Happy St. Patrick’s Day, and a happy birthday to my grandfather Max Greenberg.

I know you’ll find this a bit hard to believe, but there’s really not much that the larger-than-life patron saint of Ireland has in common with the short-in-stature Jewish man who served patrons at the finest restaurants in Manhattan.

As it turns out, there’s more comprehensive information about the life and times of the celebrated Patrick than there is for the quiet, workaholic man known to his family and friends as Poppa Max.

Go figure.

In fact, there are voluminous volumes on the late fourth- and early fifth-century travels and teachings of Patrick, with quotes and accounts of his work. There are even beautiful portraits of a white-bearded Patrick wearing colorful robes, sporting a gilded miter and clutching a long staff.

Legend has it that Patrick was born around 385 in Roman Britain. When he was about 16, he was captured and carried off to Ireland, made a slave to herd and tend sheep. After six years, he escaped, returned to Britain, had a calling, went back to Ireland as a missionary and was later ordained a bishop. He died on March 17 in 461 and has become one of the world’s most popular saints.

Curiously and sadly, there’s little documentation beyond a few family photos to chronicle the experiences of Poppa Max.

What we do know is that Poppa Max was a Polish man born somewhere in Russia. He came to this country as a young boy where he met Ethel Posner, who also immigrated from Russia. The pair married, started a family in Brooklyn’s East New York with daughters Barbara and Roslyn.

Poppa Max was a longtime waiter in some of the city’s high-end establishments, including Gallaghers Steakhouse. He worked long hours and provided well for his family. 

He and Nanny Ethel would drive to Miami Beach in the winter and summer in the Catskills. In their cozy apartment off Kings Highway they had a Zenith remote control color television. You could actually turn the set on, change channels and rise and lower the volume without ever getting up.

Poppa Max must have been some good waiter.    

When the 5-foot-4 man could no longer carry out main dishes, he carried around mail in the city for a messenger service. Really.

Poppa Max died in 1990, nearly a decade after his beloved Ethel.

St. Patrick and Poppa Max. Linked in history? Not quite.

But my mom decided the two would be kindred spirits when she realized at a young age that her father didn’t know for sure when his birthday was.

Legend further has it that in his haste to escape Russia, Poppa Max failed to take along his birth certificate.

Before you rush to judgment, consider how many things you’ve left behind on your way to work. Now imagine fleeing your country with Cossacks right behind. That’s the image I’m going with.

So as far back as I could remember, my mom decided we’d celebrate Poppa Max’s birthday on March 17.

St. Patrick’s Day. Why?

File it under the list of so many questions I never thought to ask when everyone was alive. And now that I’m dying for an answer, there’s no one to ask. That list seems to grow daily.

So, here’s a toast to my Poppa Max:

“May the love and protection St. Patrick can give be yours in abundance.

And until we meet again,

May God hold you in the palm of His hand.”

barrylewisscdemocrat@gmail.com.

Barry Lewis is a longtime journalist and author who lives with his wife Bonnie in the Town of Neversink. He can be reached at      barrylewisscdemocrat@gmail.com.