sleeve
in
time for the parade.
He
crawled into the world
on the
back of a crab,
and
left in the balance,
and
every Mid-March,
I
glance down from
my
glass-lined lookout,
I see
the gum-white Wrigley Building
and
the Tinker-toyed Marina City,
I see
the frilly floats line up along Wacker Drive,
I see
the boatswains and bridgetenders
and bags of dye,
and the swirl of water
 |
| Photo credit: Barry Butler |
under outboard motors
as if
he were standing there still,
along
cement docks,
reciting
the formula.
And
even after traffic
begins
to roar its way out
from
the city,
the
river glows still,
a more
brilliant green at twilight,
curving
at my feet
into a
perfect smile,
a
reverse rainbow,
the
pots of gold in three places
leprechauns
never look,
mid-March,
a time to let the past go,
the
lost map of my blood father,
a time
to look to the future
growth
of my son,
and a
time made new every year
by a
man
more a
father than my real father,
more
magician than barsman
from a Blue Island.
◦
1 comment:
He was a special man.
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