Page 169 - Sweet Embraceable You: Coffee-House Stories

Silent Mothers, Silent Sons 157

granduncle, John T. Day, who had come directly from Ireland to
the Gold Rush and done quite well moving up in the Northwest.
So I said to him, ‘Bart, you just go to Oregon, and if you come
back, I’ll marry you.’ He said, ‘If I come back, we will.’ When he
came home, his red hair wasn’t red any more. My prayers had been
answered. His hair had turned black. It was a sign for true and for
sure he wanted to suit me and marry me. That’s how a true suitor
acts. We were a match made in heaven.”

*

It was her favorite story to tell her grandchildren when they got to
be that curious, but brief, age when children ask their parents and
their grandparents how they met and how they fell in love, and
were they ever really young.
She wondered whatever happened to poor Francis Devine. “I
was a willful devil of a girl back then.”
A voice strained over a tinny squawk-box calling a nurse from
one station to the next. “Hijacked,” she thought. “Old people should
never give up their own homes. I don’t regret I lived with Father
John. I had my son, but I should never have given up my home.”
She wanted to shout a warning.
But she did not shout.
Dignity is control.
Pure and simple.
Of oneself.
Silence was the only dignity left her.
She could not control growing old. She knew how haggard and
repulsive she must have looked at the Northern Pacific Railroad
Hospital where first, before Saint Mike’s, they had admitted her
immediately into Intensive Care when she was too ill to care at all
about anything.
She had wanted to see all her grandchildren, but the world had
flung them far, even farther than her own family of Lawler’s and
McDonough’s, and Bart’s family of Day’s and Lynch’s, who all had

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