I just found out from my Aunt Jody about the recent passing of Jim Neary—owner of the storied Neary’s Irish pub on East 57th Street in NY. My grandma’s oldest sister, Shirley, lived just up the block from Neary’s and clocked a lot of time at the establishment.
(Aunt Shoo in 1978)
An elegant blond pixie in pink lipstick, Aunt Shirley aka “Shoo,” possessed the sweetest disposition of all three sisters. She never held a job, stayed married to my Uncle Benny for 50 years until he died, and lived alone afterwards in a doorman building on the Upper East Side, long after her vision failed from Glaucoma.
Donning a mink coat and kitten heels, Aunt Shoo click-clacked down East 57th street to Neary’s every night for a scotch on the rocks and a filet mignon. Whenever I visited, she took me there for dinner. Even in her 80s, eyesight failing, she walked with purpose into the lantern lit, stuffy pub. She glided past the mahogany bar and red leather stools like she owned the place. Jim Neary, a Lilliputian man in a dark suit with a puff of grey curls, perhaps to give him more height, rushed over with a big smile to greet her. She encouraged me to get whatever I wanted though I don’t recall the food being award worthy. It certainly wasn’t cheap, but Shirley didn’t patronize Neary’s for the grub. I never saw her take more than one bite of steak. She was like a hummingbird, surviving only on the sweet nectar of malted whisky. The bulk of the filet went home in a bag for the neighbor’s dog.
Then one evening at home, Shoo tripped (possibly on a scotch-soaked ice cube), and broke her hip. According to Grandma, Shirley called the next day after a concerned neighbor found her stranded on the carpet.
“You know that commercial where the old lady is stuck on the floor and yells, ‘I’ve fallen and I can’t get up?’ That’s what happened to me!” Shirley howled with laughter.
Grandma—the youngest sister but always in charge—decided that Shirley’s dolce vita had run its course. As soon as Shirley’s hip healed, Grandma and middle sister, Janice, packed up their oldest sister and set her up in the apartment right under my grandmother’s place in Miami, across the street from Aunt Janice’s condo.
(Aunt Shoo in front. Back row, left to right: Aunt Janice, Great Grandma Immerman, Grandma Muriel)
Aunt Shirley, a life-long and proud card-carrying New Yorker, felt as if she’d died and taken the A Train to Hell. She’d tell anyone who’d listen that she’d been kidnapped and forced to live in Miami against her will. My brother, Chris, witnessed a fight break out at lunch between the three sisters in a crowded Italian restaurant in Miami.
“I hate it here! I miss New York and I want to go back,” Shirley shouted, probably hoping a kindly stranger would overhear and notify the authorities of elder abuse.
Great Aunt Janice aka “The General,” a progressive thinker who wore a red ribbon AIDS awareness pin affixed to the lapel of her men’s style blazers, slammed down her fork-full of veal Parmesan. “Give it a rest, Shirl,” she huffed.
“You’re blind! What could you possibly miss?” Grandma said.
“The smell!” Shirley shouted.
How could they argue? Florida reeked like a festering gym sock. New York smelled like hot candied peanuts and cash. But Shirley lost her battle with the almighty Madame Muriel. She died in Miami in 2000, still dreaming of the city that never sleeps.
In September of that year, Grandma organized a girl’s trip to NY to bury Aunt Shoo’s ashes at the family plot in Queens. There’d be four of us “girls”: Grandma Muriel (mother of Aunt Jody and my dad), Cousin Elizabeth (Jody’s sixteen-year-old daughter), Aunt Jody, and me. The plan was to do a little shopping, maybe see a show, and have a little send-off for Shoo at her old favorite haunt.
To be continued . . .
Once again, brilliant!