Memories of an Irishman

I started my first job on St. Patrick's Day, 1994. I worked at Mulhall's Nursery in Omaha, NE, owned by John Mulhall and two of his sons. He had migrated from Ireland to the U.S. in the 50's, and proceeded to build a lucrative business. (I have yet to run across a retail nursery that compares, though I am surely biased, and have not traveled the country looking.)

Mr. M was quite the character. The day I started, he celebrated St. Patty's Day by playing his accordion in the tropical greenhouse attached to the main store. He was apparently under the influence a bit. At the time, he was in his 70's. He had crazy white hair and fairly thick glasses that were always in need of a good cleaning.

He vacillated between mirth and ire, depending on who he was talking to and how much he liked you. He was known to yell at customers that rubbed him the wrong way or employees that weren't living up to his expectations. He once invited a landscaping crew member for a ride in his car, only to 'fire' him and drop him off a mile from the store because the man had long hair. The crew chief picked the poor guy up and told him to stay out of Mr. M's way in the future.

But he loved to dote upon the women who made up a large part of the clientele. (Not only did the store sell plants, but home furnishings, gifts, and, during the winter months, high-end Christmas decorations.)

I managed to stay on his good side, mostly because my position at the cash register was fairly obscure. I don't think he ever remembered my real name. He called me 'gran-yoge,' a name he made up that meant 'young granny' because he said I had an antique sort of beauty.

Mr. M was very fond of Irish poetry, and frequently would recite verse to whomever would listen. More than once, presumably because of my long hair, he quoted 'On Raglan Road' by Patrick Kavanagh to me:

On Raglan Road on an autumn day I met her first and knew

That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue;

I saw the danger, yet I walked along the enchanted way,

And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day.

Here's to you, Mr. M. - I hope you are able to enjoy a good bit of whiskey with Yeats in the great beyond this St. Patrick's day. (John Mulhall died in 2003.)