Sureanbloggorah

I'm afraid it's that time of year again -- when I sorta get my Irish on. In my defense, I can't help it. When I was growing up in the big NJ, St. Patrick's Day was really the only time of the year I thought it might be even a little bit cool to be an Irish American. After all, I do possess the most common Irish surname, so looking for leprechauns and four leaf clovers ought to come natural to me.

It does and it doesn't. For me, St. Patrick's Day has always been a strange time. When I lived in Idaho there weren't too many Irish Americans around, and my daughters' school teachers sometimes asked me to make soda bread and bring it to class. I would comply and even lead them in a round of The Wearin' of the Green or some such other song. But one time some teacher asked me to talk about Ireland, and there you have it. I don't know a thing about Ireland, really. It is my little fantasy island in a way -- the place my grandfather ran from and never talked about. When he, Daniel Tade (or Tadhg if ya wanna get Irish about it), left Cork he really left it, case closed, New World; New York City here I come.

My mother's family is really the more Irish side in a way. While my father's father was Irish, he died young and my grandmother's British influence is more apparent in my father. My mother's side of the family has been from NYC so long that they know as much about Ireland as I do.

But, is that gonna stop me from making corned beef and cabbage? Well, no, and as a matter of fact I made some on Sunday. Is that gonna stop me from singing Danny Boy accompanied by my computer-generated melody? Nope, even while I feel like a total fool doing it, I'll be belting it out with tears streaming down me face.

It's kinda weirdly hypocritical, I think, for someone so lacking in any kind of "pride" to get all sappy every year for a few weeks. I can't even say it's because of family tradition. Yeah, we ate corned beef and sometimes my mother bought a soda bread from the bakery, and we'd say Erin Go Bragh at the dinner table, but I think St. Patrick's Day was more a Hallmark holiday.

So, maybe St. Patrick's Day is my gothic -- the terrible beauty to which I am drawn. I dunno, but I think I'm going to invest in a pretty good whiskey for this one. So think of me, dear bloggers, on March 17th when I may be reeling around with cabbagey breath singing When Irish Eyes Are Smiling over the phone to Mr. and Mrs. Murphy while trying to keep from them the fact that I've had a wee drop.

Anybody else have any customs, traditions or holidays that make them feel ambivalent? I bet I'm not the only one . . .