They Called Me Boston

By Patrick Shanahan

They Called Me Boston took me fifty-three years of living an adventurous, courageous, dangerous, reckless, and faith-filled life. From sin to forgiveness, self-will run riot to Thine will be done, this story does not just involve a solo mission of living a full life; it is a testimony that God unconditionally loves his children.

As a child of God, I had to learn the hard way that God knows the best way to live and love life. Through God's unconditional love, extreme guidance, and permitting me to suffer for the sake of his son's name, Jesus the Christ, I give testimony that heaven is accessible here on earth. Only through forgiveness is freedom granted. By surrendering my will and offering my limited self to God, an unlimited and abundant amount of blessings are granted one day at a time.

The resilient nature of our physical bodies allows for an earthly resurrection of our divine spirit. Nerves may be severed, but God can restore balance. Medical interventions and the love from nurses may enhance daily life, but true love from Jesus will grant eternal life; therefore, I trust my allotted days in Jesus's hands.

A bucket list is limited to human self-desires, when you allow God's desires to plan your earthly pilgrimage, his kingdom benefits; your family, friends, and neighbors will be more grateful for the life that you lived.

May They Called Me Boston inspire you to live a life full of God's blessings, and may those blessings be eternal. Gratefully alive, Patrick John Shanahan.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9781098089221

Book preview

Chapter 1

Born and Raised

On September 14, 1967, a young Irish couple named me Patrick Daniel Shanahan, at least that’s what my birth certificate says. My real name is PJ.

The story that my mother recalls is this: Hang in there, just keep breathing! Wootie said. Her aunt Wootie drove her to the front door of Providence Hospital, Holyoke, Massachusetts, in an old Pontiac. As the doors flew open, so did my mother’s womb, just in time for the doctor to unravel my umbilical cord that was wrapped around my neck.

Just keep breathing! my mother prayed.

I was born and raised in a small Irish Catholic town; Holyoke, Massachusetts is in my blood. I was the third son, the prodigal son, the son they wished was a daughter. I was conceived at a party on New Year’s Eve. Thank God my little sister was born two years later. I thought my parents were going to start dressing me up in skirts.

Chapter 2

Historic Holyoke

We were a tight-knit, fun-loving Irish family that did everything together. Jerome Frances Jerry was born on March 22, 1964; Christopher William Chris was born on April 20, 1965; and Laura Ann Buzzer was born on November 28, 1969. We grew up in the highlands of Holyoke in a two-family house on 68 Fairfield Ave. The upstairs apartment was converted into an indoor playground. The hockey room had boarded up windows and linoleum floors so the puck would slide easier. There was a ping pong table in another room, one big bedroom with velvet glow-in-the-dark wallpaper, and a full kitchen, large enough to make plenty of popcorn.

The main house had two floors with wide winding stairs that led to a large open area on the first floor, perfect for skidding out. We drove our mini Budweiser cars down the stairs often. My favorite part of 68 Fairfield Ave was the large backyard with an above ground pool; the laughter from all of the neighborhood kids, splashing around on hot summer days in the early ’70s, still echoes in the highlands of Holyoke. Fairfield Ave is listed in the historic section of Holyoke. It should be listed in the hysterical section.

Many mischievous boys grew up on Fairfield Ave, but my favorite were the six Kane brothers. We played hockey in the streets and football on the narrow islands with the pavement in bounds for painful touchdowns. We shared one pair of skis with boots attached to the bindings and carved a narrow, steep path in the woods behind the Marian center where the nuns lived. At the bottom of the trail, we built a large jump; there was no way of avoiding it. I loved the adrenaline as I flew through the air, but I usually came out of the large boots and tumbled down the rest of the hill. I truly believe the nuns were reciting their rosaries just for us. My favorite was gliding behind moving cars as we held onto their bumpers on snow-covered roads, otherwise known as bumper riding.

My bumper riding career ended abruptly after the Christmas of 1975. My mother bought me new gloves for a present that year with Santa’s name on them. I was holding on tightly to the bumper of a Chevy on a freezing cold day in early January, and when I let go, my gloves froze to the bumper. I watched the Chevy drive away with my new gloves attached to it. When I finally arrived home, my fingers were purple, and my mother was extremely inquisitive. I told her that I lost them somewhere. I learned at an early age that I will never get away with lying.

She packed us kids up to go grocery shopping. As we parked our car and began to exit, the Chevy, with my frozen gloves still attached to its bumper, pulled in next to us.

Hey, those gloves look familiar! my mother yelled. She was into natural consequences that winter; therefore, my fingers remained cold and purple for a few weeks until her conscience got the best of her. That was my first experience learning about God’s great sense of humor.

My second valuable lesson from God came from trying to make up for disrespecting my mother during the winter. On Mother’s Day, my little sister and I decided to steal a flower arrangement from outside of Magri’s neighborhood store and gave it to my mother as a gift. Little did we know, it was a cemetery log. That didn’t go over so well, especially when she knew that we didn’t have any money. Thou shall not steal became my first real sin as a young Irish lad.

Chapter 3

My Only Grandparent

My grandmother Libby used to say, PJ, you are the best kid at a party, but there isn’t a party today. I always thought she was giving me a compliment.

Grandmother Elizabeth Libby Shanahan raised her four sons on Nonotuck street. Her house was close to our neighborhood. My Grandfather Jerome died before I was born. My dad was only eighteen years old when his father died; therefore, I learned about my grandfather by listening to epic stories as we looked at pictures of his life’s accomplishments. He was an amazing baseball player growing up, and he pursued his passion in college. He played third base for Holy Cross College in Worcester, Massachusetts, and was drafted by the St. Louis Browns in 1931.

His greatest accomplishment was marrying Elizabeth Mannix. My grandmother lived in Worcester, Massachusetts, and her father owned a restaurant. My great-grandfather Cornelius Mannix named his restaurant Mannix and Jones. The Holy Cross baseball team used to eat there in the 1930s. Before Jerome graduated in 1931, he met my beautiful grandmother Libby while she was working there. They fell in love, a love that blessed them with four loving boys. Neal was the oldest; then my father, Jerome Jogger, a couple years younger; William Billy; and the youngest, Daniel Danny.

When I was growing up, Neal moved to Alaska as a volunteer for the domestic Peace Corp that was launched by President John F. Kennedy. He taught and learned in coastal Eskimo villages along the Yukon River. It was in Gambell, Alaska, on the St. Lawrence island, west of mainland Alaska in the Bering Sea, that native villagers trusted my uncle Neal to hunt whales with them; they hunted back then in the traditional way, by hand, in handmade boats with seal skin stretched over whalebone. My favorite gift from Alaska was our whale-skin toboggan. It was the fastest sled in the highlands. Neal also developed a curriculum in schools that helped identify and teach children affected by alcoholism. He met his wife, Kathy, in Alaska and was blessed with two sons, Lee and Jeremy.

Danny truly fascinated me with his singing, poetry, and meditation. He would come and go, leaving me with stories to ponder on from his trips to Alaska and living in an ashram in India. He eventually settled down when he married his soulmate, Carla, who is a professional singer. Their combined voices bless all who can hear.

Uncle Billy lives in Holyoke and is always a blessing to be around. Uncle Billy married Mary, blessed with three kids, Kara, Owen, and Andy. We are all blessed to be Shanahans.

Chapter 4

Early Days and Mischievous Ways

The elementary school we attended was called Highland School. We walked or rode our bikes to school, depending on the weather. It was the only school that all four of us attended at the same time. We moved from Fairfield Ave to Bemis Heights after my fifth grade year.

There were many changes to adjust to at that stage in my life, but the blessing was going to a new school called E. N. White. I walked to school with my new neighbors and met some of my best friends for life; Macker, the Lavelle brothers, and Beaker all lived in the nearby neighborhoods. We developed lifelong relationships, and I’m truly grateful for them.

The most significant adjustment was when my mother started working. My mother’s father, Larry, owned a liquor store, and she inherited the business after he died young. During the Fairfield Ave days of growing up, my father ran the store while my mother stayed home with us. After our move, she decided to take over the store, and my father became a wine salesman. They were constantly working. Thank God for Sundays.

The one constant in the Shanahan family was Sunday Mass at Holy Cross Church. I truly looked forward to attending church as a family. We all sat together in a long wooden pew. Many other families from the Highlands attended the same Mass, including our good friends, the Pappy brothers. I loved seeing all of our Christian friends. It was Holyoke Highlands in its finest hour.

Holy Cross was my sanctuary. I was baptized there, made my first communion, and was confirmed to Catholicism within the beautiful old stone church. It was safe to confess my childhood sins at Holy Cross; there were plenty of opportunities to sin growing up in the Highlands of Holyoke, at least for this mischievous Irish lad. My favorite part of Catholicism is forgiveness. Go and sin no more, Jesus said. I tried to obey his demand, but unfortunately, I took it as a suggestion some days.

My mischievous behaviors took on greater risks in my teenage years. Sports became secondary as I began partying in the woods of Holyoke. On the weekends, there was always a keg party to attend in the nearby reservoir at the bottom of Mt. Tom. At the age of fourteen, a few friends and I built a fort near the Upper Tee slope on the Mt. Tom ski area. Our fort was large enough for six people; it had a fireplace made out of stones and a little chimney from an old pipe we dragged up on the mountain. The fort looked like a bunch of broken pine branches that had fallen on top of each other. We marked a tree near the top of the trail so we could ski to our fort. When our local ski mountain opened during the winter months, we had our own sanctuary to hide out and party.

The Mt. Tom ski area was dear to my heart. The owner, Jimmy Joe O’Connell, introduced my father to my mother when they were teenagers. The ski mountain was a favorite for many families but especially for us, Shanahans. It was open day and night; therefore, our parents used to drop us off early morning on the weekends and pick us up later at night. That was until we started driving. Then the shenanigans really began.

The mountain closed at 10:00 p.m., and lights were shut off by 10:30 p.m. My favorite times were hiding in our fort until the lights were off, then we would ski down the mountain in complete darkness. A few epic full moons are still radiant in my heart’s memory.

With older brothers driving, it allowed this little brother more time to adventure around the city. They would drive me around with their friends and bring me to parties on the other side of Holyoke. Then it was validated that all of Holyoke liked to party. But the greatest party of all was our famous St. Patrick’s weekend.

The Saturday after March 17 was Holyoke’s St. Patrick’s road race, a ten-kilometer that worked its way from downtown up and around Holyoke Community College, past the Holyoke Soldiers Home, and the finish line was in front of St. Patrick’s Chapel. Many champion runners, avid runners, and amateur joggers ran the course as the majority of Holyoke partied on the sidelines cheering them on. One and done, I ran it one year and wore high-top green chucks, thinking I was cool; I lost three toenails that race. On Sunday, Holyoke’s doors were opened as all families convened for our famous St. Patrick’s parade. It didn’t matter what side of town you were from; we