Dear Editor:
Although our nose still stings from the sucker punch we received last fall, the Hoboken Saint Patrick’s Day Parade will nevertheless march on, proudly beside our toothless skyline. And there’s sure to be quite a motley crew of characters that only Hoboken could provide. One of them has been named “Irishman of the Year 2002” and if you haven’t met him yet, let me humbly introduce you to a man I am very honored to know.
The first time I noticed Donald “Red” Barrett, he was sitting alone listening to his walkman at the late, great Finn MacCool’s Pub on Hudson Street. This silver-haired gentleman wore a faded scarlet dinner jacket with a Sacred Heart of Jesus brooch pinned to his lapel. At first, I took him for a somber religious man, perhaps listening to hymns after his failed attempt to sell a bible to the bartender. However upon closer inspection, the shirt he wore under his jacket was a flesh-colored novelty T-shirt of a nude body-builder’s torso. This odd character’s multi-dimensional style was too much to take in all at once.
I ordered another cocktail and went back to leafing through my magazine. Yet the sublime strangeness of his outfit kept my eyes wandering back to him. He was like a maraschino cherry on a cocktail sword: A silly sight that filled me with a child-like delight. What intrigued me most was the gentle and serene smile he had on his face as he sipped his gin and listened to his music. His eyes were glazed over as if lost in a special private moment. I found myself window peeping in on his daydream, envisioning him ballroom dancing on a candlelit terrace with Grace Kelly. Her gown was royal blue taffeta. He wore an ensemble from the Red Skelton Clown Suit Collection. The music was sultry, their footwork smooth, and they both seemed very happy. I closed my eyes to clear the sappy image from my head. When I opened them, I noticed he was grinning at me. I smiled back, and our friendship began. (As it turned out, he was listening to his favorite vocalist Vera Lynn croon a melancholy version of Auf Wiedersehen. Same dance, same candlelit terrace, no clown costume.)
Within a few short years, I have gotten to know Red through the magical green backpack he carries with him wherever he goes. Much like Mary Poppins’ suitcase, this bottomless backpack contains a plethora of photos, newspaper clippings, humorous birthday cards from years gone by, menus from favorite restaurants, poetry, letters, catalogs; all documenting a lifetime of memories. And as I sit along for the ride, it is not hard to be utterly charmed, as he tells each story with pride, humor and passion. Yet what really makes Red tick is his love of music. Crack open this man’s head and you’ll find a miniature Lawrence Welk orchestra nestled in between his ears. Nostalgic and sometimes obscure, his diverse taste in music never ceases to amaze me. His pristine album collection contains everything from the Ink Spots to Herb Albert and the Tijuana Brass. However, recently I discovered his collected works were deficient in Rock & Roll, having only owned a 45 of the Plates Great Pretender. I decided to make him an essential Beatles tape. As I presented it to him, I told him how lucky he was to be hearing their music for the first time. And how surprised he would be to discover how many songs he probably already knew.
I was excited and thrilled for him. He thanked me and tucked the tape away in his backpack. Then with equal enthusiasm, he pulled out a tape he had made for me. It was the best of The Mummers. A supposed legendary 100-piece string band that marches every year in Philadelphia, wearing elaborate, multi-colored feather costumes. Playing songs like The Battle Hymn of the Republic and Tick-Tock Polka. He showed me a tattered-yellowed program of when he saw them in 1979. Now unlike the “Lads from Liverpool,” these “Fellows from Philly” had no screaming teenage girls on the sidelines. But you can bet Red was there, cheering through his rolled up program as they de-boarded their show bus in all their feathered glory.
For creative inspiration, I have two photos of Red hanging by my writing desk. In one picture he is dressed in drag for Halloween, complete with gloves and a long strand of pearls, bearing a striking resemblance to Barbara Stanwyck. In the other, he is simply wearing his Saint Patrick’s day attire from the 2001 parade. Plaid slacks, green shoes, Shamrocks on his tam, a green Garfield T-shirt over a bulky Irish sweater. Strapped over his shoulder is a boombox that was, without a doubt, blasting some rowdy Irish drinking song. His grin stretching from Hoboken to Dublin.
This year, the city of Hoboken will certainly get their money’s worth for choosing Donald “Red” Barrett as Irishman of the Year. And on March 2 be sure to search for this marvelous character as he proudly marches down the green line on Washington Street. He’ll be the one carrying an old friend’s shillelagh as he drives the snakes out of our post-September 11th hearts.
Michelle O’Keefe