Beyond the joy of encountering Mr. McCourt through his words, I was lucky enough to cross paths with him many other times and in many other contexts. Before he was published he taught my 6th grade class just outside NYC as a favor to his friend, my english teacher at the time. i recall falling instantly in love with him along with the rest of my class as he sat at our level telling stories and making us think we weren't "learning" a thing.
I read his books as they appeared with the kind of pride one would feel if a relative was published-i think that was part of his power, to make everyone feel that he had let them into his story.
I was blessed to have him as my highschool commencement speaker, perhaps the only redeeming part of an otherwise hellish day, it was pouring and cold, everyone was miserable, we sat in the rain, and he stepped up to the covered podium and said softly into the mic: 'welcome to ireland' and proceeded to tell more stories, dissapointing the intellectuals but thrilling and inspiring the students he was meant to be ushering into the world.
Later i attended writing workshops and readings he gave in my hometown of Southampton, NY and when i went on my first trip to ireland I unable to keep his voice from narrating the country as i experienced it. And then on our last evening in the country, i stepped into a tiny restaurant in the tiny town of adare, limerick and in a scene even a B-side summer movie couldnt pull off convincingly, there was Mr. McCourt, eating his dinner with friends.
I went right up to him and after listing the many ways we had met in the past I'm surprised he didnt call security but instead he just listened with his typical twinkle, clasped my hands and hoped he'd see me soon.
Mr. McCourt, you said your life had the second act that F. Scott Fitzgerald swore did not exist. Like all great stories of triumph, i wish that act had been longer.
May your third, wherever it is set, be just as triumphant.
Read other comments from his former students and more about McCourt, here.
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