Wearing of the Green

I couldn't let St. Patrick's Day come and go without saying SOMEthing. After all, it is a day that brings together my joy over my Irish heritage with some very very fond memories. That rainy day in London town and the parade/market/performance that took place underneath the Eye. Years of pagan, half naked dances around loaves of Soda Bread with the Dark Tower ladies (holla!). I even remember one wild night of corned beef and cabbage while watching a library copy of Michael Flatley's Lord of the Dance. Wow. I really do love this holiday.

Well, this year's celebrations required significantly more coercion on my part than is typical. I first guilted friends N+M to come with me to the St. Patrick's Day parade downtown. We even let M stand with us, in spite of the fact that he's British. It probably would have caused riots, had anyone discovered the fact, so he was cleverly disguised with a green blazer jacket and a very Irish looking pipe. And, I am proud to say, we stayed for the entire parade, long and fraught with random people as it was, and cheered enthusiastically for every labor union, ancient order, high school band, group of bagpipers and semi-truck filled with girls (and the occasional boy) from every Irish dancing school in Buffalo, each followed by an entourage of about a hundred other be-wigged, curl bouncing little step dancers of lesser status. And I can't tell you how many St. Patricks we saw. Young ones, old ones, bearded ones, some played by little boys wearing long cottony beards attached to their heads with strings. I felt that the Spirit of St. Patrick had truly come to dwell among us, at least for a couple hours.

But then, friends, you must remember that that was merely the Sunday before the great day of days itself. And I am proud to say that, in spite of the inconsiderate intrusion of Bible Study into the festivities, St. Patrick's Day found me at a pub here in Buffalo with N+M and E, drinking meself a Guiness! Actually (cringe) that's only part of the story, which, though it shames me to the very core, I will recount here in the interest of fidelity to fact and transparency here before you, my dear readers. I was there, in the pub, with a Guiness, but I only got about a fourth of the way through my pint before I had to admit before the assembled company that I do not like Guiness. No, it's not just a slight disfavoring, I actually can't stand the stuff so much as to not be able to make it more than a quarter of the way through before selling it to my friends and stealing an untouched Irish coffee from the next table over. That was perhaps my favorite part of the whole evening, these older folks got up and left with a perfectly good Irish coffee on the table, which E valiantly nabbed before it could be cleared away by the waitress, who noticed the nabbing and stopped by our table to complement in the most endearingly outraged tones, "They didn't even touch it! They did not even touch it!" I know, right? Absurdity. There is excellent liquor in this and they let it be! Shameful. And on the feast day of our Blessed St. Patrick! Abhorrent. So after much head shaking and quaffing, and raising glasses to the glory of old Eire, we retired, another beautiful St. Patrick's Day celebration under my belt. I think I must henceforth officially christen N+M and E as my drinking buddies, as they were also the only ones who stuck by me through our New Year's Eve celebrations, in spite of some extremely sweet champagne, and the alarm being set off downstairs by "the wind." Yes, to all three of ye...may the road rise to meet you, may the wind be always at your back, and for next year's party, we'll rent The Quiet Man for sure!