The morning is a bit dreary, damp. We still have clouds but no rain is predicted. The wind is small, periodic. Only the smallest branches are blown. The dogs are my barometers. The longer they are outside, the nicer the day. They were quick to come back inside today. They then decided to nap. I find that inspirational.

My once filled dance card is now empty. Our mighty uke leader has Covid. That means I miss practice, a lesson and three concerts. I’m thinking of finishing projects like a full scale cleaning.

For the lesser holidays, I generally copy my past musings as they are remembrances of those singular days. This musing is from a few years past. I doubt I could do better.

When I was a kid, we always had St. Patrick’s Day off from school because that was the name of my parish, my church and school. Mostly I did Saturday sorts of thing like riding my bike or walking uptown to the library. I wore green in honor of the day. My mother didn’t make corned beef and cabbage as she knew we’d grimace and groan about all the vegetables. Cabbage smelled bad. The only parts of the meal we would have eaten were the meat and potatoes. That all changed when we were older.

My father loved a boiled dinner, a traditional New England name for corned beef and cabbage, any time of year. I remember the giant pot on the stove, and my father filling his dish more than once from the pot. When I was there one St. Patrick’s Day with my dog Shauna, my first boxer, my father gave her a plate filled with everything but the cabbage and onions. She ate from her dish on the rug while my father sat in his usual spot on the couch. They both had ice cream for dessert. One St. Patrick’s Day, my father hunted in the pot for the potatoes. He found none, at least none left. They had disintegrated. My father’s disappointment was so keen I could see it in face and in the way he walked back to the living room. My mother didn’t know what to say. Comfort would only have come from the potatoes.

When I marched with St. Patrick’s Shamrocks, a drill team or rather the drill team, we marched in the St. Patrick’s Day parade in South Boston a few times. I remember one really cold day. I also remember some spectators trying to join us in the march. They had been imbibing in some local establishments. They kindly offered us a wee taste before they were shooed away. 

Today I will celebrate St. Patrick’s Day by wearing green and dining on corned beef and cabbage. It will have potatoes, and I will not share with the dogs, well maybe not!.