Since our Daddy was killed on the railroad shortly after my first birthday, I can’t really say I remember him except from bits and pieces I’d heard over the years from Mama and my brothers.
I was sort of used to growing up in a one-parent family, and I usually didn’t give much thought to my circumstances. But one day, as we boys got ready for the annual Halloween party at St. Columbkille School, I couldn’t help but think about my father. Danny complained he was tired of having to go through the old cardboard box of costume things — you could only be a hobo or a railroader or a cowboy so many times.
So Tommy, our oldest brother, went down the three flights of stairs to our basement and brought up some clothes and things he’d found in an old trunk. Most of it was securely wrapped in thick layers of tissue paper and then tied with string. Mama, who was sitting at the dining room table, watched Tommy and nodded when he silently asked permission to show the rest of us what he had.
As Tommy removed the tissue, I was amazed to see the brilliant tartan of a genuine kilt — really a long piece of wool fastened together at the side by a gleaming silver pin. Th ere was a white linen shirt, a purse-like sporran with leather straps, a gleaming decorative knife, and deep green woolen stockings.
“Your father’s kilt,” Mama said softly as she gently stroked the wool with her fingertips.
“Aye, Daddy’s kilt,” Tommy said as Billy and the others crowded in to see the garments closer - in all there were two kilts and some shirts. It wasn't a huge treasure, but it brought back memories for my mother and brothers, who began to regale themselves with recollections of the father I never knew. Even Danny joined in, and he was not even 3 when the terrible accident took our father from us.
Tommy laughed as he remembered things he and the others had done with Daddy, who had loved to spend time with his boys. Billy, normally reticent to join in raucous banter, laughed and told us about the time Daddy tried to sneak a stray dog into the fl at; David and Kevin were vying with the older boys; and even Danny’s face was flushed with excitement as the stories rolled on. Mama sat back on the bench and smiled a bit sadly, but it was plain she was glad the boys remembered so much about their father.
It was Kevin who noticed me. Sitting cross-legged on the floor listening to their stories, I began to cry. Kev put his arm around my shoulders. Tommy and Mama followed him with their eyes and the conversation slowly faded as the rest of my family realized how sad I had suddenly begun to feel.
“I didn’t mean to make the gossoon cry,” Tommy said softly to Mama. She only put her finger to her lips and patted Tommy’s arm with her other hand.
I couldn’t stop the tears streaming down my face. “I’m the only one who doesn’t remember Daddy,” I whispered. “I don’t know anything about what he was like.”
Mama gathered me close, even though I was 11 years old. Tommy ruffled my hair and Danny sat by my side.
“Well,” Mama said, “maybe you can see a bit of your father right here with you.” I was confused, but I knew I usually figured things out if I just kept quiet and let Mama talk.
“Look at your brother Thomas,” Mama said. Tommy grinned and gave me a look of undisguised affection. “Thomas is the one we have all grown to depend on since that awful day 10 years ago.”
The other boys nodded.
“Thomas is the one who began your work at the Corner, giving shoe shines and selling papers,” said Mama. “So it is your father’s responsibility you see in Thomas.” I looked at my oldest brother and saw exactly what Mama was talking about.
