My good friend Fran Fitzpatrick has set off on a distant journey with the stars.

Frannie was my family’s auto repair specialist. He knocked out dents and worst on our VW Beetles.

I attended Boston College from 1970 to 1974. His brother Robert taught THE MYSTERIES OF THE HOLY EUCHARIST and at a family gathering Frannie said to me, “My brother’s class will be cancelled if he doesn’t get any students. I guarantee you no less that a B and your first crash is on me.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

The offer of a good grade appealed to several of my less studious friends and six of us signed up in 1973 for the autumn semester, expecting our first class to be our last in attendance, however his brother’s lectures were a study on the transmutation of the flesh and our longhair philosophy melded with his brother’s knowledge.

I recall his departure with his loving wife Ann to the church. It was a happy day for the Menconis. My brother and I might have been the altar boys.

He lived as a good man, a husband, a father, a friend, a great story and also an 18 year-old Coast Guarder whose landing craft was sunk at the Bay of Pigs. Stranded on the beach he felt bad abandoning the Cubans, but fled across southern Cuba to Gitmo. At the entrance he was confronted by a Marine.

“Who are you?”

“I am an American.”

“How do I know that?”

“You ever hear anyone else in the world speak with a Boston Accent.”

“I’m from Revere. Welcome back to America.” The guard opened the gate to a grateful member of the Coast Guard.

At their Christmas Eve parties my favorite time was a short sit-down with Frannie

A son of Ireland.

Slan a fhagail.

Farewell.

Feicfidh me ar ball thu.

See you later

I hope where has a bar. Frannie liked a stiff drink.

We are who we are.

Forever more than ever.