When I think of Carl McKenna I think of great stories.
I remember being taken inside a tale about the ironworkers on his job in the city, Mohawk Indians whose mysterious ways few outsiders got to see or even hear about. Of course, his living room audience (Easter at Bache Ave. circa 1971) waiting for his next words felt the privilege of being let in on a secret. The real privilege was being there just to listen (and learn).
When he told me about the day the Super called him off the scaffold to tell him that his house burned down, the details of the story left me with a feeling of hope (rebuilding)and a view to the good things that come instead of the bad things that have already happened. This was several decades ago, and the importance of this message coming from outside the home or school, and hitting the ears of an adolescent cannot be overstated.
His story about getting his toe smashed by a concrete block (circa 1977) was so funny that it made me want to find something to drop on my foot. By the way, he told me this while working the alteration job at Valhalla. It didn't really seem to slow him down.
In ancient times, in Ireland and the Scottish Highlands, they called a man like this, Shanachie: a person who told traditional stories and heroic tales. I know Carl had some serious setbacks healthwise, but I was told this this did not keep him from his business, or much else really. Heroic tales beget heroic lifestyles. Thank you Carl.
