The gifts of St. Patrick

The gifts of St. Patrick

Today is the feast day of my Patron Saint, Patrick. In the tradition of the Catholic Church, children were named after canonized saints. Of course the Queen of all the Saints was Mary, the mother of Jesus. Mary has been one of the most often used names among the faithful for their female progeny. In my classroom at St. Ann Catholic School, we had Mary Lou, Mary Kay, Mary Helen, Mary Ann, and Marianne. Other grades had Mary Claire, Mary Jo, Mary Beth, Mary Jane, and Mary Pat. Both of my grandmothers were named Mary.

If not for two events near the time of my birth, I might have been named Mary. The first was the birth of my Uncle Jerry’s first daughter in February, a mere two months before I was due. Her name was Mary Margaret Murphy. Although she was called Peggy, my parents did not believe in duplicating names of cousins within the family. All forms of Mary were taken out of consideration.

The other influence upon my name was the timing of my birth. My mother had her first child, John Emmett, nine months and ten minutes after her wedding. She was stoic when she then suffered two miscarriages. But when my brother Lawrence was born, he lived only a few hours while Mother hemorraged. As she recovered in the hospital, my dad was driven to the cemetery in the front seat of a hearse carrying a tiny casket on his lap. They both despaired of having more children.

About a year later, Mother was expecting again, due at the end of May in 1950. When she went into labor in mid April, she delivered a four-pound baby girl. Somehow, the doctor, who was my grandmother’s brother, and all the nuns and nurses at the hospital were able to save the little girl named Jeanette Marie. From letters that I have found over the years, my dad was thrilled about his tiny, serious daughter with the blond curls.

Of course, my parents were happy with their little family. John Emmett was ready to start school, and Jeanette was a toddler when they found they were expecting again. The due date for this baby was Jeanette’s birthday in mid-April. After all this difficulty, my dear dad fancied himself as somewhat of an expert at calculating the due date of their babies. Since the baby was due mid-April, and given the history and propensity of Murphy babies to arrive early, he was convinced that the Lord would allow them to have a child born on St. Patrick’s Day! He would have such bragging rights among the Murphys, the Kelleys, the Sullivans, and indeed all of their relatives. So they picked the name Patrick if it was a boy. But mother refused to name a girl Patricia. She was afraid that, in a town with 105 Murphys listed in the telephone book, Patricia would be just too common. They settled on Patrice Ann.

My sister had stubbornly fought for her life, but this baby was just plain stubborn. St. Patrick’s Day passed with nary a twinge of labor. One month later, the little family went to the Kelley’s for dinner, and as soon as they arrived, Mother announced that they should make haste for the hospital. The mine whistles sounded 6:00 as they approached St. James. Mother was wheeled away, and after dad called his parents from a phone in admitting, he made his way to the room where fathers waited. One of the men told him that mother’s doctor had already been looking for him, and that he had a baby girl. It was twenty minutes after six.

Mother and Dad had two more healthy, full-term babies in the next three years Walter Thomas, and Dennis Patrick. We all survive to this day.

Although I was not born on his feast day, I have a special fondness for St. Patrick, the evangelist who brought Christ to the Emerald Isle. Patrick brought another gift to Ireland, literarcy. Like no other people, the Irish cherish the ability to weave with words, spoken and written. For all these things, I’m honored to bear his name, and to enjoy all the fruit of his labor.