Timothy Donahue Celebrates the Fourth of July in Elmira, NY

My wife and myself spent the Fourth of July in Ireland. For some reason, I got it in my head that someone was going to ask one of the Americans in the pub (because don't you know we would be in a pub that evening) to tell a story about the Fourth of July in Amer-i-kay. They didn't, of course, as they know the sad state of storytelling in America, but if they had, I would tell this story about my great-grandfather and the fourth of July.

Kathleen Donahue, my great grandmother, was fond of telling people that she was a saint. It comes from living with the likes of himself, she would say, referring to my great grandfather Timothy. He's driving me right into the arms of Jesus himself. Timothy would reply, although never within earshot of Kathleen, Ah, she's not only saintly, she'll be the making of a number of saints, too.

They were both right. Those in the Rosary Guild of St. Patrick's Church knew Kathleen as having a tongue sharp as an infidel's sword when it came to Timothy. Some said Timothy offended Kathleen just by breathing deeply of God's sweet morning air, but others knew just what Timothy did to set Kathleen off.

Timothy was quite fond of Monsignor John Augustine O'Neill, the pastor of St. Patrick's, whom Kathleen disliked due to his insatiable need for baked goods to be raffled off for the Church building fund. But there was another reason, too. There was a fine tradition in the Irish American community to name a son for the pastor. Kathleen wanted to name her sons after relatives and other sensible people, not a charlatan in a cassock. Timothy had every intention of honoring the tradition and his friend the pastor.

When their first son was born, Kathleen, spent in childbirth, was powerless to protest. Timothy put on his hat, went to the registrar's office and put the name 'John Augustine Donahue' on the birth certificate. Kathleen perhaps could have lived with this, but Tim did the same for his second son, and the third, and the fourth, and fifth. To avoid confusion, Tim changed the spelling of Donahue on the birth certificates-first DONAHUE, followed by DONAGHUE, DONAHOE, DONOHUE, and finally DONAHEW.

After she started calling her sons by the names she would have put on the birth certificates, and never again by their Christian names, Kathleen reconciled herself to her sons' names. In time, Tim began to use the names too, and peace reigned in the Donahue household.

Until the Fourth of July. Timothy was as proud of his adopted country as if he had been born here and fought in the Whiskey Rebellion of 1791. He celebrated the Fourth as if it had been John Augustine's birthday he was celebrating, and made elaborate preparations for the event. Mostly, these involved putting a keg of whiskey in the cellar in mid-June . All the sons left the whiskey alone, because they knew they would come to grievous harm if they so much as raised the lid and sniffed it. Not from Timothy, although he was not adverse to making sure the sons walked on the straight and narrow, but from the whiskey itself. It was an elixir of dubious parentage.

On the glorious Fourth, Tim would rise, get dressed in a white suit, white shirt, and a black bow tie, affix a small American flag pin to his lapel, and go downtown to meet his friends for the parade. They were all dressed in white suits, white shirts, and black ties, with American flags in their lapels.

Now, watching a parade under a hard July sun is hard, thirsty work, so the group traditionally retired to Keegan's for a little fortification before-and sometimes during-the big event. During the parade, the men would stand in front of Keegan's and cheer the bands, the flag, the politicians, even the town's new fire truck driven by Mike Casey, 'the biggest leprechaun in Elmira, NY,' as he said of himself.

When the parade was over, back to Timothy's cellar the men went. They marched across the porch in single file, as quiet as the guest of honor at a funeral–through the living room, the kitchen, and down the stairs to the cellar. Tim closed the door, and there was not a sound to be heard from the basement. It was as quiet as if a Scotsman offered to stand a round.

At about three o'clock, the door would slowly open, and two men would carry the first casualty of the day through the kitchen, the living room, across the porch, and lay him gently on the front lawn. Then another and another and another would be brought upstairs, and established as another white-suited lawn ornament. Some years, passerby would comment that it seemed an awfully odd time for snow, there was so much white in front of the Donahue household.

Later in the afternoon, the children of the married men would come and load the old man into a wheelbarrow and trundle him home. The veteran bachelors often hired a neighbor lad to take them away in wheelbarrows, too, while the less prudent were left to deal with the lampposts, trees, and broken sidewalks they encountered trying to negotiate their way home after they mostly regained at least some of their senses.

The celebration continued until only two men were left standing. Up the stairs they would come. Tim would ceremoniously lock the door of the cellar, escort Casey to the front door (because it was invariably Casey who was the other last man standing), where they solemnly shook hands, never exchanging a word between them. Off Casey would go, and Tim would turn and go into the house

The Fourth of July was over for another year.

Many neighbors remarked on the silence of the men in the cellar, but more remarked on the miraculous silence of Kathleen Donahue about the whole affair. "Ah, she's a sainted woman, she is," they would say. "After all these years, and she not prying at all. A saint, she is, not to pry into a man's business that way."

Kid's Day

Mike sat in the break room, staring into his coffee cup. Many people claimed they didn't like Monday. Mike's bad day was Friday. Work had been building up since Monday, and the wife was already working on the list of things for him to do this weekend, which he could never finish. Monday was actually a relief.

On top of that, today was Show Your Kids What You Do at Work day. The noise level got raised, elevator wait times doubled, he had to dodge kids charging around corners, and the rest of his team was down in the lobby at the ice-cream social.

Mike didn't have kids, but also didn't mind the concept. When he was a kid, he had enjoyed going to work with his father, calling on small grocery stores and taking orders for butter and eggs. Jack was good at what he did–he had taken a fading territory and made it #2 in per capita sales for the co-op. His dad had always introduced him, and the owners and managers used to shake Mike's hand and say, So you're Jack's kid. We've heard all about you.

Mike was proud of his dad and the way that he fit easily into this world. He told jokes, asked about wives and children, checked inventory, removed outdated product, and occasionally recommended delaying a purchase because the price would be coming down a few cents at the end of the week. Being Jack's kid, he was by extension a part of that world. That was the best part of all.

That world was gone. First, the little groceries had started to disappear, unable to match the supermarkets. Even before he died, more and more of Jack's time was spent taking phone orders for truckloads of butter, instead of selling it man-to-man a case at a time. Mike wondered if there were any people selling now. He pictured an automatic inventory and reordering system in the warehouse. Our computer will talk to your computer.

Mike finished his coffee and was getting up to go when the door opened and a boy of maybe 11 came in and flopped across the flowered loveseat that had been moved into the break room. It had been in the ladies room, but a self-described staunch feminist demanded that it be put someplace where it could be used and enjoyed by people of all genders. Mike was surprised it hadn't just disappeared, but figured the nightcrawlers--movers, cleaners, IT & Comm– the people who made the important day-to-day life decisions, made the call. The break room was closest, so that's where it ended up.

The kid, judging from his clothing, had just hit a growth spurt. His light gray Towncraft suit had given up trying to cover ankles and wrists a while ago.

Do you hate these events? I do, the kid said affably.

Not my favorite, Mike agreed. Aren't you supposed to be someplace? Else?

The kid thought. Nope.

Do your parents know where you are?

Probably not, but I know were my mother is, so we're OK.

Mike figured that the team was probably at the 'balloon animals' seminar. Might be good for them, he thought. He got up and poured himself another coffee.

What does your Mom do?

The kid flopped around on the couch until he was pointing in another direction. She stares at a computer screen. Sometimes she talks on the phone.

What's she talk about?

The kid looked at Mike slyly. Sometimes what we're having for dinner. What's happening this weekend. Regression. Her new boyfriend.

Oh, I bet she does financial analysis. And I'm also guessing your folks are divorced.

Probably. Mom has a boyfriend. But keep in touch*#8211;that changes real fast.

Mike grinned. I will, but rule 1 is never date co-workers. Trust me.

Don't I know. I don't date anybody in my school anymore, either.

I think there's a cola in the fridge, Mike said.

No thanks. They got us all tanked up on root beer floats.

Hm. They do that sometimes. See anything here you want to do when you get older?

Nah. I think the root beer float truck guy has the best job.

Yeah, pretty much. Anything else?

Nah. All you do is watch a computer and talk on the phone. I can do that at home.

Yeah, it can get pretty old, Mike said. Anything at school interest you?

Nope. It's pretty bad.

Really! I had you pegged for a someone who might be interested in science or computers.

Why? Just because I've outgrown this lame suit?

Mike stayed quiet. That was what he had been thinking.

There's no future in computers, the kid said. All the coding's done overseas, and the computer itself will be gone. It'll just be a lot of single-purpose devices.

You seem to know a lot about something you're not interested in, Mike said with a smile.

You gotta do something. I read.

Which Harry Potter book is your favorite? Mike asked pleased that he was keeping up on current young teen literary trends.

Don?t read those, the kid said firmly, reflopping on the couch. I hate them.

Mike glanced at his watch. Geez, I've got to get back to work, he said, standing up. And I bet you're supposed to be someplace. He rinsed out his coffee cup. Else.

I think this is where we get professional career advice from Human Resources people, the kid said, following Mike to the door.

Get a lot of that? Mike held the door for the kid. Advice?

It's what adults do, the kid said. He paused. You haven't given me any.

Mike laughed. I stare at a computer all day. Sometimes I talk on the phone. What advice can I give?

The good kind, probably. They had reached Mike's desk. Mike thought for a moment. Personally, I'd check out the root beer float operation.

The kid looked at him oddly for a moment, and then turned and walked away. Mike shrugged, turned, typed in his password, and began sorting through some e-mail.

Later that afternoon, the kid reappeared. Starting pay is minimum wage plus $1.30 an hour, and you can begin building an equity position after six months, he announced.


The root beer float truck. You told me to check it out.

Oh. When do you start?

I can't until I'm sixteen and have a driver's license, and can't get an equity position until I graduate high school. The guy is very big on graduating and school.

Too bad. But minimum wage should be higher by then.

I was thinking about you, the kid said quietly.

Mike was a little confused, but pleased. Thanks. I'll consider it. You know, I missed your name.

It's John. Yours?

Mike. Not Jack?

My father is Jack, my grandfather was Jack, and I have an Uncle Jack. So I'm John. Mom was quite insistent. She wanted to call me Matthew, just to break the pattern. He paused. She lost.

Nice to meet you, John.

I've gotta go. Maybe I'll see you next year.

Maybe. I'll be sure to give you extra ice cream in your root beer float.

John turned and walked away. Mike turned back to his computer and examined a spreadsheet. He wondered what the wholesale price of a case of eggs was, if the price would come down by the end of the week, and if it did would anybody notice. Or care.

A Brief Romance

In the beginning, I wooed her with office supplies.

She had aura, demure but with a sense of self, especially when disposing of coffee grounds. She would twist her wrist at just the right moment, so any drips went off in another direction.

First was a pencil in my desk, probably left by the last guy. I gave it to her on impulse one day when I passed her in the hall.

She looked puzzled, but seemed genuinely pleased. A few days later, I walked by where she sat, not even a cubicle, a table in a hallway indentation, and the pencil was lying there. I noticed she had been using it, or at least chewing it. I could picture her, sitting at her little table, her brow creased in thought, her teeth biting ever so gently into the soft wood just below the metal eraser band.

I snuck the pencil off her table, and put it in my desk. Every now and again, I would take it out, and caress where she had chewed.

A few days later, I saw her in the coffee room. She seemed depressed. Some bastard stole the pencil you gave me, she said. The next day, I gave her a pen. Not the same, I know, as she wouldn't chew it, but a more significant token. She took it, but still seemed sad.

I don't like pens with caps that come off, she said. I keep losing the caps. I went to the supply room, and found a nice pen, a Parker, for her.

A few days later, I gave her a ream of paper. She smiled brightly at me, and said, You're so sweet. I spent the rest of the day unable to concentrate.

I became a regular in the supply room. Post-its, whiteboard markers, binder clips, card holders, nothing was too good for my love. She made no demands, but one day when I was in meetings and couldn't get her a gift, she pouted. I'm sure I imagined it, but I was in agony.

A stapler got me a quick peck on the cheek. When I gave her a desk calendar, her hand stayed on mine longer than necessary.

One day when I was passing her desk she motioned me over. I need a Rolodex, she said. I pointed out she could keep addresses and phone numbers in the back of her desk calendar. I don't care, she said firmly. I want a Rolodex. I looked at her desk. You have no place to put it, I said. I'll find a place, she said. I thought you liked me.

I took a sick day, agonizing over my position. Finally, I said, 'll do it!

Back at work, I went directly to the supply closet, but it was locked. I went by her little table. It was bare. She wasn't in the coffee room. I went to the office manager.

Can you believe it? she said. Stealing supplies and leaving them out in the open! She had card holders all over her desk, and she didn't even have cards! She laughed the laugh of the officious and cruel.

Later that day, I threw the pencil away. In Bob's wastebasket, just to be on the safe side.

The Man Who Killed Adolf Hitler

The man who killed Adolf Hitler was featured every year or two in the popular press. Right after the war, he was on the front page, his every twitch and sneeze recorded. But then attention turned to recovery, and then Korea.

The man who killed Adolf Hitler never mentioned his role in the war, brought it up in conversation, or moved a conversation around to Adolf Hitler.

The man who killed Adolf Hitler had a son, who used to ask him, What did you do in the war, Daddy? I was just a common soldier, son, doing my job, he would reply. When his son was older, he asked, Did you see any dead people in the war? A few, he said quietly. Later, his son asked, Did you kill anybody, Dad? A few soldiers, he answered. I didn't want to, but it happens. It was a war. Later still, his son stopped asking his father about the war, not because his father lied by omission but because the boy became a teenager and rarely talked to his father about anything.

The man who killed Adolf Hitler owned a plumbing supply store. He had no complaints, except for the giant warehouse stores taking business.

The man who killed Adolf Hitler regularly fielded requests for interviews and for his life story. ;I bet we could get Redford to play you, one agent gushed enthusiastically. I don't like Redford, he replied.

The man who killed Adolf Hitler held no personal animosity toward the departed Fuhrer. He did not blame him for the war, and the concentration camps were only an unsettling rumor when he burst into the bunker.

The man who killed Adolf Hitler belonged to VFW Post 40733. On Thursdays, he went to the hall for the meeting and the poker game that followed. He went to the Friday fish fry, but stopped when his doctor warned him about eating too many greasy foods, and the Catholic Church no longer demanded meatless Fridays. He went to Post-sponsored Memorial Day events, for many years the twelfth gun in the twenty-one gun salute, and rode on the float in the Fourth of July parade. To most of the kids, he was just another old guy in the back of a pickup truck. He didn't mind that. He knew his limitations.

The man who killed Adolf Hitler had no regrets about what he had done. He had the pride of a workman who does the job he is paid to do. My country needed defending. I didn't do anything any other patriotic American wouldn't do in the same situation, he had said in one interview.

The man who killed Adolf Hitler did not have nightmares. Right after the war, he had nightmares regularly, but about a soldier he killed in a nameless hamlet outside Berlin. He had surprised him while the other man was taking a leak. When he rolled him over, he was looking into the face of a fifteen year old boy. With time, the nightmares faded.

The man who killed Adolf Hitler observed carefully when he entered the Fuhrer's bunker, realizing he was making history. The body of Eva Braun was in one corner, her throat garroted. Hitler himself was in another corner, in a corporal's uniform. He faced away from the door, looking into a small oval mirror, shaving off his mustache. He turned to look at the intruder, but made no other motion or sound. He shot Hitler twice, not because it was necessary, or because it was right. He shot Hitler because Hitler was a coward who was trying to escape, had killed this woman he loved, had sent a fifteen-year-old boy into an already lost war to die while taking a leak.

The man who killed Adolf Hitler died April 17, 1991. His wife was quoted in a newspaper article as saying, I don't think he ever realized what he had done, what a great man he was. She sounded angry about it. But he did know. A few weeks before he died, he said during one of the poker games, He was just a man. He'd be dead now anyway.

TomatoPlanet!! is a random collection of writing, cartoons, and things that skew absurd. It's funny, or at least I think so. © 2003-2021, John McCarthy

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