Tabhair póg dom, is Éireannach mé

'Tis always a special day for me, this 17 March.

Some years ago, I embraced the Irish portion of my heritage and began celebrating the day in earnest. I once had a pretty sizeable collection of decorations, music, green clothes and party recipes with which to enchant and amaze my friends. And I'm not speaking of green beer and Irish potatoes. I had a corned beef dish that people still remember. And Harp, my friend, no McCoors or O'Millers here.

Sadly, a spat with a red haired girl took care of all those bits, including a very special set of crystal shot glasses (Rita, I'll never forgive ya.)

Anyway . . . there's nothing quite like marryin' an Italian girl to spruce up the St. Patrick's Day celebrations. No one I know of can compete with the culinary skills of this wonderful woman (and her skin even has an olive tone). The luvly missus treats me each year to a wondrous traditional Irish meal, this year being the Corned Beef and Cabbage, and we listen to the reconstituted library of Irish tunes and imbibe of a few good beers. A trip to the homeland a few years back afforded us the opportunity to add a nice bottle of Black Bush to the liquor cabinet and tonight I'll toast the ancestors with a few good friends and a wonderful wife.

Pionta Guinness, le do thoil

Alas, I do not always drink that true symbol of Irish Brewing superiority for the black beverage found in this country cannot hold a candle to that found in any pub on the emerald island itself in terms of freshness. But the tale be told, it's a sadder one than that of freshness and taste.

"Why's that?" says you.
"American's are heathens when is comes to drinking Guinness." says I.

Not four days after returning from Ireland, my wife and I made our way to the closest thing to a real pub we had at the time, a high stepped place in North Wildwood, whose name I willna mention. We walked in the door, overhung by a sign claiming they proudly serve imperial pints of Guinness, and squeezed into a table and ordered our pints. When they came, they were served in plastic cups (16 ounces) and had quite obviously only been drawn once. If you dunna understand the problem with that, you're a heathen too, my friend . . . but today of all days me heart embraces you despite your ignorance and I pray the good Lord sees fit to save ya, despite your failings and your woeful ways.

May the road rise to your footfall
and the wind be always behind you.
May the sun shine warm on your face
and the rain fall soft on your fields.
May the friends that surround you be true
and the hearts that love you be dear.
And until we meet (again)
May the Lord hold you safe in His hand.

Of course, what would the day be without another bit of Irish Music. I include this song, as I can remember hearing it time after time on our trip, including an early morning alarm clock radio wake up in Kenmare, and a live version in Doolin by a local patron who stood up and entertained the crowd along with members of the band. I know my dear heart might not agree with me, but to live my life out on the stoney coast looking out upon the Aran Isles would go a ways toward making me content, were it not for the loved ones I'd leave behind in America.

And I'm sending along a contortion picture as well. I don't believe she's Irish, but she bears an uncanny resemblance to the banshee that has me crystal, and it does me heart good to see her twisted like a pretzel, through no fault of me own.