The Teacher, from The Journeyman
Original song: Mercy of the Wind
Title: The Teacher and Mercy of the Wind
This post is a tribute to my grandfather, George Bernard Donohue—my first mentor, my teacher, and the man who gave me my love of art, music, and the natural world. His death when I was just nine years old changed the course of my life, but the memories remain like the wind at my back.
Below is a story from The Journeyman, along with a painting I made in his honor, a rare family photo, a song I wrote years later, and a sailing video that speaks to his legacy.
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📖 Story: My Grandfather, George Bernard Donohue
The Teacher
My Grandfather, Gorge Bernard Donohue,
I was nine years old in 1970 when the wall phone hanging in our Arnold Street home kitchen rang. Somehow, I knew right away that something was different about this call. It was the way my mother looked at me as she reached for the phone. As the ringing stopped, I looked into my mother’s eyes as she picked up the receiver and cupped it in her hand. The color of her face drained, and a tear began to fall down her cheek. I knew my grandfather had died.
I ran out of the room and up the stairs, racing to my bed, leaping into my pillows, sobbing as if my heart had been ripped out of my chest. How could this happen? He was the one person in my life who offered me what I needed: a steady hand, a ready smile, a warm heart, and a curiosity that sparked my own. How could I survive such a loss?
Who would teach me all that I needed to know as I become a man? He was the one who showed me the things in life that had true value to me, like painting and sailing and playing music. He taught me how to garden, and how to hold a hammer, tell jokes and use a camera. He was the one who spent time with me when all my brothers were playing baseball in the yard and my sisters were with grandma learning to sew. I would have the answer to those questions only when I became a man and was ready to teach myself.
A week had passed, and it was now time for the funeral. All the children were dressed in our Sunday best, and the eight of us were shuffled into the red Volkswagen bus, the youngest of us just a newborn. The services were held at the church in Dedham, Massachusetts, where my grandparents lived, and my grandmother’s sister, Sister Mary Francis, served as a nun. On the hour-long drive up from New Bedford, I could only think about my grandfather’s face. He had such a great smile and laugh; I always felt seen in his presence.
We arrived at the funeral home. It was the first one I had ever been to. I was the youngest grandchild allowed to attend the wake, and when we entered the room, I remember being distraught after I scanned the room and didn’t see my grandfather anywhere. I asked my father where he was, and he explained to me that he was lying in the closed coffin at the front of the room.
I didn’t know what to say or do, but I began crying, and I explained to my father that I needed to see my grandfather and say goodbye. I was quickly escorted outside, where my demands continued. Suddenly, my mother arrived and was informed about my insistence on seeing my grandfather.
At the same time, my mother’s brother, George, arrived to discuss my ardent request that I be allowed to view the body. Some time passed as my uncle consoled me outside on the steps of the funeral home. He was kind and understanding as I made my case for why I needed to see the body. I must have struck a nerve with him because he took my hand and walked me back into the funeral home.
My Uncle George cleared the room and closed the doors. He approached the coffin and opened it as I stood behind him. He turned to me and said, "Here's your chance, Tim.” I knelt at the casket and looked deeply at my grandfather’s face. I offered him a prayer as I looked at his lifeless body, still feeling the love that he offered me as he lay there coldly in that wooden box.
I thought about all the times we sat at the piano together, and the time he showed me how to plant in his garden. There was the time I was startled by a snake in the garden, and without hesitation, he grabbed it and flung it into a tree. He taught me how to sail on Newfound Lake in New Hampshire at the cottage he built there, just like he had for his children, nieces, and nephews. He taught me how to fish and how to draw, and he taught me about tools and how to use them.
I watched him paint in his studio and he told me all about his movie camera and how it worked. He shared many of his photographs with me, telling the stories that went with them, and I still have several of his paintings hanging next to mine in my home today.
He would sit us in his dentist chair, examine our teeth, and encourage us to take very good care of our them, and then he would take us on a hike and let us roll down the hills behind his house in a race to the bottom. We stayed with him when one of us had chicken pox or mumps, and he always had ice cream.
All these memories ran through my head when I knelt and looked at him lying in that coffin. He held rosary beads in his wrinkled hands, and his kind face was frozen still and powdered white. His blue tie and grey suit looked perfect. I stared into his face, “Why?” I said to myself, “You were the only person in my life that I truly looked up to and wanted to be like. “You were my teacher. Who will be my teacher now?” I felt my uncle’s hand on my shoulder: “Tim, it’s time,” he said.
After my grandfather’s death, there was a massive void in my life. It wouldn’t be long before our family moved out of New Bedford and into the countryside town of Westport, and my life would be filled with new schools and friends, but the loss would linger for years. My grandmother carried on through her loss, and lived another thirty years, helping us to create new memories while trying to soften the blow as the memories of him began to fade.--
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🎨 Lake Tahoe Sailboat (Painting)
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🎵 Original Song: Mercy of the Wind
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🎶 Lyrics: Mercy of the Wind
---Mercy of the Wind
Timothy Bernard Cooney
The winds at my back and I’m riding the waves
I’m out on the water It’s a beautiful day
I left safe harbor years ago
Where I’m heading I just don’t know
When it comes down to it
I’m at the mercy of the wind
When it comes down to it
I’m at the mercy of the wind
The sea grows dark, it’s a flooding tide
You can run but you can not hide
Storms will come and storms will go
And some time the wind just won’t blow
When it comes down to it
You’re at the mercy of the wind
When it comes down to it
You’re at the mercy of the wind
Clouds go dark and the sun goes down
The seas gets rough on Nantucket sound
I can see the shoreline through the haze
I hope I can make it to Popponesset bay
But when it comes down to it
I’m at the mercy of the wind
When it comes down to it
I’m at the mercy of the wind
As I come about turn my nose into the wind
I’m Sliding sideways here we go again
I drop the sails as the wind begins roar
Thank god almighty
I’m home once more
When it comes down to it
I'm at the mercy of the wind
When it comes down to it
I'm at the mercy of the wind
⛵ Sailing Memory (YouTube Short)
📘 About The Journeyman
The Journeyman is a multimedia memoir told through prose, paintings, photography, and original music. It spans five generations of family history and is rooted in the search for love, identity, healing, and creative survival.
I am currently seeking a literary agent and publishing deal for this project. If you're a reader, agent, or publisher who believes in the power of deeply personal, multimedia storytelling, I invite you to reach out.
I’ll be flying in from San Francisco and staying in New York City from May 15–19 attending my daughter’s graduation from the Pratt Institute. If you're based in NYC and would like to meet in person to talk about the project, I’d love to connect.
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