My grandfather was born on March 17, 1920. With those close to me who have passed away, it seems that a day always emerges where they are on my mind the most and where my family celebrates them. My Aunt Jo, for example, who was so full of love, died on Valentine’s Day, which is so fitting because of the kind of woman she was, so we celebrate her on that day.
For my grandfather, this day is his birthday, St. Patrick’s Day. Though his ancestry is German, a little Scotch and a little English, and it was his wife (my grandmother) who was Irish, he one day became convinced he was Irish and lived the lifestyle more fully than I’ve ever seen. A friend of his visited Ireland, and on a walk through a cemetery found a number of headstones with the name “Bury,” his last name, on them. After hearing this and seeing the pictures, my grandfather became the most patriotic Irishmen you’ve ever met. He read countless books by Irish authors and about Irish history, drank Tullamore Dew and even visited Ireland on a two-week trip, despite needing his cane and his declining health.
My grandfather was the sweetest man I’ve ever met, and I miss him every day, but especially today.