Irish Heart

"Irish Heart, Irish Heart
Broken right from the start
Irish Heart, Irish Heart
Oh, how I miss his Irish Heart."

- chorus from the song: "Irish Heart"

My best friend in the world died of a heart attack when he was only 49 years old. Gerald Fitzgerald and I met because our wives at the time were class mates at the University of Wisconsin, Eau Claire. We recognized our brotherhood instantly.

We did a lot of really fun things together: baseball at Milwaukee County Stadium while Robin Yount, Cecil Cooper, Paul Molitor, and the rest of that great team were causing quite a stir in the state, fishing small mouth bass on too many rivers to recall, hitting Sammy's Pizza just before closing, and sitting on the front porch swing just diddling on our guitars.

Later, after we were both divorced, Gerald wrote this little ditty about one night stands:

"I wish you didn't have to go
I wish you didn't have to go
I wish you didn't have to go
I wish you didn't have to go
But if you really have to go
I wish you wouldn't go so slow."

He had a goofy, loveable sense of humor and he always left me rolling on the floor.

One of our more memorable small mouth/camping trips was on The Red Cedar River, north of Colfax, Wisconsin. That's the trip that Gerald earned the title of "Organized Campground Man".

As it neared darkness and we were about half way to our designated "take out" point, I began pointing out what I thought were likely camping spots, some of them on small islands in the middle of the river.

Gerald did not like that idea. What if it rained and the water came up and flooded the island? He finally picked the spot. A camp ground picnic area right along the river and an adjoining highway. By the time we got the tent assembled and a good cooking fire going, it was really dark.

After supper, I produced a goodly sized bottled of high quality Puerto Rican rum. I had never drunk rum before. Neither had Gerald.

Gerald took a pull on the bottle and I could see from his expression that it burned all the way down. I, in turn, took a pull and it did, indeed, have a bite to it. After several go rounds, I had enough. But now Gerald was saying that it was really quite smooth and mellow.

We sat and watched the fire die to glowing ashes and I listened to Gerald's ability to form words disintegrate. I told him I was going to get inside the tent and get some shut eye as those clouds to the west looked pretty ominous.

Gerald, taking another pull on the bottle, said he would be in shortly.

The next thing I knew rain was coming down hard and Gerald was screaming for me to open the tent flap. He had fallen asleep atop a picnic table when the storm hit. Fortunately the tent held up through the night.

the morning dawned very hot and very humid. Poor Gerald. He could hardly put one foot in front of the other. I packed our rain soaked gear, bailed the canoe, and we set out in the steam bath. Gerald was in front, grasping the sides of the canoe for balance. fishing was the last thing on his mind.

at one point, I pulled the canoe into a little dalles to get out of the scorching bath and Gerald said very quietly: "Now I know what they mean by rum dumb."

Thunder Bay, Ontario. 519.3 miles from Green Bay, Wisconsin. Friday night I open for Jerry Lee Lewis at the beautifully appointed theater down town. Saturday afternoon I am booked to work a Future Farmers of America picnic in Green Bay, masterful planning on my part.

Gerald Fitzgerald lives in an apartment a scant half block from St. Francis Catholic Church in Superior. Superior is a half way point between these two cities on two different Great Lakes.

I call Gerald. I convince him to help me drive this mission. I assure him he will get to meet The Killer back stage.

Gerald and I - brothers in pain, brought together by our now ex-wives .

During his sojourn in Eau Claire, we recognize our mutual unhappily married plight immediately. Our friendship remained the strongest I have ever experienced.

Scooter, a nickname he picked while playing football, hockey, and baseball in high school, is as crazy as I am. The only difference is that I have managed to eke out a living at it. He is a contradictory balance of athlete and artist, a smash mouth word smith.

One night, after watching me slug it out with an inebriated audience, He tells me I am not really sane, not really sorry. If the definition of crazy is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results, we are both, indeed insane.

He dubs his apartment Fort St. Francis. It is a small apartment from which he touches his dearest friends nearly every day by telephone. Gerald is the King of Angst. I still picture him, telephone in hand, pacing the length of his narrow kitchen, continually tugging on his hair.

I know angst is running high when I answer the office phone at 6 AM.

In a high-pitched voice, Gerald starts slowly, then builds to fever pitch:
“Etta. Etta betta. Etta betta, etta betta, etta betta!” It is, I believe, his abstract impression of the nagging wife. I answer back in kind.

Every time he calls he is someone else. He is a Norwegian from Duluth, a gnarly dude from California, an Indian fakir. He never fails to make me laugh to tears.

After his marriage dissolves, all his subsequent women have nicknames. The One Armed Lady, the Weege.

Scooter loves it when I stay a few days at a time at Fort St. Francis. I am his greatest audience. Out comes the mahogany topped Guild guitar, the strings dead with over use, the finish worn completely off the back of the neck of his therapy machine.

In addition to Bob Dylan in a bath robe, I am treated to originals: I'm growin' Tits, I'd Rather Have Zits, Bean, Won't Ya Bring Me Another Beer, and the always popular swinging single's next morning lament: "I Wish You Didn't Have To Go". (see above)

Now we are driving along the Norwegian Riviera, heading north to fame and fortune in Thunder Bay. We make port with plenty of time and make our way back stage to the dressing rooms.

The Killer's back up band is already there, tuning guitars, playing cards. We kick back and wait.

A few hours before show time Jerry Lee's private jet touches down on Canadian soil. Forty five minutes before my slot,The Killer sweeps into the dressing room with his entourage of good old boys.

Their demeanor reminds me of footage I have seen of Elvis and his Yes Men. Jerry Lee's in Canada but he still hasn't landed. He entertains his court with staccato one liners and they amen with forced laughter “That's right, Killer!”

Gerald is seated some distance from me. His eyes catch mine. They tell me he is a little frightened by the spectacle. I retire to a side room to gather myself. Gerald appears unable to leave his chair.

When I return, ready to go, the jabbering is rising in tempo. I check Gerald's eyes again. He looks more than a little frightened now. I am frightened also, but not of the back stage crowd. I have never worked in front of Canadians before.

Except for one, a guest of Darley Pump, Chippewa Falls. Darley forwards a letter received from the gentleman
several days after my show:

“I laughed so hard I pissed myself.”
I tell myself if I can do it to one Canadian, I can do it to 1500.


I doubt there were any urinary accidents, but the response was elating.


Packing my guitar, it is apparent Gerald wants to get the Hell out as quickly as possible. We have to, any way. It is 8:50 PM and Green Bay awaits.

Stepping into the night air, Gerald compares The Killer to Count Dracula. I agree that Jerry Lee's hair and skin color are appropriate.
“Did you know he came in by private jet?" Gerald asks. "I wonder if there is any native Tennessee soil in the casket on the plane.”

Gerald makes me laugh again.



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