BRIAN WALLACE - South Boston Tribune

Brian Wallace

Brian's Beat
It was long before anyone thought of televising the St. Patrick’s Day Parade. It was long before the St. Patrick’s Day Breakfast was one of those “Must Go To Events” that was circled on every elected officials calendar long before March rolled around each year.. It was a much simpler time then. Returning World War II Vets and the Korean War Vets made up the largest contingent of parade marchers. It was the 1957 St. Patrick’s Day Parade and it was my first experience marching next to my father who was a proud member of the Martin F. McDonough Post, and future Commander of that great Post. The Parade at that time began at Andrew Square and I remember that it was cold and rainy as my father and I, along with John McDonough, Joe Marsney, Pat Sheehan, Joe Walker and George Wolusky walked down to the start of the parade from the McDonough Post on West Broadway. I was already cold and shivering as we arrived at Andrew Square and even though I was intrigued with all the pomp and circumstance, I wanted to be in some warm dry place rather than in this maelstrom that surrounded me. There were bands and military groups and clowns and cars and trucks but as hard as I looked I couldn’t spot anybody my age, which gave me pause for concern, but my father would have none of it. “You’re going to be fine,” he said after I voiced my concern. “This is going to be great, you’ll see,” my dad said, as we began to step off, at least that’s what they said we were doing. I was just walking and getting drenched.

My father had arrived home the day before the parade with a brand new green scally cap for me to wear in the parade. I didn’t want any part of it, but he looked so happy with his gift that I just placed it on my head and smiled. He had his soldier hat, which I called it back then and every time he put it on his head he smiled as if reliving some foreign memory, which was stored somewhere in the deepest recesses of his mind. I had no such look that day. I was handed my new green hat, but I made sure my father didn’t see. My mother, as all mothers do, however, was a lot harder to fool. “You marching with him tomorrow means a lot to him Bri, he’s been talking about it for weeks,” she said, and then she smiled and took my new green hat off my head. “You’ll have fun,” she said trying to close the deal. What could I say?

We headed into Andrew Square and up Dorchester Street as the huge crowd cheered and waved. “Wave to the people,” my father proudly said. “Why I don’t know any of them,” I said as he began to laugh and tell his friends what I had just said. “Today you know everyone,” John McDonough said to me, as we continued up Dorchester Street past the Gavin School where me and my friends played stickball in the summer. I was beginning to get the hang of this parade thing as we passed West 6th Street where the Boys’ Club was located. It began to rain pretty hard as we headed up towards the Heights, where my friends and I, on nicer days, played hide and seek, relevio and other city games. As we headed up towards City Point I began to notice that people were pointing at me and smiling, which I automatically thought was part of this parade thing. I smiled back as I was told to do. But, as we headed down Broadway the pointing continued but the smiles had turned to laughter, which I thought was pretty rude.

The parade stopped at East Broadway near L, where Joe Walker lived. My father looked down and asked me if I had to go to the bathroom. He also began to laugh, which was really disconcerting. “What is it dad?” I asked. “Why is everyone laughing at me?” “It’s just your imagination,” he said as he headed into Joe Walker’s house. A half hour later John McDonough, Joe Walker and my dad retuned, and I could tell that they had gone in there for a lot more than the bathroom, but by that time I just wanted to get home and get warm. “How much longer dad,” I cried, as I have heard my boys over the years. “Not much longer now,” my dad said to appease me, again like I often do to appease them. By the time we got to F Street and Broadway I was positive that the laughter was not my imagination. “Dad, what is going on?” I asked as people continued to stare and to point at me. “It’s your hat,” he said finally. “I knew it,” I said thinking back at the conversation my mother and I had. “It looks stupid doesn’t it?” I said looking around at the crowd of onlookers. “It looks great,” my dad said. I somehow didn’t believe him but we were approaching the McDonough Post and once again the parade stopped as my father and his crew climbed the steep stairway that leads to the McDonough Post. This time I did have to go to the bathroom and I climbed the stairs two at a time and beat everyone into the bathroom. I did what I had to do, and was headed out of the bathroom when I looked in the mirror. I stopped in my tracks. Now I knew what everyone was laughing at. Before me stood a cold 7 year old with huge thick glasses and a green face staring back at me. The hat, which my father had given me, had deposited most of its green dye onto my face. There was now, more green dye on my face than there was left on the hat. I looked like a total leprechaun; all I needed was a red beard and a pot of gold.

I was so mad at my father, who, after the last stop at the McDonough Post, didn’t seem to notice anything. I had taken off the offending hat but could do nothing about the green dye, which covered every part of my face. I was mortified, as people continued to point at the little leprechaun with the glasses and the green face, but I put my head down and finished the parade. I was soaked, tired, mad and looking for my mother who met us at St. Peter & Paul’s. I went right home and spent a better part of an hour trying to wash the offending green dye off my face. It was certainly a day I will never forget, as I prepare to march this Sunday in the St. Patrick’s Day Parade, and please don’t laugh. I know my father will be watching from up above wishing me a Happy St. Patrick’s Day, as I wish all of you a Happy St. Patrick’s Day, and please don’t point either.

Brian Wallace is an author and syndicated columnist for the Tribune Publications
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