"The Quiet Man," My Pop's Goodbye and My Beginning

This chapter was written a year ago. I have updated my work. The rest is the unedited version from the one year anniversary of my Dad's death and the first day of me catching my dreams! Soul Parole:Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself will be out by April first on Amazon and Kindle. Personalized copies will be available at soulparole.com.
 Proceeds will benefit Chicago area addiction ,homeless and mental health facilities.


I woke up at exactly midnight today. It is the one year anniversary of my dad's death. Before you read on please understand that I am sad inside but glad that he is at peace. My life has changed dramatically in the year since his passing. Some of it good, some of it bad but all of it sobering and real.

I've heard it said that time heals all wounds. I didn't take the time to look up who said it. I disagree with the quote at this point. It seems harder now than when he went to meet his maker. He was in pain then and I prayed for him to be relieved of his human suffering. At 7:27pm July 21, 2010 God answered my prayers and brought him home.

I was watching "The Quiet Man," the John Wayne/Catherine O'Hara classic, set in Ireland, when I got the call from my sister at the hospital that he was gone. It was his favorite movie. Squeaky and I were watching the movie at the time because she had never seen it. I wanted to share Dad's favorite with her. It was kind of befitting that we were in the middle of THAT film when he passed on to paradise. Pop was big on making grand entrances and exits.

Tonight when I woke up at the stroke of midnight I actually called out his name hoping he would answer. I wanted him to give me a sign that he was here and safe up there. I wanted so desperately to know that he woke me up. Maybe he would knock a book off my night stand or rustle the blinds in an acknowledgement from the other side. He is here. I need only look in the mirror and see him. I resemble him more and more each day.

I am grateful that I was a good son in the final year and a half of his life. I was humbled to shower and shave him and help my second mom and sisters look after him whenever I could. I didn't do much but I did what I could. I can say that I was able to tell him all the things I wanted to say to him. I also heard all the things I hoped to hear from him in that last year and a half. I know he was proud of me. I know God got me sober when He did to be there for those days he needed me most.

At his memorial I did what amounted to a stand-up routine about him and his life. That is what he would have wanted. It was a celebration of his life. We laughed through tears and stories about his mannerisms and quirks. It was my best gig ever. I owe my sense of humor to him more than anyone. My Pop could tell a joke about darned near any subject. His laugh was a blend of Curly from "The Stooges" and Arnold Horshak from "Welcome back Kotter". It was infectious.

2 months later, in the first week of October, we had most of his ashes interred at Abraham Lincoln National Cemetery. The service was grand and patriotic. The twenty one gun salute was deafening. Each shot rattled me to my core. I broke down. All the emotion and stoicism I tried to display the previous 18 months collapsed and I imploded. My eyes flowed like rivers. I crawled around on the ground frantically searching for each of the ejected shells from the rifles that were fired in salute to SGT. Joseph Robert Connolly.

The remaining part of his ashes are to be returned to Ireland just as soon as I can get there. It will complete the wishes of two things my father was passionate about. He loved America and being a Vet, and he loved Ireland. A bagpiper played Danny Boy and Amazing Grace as the tribute was ending. Danny Boy was his favorite Irish song.

The military service was held on a Friday. My second sister Chris Jaksy had been telling me for years to try acting to compliment my comedy. My feelings about mortality were sensitive and raw. I didn't want to leave any regrets on the table. She gave me some names of Chicago casting agents. I sent out my stats and thin resume to a few on Saturday. On Sunday I was contacted by Darlene Hunt, CEO and president of Extraordinary Casting in Chicago She wanted me to play a featured extra role in "Ride Along." It would later be renamed "The Chicago Code" the following day.

My head was still spinning the next day as I sat a few feet from Jennifer Beals and Jason Clarke on my first day in show business. I thought about my dad and was bitten by the acting bug BAD! I loved everything about it. I wear my Dad's cross and carry a memento from him on every movie or TV project I do. I figure we are going to Hollywood together. I was not nervous about working with celebrities. My father's death showed me that mortality is for everybody. Some jobs are just more glamorous than others. That takes us back to now.

Since that day I have appeared as an extra in 8 TV series and done 7 films. I have had speaking roles in 5 films and have done 4 commercials and an industrial film. That's a busy 12 months. I have been blessed and driven. My comedy career has put me on stages around Chicago and at Statesville Prison as a part of Comics for Convicts Faith Outreach. I leave soon for Northern California seeking therapy for a life long phobia for a cable station.

I miss the Big Bopper more each day. Not less. I owe so much to him. He never gave up on me but did lay some tough love on me at the right times. I do not mourn his death. I mourn for his life and wish we could talk about the Bears just one more time. I feel him sometimes. I see him every time I shave. I thank God for my sobriety and his timing for it. My dad gave me so many gifts and bailed me out of jam after jam. I will make it through today moment by moment. I will watch the Duke and I will listen to Danny Boy endlessly and give thanks over a tear or three for having known Bob Connolly. I am proud to be his son. Thanks God for your grace, mercy and my dad. To my FATHER'S" in heaven I love you....

Husbands and The Hardware Store Fantasy Girl!

In my other chapters I have recounted the previous 3 marriages I had prior to Squeaky. In those three failed marriages, I was lost in alcoholism, addiction and undiagnosed depression. They were doomed to fail. I give God most of the credit for my successful marriage to Kris (Squeaky). The rest of the credit goes to her. She dealt with my insanity, mood swings, unreachability, selfishness and indifference. I would have left me a long time ago. She saw through the madness, into my soul and saw there was an actual decent human being in there. I am eternally grateful to God for putting us together and to her for not letting us fall apart.

I love my wife and am as happily married as is humanly possible. I will be with her for the rest of whatever life God gives us. I can honestly say that my wife is my friend. I never feel the need to get away from her. There is nothing another woman could give me that Squeaky doesn't give me already. Our kids see our friendship and love and I am glad they understand the difference. It is easy to fall in love with someone you can't stand. Love is perfect when it is matched with soul connection and a friendship that is man and wife and much more.

That being said we are both still human. The song "I only have eyes for you" is absolute crap unless you are blind. As a man I see women who are attractive. As a woman my wife sees men who are attractive. It is how we react to these "visual distractions" that make for harmony or hell raising. I remember in the crazy days when a pretty woman walked across the room my eyes would follow her all the way along her trip. I had no respect for my wife's feelings. I thought it was harmless but that is from a Neanderthal Man point of view. Women seem to take a quick look at a handsome man and instantly return to whatever they were doing.

My wife and I have 2 ways of dealing with opposite sex attraction. The first is the "3 second rule." Each of us is allowed to take note of the pleasant looking subject for 3 seconds and then reconnect to each other. The second is "compliment code." My wife thinks Andy Garcia is a dream. When he comes on screen she'll say, "He is a very good actor." That's my cue. She thinks he's handsome without her gawking at the screen and shouting, "huma-huma-huma!" When I see Neve Campbell I comment that, "She is a very good actress." Message sent we move on.

My wife is actually a master of cooling my visual libido the older I get. Women are cunning like that. If I see an actress like Megan Fox on the screen and comment on her acting ability, my wife is quick to point out that she is the same age as our oldest daughter. This response sends me from intrigued to disgusted with myself when I realize the actress is practically a kid. Having a daughter that is 25 and 18 wipes out alot of the talent pool. My comments on the attractiveness of Diane Keaton is welcomed by my wife and a cute agreement with my assessment.

Men also secretly want to have women find them attractive. Although happily married, it is an ego feeding proposition to consider that a Barbie-like woman finds us middle aged dads attractive. It is not something you dwell on but it sits in the back of our thick male skulls. The funny part is how we react as men when one of these Barbie-like youngsters seem to take an interest in us.

Last summer I was doing some work around the house. I needed some WD40 and some other miscellaneous hardware items. Dressed in my Van Morrison tee shirt and some dirty cargo shorts, I made my way to the local box hardware emporium. I went from aisle to aisle hunting and gathering the items I needed to complete my "Honey Do List." I moved quickly like I was on a recon mission. I like to get in and get out. I'm not the type of guy to browse around the store.

At the back of the sore, as I picked up my last item, I turned from the shelf and found myself face-to-face with a 20-something Barbie. I was not in the 3 second check mode. I wanted to get home and complete my projects. As I started toward the middle aisle she stepped in front of me and said "You have a Van Morrison shirt on." I looked down and saw she was correct and commented that my wife and I had just seen him on his last tour. I am a music audiophile. I can talk music all day, no ulterior motive needed.

She took another step toward me and said "I really like Van Morrison," twisting back and forth like the bad girl from Catholic school. I was taken off guard a bit and politely mumbled "Yeah, he's the Belfast Cowboy. Ireland's Bob Dylan." I was turning away and it happened. Her next comment was not what one would call Christianly. Looking me right in the eye she cooed "The only thing I like more than Van Morrison is YOU!"

My hands trembled as I unlocked my car and dove into the drivers seat. I hunched down thinking she might have followed me out the door. What a goof! Like she knew what car I was driving! I snapped up my cellphone and called my wife. Her voice was like "glue" in the game of tag I found myself in the middle of. I explained the whole thing to her and she LAUGHED. I was shaken silly by the experience and she thought it was a riot. Now I felt emasculated by not only the terror I faced with Barbie, but how my wife took the final slice at me with her amusement at the whole episode.

To this day we laugh at the story. I do not go back to that box store. I have found another one. I have radar to make sure only hardware store stereotypes help me. I had been faced with the ultimate middle aged fantasy. Of course some flirting or chest puffing conversation would have been harmless. NOPE! I ran to the car and hid, afraid that Barbie was gonna catch me, trembling like a child. The fantasy was over.

Dad ,You're Going Back To Ireland!

The observant reader will notice that I have skipped chapter two reflecting on my father. That is intentional. Chapter three is the hardest one to right. It is 4:15 am and I meant to say "write" instead of "right" but that word seems more appropriate when I read it again. This is as difficult to write as it is for you to read. It is a part of the miracles sobriety creates and further solidification of my view that there is no such thing as coincidence.

On January 31, 2008 my father had a major stroke. He had a slight one a few years before but had limited physical effect from it. On that day in January of 2008 my dad was relatively healthy. He had sold his businesses and was semi-retired. He had taken a job driving a school bus for Special Needs children to stay busy and make a little extra coin. He was 72 and didn't look or act a day over 60. He still made the rounds to see his buddies. He took mom #2 out to dinner every Saturday night and was very active.

In the late afternoon he pulled over into a parking lot not feeling well. His vision was distorted and he was not sure where he was at. He had a hard time processing and conveying his thoughts. A stranger came to his aid and helped him phone my sister Rose. He was frightened and hysterical. My sister went to where the Good Samaritan had said my father could be found. She immediately took him to the hospital. Tests were done. He ran the gauntlet of EKGs, EEGs and LMNOPs.

The stroke had left him 80% blind but didn't affect his mental capacity or communication. He was free spirited, active, a live life to the fullest guy one moment and robbed of his independence the next. His license was revoked and his car sold. His car was his freedom and it was now gone. The next 2 years would be devastating on him and everyone in our family. He refused to be treated as a blind person and it sent him spiraling into a dark depression.

It was during this time that my dad came to see me perform comedy at Barrel O' laughs in Oak Lawn. I was sneaking drinks instead of treasuring the moment. My sister Christine had arranged to take my dad to the club and I was shocked and thrilled that he had made it. I never got drunk when doing comedy because there are so many sequences and transitions in material where a clear mind is required. The crowd was sparse that night but I was thrilled. I could hear the "yuck, yuck" of my dad's unique laugh as I did my set with him sitting just a few feet away. It was the only time he saw me perform and he told me he was proud of me. It was music to my ears.

I was drinking heavily at this time. I would be sober one year after his stroke. That is where coincidence got thrown out the door. During that year of drinking, while my Dad was trapped inside a body that wouldn't cooperate with him, I spoke to him often by phone and visited occasionally. For an addict the emotional pain we experience, and try to avoid thinking about, becomes more important than helping our loved ones with the physical reality of the pain they face. We usually run as fast as we can in the opposite direction. I just couldn't cope with thinking of him drifting away. To me, avoidance was easier than facing the reality that my hero had become a broken old man in the span of just a few months.

He was in and out of hospitals over that year but at home most of the time. I dreaded every conversation and visit we had. I didn't know what to say. He wanted it all to end and had thrown in the towel. There would be no rehabilitation or "I can make it through this" attitude. For the once fearless Southside tough guy, he had surrendered not only to his physical limitations, but to his physical existence here. When we would get together I would take him out for a pizza and a beer and listen to my indestructible idol talk of last plans and how he wanted things when he passed. I would leave him and return home to drink away the pain of his impending death. He was the one dying, not me. While I was with him my empathy was limited by my desire to leave him and use. I was going through the motions of the loyal son but dying to drop him off and check out of myself.

Before the first year anniversary of his devastating blindness I stopped drinking. There was no preplanned date or ceremonial days set in the future like a drunk usually does. I just said enough is enough. I couldn't take it one more day. That was January 17, 2009. I didn't realize at the time that it was God's time for me to quit because I had turned to him in desperation and completely surrendered to my alcoholism. I was powerless over alcohol. I finally came to understand that I could not stay sober by my will power alone. I needed God, other people in recovery and family to help me get a hold of my self again. I was 41 and had been using "something" since I was 17.

I always held a picture in my mind of my father in his mid-forties, even when he was getting older. It seems like we bookmark a specific age in our loved one's lives that gives us the fondest memories. I knew my dad was in his seventies but it wasn't until he went blind that the numerical birth date caught up to his physical being. It was at this time I began calling my mother more frequently. The fragility of life and need to mend fences was growing thick on my soul.

When I saw my dad sober our relationship took on a new dynamic. I could be there for him and called him regularly to see how he was doing. On a visit to Applebee's shortly after his 72nd birthday he gave me one of his prized pinkie rings and a bracelet. I accepted them graciously and it stung to hear all of his "the end" talk. He sipped his beer and asked if I could make him a promise. I, of course, said name it. He requested that I take his ashes back to Ireland to the Ring of Kerry and Sneem and that a bagpiper play "Danny Boy" at his memorial service. It was information overload. For some reason, even as a drunk or when sober, if there was a crisis I could kick into "I'll make it happen" mode. It was like the Don made a request and I shook my head in assurance that the job would be done to his satisfaction.

His mental health began to suffer from the torture of his blindness and the inability to be independent grated on him. Each day I could see him falling farther into an abyss of depression and darkness. Often he would stare at the ceiling, no doubt questioning God as to "Why me?" I asked God those same questions. My dad was an agnostic leaning on the edge of Atheism. I feared for his eternity. I understood the mind games of having no control of our actions and trying to get through life in one piece. We watched football and Cub Games and hours of FOX news. It was his favorite "fair and balanced" source of information.

My "udda mudda" and sisters took care of him at home as long as they possibly could. I am grateful for that. They probably kept him there too long. The 24 hour shifts between everyone in the house was a nonstop cattle call and room check to see how he was doing. Outside medical professionals made regular visits and I did what I could. My part of the care giving was showering and shaving Dad.

On the weekends the ladies of the house had shopping to do and activities to distract them from the overwhelming demands that home care puts on everyone involved. My dad was 73 but looked and acted 90. He was feeble and in and out mentally. While bathing him it struck me that this was my big strong idol and here I was bathing him and treating him like a child. I was grateful to be sober and been given the strength to handle the job. I would not dare take on the responsibility while drunk. Emotional responsibility was an impossibility for me when I was drinking. It would be easier to deny his death than have to watch it unfold in front of me.

While I was shaving him he would talk about memories of his childhood visits to Canada and his grandmother baking cakes and pastries. His grandfather was a Canadian Mountie and my dad's recall of detail was uncanny. But if you asked him what he ate 10 minutes ago he replied with a somber, "I don't know." While I was cutting nails, brushing teeth and hair he would tell me how proud he was of me and how much he loved me. He called me "little buddy." I was proud to be Gilligan to the Skipper.

When it became too much for the family to care for him at home any longer, he was moved into a permanent facility. I still visited him for his weekly shave and loved to make him laugh. I got my sense of humor from him and making him laugh while being sober was better than any drug I had ever tried. We talked of faith and took communion and his beliefs about the end began to change. To say he went religious would be an untruth. He did open his mind to the possibility and I am confident he made it to heaven.

After he passed I missed going to the home to give him his shave. I felt guilty for the days when I went begrudgingly. God had granted me the grace of sobriety at the exact moment. It was the time my father needed me most. I got the approval and love from my dad I had craved for 44 years. To those of you experiencing the challenges of family home care I feel ya! It is a tough ride for all involved. If I wouldn't have gotten sober when I did, I never would have had the honor of serving my father like he had helped me hundreds of times before that.

When he left this world for the next, I had no regrets. He was free from his pain and enjoying the splendor of paradise. I miss him and think of him daily, but I left all the cards and emotional baggage on the table. I said everything I had always wanted to say to him and heard all the things from him I wanted to hear. It hurt when he was gone but I feel him with me all of the time. There are moments that are still overwhelming. Since I was sober I can remember every minute and give thanks to God for getting me sober on that January day in 2009. It was no coincidence. It was God's plan in his time. God answers our prayers on his schedule, not ours. To the Skipper, I love you and I am proud I was your first mate.

Honey? I'm Calling From A Phone Booth in Ireland! Will You Marry Me?

Alright boys and girls, moms and dads. It's time to nestle up next to your honey, or faithful pet, and hear the tale of how I finally got the marriage thing right. My last few chapters have been heart tuggers but I needed to get them out of me. If I didn't I would probably have taken a job as a groundskeeper at a closed, seasonal mountain lodge somewhere in the mountains to write a book. That didn't work out well for Jack Nicholson or Scatman Cruthers in "The Shining" so we are now switching gears.

We all know the old adage "The third time's a charm." Well for me it is, "Number four didn't show me the door!" My wife Kris was, is and always will be a saint. I am not in trouble or the dog house and I haven't forgotten a birthday or anniversary. She truly is. I would have kicked me to the curb a long time ago.

On February 21, 2002 my Father and I left for a 7 day trip to Ireland. After the horror of  9/11, international travel was at an all time low from the USA abroad. We booked our tickets and my dad said, "F&*k the terrorists! We are Americans and we're not afraid of them!" I did take a moment to remind my dad that Ireland was probably the last country the terrorists would "hit" right before Jamaica. My dad was a proud Vet and wore his patriotism and a USA emblem on his coat sleeve every day of the trip.

We arrived to cold and rain, mixed with colder, harder rain and accented with some occasional stinging, frozen sleet. Ah! Eire, I see you at last. It rained everyday we were there but we had some sunny spots occasionally. We weren't in for the touristy side of the country of my ancestors so we rented a car and just started to drive. We left Dublin with only one planned point on the trip and that was to visit the town of Connolly in County Clare. One of the funniest things on our trip was my first dinner in Dublin. My dad suggested Indian food! Indian food? In Ireland? He didn't eat the it in America and we flew 3000 miles to try the stuff! I hated it then and I still do now. I will fill in the rest of the trip later, but let's skip ahead a bit.

The Ring of Kerry winds and climbs along route N-70 on the southwest coast of the Emerald Isle. I loved everything about the awe inspiring island. The coast was heaven like. Every 50 feet was a spectacular panorama of peat bogs, inlets, hills, fields, stone fences and breathtaking flowers. The vast Atlantic lay beyond. God truly was inspired when he painted Ireland. Every scene is a giant green postcard and I would recommend a visit to anyone, except those pesky terrorists.

Driving takes exceptional skill for visitors and townsfolk alike. Sheep run free on the roads in herds, color coated so the owners can recognize their stock. Driving on the opposite side of the road there are no railings or shoulders and deep cutting cliffs and slopes. If you slide off the shoulder you will be greeted by eternity. There are also roadside chapels, painstakingly crafted in the middle of nowhere! Amazingly ornate statues and seats for prayer are placed there for those driving by to give praise for the beauty or thanks for making it around the sheep.

As we were moving through the last few days of our adventure we stopped in a tiny coastal town called Sneem, population 600. Here was Ireland complete. There was a church, a pub, a petrol station, a general store, a feed store, a couple quaint shops and a few more pubs and a few bed & breakfasts.
As we parked our tiny Renault in front of a pub of my father's choice, there wasn't a soul to be found. Nothing, nobody, zippo. It was like that ghost town in the Brady bunch episode with Jim Backus (Mr. Magoo and Thurston Howell 3rd) as the crazy miner. Thank God Mr. Brady was able to knock the jail cell key down with that rope made of belts. Ooh! I get the chills remembering the intrigue and ingenuity of Father Brady.

Anyway, there was no one around and we walked from colorful shop to colorful shop. All of them were trimmed in bright reds, brilliant greens and eye catching hues to draw the attention of passersby. All of them were locked. We returned to the car and sat perplexed at the silence. It was as if the whole town vanished. A few more moments went by and were planning to move on down the road. At the end of the main street we began to hear the gong of a church bell. Gong!......Gong!......Gong! The doors flung open and the whole town began to spill out into the street towards where we sat awestruck. Someone had died and I think all 600 of the townspeople showed up for the funeral. They scurried back to their shops and went about their business in the colorful town. They reopened for business as if the funeral closing was not an unusual occurrence. It was part of their daily responsibilities.

We asked for directions to the best B&B and drove back to check in. It was a quaint home with a spectacular view of a lake and the ocean beyond. I could have stayed there forever. We returned to the pub for dinner. I have mixed emotions by confessing I only had nonalcoholic beer in Ireland. The selections they had were quite good and I managed to stay free from the attention of the Guarda during our entire visit. The most memorable part of the night was when a homeless man entered the pub with a puppy. He placed the puppy on the floor and the little nipper ran right to my father and leaped into his arms. He licked and pawed at my dad and it remains one of my fondest memories of the trip. I have included the picture of that moment and another in the columns to the right of this blog. It is my favorite picture of my dad.

My dad enjoyed a few beers and I was intoxicated by the country as a whole. The people, sights and charm of the Emerald Isle live up to the hype. Still very much sober and full of nonalcoholic beer, I told my dad I was going to go exploring. That expedition was a street about a quarter mile long. At the end of the way was a typical English phone booth, bright red and stark sitting on the edge of Sneem. I walked toward the booth and saw it butted against a tiny bridge with a bubbling creek snaking and crawling underneath and through the idyllic village.

As I followed the course of the river it flowed gracefully into a lake, then into the ocean beyond. Even though it was 10:00 pm sunlight was still cracking through the skies above. The vision is burned in my mind and magnificent. I thought of my roommate, partner in crime and best friend sleeping soundly back in the states. She was everything I had ever pictured and my perfect foil. Where I was weak, she was strong. When I was miffed, she was relaxed. She was a great mother and I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. We had been living together longer than my 3 other marriages combined and I was inspired by the beauty and grace the moment filled me with.

I can be impulsive. It comes with my nature. It was 4 am back at home and I knew Squeaky wouldn't be waking for another hour, but I was consumed. I was driven! I felt my heart leap and sing that THIS was the moment, even though I was an ocean away from her. I dialed the States direct and she answered the phone slightly startled and a wee bit irritated by the late morning call. She accepted the charges and I rambled endlessly about the beauty of Sneem and the events of the day. After a few minutes of rambling like a kid who downed a bowl of sugar my focus returned to my mission.

I started to sob as I confessed my unwavering love for her and the kids and I said the magic words, "Will you marry me?" She had begun sobbing too, the good sobbing of course. Her first response was, "Are you serious?" I gushed as tears spilled around me shouting, "YES! I have never been more sure of anything!" She shot back excitedly, "You traveled to Ireland, you're standing in a phone booth at 4am and you're asking me to marry you?" I caught my breath, slowed my tone and replied, "Yes, I am." She cried a sweet sigh and said with complete assurance, "I would be proud to be your wife." God I love Ireland!