BOTH SIDES OF THE SAME COIN

On a particularly warm early summer late afternoon, Patrick as he often did gathered his fishing gear and guided his small boat to the center of the lake. The weather was foreboding, thunder storms forecasted, he reasoned he would be careful, return to land if the weather front developed; he felt safe and secure with his decision. He idled the small out-board motor, allowed the boat to drift in the middle of the lake when out of nowhere thunder and lightning were upon him. He reeled in his fishing line, tried to start the motor, but something was wrong it would not start. After several failed attempt to start the motor he reached for the light-weight metal oar, began to paddle to shore when out of nowhere he was struck by lightning. A rare freak accident, he went into immediate cardiac arrest, the electric shock killed him instantaneously. His limp body fell into the boat, floated aimlessly. The storm passed, sky brightened, a rainbow appeared above the Berkshire Hills as sunset bathed the town in a warm glow. When Veronica arrived with dinner, the house was empty, she search for Patrick, called his name, no response. Intuitively she grabbed binoculars, walked to the boat dock, and scanned the lake. Before long she noticed a lone boat drifting without direction in the center of the lake. She knew it was Patrick, had no doubt. She dialed the number of the Lakeville Marina, no answer, closed for the day. Next, she called, 911, the Salisbury Volunteer Fire Department, explained the circumstances of the accident to the dispatcher. The dispatcher notified the Connecticut State Police, shortly thereafter, the police and local EMT were on the water, to rescue Patrick and tow his boat to shore. The body, by police protocol was taken to the Litchfield County Morgue in Farmington, Connecticut; the cause of death cardiac arrest secondary to an arrhythmia caused by the electric shock of the lightning strike. Veronica called Olivia and Margaret to inform them of the unimaginable tragedy of their father’s death. The high-pitched sharp screams of disbelief from Patrick Doyle’s daughters were loud, ear-piercing. Veronica and John Blackner made arrangements for Ryan’s Funeral Home to retrieve the body from the county morgue and prepare the remains for burial in the Salisbury Cemetery, the grave adjacent to his beloved Virginia. The ceremony as Virginia’s only months earlier was simple, attended by family, Pastor Varig officiated. Margaret planned a proper memorial service in the city to remember her father, share his remarkable life with the people who knew him, worked with him, adored him. The memorial service, held in the main sanctuary at Saint John the Devine, located on Amsterdam Avenue near the Columbia University campus, is the mother church of the Episcopal Diocese of New York and reportedly the largest cathedral in the world. The architecture of Saint John, notable and spectacular merged Romanesque Revival and Gothic Revival styles characterized by round arches, massive columns, and Tiffany designed stained glass windows. The ritual event had no religious connotation, although the church did add a sense of reverence to the proceedings and Reverend Varig from the Salisbury Congregation Church offered a benediction. The service, attended by hundreds of well-wishers, included politicians, restauranteurs, Broadway celebrities, business associates, and friends, of Patrick Doyle. Two platforms, side by side were placed on the elevated stage in the front of the sanctuary. Margaret guided Olivia’s wheelchair to the lectern on the left, helped her stand, adjusted the microphone; she took her place on the right. They introduced themselves to the audience, “On behalf of the Doyle family we want to thank you all for coming today, we want to share with you the story of Patrick Doyle, our beloved father.” Olivia told the assembled guests that Patrick was a third generation Irish American. His grandparents, Mary and Patrick immigrated to New York City during the potato famine in Ireland; Patrick left his mark, he was an iron worker on the Brooklyn Bridge. His father John a longshoremen, an early labor organizer, answered the call of duty, fought in World War I and tragically died in battle defending France from the German onslaught. Our dad’s mother, grandma Kara died during the 1918 Spanish Flu pandemic, our dad now an orphan. Thank God for Carla and Shawn O’Shea, a New York City firefighter, Hell’s Kitchen neighbors who welcomed dad into their home and raised him as if he was their own son. Anne O’ Shea, Patrick’s step sister is here today, “Thank you, Anne we know our dad loved you and we are so grateful to you, your parents and family.” Margaret continued the story, she told the audience Patrick attended Hunter College on a scholarship, the first and only person in the family to have a formal education. Dad was a good student, but met Mike Karas, also here today, proprietor of Mike’s Restaurant, and developed a passion for food; after graduation and with a small loan from Shawn O’Shea, he opened, Patrick’s Bar and Grille, an Irish Pub in Hell’s Kitchen. The pub remained part of dad’s heart and soul his entire life, he loved the restaurant, it defined him. Patrick met Oscar Klein, a wayward orphan from Philadelphia, took him in, provided a place to live and work. Oscar and dad were like brothers, inseparable. A beat cop, Anthony Carbone befriended dad and Oscar, they created a small business, KCD, Klein, Carbone, Doyle LLC. Oscar suggested KCD purchase city taxi medallions, $10 a piece at the time, and Checker Cabs. The hard work of the trio paid off, from cabs and transportation they expanded to new enterprises, owned, and managed parking garages, ran Club KCD, and created a lucrative chain of restaurants, KCD Steak and Seafood. Olivia recounted, “Our father was a man of honesty, integrity thankful for his success, always gave back to the community. He supported local food banks, lodging for the homeless and after my accident was the driving force behind the creation of the Doyle Foundation for Spinal Cord Injury. Our dad loved and adored our mother Virginia, his family, Ellis, Christine Brown, and grandchildren Alex, Beth, Aisha, and Stefan. He loved the peace and solitude of life in rural, Lakeville, Connecticut. He died, tragically doing something he loved fishing for large-mouth bass in his boat, when a lightning bolt struck him and killed him immediately. I ask, who could have possibly imagined such an end to a life well lived. Dad, we love you.”