A super superego.

I was back in my hometown, on Lake Superior, for a golf tournament. After learning that Pat Lyons was in Saint Mary's Hospital, dying of cancer, my wife and I rushed there. We were turned away by the floor nurse, a ruddy, cheerful lady who said Pat was so ill there would be no visitors. I persisted: "I must see him. This man changed my life." The nurse winked and told us to wait, that she would check with her superior. As we sat there, I had time to think about Pat.

While we were growing up, Pat Lyons was the best-known bachelor in Duluth, not because of his power, money, or being the "town eligible," but because of "Pat Lyons's Boys."

I first met Pat when I joined Boy Scout Troop 40. Pat knew how to make those scouting maxims come alive: "When we work, we work; when we play, we play, but no mixing"; and, "Concentrate hard now, so you won't regret tomorrow that you didn't try harder today."

It's difficult to understand the source of Pat's intensity and energy. He was so lean, it appeared that a good wind would blow him away. Tall (6'2"), he had hawk-like eyes that peered through wire-rim glasses. When he wanted an answer to one of his philosophical questions you tried to give it. He was around forty-five then, and there were gray flecks in his sandy hair. His rich tenor voice would ring out whenever he encountered you on Superior Street. I always felt that Pat might be watching me, his half-smoked cigar in his hand, so I'd better behave.

Later, Pat gave up the scoutmastership and formed a boys' choir for his friend Father Joe Cashen's silver ordination jubilee. It was a rousing success. So Pat kept the choir in operation and molded this group of jocks, good students, and bad boys into a choir which was in demand throughout the Midwest. Each Sunday, when we sang at 9:15 Mass at Holy Rosary, Pat would lead us, his back to the congregation. I can still see his joyous face, after a particular rousing hymn like "Regina Coeli." He would open his mouth wide, in a silent grin, showing all his cigar-stained teeth, his hands clasped in front of his chest, in a congratulatory salute to us.

Now, as I waited for the head nurse, I recalled these and other incidents. I can never go by a derelict without thinking of Pat. When he would spy a Native American who was down and out around Duluth, Pat would give that person a fifty-cent piece. Even now, thirty years later, I never seem to come up with more than a quarter.

Whenever I would visit Pat's law office, there would be several Chippewas waiting. Pat routinely helped them out of their legal tangles, at no charge. I went to his office late one afternoon, after Father Hogan had taken his last shenanigan from me. I had locked him out of the main study hall; he expelled me from Cathedral High School. I didn't want to tell my parents, arid I didn't know where else to go.

Pat went over the problem. "Tell me what commitments you can make, Tony, if I were to negotiate with Father Hogan."

"I know I made a big mistake, and I'll commit to any program he wants, if you'll talk to him," I replied shakily.

Pat wrote out the commitments: Apologize to the two priests involved, in front of the study hall; and promise a new attitude. Pat then called Father Hogan and was able to get me back into school. When he hung up the phone, he rumbled: "Hey, let's go get a milkshake."

Later, when he left me at the Lester Park bus stop, I said, "Father Hogan thinks I'm a bum. I really appreciate your getting me out of this mess." It was then Pat said something that still rings in my mind: "I don't know what Father Hogan thinks, but in my book, you're the salt of the earth." Then he turned and walked away.

Looking down through the years, I can still see Pat walking across that wind-blown street. I wonder if he ever realized the indelible impression he'd made on my life? From then on, I always tried to live up to his opinion of me.

At last, the cheerful floor nurse jostled in. "When I asked Sister Agnes if you could go in, she smiled, and said, `Oh, another of Pat's Boys, with the same old story. We'd better let him in, like we did the others.'"

I approached Pat, frail and unconscious on the bed. I took his hand, trying to thank him in a few words for the tremendous influence he had had on my life. It was a thrill when I felt him softly squeeze my hand. Pat died later that night.

Anthony A. Wiggins is a free-lance writer from Wilton, Connecticut.