Unlike many people, I have no idea where I was on November 22nd, 1963. Being only 13/4 at the time, the news from Dallas couldn't mean much to me, but my mind would have been otherwise occupied, anyway. I'd just acquired a baby brother, for one thing, and I was probably hatching an assassination plot of my own.
I'll always remember where I was exactly 36 years later, though. The day was only half an hour old last year when I found myself in Holles Street Hospital hearing the oddly familiar message "it's a boy!" and hoping that his older sister would take the news like the mature, well-balanced 16-month-old she was. I was also thinking that my son could have picked a more auspicious date for being born. But it struck me that at least his birthdays would brighten up November, a month which was crying out for something.
His first one was on Wednesday, and it was a proud occasion for everyone. Including Roisin, who took a while to accept the newcomer and until recently was still hoping we'd put him out at night like the neighbour's cat. But thanks to frequent interventions by the parental Rapid Reaction Force, the baby survived the year in one piece and his sister now loves him very, very much, or so we tell her at every opportunity.
As you'll know if you've had or been one, parents can neglect the second child. This was a particular risk for me because Patrick was a voracious breast-feeder, who from birth was more or less permanently attached to his mother, surfacing every couple of days only to burp.
But I needn't have worried. From the first moment I saw his face (he was eight months old by then), I marvelled at what a handsome little devil he'd turned out; and since then I've developed feelings for him that, frankly, I never thought I'd have for a guy. I don't want to exaggerate his intelligence either, but he's already pointing at things and putting names on them: for example "Gack!" which means either "sofa", or "father," or "excuse me for throwing up".
Of course, being a boy, he's already rebelling against his old man, and he's developed one downright annoying habit.
What happens is this: you're relaxing of an evening, watching a vital football match of the kind that only occurs four nights a week at most. The children are playing happily on the mat, as in a Norman Rockwell painting. The remote control is by your side, the cushion in just the right place behind your back, and the game is getting interesting; when the baby has an idea.
His idea is to turn the television off. It's the best idea he's had since the last time he thought of it, five minutes ago, and he's excited by the plan, panting as he speed-crawls over to the set. You know you can't stop him without getting up, but you still try. Summoning every ounce of parental authority you have (not much, when you're lounging on a sofa) you say: "PATRICK! DO NOT TURN OFF THE TELEVISION!" But he does, just as Zinedine Zidane is taking a free kick on the edge of the penalty area; and then he turns around (the baby, not Zidane) and smiles like he knows he's bad.
Sometimes Roisin, who remains loyal to the leadership despite everything, will see her father's plight and turn it back on. This is no use, unfortunately, because it's a signal for the nightly television-button chess game to commence.
There are only two possible moves in this game, but Patrick gets a bigger kick out of it than anything except breast-feeding: laughing repeatedly (he'd slap his thigh if he could) at the obviousness of his sister's "On" gambit and countering with his surprise "Off" tactic, over and over again. On a good night, it can be ages before they agree a draw, and by then you've probably fallen asleep on the sofa.
BUT speaking of November 1963. From a correspondent in Harvard, via Irish Times reader Eileen Humphreys, I received an alarming e-mail concerning the alleged "curse" applied to William Henry Harrison when he defeated the Indian leader Tecumsah in the Battle of Tippecanoe in 1811. The legend goes that Tecumsah's brother, known as The Prophet, predicted that Harrison, were he ever to become president, would die in office. And that, furthermore, so would every president elected at 20 year intervals thereafter.
An unlikely story, you're thinking, and I don't blame you. But now - excuse me while I cue the X-Files music - consider the evidence. Harrison is elected in 1840 and is dead within two weeks! Read on. Elected in 1860: Lincoln (assassinated); 1880: Garfield (assassinated); 1900: McKinley (assassinated); 1920: Harding (died in office); 1940: Roosevelt (died in office); 1960: Kennedy (assassinated); 1980: Reagan (almost assassinated); 2000: ???!!!
The Harvard man stresses the importance of a "control group" in any study and in this respect notes that of all the other presidents, only one (Taylor) died in office. Thus: "Mortality rate of cursed presidents: 7/8 = 87.5 per cent; mortality rate of all other presidents: 1-/34 = 2.9 per cent." A Republican, the correspondent suggests Gore supporters who value their man's well-being should urge him to concede, and concludes: "For my part, I look forward to the Cheney administration".
Of course that was before last Wednesday, when Cheney suffered a mild heart attack. Which suggests that even ancient Indian curses are getting confused by the goings-on in Florida.
