Monday, March 17, 2014
Happy St. Patrick's Day!
Ireland. A place where so many of my childhood stories began. Like many Americans, I have Irish roots. But talk to someone born and raised in Ireland and they probably don't understand the way we Americans focus so much on which percentage of Irish makes up our heritage. To them, we aren't Irish at all. But they are kind enough not to scoff, at least not in front of us. lol
Doesn't matter, because we love them just as much as every blade of grass, every stone, every folktale told (those childhood stories again), and every song in every pub. We dive into our bowl of Irish Stew and think it's the best we've ever had. A part of us comes alive the minute we see our first sunrise along the rocky shores of Loophead, or journey along the Shannon and witness the most beautiful rainbow you'll ever see.
They're right, you know. We're not Irish. We are mutts. But we're proud mutts. I'm just as proud of my 22% Scottish, or my 26% Welsh, or my 4% Cornish, and any other wee percentages I can find. Yeah, we tend to break it down and do the math. lol
We buy T-shirts with leprechauns on them, or the more adventurous might skydive dressed as leprechauns! We have grand parades in honor of St. Patrick, and drink green beer to celebrate the day (green lips from "Irish" green dyed beer is not a good look, trust me). And if you're not part Irish, well, no matter, because everyone can be honorary Irish on St. Paddy's Day and celebrate.
To friends and distant family 'across the pond', thanks for putting up with us, your American mutt cousins, for driving us to our hotel because after our fourth true Irish beer, we realized too late that the crappy watered down green beer we'd been drinking all those years here in the states, didn't prepare us for the real thing, and a serious ::faceplant:: was in our future. For rescuing us when we got chased by sheep in a field because we had to get the "perfect" photo on the way to Tipperary. Or getting our foot stuck in between the rocks at the aforementioned Loophead. Or not laughing at us too hard when we fell on our bum, because the fish we caught in Lough Ree wiggled so fast, it slipped off the hook and tried to take a bite out of us. And finally, thank you for your help, patience, and fortitude during the fiasco that I call The Search For A Potty Near The Haunted Ruins. :D (And no matter what you say, I know you also heard those ghosts laughing at me).
You might believe we're daft, but I have a sneaky suspicion that you just might love us back. ;)
May you be well and hearty, and each day bring you happiness and laughter!