Meeting McCourt

Photo: Stony Brook University

Photo: Limerick Leader

Photo: Simon & Schuster

Last fall I posted a piece about my chance meeting with the prolific Australian author Thomas Kenealy.  My daughter Zoe reminded me recently of another memorable encounter with a famous writer—one that left a lasting impression on her and on me. I can’t recall exactly why, but when she was 10 and her brother 8, my wife and I decided an interesting twist on our summer vacation in Europe would be to travel by ship. We sailed eastbound from New York on the QE2. The whole trip was glorious.

My daughter recalled how we had taken her and her brother repeatedly to the formal dining room of our club at home so they could practice for five consecutive nights of formal, five-course dinners.

But I’m straying from my mission here. When we boarded the ship, we learned that several famous authors were traveling with us, and each would be reading from his work and discussing it with any interested passengers. I recall meeting the prolific mystery writer Mary Higgins Clark, but having no interest in her genre. The author my wife and I were very excited to hear was the Irishman Frank McCourt, whose novel, Angela’s Ashes, we had both loved.

McCourt did not disappoint.  He was a charmer and a natural storyteller. He was entertaining in the setting of his formal presentations and, with his American wife, approachable and friendly throughout the voyage. He screened the movie version of his book that had just been released, which proved a welcome change for Allie and me from the other evening entertainment options offered.

Our family left the ship at Southhampton and traveled on to Edinburgh to visit relatives. A week later we returned to London. One morning as we ventured out on a blustery day, the four of us popped into a tiny patisserie in Knightsbridge to get something warm to drink. There were only two tables in the place and both were empty. We ordered and sat at one. Before our coffee and chocolate had arrived, in walked Mr. and Mrs. McCourt, who promptly sat at the other table. We all had a laugh and proceeded to spend the next hour together. 

He was very generous with his time and wit. He regaled my children with stories of his impoverished childhood and told them they had no idea how lucky they were to be spared the kind of life he had known. He stressed to Zoe and Eli the value of travel and how thankful they should be for the experiences we were all sharing. He did all this in his unmistakable Irish accent—chatting with him was like reading his books! 

We left with great memories and an admonition to never take our own good fortunes for granted. I will always remember his warmth and the seriousness with which he told his stories. He wrote them the same way. He believed it almost a duty to tell the stories—no doubt a tad embellished—of growing up poor and escaping (returning, in fact, to his place of birth) to a new life in America. 

Our time with Frank McCourt became the most memorable highlight of a wonderful summer vacation. He passed much too young. I‘m sure he must have had many more stories he wanted to tell.