This is a true story except . . . well, you'll find out.
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SINGING FOR SALVATION
SINGING FOR SALVATION
When my little sister and I were in grammar school, either Mom or Dad taught us George M. Cohan’s song “Harrigan” using our name, Callahan, in place of the name, er, Harrigan.
And wouldn’t you know it, one of the Snoop Sisters at school found out about our personal family song (to this day I suspect it was my blabbermouth little sister). If sharp pointers and flying erasers weren’t bad enough, then forcing me to sing “Callahan” to the tune of “Harrigan” in front of the whole class was the ultimate humiliation, degradation, and penance for my massive amount of sins.
I mean, I couldn’t carry a tune in an iPod. I made Lurch sound like Josh Groban. If old George M. had heard me sing, he would have spit up in his Guinness before rolling over in his grave.
Luckily, my blabbermouth sister was a pretty good singer when she wasn’t blabbing. She took the spotlight off me, plus she was something to hang onto when I felt like toppling over from performance anxiety. She would belt out “CALLAHAN!!!” like a pint-size Ethel Merman, while I stood there shaking and squeaking like Spanky’s pal Alfalfa (not to mention that I looked like him too).
Whenever we had a visitor at school, which was usually one of the parish priests who had nothing better to do than bug the piss out of everyone, Cathy and I would have to do our big (and only) number:
C-A-Double L-A, H-A-N spells Callahan!
Proud of all the Irish blood that's in me,
Divil a man can say a word agin me!
C-A-Double L-A, H-A-N you see!
It's a name
that no shame
has ever been connected with,
CALLAHAN, that's ME!
Proud of all the Irish blood that's in me,
Divil a man can say a word agin me!
C-A-Double L-A, H-A-N you see!
It's a name
that no shame
has ever been connected with,
CALLAHAN, that's ME!
One time, we had to sing for the bishop. Not just your ordinary, garden-variety bishop mind you, but Bishop Fulton J. Sheen himself.
You remember him, the fellow in the 1950s who had eyes that could peer straight into your soul and see every filthy corner of it. I have no idea how he did it, but whenever he was staring at you out of the television set his piercing eyes followed you all over the room. You could lie under the carpet, hang out the window by your toes, or swing back and forth on the ceiling light fixture: It didn’t make a damn bit of difference where you tried to hide because he could . . . see . . . you.
This guy was so good that he even scared the crap out of the Protestants.
When the Bishop came to visit our humble St. Agony’s Parish, one of the Snoop Sisters made us sing the stupid song for him. Twice. He stared at us the whole time, just like he did on television, and I had my normal Bishop Fulton J. Sheen reaction: I wet my pants.
But then, when we were finished, he smiled and said we were very good. Well, he told Cathy she was very good, and he gave her a nice holy card of some beheaded saint with her head lying in a wicker basket, bloody-stump-first. “It’s an omen,” I thought bleakly.
About a week later, though, I got a package in the mail. It was a brand-new box of Sunday collection envelopes with my name, “Charles Harrigan”, printed on each one of them, along with this note:
“Please use these instead of your voice and we will all be thankful.”
(I made the last two paragraphs up because I think they’re endearingly and heartwarmingly Catholic.)
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For those who would like to sing along, here's the tune and words. It is mandatory, however, that the name "Callahan" be substitued for "Harrigan." This is the best recording I could find, so you'll also have to turn your speakers UP. It's worth it, though, just so you'll know what I went through. [Thanks to Kim Ayres for the suggestion—the man is always thinking.]