By Frank Keel
March is the Month of the Irish and, of course, St. Patrick’s Day is the pinnacle of the celebration of our shared Irish heritage. It’s an especially joyous time here in Philadelphia, which for a long, long time boasted the largest Irish population per capita in the United States (Boo, Boston!)
I have treasured St. Patrick’s Day my entire adult life but since my Dad, Frank Sr., passed in 2021, the day has been tinged with melancholy for me and my family. Dad had a good run, reaching the ripe old age of 91. But it was still hard to say goodbye to the patriarch of our clan, especially for our Mom who has bravely soldiered on without him these past three years.
Dad was a proud Irish-American who traced his family roots to County Mayo on Ireland’s majestic west coast. I remember Dad and Mom taking me and my three younger brothers to Philadelphia’s iconic St. Patrick’s Day Parade many a year. It did my heart good to see him proudly wearing green and singing along (albeit slightly off-key) to the Tin Pan Alley Irish tunes he’d known and loved since his days growing up in a hardscrabble Carlton Street rowhome, hard by the Cathedral Basilica of Saints Peter & Paul in Center City. I’m talking about standards like “McNamara’s Band”, “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling”, “Tura Lura Lural (That’s An Irish Lullaby)”, “I’m Looking Over a Four-Leaf Clover” and many other earworms from that era. He was in heaven when he heard them – or maybe even Tir Na Nog.
Dad’s love of his Irish heritage and his desire to celebrate it often and especially on St. Patrick’s Day grew exponentially in 1999 when my brother, Jeff, opened an Irish pub called The Bishop’s Collar (a euphemism for the perfect head on a pint of Guinness, the depth of a Bishop’s collar).
Dad fell in love with the place and it became the extended Keel family’s post-parade family rendezvous spot for many, many years. I’m pleased to report that The Bishop’s Collar is still sculling pints of the “Black Stuff” and serving up great pub grub 25 years after its opening.
Dad’s love of Irish music made its way into my DNA, except I had a desire to discover more than the Tin Pan Alley tunes of his youth. I wanted to dig into the Old Sod and unearth the traditional music of Ireland, past and present. My musical journey led me to great Irish artists such as The Chieftains (who I later presented in-concert), the Clancy Brothers, The Dubliners, Phil Coulter, The Wolfe Tones, Mary Black, Karan Casey, Sean Tyrrell, Clannad, Altan, Solas, Cherish The Ladies, Christy Moore, Luka Bloom and many others.
Over the years, I tried to open Dad’s ears to the traditional music of our beloved Ireland, but that ship had sailed for him. There was an early summer day circa 2010 I’ll never forget. My wife and I had invited the whole family over for a cook-out. I’d cued up a five CD shuffle to play over the outdoor speakers. Feeling a bit cheeky, one of the discs I slipped in was Van Morrison & The Chieftains’ “Irish Heartbeat”, a terrific set of trad Irish tunes by masters of the genre. When the song “Carrickfergus” came on it caught the ears and attention of Mom and Dad, but for different reasons. For Mom, the references to “a handsome rover” who enjoyed “the drink” described her husband to a tee. When the tune – and the narrator – ended with the fateful line, “So come all ye young men and lay me down”, Mom said only half-jokingly, “You boys need to play that song at your Dad’s funeral.” Dad, with a sour look on his face, turned to me and said, “Well, if that kind of sad crap is what my people are really all about, I don’t want to know!” I quickly pivoted to Sinatra to lighten the mood.
In addition to being a proud Irishman, Dad was also a proud military Vet, having served in the U.S. Army during the Korean War. When Dad passed in 2021, we honored his last wishes to have only a brief graveside service and to be buried at the Washington Crossing National Cemetery in Newtown, Bucks County. While choosing scripture passages to be read at the service and deciding who would eulogize Dad, my brother Jeff and I discussed hiring a bagpiper to give Dad a nice Irish send-off to Heaven. Mom approved. So as we all sadly departed the cemetery, a lone bagpiper in the distance – in kilt and full regalia – played a sad but sweet final tune for Dad.
The song? You guessed it, “Carrickfergus”.
We’re sorry, Dad, but these young men came to lay you down. Happy St, Patrick’s Day in Heaven.
