St. Pat's Day

I miss my dad the most on St. Patrick's Day. Ma was the more Irish of my parents, seeing as how her parents were both born in Ballinrobe, a village in the heart of God's country, County Mayo. Dad's heritage is split between Ireland and England and we have to go back several generations to get over the pond. But Dad was the one who was proud of being Irish and installed in us the same simple love of all things Auld Sod. Dad actually looked happy on St. Patrick's Day (maybe due to the extra shots and beers at the bar on the way home from work and despite the overcooked corned beef and the stench of boiled cabbage in the house). I don't think he ever looked as alive as he did when we celebrated being Irish. He would put on a Bing Crosby record with Irish tunes, the only one I remember is McNamara's Band. Sometimes if the "spirits" allowed, he would dance a jig in the living room. (Thinking back on it, Brendan has that same disjointed gangly look about him when he tries to move fast.) He would drag Ma into it, although she preferred to polka. They would laugh and dance and even flirt a little, allowing us children one of those rare glimpses into what they must have been like when they were young. Dad also reminded us to stay home on St. Patrick's Day because of the danger on the roads. He always called it Amateur Night on the roads. As a special treat, we would get a smidgen of Old Fitzgerald whiskey as a nightcap.