Choose.

I've long wrestled with conflicting emotions when confronted with the surreal tableau of images, stories, and memories from 14 years ago.  In the days and weeks that followed, sadness and confusion reigned.  Eventually, a boiling anger frothed to the surface, coupled with distrust, suspicion, and distrust for anyone in a hijab, turban, or outwardly Muslim in appearance.  At the same time, I cloyingly struggled to extract the hope and relief that lurked deep within my mind, trying to dispel the vile cocktail of negative emotions that stirred each time I thought of the despicable acts that befell our country on 9/11/01.

With each passing year, however, my resolve grows stronger, and the benefit of perspective helps me to realize anew how blessed and lucky I was that day, and every day.  I cry each year on 9/11, but the tears are often tears of joy, pride, and gratitude.  I'm grateful for the tireless and selfless sacrifice of both the first responders, as well as the members of our armed forces who dedicate their lives to the protection of our freedom.  I'm proud of the countless stories of acts of heroism, large and small, that dot the landscape every year on this date (personal favorites include the story of Boston College alum Welles Crowther, aka the man in the red bandanna, and this year's story of Bretagne, the last living rescue dog who worked at the WTC site after 9/11).  And most of all, perhaps selfishly, I'm joyful that the life of my sister was spared.  

Choice is a wonderful thing, derived from the freedom we are afforded by living in this great country.  I choose to allow myself to feel, and to heal.  I choose to remember how much love and support I've received from family and friends.  I choose to believe that, while organizations like Al-Qaeda and ISIS/ISIL represent the worst in humanity, they are the exception, and not the rule.  I choose to believe in the overwhelming good in society, and the overall virtue of humanity.  I choose to be thankful that this path has led me to the place I am today, on the cusp of marrying the woman that I love.  What do you choose?

A Belated Thank You, 6 Years Later

At this point, I know enough to know that I know very little.  And years ago, when I thought I had it all figured out, I didn't know a damn thing.  But what I can tell you is that at times my world has been falling to pieces rather than falling into place, at least in my own mind, and the more time spent reflecting on those times, the more I realize what a debt of gratitude I owe to the people who buoyed me during moments of sadness, self-flagellation, and what I find to be retrospectively hilarious angst.  This note goes out to one such person in particular, my friend Lauren.

In the summer of 2007, I found myself newly single for the first time in over three years.  While the dissolution of that romantic entaglement was the right decision, I didn't prepare myself for how I felt in the aftermath.  There was a sense of liberty and relief, to be sure, but also an acute understanding that I was now alone.  All those small things to which I'd become blissfully accustomed - having someone to check in with, go out to dinner with, hold hands with - vanished when I walked out that door.  Friends told me instantly they were "glad to have me back", but most weren't allowed to see my private moments of self-doubt.  Again, it seems ridiculous to me in hindsight, but at 25 years old, I was questioning how in the world I would ever find a person capable of loving me.  

Lauren and I never fell in love.  But she did show me a future brighter than I fathomed existed at that point.  We met through a mutual friend, and after one hilariously hapless instance when I walked her to a cab that first night (you'll have to ask me in person for the full story), I screwed up the courage to ask her out, and she mustered up the idiocy to say yes.  After a series of premature and presumptuous romantic overtures on my part, including a mixed CD (this actually happened...in the last 6 years...awesome), it became clear that we were not destined for romantic glory.  That didn't stop us from building great memories, however, including dancing to Frank Sinatra in my studio apartment, me tumbling ass over teakettle trying to hurdle the net during while playing tennis with her, and the night she wore her tights (you'll have to ask HER for that story).  

What I know now is that I feel indebted to Lauren.  In an odd way, she somehow managed to make me feel handsome, smart, and desirable all while we veered further into the platonic.  She made me feel valued, and she still does.  This overdue thank you is a small way of me telling her how much I value her too.  

Mr. and Mrs. Peter and Megan Mulheran

Another Megan?  Real original, Pete...

These were my first thoughts as I stepped out of the oppressive heat of a Boston summer day into the infamous Sail Loft, a creaky ramshackle dive protruding into the waters of Boston Harbor.  Cousin Pete had circled back into town for another visit, and had brought his new girlfriend Megan Williams along for the frivolity sure to ensue.  While I didn't know at the time that this cute little brunette was to become Pete's wife, it was hard to miss how instantly smitten he was with her.  

Soon after moving back to the Twin Cities, I started to spend more and more time with the two of them, and my life has been immeasurably better for it.  Megan instantly became a fixture at Mulheran family functions, and it felt like she was destined to be there all along, while Pete became a fixture on my speed dial (do people still have speed dial?  I'm sticking with it, you get the point).  

One of the first times I felt I had truly come home was that first Christmas back in Minnesota, when I found myself at McCoy's Bar and Grill with Pete and Megan, as well as a few other assorted family members and friends.  Surely an innocuous event from their perspective, we all piled into my car with no discussion, invitation, or pretense after dinner with the family.  That tacit sense of belonging, and the welcoming nature they have always shown me throughout their relationship has made me incredibly lucky and proud to call Megan and Pete both friends and family.  (Side note: this was also when Megan discovered that I owned music by Nelly on my iPod, and has excitedly requested I play it every single time she has been in my car since...)

As we celebrated their marriage this past Saturday, I could only fathom the feelings they were experiencing, as this outpouring of love from almost 300 revelers left broad smiles permanently etched on each of their faces throughout the afternoon and into the cool, gray evening.  Megan and Pete, I am ecstatic the two of you have found each other, and want to thank you for being such great friends.   

Uncle Paul

While groggily thumbing through my email on Monday morning, rapidly deleting the growing daily dose of deals, sales, and minutiae that commerce foists upon me, I paused at a pair of messages that had popped in from each of my parents.  The bulk of email from my mom used to be of the "pass this on to 8 friends for good luck!!!!" ilk, and my dad's still veer towards "Obama is evil, democrats are evil, the sky is falling", but each subject line mentioned Uncle Paul.  Not me.  My Uncle.  Dad's little bro.  As it turns out, Monday was the 40th anniversary of his far-too-precocious voyage to heaven at age 16.

Paul David Mulheran was born in 1957, between John and Peter.  Beyond that, I can't tell you much about the guy.  I've heard he was clever, affable, and gentle of heart.  But that's about all I know.  What I can share, however, is that I find myself disappointed that I never had the opportunity to meet him, and imbued with an onrush of emotions when I read my dad's anguished words about how hard it was to lose him, and how that pain and sadness never really ebbed.  

That evening, weary from a long day of travel and work, I sank into a couch cushion and lazily thumbed through my phone, perusing still more emails.  My sister, Mary, who should really have a blog herself (and can you sing on blogs?), had penned a beautiful missive to our dad, noting that many of the characteristics he had used to describe Uncle Paul are traits she sees in her baby brother.  Maybe, she  opined, this was God's way of giving Dad more time with his little brother.  Besides being overwhelmingly flattered (and seriously, my ego is healthy enough already...), I consider it a tremendous honor to be the subject of such a comparison; I hope that it's not only valid, but that it provides my dad joy, comfort, and pride. 

For a little over 10 years now, I've also answered to the name Uncle Paul, as my siblings have brought six fantastic boys into the world.  They were a driving force behind my decision to move home to Minnesota, and I'm overjoyed that I get to spend time with all of them.  It's a name I bear with great pride as a homage to the past, and it makes me happy to be a living embodiment of some of my father's memories of his brother, Paul.  As I told my dad, the only comparison more flattering would be if I reminded him of himself.

Mary Rocheford Mulheran, Matriarch

As I said in my Facebook post, I lack the words, but per usual, I'm going to fight through my inevitable shortcomings. My last living grandparent, Mary Rocheford Mulheran, received the sacrament of the sick (last rights) this evening from Father Bob Schwartz. Grandma celebrated her 92nd birthday in July of this year, and the bluntest way to describe her is likely both the most and least appropriate; she kicks ass.

She may quibble with the lack of social decorum tied to that terse description, but I have a hard time summoning a more apropos description of the revered matriarch of the Mulheran rabble. Born in 1920, she has lived through some of the greatest and leanest years in the brief history of our land, experiencing the lows of the depression mixed with the stunning achievements of the "greatest generation" and the onslaught of technological advancement that evolves by the week, day, and hour, if not minute and second. She has endured the crushing pain of losing both a son (my namesake, Paul David) and a husband, as well as a grandchild, siblings, and most (if not all) of her friends. Through such immeasurable pain and strife, she has remained the vibrant heartbeat of our extended family.

If you spoke with all of those who were close to Grandma, especially those in my immediate family, you'd be treated to an infinite number of varying stories that all found their way back to the essence of my dear Grandma. She was stylish. Charming. Witty. A fantastic golfer (I think she could probably take me in match play if we teed 'em up tomorrow). Immensely thoughtful and generous in every facet of both words. God, how do I even begin to tell you how great she was? I suppose the clearest way is that she's secured herself a helluva place (and I suppose that terminology is ironic) with our Maker up there in the great beyond.

As Grandma has made her way through her early 90's, conversations have veered into more difficult territory. She often repeats herself, and asks the same questions several times within a short conversation. This great lady with a sharp mind has little to no short term memory, and will carry on a circular conversation with you if you don't steer her in varied directions. Despite that, she remains a wealth of information, and an endless source of ties to my un-studied ancestry. I find comfort in her stories of her sister making clothes for her (Grandma will always be a better dresser than me, regrardless of how snazzy I think I look. And I think she'd like that I used the word "snazzy".), tales of her incorrigible baby brother, Paul, and other scattered memories painted across the landscape of a life worth more than I could possibly accomplish in five lifetimes. As her sharp wit begins to fail her, the ties to both a recent and distant past tell the enduring story of a life spent building a meaningful and lasting legacy.

I'm visiting Grandma tomorrow, which I guess is now today. I'm scared that I'll break down and sob in front of her, or that I won't know what to say, do, think, feel...but mostly, I'm overjoyed that she gets to reunite with Grandpa Joe, Uncle Paul, and with God. I suck at dealing with death and loss, but as a dear friend reminded me tonight, she's with me and the rest of our family wherever we go, and through all that we do in our lives. Beyond, that, I'm looking forward to holding her hand, telling her stories, listening to her tell stories to me, and catching a glimpse of that wry, knowing smile that I'll never forget.

I love you, Grandma.

More Wine, Please

It started with wine. Chianti, to be precise. My dad, in his own inimitable way, ceremoniously announced over the cacophony of a Mulheran (+McNiff) Thanksgiving dinner that he should probably open up said bottle of Chianti, because he and my mom had decided to take us to the Amalfi Coast of Italy to help celebrate their 40th anniversary together. Still reeling from my third heaping plate of turkey, mashed potatoes, and the like, I think I was too dumbfounded to respond with anything other than a garbled, "are you serious?!?!" While the immediate reaction was not what I think my parents hoped or expected (instead of incredulity and adulation, they mostly encountered panicked inquiries about logistics), when it sank in, I'd venture to say that everyone was pretty damn fired up about the opportunity to go somewhere rather far removed from our suburban Minneapolis ennui.


An excited buzz pulsed through the family as we made the trek through Charles De Gaulle airport in Paris (note: French people suck as much as I thought they would...which is to say, a lot) to Naples, Italy. Despite the minor snafu of Colleen and I not really sleeping on the flights (hey Dad, thanks for the Ambien...), and the major snafu of Dan and Katy's luggage not arriving due to the ineptitude of the curbside check-in guy with more consonants in his name than teeth in his mouth, we arrived at a destination of inescapable splendor.


If you've never been to that part of the world, I really can't describe to you the fascinating beauty at every turn. I know that sounds douchey and elitist, and I'm sort of sorry, but not really. And I'm also sorry that, despite my inadequate words, I'm still going to try to set the scene. The entire coast is a rugged series of cliffs, hills, and fjords. Yes, fjords. At least one of them. Mashed into the side of this craggy landscape are a series of small villages and towns, tumbling down the hillsides to the lapping azure shores of the Mediterranean (or, specifically, the Tyrrhenian Sea). Most of the bare land has been cleverly tiered into rows of olive trees or lemon trees, with breathtaking villas, piazzas, and an unbridled tourist economy filling the towns. One of the aforementioned villas played host to our family for the week, and it's hard for me to imaging staying anywhere more spectacular (or somewhere that required the climbing of more stairs. Yeesh.).


If you have preconceived notions about what my family and I did while there, you're probably pretty spot on. We ate like royalty and drank wine as though we'd never get the chance to do so again. We wandered romantic paths and roads through eclectic shopping districts, churches, and villas, lazily pawing at melty gelato with a tiny plastic spoon. We sunned ourselves while touring the coastline by boat, stopping to leap into the glistening salty abyss. Some of us, despite my mom's vehement protestations, leapt with abandon off our rocky poolside platform into the churning waters of the Mediterranean, some 30-40 feet below. However high it was, there was enough time to think, "holy shit, I'm still in the air".


As a complete change of pace, we also visited Pompeii, which was destroyed (and somewhat ironically, preserved) by an eruption of Mount Vesuvius in 79 AD. The size and scope of the place was pretty overwhelming, and the advances they had already made 2000 years ago were pretty astounding. The ruins included advanced sewage systems, crumbling frescoes left and right, a brothel, which I of course found amusing to no end, and a couple of outdoor amphitheaters with stunning acoustics.


I buried the lede. I always do that. Lost in my loquaciousness is the real reason for all of this, one that I attempted to drunkenly acknowledge one night after about my 600th glass of Amarone. Dan and Carol Mulheran, my parents, celebrated forty years of their lives together. Their desire and willingness to bring me (and the rest of the idiots) with them for such an amazing experience is certainly something that I'll never forget, but the far greater privilege in my life has been to see them, know them, and love them every day for my 30 years on earth. They'll both give me some version of "aw shucks" or "you know, we're not perfect" when they read this, but I can't think of a better way to spend my life than how the two of them have managed to spend theirs, and I'm imbued with a great sense of personal responsibility to live up to the lofty standard they have set; in part because I feel that I owe them my best effort in this life, but mostly because I can't think of anyone I'd rather emulate. Mom and Dad, thanks for staying the course through the rest of this rambling entry to arrive at the main point. I love you both, thank you so much for both an amazing trip and all that you both embody.


And now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go pour myself a glass of wine.

My story of 9/11

Every year as the anniversary of September 11^th approaches, I am filled with apprehension about how I will feel.  Will I be sad? Angry? Or will I, as time passes, be numbed by the distance time creates and begin to feel…nothing?  They say time heals all wounds, and the saying does apply to me as it relates to the events some 11 years ago.  But healing and forgetting are two different things, and as each year passes, I become more and more steadfast to never forget.

Many people have asked to hear about my experience that day and I am happy to share, as well as relay some of the lessons I have learned.  I was a week shy of my 24^th birthday and headed to New York for 3 weeks of training.  I would like to keep this brief and tell you that what happened in a nutshell was:  I arrived for training on the 9^th.  On the morning of September 11^th, I was in training at 7:30, took a break at 8:45, one minute before the North Tower was hit, and began evacuating down the stairwell from the 61^st floor a few minutes later.  At 9:03am the South Tower, my tower, was hit, the plane crashing into the 78^th floor creating a hole between the 78^th and 84^th floors.  I walked down 61 flights of stairs with thousands of others, drenched in jet fuel, and sure, for the first time in my life, that my life was over.  I prayed.  I prayed for forgiveness for my sins and for blessings on all those I was going to leave behind.  The slow trek down the stairs took 45 minutes.  I made it out about 10 minutes before the tower collapsed at 9:59.  The remainder of the day involved a lot of running (in stilettos, no less), and calls to loved ones.  The condition of the city is nearly indescribable.  I exited the towers to be faced with a barrage of dust, smoke, blood, crying, sirens, people… more images I could hope to forget than have the time to tell.  I made it home through divine intervention.  Through the grapevine, my cousin Alex, who was also in New York on business, found me at my hotel.  We made our way to Penn Station and boarded a train for Chicago.  That ride took 3 days and I’m told by Alex I didn’t eat, drink or sleep the entire ride.  I think it’s fair to say I was in shock.  Upon arriving in Chicago, we rented a car and were home in Minneapolis on Friday.  That’s it, in a nutshell.

I could regal you with more of the gory details, but I think it’s best that all those go left unsaid.  What happened on September 11^th was called an act of terrorism because it was truly terrible and evoked terror in all those that were so unfortunate to live out the events of that day.

But none of this is what I think about every Anniversary.  I am sure when I reach the end of my life and imagine the list of pros and cons, moments of pain and love, the experience of 9/11 will be near the top of the 'bad' list.  But when I review the balance sheet of my life, the truth is, I am abundantly blessed.  And September 11^th provides me with the opportunity to every year, be grateful.  To have perspective.  To pause for a moment and give praise and glory to the gifts of my life.

This year, in particular, I have come to know the true value of family.  My children teach me how important it is to slow down, take pause, and shift your focus to what truly matters most; that which gives you love.  I am sure that many of you reading this are people I have hurt, ignored, forgotten.  For any pain I have ever caused; I’m sorry.  Truly.  And for everyone who has given me their support, compassion, friendship and love; thank you.  I know sometimes I get too caught up in my own life to say it, but no act of kindness goes unnoticed.  I am profoundly grateful.   My life is blessed because of all of you.   My life is a life filled with love.  I will never forget.

Mary Regan McNiff, 9/11/12