SOUTHIE’S MY HOMETOWN TOO….

Well kind of

I can remember the buzz about the girl who would become my wife, Monica Lydon, in the Executive Offices of the Albany Marriott. She was on vacation when I arrived as a transfer from the Providence Marriott. My friend had met her and asked me to fix him up with her….but that’s another story. “She’s from Southie” they said. I was not sure exactly what that was supposed to mean, I had heard of South Boston and probably found my way to the St Patrick’s Day Parade one drunken year of college….but again, that’s another story.

To me, it was just another suburb of Boston, being an Irishman it intrigued me a bit, but truly was never enamored one way or the other. In a very short time, Monica and I became great friends, sharing Miller Lites (you could drink them then, before the union deal) at Harold’s Pub and finding all of what we had in common. We came from the city, had big Irish Catholic families, both second to the youngest, hung on a street corner, loved music, and knew every word to many songs. We went to Catholic school our entire life, had many nieces and nephews, didn’t like corned beef and cabbage…I could go on, but will spare you.

However, with all we had in common, there was one big difference. I was NOT from Southie. Monica joked that I was from “Worcester” which she just always thought was an exit off the Pike.

Now trust me, I loved my home city and everyone I grew up with, it was where my story began. Listening to Monica however, you would think that South Boston was God’s country, a place like no other, like Oz or Camelot.

Dammit, it was tiring hearing about it and trust me, it would find its way into all conversations.

It would be some time before I ever visited Southie. Monica’s Dad became very ill and our entire drives home only led us to the hospital in downtown Boston. I would leave her and then drive home to Worcester, her heart breaking a little more each visit, my heart breaking for her.

It was during this time that I started to pay a bit more attention to what I heard about Southie. The Irish Mafia, Whitey Bulger, bussing, gangsters, bars and catholic churches on every corner, tough kids, tougher adults. If there was something going on in Southie and the reporters had to be there, you could bet they would find the worst representation of the neighborhood and splash their commentary. I was a huge contradiction to the land Monica had described, I was puzzled. I thought perhaps she was a bit delusional; overcompensating for what was never good.

Yet, Monica never swayed, Southie was her hometown…there was a song that said so…

I always remember the first time I actually had a conversation with my late mother in law Helen, (who was   realizing it was getting serious between Monica and I), she looked me right in the eye and said , “Well, you are not from Southie” , that is a true story!

As serious as we were getting, this part of her life was something I felt I would never want to be part of, we would never have that in common. I remember wondering how Monica’s friends and family would take to a guy from the place where the Centrum was… damn fifty miles to these folks is only done if you are going to the Cape. I wondered if the friends she grew up with, all five thousand of them would like me. How would I get to know them, we lived away from them all.

The first time I ever visited Southie after meeting Monica was sadly the night of her fathers wake. My first impressions were hearing about Monica and her family bringing things over to the Rooney’s house across the street that had burnt that day. I remember meeting my future in laws, seeing friend after friend, politician after politician come to pay their respects to a wonderful man, Lopsey Lydon, a man I never met.

It all seemed very kind, very natural, much like I would see in my own neighborhood. Where were all the gangsters? Where were all the hoodlums from the mean streets of South Boston? Where was all of the madness? Where was the red eyed toothless guy I saw interviewed on channel five? These people seem nothing like the stories I hear about Southie I thought. Guess what?….there were even some Italians!!!!

Since that night, over the last 27 years I have had the privilege to see Southie for what it truly is, a neighborhood filled with great tradition, great pride. A place where the whole town will gather for a “time” to raise money to help someone who is sick, or whose house burnt. A place where people are fiercely protective of not only those they love, but the place they grew up. A place where scally caps, disco and pressed pants never went out of style, where dancing and singing is just part of a night out.    

 

 Southie is a place where friendships, even those from a very young age, still mean something. I had never even heard on an English Pram Carriage until I was walking down Castle Island with one….Kaylen in tow.

Since that night I have had the privilege to call those friends, my friends. We have laughed and cried and shared stories together. We have sang, danced, married, vacationed, raised children and gasp, some even have grandchildren. When my parents and brother passed away, they all fought the traffic and came to pay their respects to Mon, the kids and I. I was genuinely touched by their kindness.

I wish I had the space and time to tell the stories I have heard a hundred times of Monica and her girlfriends from the corner….they may not be funny to you but let me tell you, if you want to hear 50 women scream with laughter…put the crew together. Flying mugs, running in handcuffs, a bar called Triple O’s, a rainy trip to the lake are only some, I could go on but I may get myself in trouble.

So the next time you hear someone talk trash about South Boston, remember these words from an Irish boy from that exit off the pike…Great friends come from great people, great people come from great places!!

So now when the song comes on, I sing it too……Southie’s My Hometown Too..(kinda)!!!