Happy Saint Patrick’s Day.
My favorite Irish lass, my friend in Minnesota, has flown the coop and is vacationing in Florida. She’d better send a postcard. I know she’s there to visit her mother, and not to celebrate an Irish holiday in a subtropical zone. It wouldn’t be my choice of location. No, I’m sure I wouldn’t want to spend a St. Patrick’s Day in Florida.
Spring Break, maybe. Christmas, definitely NOT. New Year’s Eve, in Miami and not the Evil Kingdom.
I don’t get all excited about Saint Patrick’s Day. I’m not Irish, although everyone is Irish on March 17. Just my luck I’d make a huge fashion statement and wear Orange. I’m not willing to take that chance. Although it wouldn’t get too many folks here riled up. If I were in Belfast or Derry, I wouldn’t make it out alive.
No, I don’t make a point to dress in green. My workshirt is green, so I’m covered there. No shamrocks, Irish Rovers singing “The Unicorn”, and no green beer. I’ll take a Guinness.
I do have a Saint Patrick’s Day tradition. Being a resident of Portland, the birthplace of one of Hollywood’s greatest directors, John Ford, I like screening one of his classics. “The Quiet Man”, starring John Wayne, as a boxer running from his past, and the fiery Maureen O’Hara, as the Irish lass who captures his heart. Some of the characters are sterotypical, like Michaeleen O’Flynn, played by Barry Fitzgerald. He’s the drunken Irishman who sings beautifully. In modern times, you have to recognize that this picture was made in 1952. All the PC pundits weren’t raising a stink back then. I take it for what it is: a great story with colorful characters, and wonderful scenery.
That’s it. It’ll be a nice, quiet evening at home, small and slow. No drunken debauchery for me. Maybe if this were a Friday or Saturday, I think I’d have a Guinness or three. But no whisky.