31. Tim Really Is Mr. Wonderful
Meeting the O’Briens.
The guy I dated for ten whole months before marrying is a great guy. He was raised in a family of ten kids, born in two groups of five. Tim is the oldest of the second grouping. He has a deep affection for his older siblings, the ones he said were very much like mini-parents, and really enjoyed being part of the second set of OBs that ran amuck throughout the neighborhood.
I remember being shell-shocked for days after meeting the family for the first time at a weekly Sunday supper of bulkies and deli fixins. Seated and flanked around a huge farmer’s table were Nana and Papa (Tim’s parents) and their ten children and their spouses and/or boyfriends and girlfriends, and a multitude of grandchildren ranging in age from newborns to early teens.
As he did every Sunday, Patrick-Terrence-Francis O’Brien fetched three dozen bulkies from Widoff’s bakery on Water Street. I’ve hyphenated Tim’s dad’s name because I can never remember which was the real deal. I could easily ask Tim, or look at the online City of Worcester records, or pull the family tree Tim’s sister Mary Ellen did, but I sort of think Papa deserves all three names — he was that great of a guy
Anyway, back to my introductory session at The O’Brien’s home on Merchant. First impression — it was loud with lots of people asking questions and half-answering them before another round of inquiries were lobbed — some questions were sent my way, but most others were about seedless v. poppy seed bread offerings. In a word, the kitchen was hectic with people passing off bulkies and paper plates like softballs and Frisbees, and little kids elbowing for space at chip bowls. And for the newcomer, it was beyond confusing — “Is that one Annie?”
“Yes.”
“And she’s married to that one?”
“Tiger.”
“Uh huh. And their kids are?”
“Brian, that one, there. And Patrick, that one over there.”
“Okay. And that’s Noreen?”
“Yes.”
“And she’s married to that one?”
“Squeaky.”
“Uh huh. And their kids are?”
“Kerrianne, she’s the baby being held by Kathy.”
“And she’s married to him?”
“Yes. Tommy Gaffney. You know his older brother Spock.”
“Tiger. Squeaky. Spock. Good idea adding some nicknames to this crew of a hundred.”
“Tiger’s name is Tommy. Squeaky’s name is Brian. And Spock’s name is Michael. We already have some of those,” Tim explained with nonchalance.
“Right. Duplicates. I imagine that’s a forgone conclusion.”
Past is prologue.
My husband has the patience of a saint. I think it’s because he waited in line to use the family bathroom.
My husband knows how to communicate with women. I think it’s because he has five sisters.
My husband comes when he’s called. I think it’s because no matter whose name Mary O’Brien shouted, all ten of her kids responded.
My husband is fine with cereal for supper. I think it’s because there was one option for dinner at the O’Brien household – you ate it or you had cereal.
My husband is good at keeping secrets. I think it’s because he’s really bad at remembering who told him what.
Every O’Brien event was huge.
Right off the top — no matter the gathering, the general headcount consisted of 2 parents + 10 adult children + 10 spouses or significant others = 22 grownups, and at that time there were approximately ten grandkids and a few on the way. And within stone-throwing distance from the house on Merchant, there were plenty of McTigues — relatives of Mary O’Brien — many of whom joined in on Sunday supper events. The first few Sunday gatherings caused me a bit of strife. Being one of three children who rarely spoke during family sit downs, I did way more observing than joining in.
I’d no sooner mastered Sundays when the ‘special event’ season settled — those events put my heart into overdrive and caused a sweat to form here and there and there and there.
Memorial Day — usually held on the land between Tim’s parent’s home and his sister Mary Ellen’s home. Attendees — easily 50.
July 4th — usually held at the same location. Attendees — impossible to tell since it mushroomed with people from all over the Apricot Hill neighborhood.
Thanksgiving night — an open-house tradition that began when Kathy and Tommy bought a house behind Nana’s and Papa’s. Attendees — my guesstimate, easily 50.
Christmas Eve — an open-house tradition that predated me at Annie’s and Tiger’s house located across the street from Kathy’s and Tommy’s. Attendees — my guesstimate, easily 60.
It wasn’t the number of people that unhinged me, after all, I spent most of my free time as a young adult at elbow to elbow concerts — the thing that put me on edge was that I needed to remember everyone’s name and then put it with the correct face. I distinctly remember spending lots of time in Nana’s kitchen looking at a cute wall hanging. It had ten different sized walnut shells with happy faces painted on them and a name listed below each. I’d read them with my eyes open – then recited them a few times with my eyes closed. “Franny, Mary Ellen, Eileen, Terrence, Annie, Timmy, Kathy, Joey, Noreen, Jimmy.”
For years I wondered who gave that plaque to the family – and why the kids were represented by nuts. Over time, I learned the answer to one of those two questions — I’ll leave it to everyone to guess which one.
Before leaving the kitchen I’d stand a bit and wonder why every cabinet and drawer was open. I found it unsettling that e.v.e.r.y.t.h.i.n.g. was left in the ‘I’m looking for something’ position – when there wasn’t an O’Brien in sight. I learned over the years that it was really an economical way of doing things. The number of times things were opened and closed in that house could easily have put The O’Briens between the covers of a Guinness Book of World Records.
I came to find the Merchant Street habit cute, but I broke Tim of the practice very early in our marriage — mostly because I don’t arrange stuff in my cabinets, and it’s best no one learned that.
The cabinet-memory came rushing back to us one night while watching the movie, The Sixth Sense. It was during the scene when the mom leaves the kitchen for a minute and returns to find all of the cabinets and drawers wide open and the kid still sitting at the table eating his cereal. Tim and I cracked up at the scene even though it was scary as shit.
I married into a huge family and watched it grow year after year after year. Bear with me as I try to remember the names of Nana’s and Papa’s grandchildren: Kevin, Michael, Andrew, Mary Kate, Julie, Jeffrey, Joey, Jill, Terrence, Brian, Patrick, Christine, Hannah, Jessica, Terrence, Patrick, Brendan, Kaleigh, Meghan, Kerrianne, Matthew, Patrick, Shane and Collin (duplicates are correct). And because there just weren’t enough kids running around, Franny brought his new son, Mark, into the mix when Fran married Helen. (I admit I checked with Tim after I typed all of the names because I didn’t want to omit anyone).
Thoughtful gestures.
Tim is really good at gift giving — but he is off the charts when it comes to thoughtful gestures. I am going to use things from a previous blog I wrote as background for the point I want to make — eventually.
Bogus infractions.
Mr. Dave Shea decided that I should write a book. Sort of a bold thing for one person to decide for another, but Mr. Shea was nothing, if not bold. A larger than life, take no prisoners teacher at Columbus Park Elementary, Mr. Shea relied on a bellowing voice, and punitive essays to reign in students who dared step out of line.
I received my first, Shea Essay, after HE caught me running the school corridors, whilst chewing gum. As it turned out, my 7th grade English teacher was unimpressed that I could do two things simultaneously. Mr. Shea spared me the humiliation of having to sit at a punishment desk permanently set in the corridor I’d just traversed at warp speed—but he did not spare me the bellowing. When my ears stopped ringing, I managed to catch the tail end of HIS lecture.
“Write a 75 word essay explaining why you should not run in the halls and chew gum in school.” As things would go, I received my second Shea Essay because I wrote the first one.
The opening sentence of my punitive essay covered the basics—Don’t run or chew gum in school because doing so is against the rules. Easy-peasy. The next 25 words detailed the dangers of running in close quarters, and upon floors that may be slippery, and around potential crash victims, like students and teachers. The next 25 words focused on the possible outcomes of choking on the gum I wasn’t supposed to be chewing, or accidentally spitting it into a classmate's hair, or onto slippery floors causing them to become sticky floors. The last 25 words were the ones that warranted additional punishment. “Do not run the halls or chew gum in school because Mr. Shea will bust you and make you write a stupid essay as punishment.” Is it any wonder that I wrote many, many, many essays that year? Nope, no surprise, here.
Mr. Shea, my favorite teacher, graded my essays. Dave Shea, my first mentor, edited them. When he handed each of them back, he offered words of encouragement, then he assigned another, Shea Essay, for some bogus infraction—and some for legitimate cause. I think I knew it back then; I certainly know it now, the extra work was his way of making sure that I wrote, and wrote, and wrote. On the last day of 7th grade, Mr. Shea gave me my final assignment, “You should write a book one day.”
I began that assignment 35 years later, when I was diagnosed with a brain tumor.
The start of something big.
I wrote, Suzanne, during the three month wait between diagnosis and surgery. I needed to do one of the two things I’d always promised myself I’d do — 1) write a book, and 2) see my name on the spine of a book. I pushed myself to get the story written. I needed to prove to myself that I could tell a story. When all was said and done, I decided I was a really good storyteller (and a really bad writer — technically speaking). Overall, I was really happy that I completed Mr. Shea’s assignment, though I was a bit unhappy that the second part of my dream — the one where my name would be on the spine of a book — would go unrealized.
Or, would it?
Nope. Mr. Wonderful has worked in the print industry for decades — and he knows who does what in that universe, and who would help him help his wife have her dream. My husband took my unedited, unproofread, sloppy manuscript to a friend who printed 50 copies. Another friend designed the cover with the name Suzanne and a 1960s flower-power symbol on a white background. Seeing my words, albeit terribly strung together words, between the covers of a book and my pen name, Anne Hobson, on the spine was beyond thrilling — and it proved once again that Tim O’Brien was the best thing that's ever happened to me.
That was then – this is now.
The man I married nearly 36 years ago carries the life we’ve led in his heart. The ups and downs and struggles we’ve had are etched onto his face, and the weight of worry shows in his slower gait. The sadness he carries every minute of these days have slumped his shoulders, and easily fills his eyes at a tender touch.
I feel as badly for Tim as I do for myself. He is losing his wife, his best friend, his comedienne, his pain-in-the-ass nudge, his soft place to land, and the place he goes when he needs some hard truths and perspective. He said recently that he knows he’s going to have to work at not withdrawing from life.
I suggested he spend our morning coffee time with thoughts of us, and then pack them away until the next day.
I hope he gives it a shot — then I hope he finds new things to do — things he’s wanted to do for years and never found the time to get to them.
“Do you think you might like to take a painting or photography class?”
“I think so.”
“I told the girls to make sure you go to Ireland.”
“You did?”
“Yeah, so you’d better go. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Do you think you’ll ever marry again?”
He answered that question with an F-bomb and a big-ass. “NO!”
“Learned your lesson, huh?”
Silence.
And then he cracked up laughing.