March the 17th ... sleep the 18th

That was always one of my favorite St. Paddy's buttons - probably because it was so fitting. I only attended the parade in NY a handful of times, and most of those handful were in the early 70s. In recent years the parade was more a hazard than anything, the one in Manhattan anyway. There's a lovely parade on LBI that was much more friendly and inviting. And the bars along the route would open the doors and windows (weather permitting, which was actually rare come to think of it) so you could sit at the bar or the tables in the front and watch the parade in comfort. But it was still always a day of long and vigorous celebration.

For me, St. Pat's has always been a holiday on the same scale of greatness as Christmas or Easter. Growing up in an immigrant family, in an immigrant neighborhood, St. Pat's was the day that the family all got together with other Irish families in the area and celebrated our heritage. There was plenty of drinking (one stereotype the Irish in my family are usually happy to sustain), as well as traditional music, food, storytelling and dancing. I learned the art of 'couple dancing' with a man in his 70s whom everyone referred to as Uncle Quie (pronounce 'kyoo-ee'), though I don't think he was actually related to anyone in the neighborhood. And for being an old fart, he was damned hard to keep up with on the dance floor! That sense of community is something that I miss. But it seems to be unique to NY. I've lived in plenty of other places, but nowhere else is it as socially acceptable to be proud of your heritage and display as openly as New Yorkers do. Now, that isn't to say that anyone was excluded from our celebrations (and I'm referring to our local/family stuff - not the Mayor of NY or the Grand Poobah of the Great Parade and their 'everyone is Irish on St. Pat's except for gays' stand). If you wanted to be Irish on St. Pat's you were more than welcome. My Uncle Jack (who came over in the 50s from a very small fishing villiage near Cork) used to label anyone in that category as a Kerryman (as Kerry would take anyone without a home). And our parties were often chock full of 'Kerrymen' of every shade and stripe. It was actually a running joke in the neighborhood. New faces were always greeted with "And where are you from?", and anyone with the misfortune of actually hailing from the vicinity of Kerry would be the butt of the joke.

Living now in the Deep South/Bible Belt, that sense of community is gone (unless you belong to the church of the moment), and St. Paddy's day has turned into a joke of monumental proportions. It's an excuse for any jerk off the street to paint himself green, get drunk, act stupid and make a fool of himself. And when asked "Why, for God's sake?" the answer is inevitably "That's what you're supposed to do on St. Pat's.".

What I miss most is the music, and the storytelling. Bands and vocalists like Anna McGoldrick (who happens to be a cousin of some sort, living in Toronto), The Clancy Brothers, Tommy Makem, The Irish Tenors, The Irish Rovers; these were the albums I grew up listening to. And the traditional drinking songs, marching songs, patriotic songs (or songs of treason, depending on your perspective), love songs...even the simplest and silliest (The Unicorn anyone?) were still great songs and sung over and over and well into the night. And the stories my Uncles and my Nanny would tell of growing up and surviving The Troubles, the great famine, the Black & Tans - and of course all the faerie stories of the little people and the banshees. I'd give anything to be able to go back in time and record some of those things. And of course, there were also the family stories: the one about my Nanny's first sight of fireflies upon coming to the States and thinking they were the lanterns of the little people; the story of my Grandfather being snuck out of Ireland on a fishing boat after he and some compatriots got into a bit of trouble with the local British Constabulary (there is still some question as to whether the family name Dundon is actually ours, or just a name he picked to stay out of trouble should the authorities continue looking for him in the States. If you ask me, he picked the wrong name if that was his ineention. Google it and see what I mean.); the story of our long and royal bloodline - supposedly being traced all the way back to Red Hugh of Donnegal. There were dozens more, most of which I barely remember, which is a sad affair and something I truly regret.

But we do our best now, to keep up with as much of the tradition as we can. The girls and I are making a soda bread, I've got a CD of Irish music playing in the background and I'll tell them as much as I remember of the old stories that used to be told to me when I was younger. I've inherited the role of storyteller - as neither my mother or sister has any interest in that facet of our family 'traditions'. They seem to believe the corned beef and cabbage are more important than remembering the old stories. Personally, I'd be happy with hot dogs if I could get more of the stories and the music. But if horses were wishes, beggars would ride - as my Nanny used to say.

Enough of my ruminations on St. Pat's. And for anyone who lasted through the whole bloody thing; Slainte agus tainte! and Eireann go Brach !