I met him many years ago, when I was a just a teenager. Joe was a large man, tall, muscular and handsome with a pale complexion and jet black, curly hair. Now, I was actually rather intimidated and you can bet that I wasn’t introduced to him as Joe, nor did I have the audacity to call him that. His presence commanded the respect to call him Mister.

Out of respect for certain members of his family, I’m not using his last name here. Trust me, it was one of those names that instantly said, “I’m Irish” and not one of those Irish names that could also be English - like mine.

Joe was almost a stereotype. He was a rugged individual and reserved in such a way that could be incorrectly interpreted as shyness, but he was actually far from shy. He was a proud Irish Catholic with a large family. He was a proud, but not arrogant, man. The American flag flew on a flagpole in his yard, except on St. Patrick’s Day and special occasions, when the Irish tricolor flew in it’s place.

Now, if you haven’t figured it out, Joe was more than just an Irishman that I happened to meet. He was also the father of the young woman who had stolen my heart. Because of that fact alone, we had to learn to more about one another. Joe was opinionated but would listen tolerantly to an opposing viewpoint, before he told me all the reasons I was wrong. (Many years later, much of what he told me turned out to be correct, or at least, matching my own beliefs. Joe and I had far more things in common than we realized, and we were far more alike than we realized.)

He did have the gift of the Blarney, and he was a wonderful storyteller. I felt fortunate to be in his presence when he started to regale his family with stories of his boyhood in Baltimore, his years in Uncle Sam’s service or what happened at work this week. Some of the best stories were how he met a beautiful girl from Milwaukee. The charmer made him drop everything out East so he could move to Wisconsin to be with her.

He also had a Leprechaun’s sense of humor. He wasn’t a joke teller as much as a story teller, his audience doubled over in laughter while he’d just smile softly with a twinkle in his sparkling eyes. Oh, he had a hearty laugh, too, because he relished life, loved his family, and had a keen eye for the humor in any bad situation.

He also was a man of surprises - his teenage son was struggling with a yo-yo one day, and Joe watched with quiet amusement until his frustration got the best of him. “Gimme that!” he said as he took the yo-yo away and instantly began to do some of the most impressive yo-yo tricks I had ever seen! None of his children had any idea that their father had been a youthful yo-yo champion. He received an engraved, silver yo-yo for Christmas that year.

Joe made me feel like one of the family, and it was pretty well understood that there was likely to be a wedding in my future. I looked forward to having Joe as a father in law, but it was not to be. My darling Irish love found that her destiny lay elsewhere. One of the most sympathetic supporters that I had, while I recovered from my heartbreak, was Joe. Oh, he was reserved about the situation, he had to be after all. There was more than enough heartbreak and disappointment to go around.

I last spoke to Joe on St. Patrick’s Day about fifteen years later. It had been a day of celebration and I probably had one more glass of beer than I should have. On a whim, I easily dialed the phone number that had been burned into my teenage memory. He seemed politely embarrassed at first, but we chatted pleasantly and my heart was filled with warmth, just to hear his voice again. I have no idea what he really thought of my phone call out of the blue, or out of the green as it were, but the tone in his voice sounded like he was genuinely pleased to hear from an old friend.

Joe passed away not long after that, too young for a man as vibrant and alive as he was. As many years have passed since then, I’m sure his family misses him deeply but I know the world misses him, too. Not a single St. Patrick’s Day passes without a warm memory of Joe, my favorite Irishman. He had far more of an impact on the young man who took his daughter to prom, more than I think his family ever realized. I’m pretty sure Joe knew, though. God rest ye, Merry Gentleman.