About halfway through my vacation, I began to understand my lifelong conflict.
Outside the cathedral in Cologne, Germany, my tour guide encouraged our group: “Be German. Be precise. Don’t be late. No excuses. See you again at 11:30.’’
When I heard that instruction, the wee light bulb flickered in this aging brain. This should be easy for me – I’m about one-eighth German. I knew the stereotypes of Germans – rigid, ordered, punctual planners.
The only trouble was I’m predominately Irish, spontaneous, prone to the gab, unwilling to leave a gathering of friends, eschewing punctuality for the liveliness of the moment.
These diverging approaches explain the ongoing conflicts in daily life, deadlines and tough decisions:
King of Deadline Killers — When I ran the sports copy desk most nights, we usually had the latest newsroom deadlines. My Irish side would jam things up by holding pages to the brink of deadline for the latest games, breaking stories or best photos. These decisions made the production chief antsy. He would moan about page makeup, platemaking, press operators and delivery trucks that were backing up. Our credo was to never be late, but never be early. My professional evaluations suggested that I needed to be more German.
“Stopping for one!’’ — I’ve improved with age, but I was often dubbed “The Thing That Wouldn’t Go Home.’’ My Irish side always came up for “discussion’’ when Mary and I led Catholic couples through the communications segment of Pre-Cana preparation.
Mary, bearing the brunt of three children for dinner, baths and bedtime most evenings, knew I needed a release after a hectic deadline night. At Pre-Cana, she would hold up a beer bottle and assert that it constituted “stopping for one.’’
I would explain that I if bought a round, a colleague would respond likewise. But I didn’t simply want to stop for one so I felt compelled to buy another, and my colleague would oblige. So “stopping for one’’ really meant four. I rationalized that we only stopped at one bar. Her German side (Dannemiller) was not amused.
The Blind Side – I’m not sure if it is Irish heritage or male stubbornness, but men don’t read directions. We don’t consult maps. GPS always seems to be tardy at intersections … so I ignore it.
I paid the price for this last summer with my wife, daughter and two grandchildren in the car. I saw a straight line on Interstate 76 on a map from Akron, Ohio, to Reading, Pa., and promptly turned off the GPS. The problem was that Interstate 76 eventually swung southeast, but I-80 was the direct west-to-east line.
“Hey Lewis and Clark,’’ my spouse and navigator interjected about an hour later. “Are you sure you’re on the right interstate?’’
“Yeah, it’s a straight shot across Pennsylvania.’’
“You do know we’re well south of Pittsburgh?’’ replied Mary.
We arrived an hour and a half late to meet our son-in-law. The adults were grumpy; the grandchildren were hungry. I should have consulted my resident Irish-German.
The Holleran side of the family tree is immune in this muddled mongrel mix-up. Francis Daniel Holleran married Mary Agnes McCann and produced five children, the second being Francis John Holleran. No confusion there.
I can blame my conflicted nature on Anna McInerney. She arrived from County Clare, Ireland, as a 14-year-old with her two sisters. They settled in Newport, N.Y., and worked as domestics. She fell in love with a local farmhand, Adolph Stock, who had emigrated with four siblings (nine were left behind in Germany) from Roth, Bavaria. Anna and Adolph married when she turned 18.
This mixed-up DNA was passed first to their daughter, Nora, who married an Irishman, Bernard Maxwell. They passed this plague to Eileen, and she and Fran dumped it on me.
My mother was cool, calm and collected. In a maternity ward crisis, she was unflappable. She would look you in the eye and explain, on principle, why you were wrong. Must have been the German influence in the bloodlines. My father was the opposite. He struggled to remove emotions and make decisions on performance-based reasons.
So I asked my domestic board of directors: “Am I more Irish or German?’’
“Do you need to ask?’’ Herself replied. “You’re never on time, unless it’s a tee time. You’re disorganized and you’re a little like Ado Annie.’’
It took a moment for the Oklahoma! reference to sink in. For reinforcement, she left the room singing, “I’m just a boy who cain’t say no.”
Morristown native Jim Holleran is a retired teacher and sports editor from Rochester. Reach him at jimholleran29@gmail.com or view past columns under “Reflections of River Rat’’ at https://hollerangetsitwrite.com/blog/
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