An Irish Phone Call

My grandmother used to drive my dad crazy when she would tell "Irish" stories. She would start by asking him if he knew a certain person. Whoever it was almost always had a Polish last name because, as a Lithuanian, my father was expected to know everyone in the town that was either Polish or Lithuanian. Of course, he usually didn't know them. We Rakauskas men aren't the kind of people who remember names. (Faces, we do ok with. Names? No such luck. It's forgotten almost as soon as your back is turned. Don't take it personally.) But she would push on, because the person was from south Norwood. My father, having grown up in south Norwood, was also expected to know everyone else from south Norwood. Still, usually he didn't know them.

"Sure you do," my grandmother would continue, "He lives on Cottage Street (still don't know him). He worked for the town (drawing a blank). He has brown hair. His mother lived on St. George's Ave (still no). He's related to that woman who works at the library. He married a Murphy." Finally my father would act like he knew, just to keep the conversation moving.
"Oh, right," he would say. "I know who you're talking about."
"Well," my grandmother would continue, "He died last week."

This conversation style did not end with my grandmother. My mother does it and so does my aunt. They're always checking the obituaries to see who's dead in Norwood. [note: I know for a fact this is not something only my family does. When my co-worker's mother passed away, people he hadn't talked to in years showed up at the wake after reading the obits.] And, unfortunately, I have some of the habits already showing up with me. If the phone rings after 10 pm at night, I assume the worst.

But yesterday my aunt took it up a notch: she called looking for directions in a cemetery. She wanted to check that no one was messing with any of my grandparents' graves. So, my father had to give her directions from one headstone to another. That, my friends, is an Irish phone call.