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Religious years and end
In 1983, Mutual sold WCFL to Statewide Broadcasting. Statewide switched WCFL to adult contemporary Christian music about 10 hours a day and teaching programs the rest of the time. WCFL basically sold blocks of time to various Christian organizations. The format was profitable but received very low ratings. At that time, they promoted the call letters as standing for "Winning Chicago For the Lord". In early 1985, the station moved from Marina City into a two-story brick building built on its Downers Grove transmitter site. Statewide specialized in religious formats but opted to merge with a secular company called Heftel Broadcasting. WCFL became WLUP-AM (present-day WMVP) just after the stroke of midnight, April 29, 1987. Although no longer in use, the former call letters WCFL, rendered massively in stainless steel, still remain on the exterior wall of the transmitting office, just off 39th Street in Downers Grove.

General Manager John Commuta, Program Director/Afternoon Drive Kris Stevens, News Director Susan Levin, Production Manager Dave Mitchell, Morning Drive/PM News Reporter Marty Michaels, Scott McElroy, John Bodi, Jim

Maureen O'Looney
Chicago's Irish grandmother offers charm to immigrants Maureen O'Looney a 'legend and an icon' in city's Irish community July 09, 2011|By Colleen Mastony, Tribune reporter

Friday night, Maureen O'Looney was exactly where thousands of Irish-American Chicagoans know she belongs — presiding like a queen over a crowd of her countrymen at the Irish American Heritage Center.

The redheaded 89-year-old was there to play matchmaker at the annual Hooley Hook-Up, a party that kicked off this weekend's Irish Fest. (So far, the irrepressible O'Looney counts two marriages to her credit.) But as almost everyone in the room knew, her journey from the West of Ireland to Chicago's immigrant royalty isn't just about matchmaking.

It's about jobs and opportunities, green cards and visas, affordable apartments and first homes.

"She's a legend and an icon," said Tim McDonnell, executive director of the Irish American Heritage Center. "For guys like myself, and others who are a long way from home, she's been like an extra grandma."

Hers is a great American success story.

Most days, you'll find her at Shamrock Imports, the shop at 3150 N. Laramie Ave. where she has sold Aran sweaters and Irish tweeds for 44 years. Outside, a citysign designates the street Honorary Maureen O'Looney Drive.

Inside, the walls are plastered with photos of Irish-American politicians — Richard J. Daley, Jane Byrne, Michael Sheahan — who have popped in for a cup of tea. Plaques of appreciation given to her are stacked on the floor, by the door, in the backroom.

"My role in Chicago? The Lord save us," sighs O'Looney, a grandmother in a prim beige dress and claddagh necklace. She gestures to the backroom, where she lights the kettle, settles into a chair and begins to tell her story, laughing at turns or closing her eyes, as she remembers the barn dances of her youth and her urge to travel to America.

Born in the village of Bohola, in County Mayo, the daughter of an IRA fighter and a shopkeeper, O'Looney came to Chicago in 1953 on what was to be a three-week vacation. But she fell in love with the city. "The greatest city in the world," she says. She married, had a daughter and opened her shop in 1967.

At the corner of Laramie and Belmont avenues in the Cragin neighborhood, Shamrock Imports became a regular stop for politicians and Irish consul generals. And O'Looney became a force in the community.

Outgoing, energetic and involved in almost everything, she organized fundraisers for immigrants who had fallen on hard times, lobbied Congress on immigration reform and helped establish several Celtic organizations in the city, including the Irish American Heritage Center, Emerald Society of Illinois and Chicago Irish Immigrant Support.

"My father always said, 'Each day you get up, do some small good turn before you go to bed,'" she says.

Fiercely dedicated to the cause of Irish independence, she drove a hulking Chevrolet Caprice with a license plate that read: "IRA 1969" — a reference to the year when riots in Northern Ireland sparked the 30-year period known as the Troubles — and hosted parties for IRA leaders who, when they came through town, would drop by her red-brick bungalow.

But the people who know her best say she made her biggest impact by opening her home to recent immigrants, many of whom would stay for weeks or months, until they could afford a place of their own.

Andy O'Driscoll, from County Dublin, stayed with O'Looney. "She got me a job within the first three days, and that was before I even wanted a job," he says with a laugh.

Maurice McNally, from County Armagh, stayed at her house, too, along with four other Gaelic football players. "No rent. Never. She is just a wonderful lady," he recalls.

When Eamonn McDonagh, from County Roscommon, was hit by a car and hospitalized for a year, O'Looney gave him a loan. "Here's the thing, I never asked for the loan," he says. "I was handed an envelope, and I was told not to open it. I walked out to the car, and it was full of cash."

She did so much — from cooking meals, to lending out her car, to helping new arrivals open bank accounts — that Eamonn Brady remembers, "We used to call her Mother Ireland."

Today the once-bustling store is quiet. Boxes of Weetabix, McDonnells curry sauce and McVites digestives line the shelves. Customers are rare these days. Grocery stores now carry Irish goods. The Internet means news from Ireland can be accessed with the click of a mouse.

But the phone still rings off the hook, with calls from people seeking help, advice or a bit of conversation. Sitting in her cluttered office packed with boxes of Irish CDs, maps of Ireland, pictures of old friends, O'Looney can barely sit for 10 minutes before jumping up to answer another call.

"Shamrock Imports!" she calls brightly into the phone.

Her husband, Clement, died 10 years ago, and her daughter, Theresa, lives in Missouri.

Three years ago, O'Looney suffered a heart attack. But none of that has kept her from her work.

Wednesday nights, she hosts a radio show of Irish music, news and talk on AM sister stations WSBC and WCFJ. She still helps immigrants find jobs and housing. Several times a year she serves as a matchmaker.

"I'll tell you another story," she says, leaning forward in her chair. Her eyes are bright and her voice is intense as she launches into a tale from last year's Hooley Hook-Up.

Through the crowd, she had spotted a handsome man in an elegant suit and tried to match him with a beautiful young woman.

"Oh, she was lovely. But do you know who she was?" O'Looney asks. "His ex-wife! I nearly dropped dead. The floor ate me up. Oh, I said, 'That's the end of the matchmaking for me.'"

Then she pauses and says she should have copied their phone numbers. The last time she saw the couple, they were laughing and chatting at their table.

"You never know," she says with a smile, "if later on they had gotten back together."

cmastony@tribune.com