Mr. McChrystal's Bagpipes

Every St. Patrick's Day, I remember my next door neighborhood. His name was Mr. McCrystal and he practiced on his bagpipes, every day. On St. Patrick's Day, I watched him in the parade, wearing his kilt and playing his bagpipes. He was a sweet man and that was my first introduction into the world of bagpipes. I am sure that he is up in heaven entertaining God and everyone else!

This was my homage to him, published in 2014...

With the approaching of St. Patrick’s Day, I started to think about my old grade school, in Cleveland Ohio. St. Patrick’s was an old Irish parish located on the West Side of Cleveland, not too far from the downtown area.

The Church was old and beautiful and still exists today. A few years ago my oldest daughter got married in that church. The church hasn’t changed and looked exactly like I remembered when I was in grade school in the 50s and 60s. The school is no longer behind the church.

I especially remembered St. Patrick’s feast day. That was the day that everyone became Irish. That included my full blooded, 100% Italian family, which the pastor dubbed as the O’Aiello family. During the St. Patrick’s Day Mass, everyone sang the religious song, Faith of Our Fathers normally. But everyone belted out the hymn All Praise to St. Patrick! Our voices and the organ filled our cavernous church.

Then afterwards, we lined up on the curb of the street in front of our church and enjoyed the Irish band blowing loudly on their bagpipes. In the parade was my neighbor, who lived in the apartment across from us. Mr. McChrystal walked by and I waved and shouted out his name. I could see his twinkly blue eyes and a small smile appear.

I didn’t know Mr. McChrystal that well but we would always greet one another. He was a slender short man with white hair, blue eyes and an Irish brogue. I would listen to him practice on his bagpipes in the afternoons. They were loud and cool and no one ever complained.

Now, there he was walking with the other bagpipers, playing an Irish song.

It has been a long time since I thought of Mr. McChrystal. He has been dead for over 50 years. But I remember his brogue and smile and playing the bagpipes. Mr. McChrysatl was the first musician I ever met. He was also the first man I ever met who wore a skirt – or rather a kilt.

I still remember how sweet he looked in his kilt and hat, and the plaid scarf wrapped and pinned to his shoulder. But I also remember how cute his knees looked, when the wind whipped up his kilt.