Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

The day is sunny and beautiful though still chilly. I was out on the deck watching Gracie. She ran with wild abandonment through the backyard. I could hear the crunch of the dead leaves and small branches as she ran. I got cold and went back inside. She stayed out a bit longer. It must have been exhausting as she and Maddie are taking their early afternoon naps.

St. Patrick has always been my favorite saint. I went to St. Patrick’s grammar school, belonged to St. Patrick’s parish, and when I was 10, I started marching in St. Patrick’s Shamrocks, a drill team. I was in the juniors and only had practice Saturday mornings at the armory just beyond Stoneham Square. The armory was a wonderful old brick building. On the first floor were military banners and flags and, in one room, a pool table. Upstairs was a large open room where we practiced. It was smaller than the fields for the summer competitions so we learned our maneuver in pieces which were put together once we got outside on the field. We practiced twice a week, Tuesdays and Thursdays and, once the season started, some Sunday mornings before we left for the competitions. We also marched in parades, including the St. Patrick’s Day parade in South Boston. We were naturals as we had a shamrock in the middle of our uniform blouses and between the skirt and blouse was a sash with one bit of yellow, a shamrock. Our colors were green and white. The crowds watching the parade were huge. We got lots of applause.

My parents always celebrated St. Patrick’s Day. Some years they’d have a party, and the house would be filled with people. There was always lots of singing at every one of my parents’ parties especially on St. Patrick’s Day. The kitchen was the party hub. I can still picture my dad and my uncle Jack standing together by the table with an arm on each other’s shoulders as they sang When Irish Eyes are smiling. Their voices were filled with such joy and exuberance. That memory from so long ago is one of my favorites.