On the morning of St. Patrick’s Day before school I’d be rummaging through the closet, drawers, under the bed anywhere in search of something to wear that was green. I never wanted to find something that was too green, didn’t want attention, only wanted enough green to thwart the pinchers. The best was sort of a “green-o-flage”, green that wasn’t initially noticeable but if someone pinched I could show them my green spot. Then, according to Irish law, I could pummel them with several slugs to the upper arm.
It was always best to be a little nonchalant about St. Patrick’s Day. You never wanted to appear to have intentionally donned green garb. That would just not be cool. If you came to school wearing green pants, or shirt you’d be considered Leprechaunish. Sort of like wearing a Santa hat or Easter bunny ears to school. You’d be asking for a pounding. So it was best to find a piece of green thread and place it on your shirt or have it come out of your pocket. The rules of green were that it had to be in a place where it could be seen with the naked eye. So, green underwear didn’t count. Socks were good but only if you had flood water pants on.
If you forgot your green one way for a quick acquire was to go slide around in the field before school to get grass stains. You’d come into class smelling a little gamey and there would be Irish penance to pay when your mother took a look at those new pants but the price was worth it.
An unwritten rule was that if you claimed to actually be Irish you might be able to ward off the painful nips. I had always been suspicious if Loo Wang was really as Irish as he claimed to be.
Living in Ireland on a mission for two years changed my perspective a little. Wearing green wasn’t a big deal. I suppose since we breathed Irish air no one would even consider you didn’t have Ireland inside you.
Since children have come along we always celebrated by hanging up my Ireland flags, listening to twangy Irish pub songs, and eating green pancakes. I think I remember putting green food coloring in a milk jug when Jan and I were first married. However, now that I think about it I’m not sure we could have afforded food coloring so I’m not sure how the milk became green. Did they put expiration dates on things 35 years ago?
So, once a year I put on my Irish plaid tweed tie, turn up the pipe and fiddle music and prance around the living room, jigging and jogging off the furniture and twirling in Irish dervish spins. Then I put my clothes on.
So, if that image is difficult to get out of your head you now know how the Irish men celebrate St. Patrick’s Day. Sort of weird, isn’t it?
