My wife and I both come from Irish families. There are two kinds

Host: The pub was an amber heartbeat at the corner of a rainy Dublin street. Its windows glowed against the dark, the glass fogged from laughter and pints, and the sound of fiddles drifted through the air like memories with rhythm. Inside, the wood was old and honest, scarred from years of elbows, tears, and the clinking of glasses raised to both sorrow and joy.

Jack sat at the bar, a pint of Guinness before him, the foam lacing the rim like a crown half-earned. His gray eyes glimmered under the warm light — not with drunkenness, but nostalgia. Jeeny, her hair damp from the rain, sat beside him, her smile crooked, her hands wrapped around a hot whiskey, steam rising like smoke from a small fire.

A folk song played softly from a corner, and the air smelled of malt, salt, and memory.

Jeeny: “P. J. O’Rourke once said, ‘My wife and I both come from Irish families. There are two kinds of Irish families: the hitting kind and the kidding kind. If you’re fortunate — and both of us are — you come from the kidding kind of Irish family.’”
She grinned, her eyes bright with warmth. “Isn’t that just the perfect way to explain how love hides inside madness?”

Jack: “Love and madness?”
He raised an eyebrow, his voice low and edged with humor. “You make it sound poetic. O’Rourke was being blunt — Irish families are either swinging fists or throwing jokes. Sometimes both.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the jokes are just softer punches.”

Host: The bartender chuckled quietly behind them, polishing glasses with the ease of someone who’d heard every kind of confession passed off as conversation. The rain tapped against the windows, a rhythm older than any song.

Jack: “You know, my grandfather was from Galway. He had this way of teasing you till you cried — but it never felt cruel. He’d call you ‘a foolish man in training,’ then pour you another tea. I guess that was his version of love.”

Jeeny: “That’s what O’Rourke meant. The kidding kind doesn’t wound — it teaches you to laugh before the world does it for you. It’s armor made of humor.”

Jack: “Armor that leaks.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But it’s still armor.”
She sipped her whiskey, her lips curling as the heat hit her chest. “The hitting kind… they teach you fear. The kidding kind teaches you resilience.”

Jack: “Resilience?”
He leaned back, the bar light catching the silver strands in his hair. “Resilience is just the polite word for enduring love through sarcasm.”

Jeeny: “Or surviving love through wit.”

Jack: “So, your family — the kidding kind?”

Jeeny: “Oh, absolutely. My father used to say the meanest things with the softest smile. I didn’t realize till years later that every joke was a way to keep tenderness from breaking him open.”

Jack: “Ah,” he said, his voice softening, “humor as survival.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not avoidance — it’s adaptation.”

Host: A burst of laughter erupted from a nearby table — three old men playing cards, their voices thick with accent and history, their banter sharp but affectionate. The kind of teasing that carried no venom, only belonging.

Jeeny: “See? That’s the kidding kind. Listen to them — they’ve probably been calling each other bastards since the ‘60s, and it’s still love every time.”

Jack: “You’re romanticizing dysfunction.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said with a small, knowing smile, “I’m translating it.”

Host: The fireplace crackled, and the pub’s warmth deepened, pressing against the damp outside. Jack took a slow sip, then set the glass down, his reflection rippling in the dark stout.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? I used to think my family was broken. Everyone shouted. Everyone teased. You couldn’t tell if you were being loved or disciplined. But now, sitting here — I think maybe it was both.”

Jeeny: “It usually is.”

Jack: “So the hitting kind and the kidding kind aren’t opposites. They’re twins — same fire, just different control.”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she said softly, “but one burns the house down, and the other keeps the hearth lit.”

Host: The bartender paused, his hand on a glass mid-polish, listening. The pub had gone quieter — the song between verses, the laughter settling into hum.

Jack: “I wonder what makes the difference — what decides which kind you become.”

Jeeny: “Choice. Maybe luck. Maybe a single person in the family who decides to break the pattern.”

Jack: “Or disguise it.”

Jeeny: “What do you mean?”

Jack: “You think jokes always mean healing. But sometimes they’re masks. People laugh hardest when they’re trying to keep from cracking.”

Jeeny: “That’s true. But at least they’re still laughing. That’s something.”

Jack: “And if the laughter runs out?”

Jeeny: “Then you find someone who reminds you how.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the windows, and the door creaked open briefly as someone left, the night spilling in — cold, wet, alive. Jack and Jeeny sat closer to the fire now, drawn not by heat, but by memory.

Jeeny: “You know what I think? Humor is the Irish way of telling truth without dying from it.”

Jack: “That explains a lot about whiskey too.”

Jeeny: “And poetry. And rebellion.”

Jack: “And love.”

Jeeny: “Especially love.”

Host: Jack looked into the fire, the flames dancing in his eyes. He spoke quietly now, not to Jeeny, but to the ghosts that every Irishman carries.

Jack: “My mother used to sing after fights. She’d hum old songs while washing dishes — songs her father taught her. That’s how I knew the storm had passed. No apologies. Just music.”

Jeeny: “So even silence had rhythm.”

Jack: “And forgiveness had melody.”

Jeeny: “That’s the kidding kind — turning pain into performance, grief into laughter. It’s not denial. It’s endurance with style.”

Jack: “Endurance with style,” he repeated, smiling. “That’s Irish philosophy in six words.”

Jeeny: “And human philosophy in seven: laugh before life laughs at you first.”

Host: The fire popped, sending sparks dancing into the dim air. The men at the card table roared again, one slapping the other on the back. Outside, the rain eased, and a faint moon shimmered through the clouds — like a coin tossed in a black sea.

Jack: “You know,” he said finally, “I think O’Rourke was right. The kidding kind — they don’t escape pain. They just learn to wrap it in laughter so it doesn’t cut as deep.”

Jeeny: “And that’s what makes them the lucky kind.”

Jack: “Why?”

Jeeny: “Because they learn early that love isn’t about avoiding bruises. It’s about learning to laugh while you heal them.”

Host: Jack raised his glass, the foam gone, the beer half-warm. He looked at her, his smile small but true.

Jack: “To the kidding kind, then.”

Jeeny: “To the ones who bruise gently.”

Host: Their glasses clinked, soft and perfect, like punctuation on an old poem.

The fire burned low, the pub lights dimmed, and for a brief, golden moment, the world outside didn’t exist — only the quiet wisdom of two people who understood that every family, every heart, carries both the hit and the jest.

And in that moment, laughter wasn’t escape.
It was legacy.
The kind that keeps love alive — even in the rain.