I got the name Sheehan from my Irish husband.
On St Patrick’s Day, he played his tin whistle and his harmonica, and I played the keyboard at a restaurant. We each took the day off without pay, but we were so proud of the money in that tip jar – although it was much, much less than our salaries.
Our children did competitive Irish dance. One of their instructors, from Ireland, was a World Champion Irish dancer. She was performing in Las Vegas and also taught. Our girls twirled bounced and smiled.
Our pudgy son, named Sean Patrick Sheehan, had cutoff jeans sewed inside his kilt because his fourth-grade friends didn’t wear kilts. He danced with pursed lips, concentrating on the steps, trying not to macramé his legs. The daughters got the awards, but . . .
