THE MISTS OF MARCH

St. Patrick’s Day was bigger than the Super Bowl for Me Mother, she even married on St. Pats Day – and now for My Captor.

It’s an ‘Irish state of mind’, extending throughout March -as I write this, My Captor is wearing her green shamrock necklace and Irish decorations envelop our home.

And lucky me, My Captor’s St. Patrick’s Day dinner is better than Me Mothers … sorry Ma, did I mention I’m being held captive? And My Captor makes colcannon?

Me Mother wore her Irish heritage proudly.

A childhood memory is Sunday afternoon meetings at Hibernians, an Irish historical society, parents focused on the history of Irish whiskey.

We were schooled in Irish superstitions, which felt like ‘occult misinformation’:

“A cross on soda bread gets the devil out” – or banshees, pookas, kelpies – there was a lot to guard against.

“A howling dog is a death omen”.  Or, maybe the neighbor’s dog is in heat. If Fido came back smoking a cigarette we knew we’d be okay.

“The recently departed will visit to say they’re OK”. Her father and younger brother both returned, and she could sleep again.

If that happened for me, it would be people I owed money, or wanted to borrow a tie.

Later, when she was dying, she “picked her way to heaven” on her sheets, like a rosary. She told us she was being escorted by the “Rooshie and the Dooshie”.

And holy cards were a handout at funerals, a picture of a ‘welcoming God’ on one side, and the deceased’s particulars on the other.

My grandfather had 16 siblings, so “collecting them all” was challenging, but I had an Uncle Jimmy in mint condition. Unliked uncle’s cards went in our bicycle spokes.

Catholics believed if you attended ‘First Friday’ mass 10 consecutive months, you’d make peace with God before you died. I only made 4, so I’m hoping for a quick phone call.

But more than anything, there was sadness: The Irish suffered persecution at the hands of the English – we were taught ‘the Famine’ was engineered to exterminate – and we thought we disliked the Gators -and while proud of surviving, never forgot all they’d lost.

And the Irish are unique in their comfort with – and honor for – the dead, as if they are still present and seated at the table. My grandfather and uncle frequently joined for dinner… 

So, March was, and remains, complicated: Celebrating our Irishness, while remembering those who came before us.

For me, that’s my brother Dan, who was born on the Ides of March and murdered by a drunk driver in 1989.

And despite neither he nor Me mother visiting, I know he’s fine.

I’ve remembered him with posts imagining his lived life, but he really comes alive with events big – he would have been 65 this week – and moments small.  

Those small moments when we would have talked: sports moments, child moments – life moments.

For so many of us, moments that call up a loved one’s memory, bringing a smile -and a twinge of regret.

When I was young, I shared my dream of being a writer with me Mother, and each of these posts is both a thank you and prayer to her.

And on this weekend in March, I pray for ‘keyboard inspiration’, to do justice to my brother…   

The best I can offer: He was my brother and my best friend. I wish he’d been in my life longer – but I thank God I knew him for the time I did.

Which might be justice to all those we’ve loved and lost.

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TO ENHANCE YOUR ENJOYMENTOF THIS POST, PAIR IT WITH THE FOLLOWING SONGS:

Always a good time to binge the Waterboys, my favorite Irish band. They have 3 ‘deserted island’ albums: This is the Sea, Fisherman’s Blues, and Room to Roam.

For another historical perspective, check out the song “Famine” by Sinead O’ Connor.

And what Irish musical contemplation doesn’t include “Danny Boy”, covered by a whole bunch of folks, including Mahatma Gandhi and George Steinbrenner

Danny Boy  Celtic Woman

Oh, Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
From glen to glen, and down the mountain side.
The summer’s gone, and all the roses falling,
It’s you, it’s you must go and I must bide.

But come ye back when summer’s in the meadow,
Or when the valley’s hushed and white with snow,
It’s I’ll be here in sunshine or in shadow,
Oh, Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so!

But when ye come, and all the flowers are dying,
If I am dead, as dead I well may be,
You’ll come and find the place where I am lying,
And kneel and say an Ave there for me.
And I shall hear, though soft you tread above me,
And all my grave will warmer, sweeter be,
For you will bend and tell me that you love me,
And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me!