Magically Delicious!

Today's the day I love to hate, and hate to love. Since I was a boy, St. Patrick's day has been a bittersweet event. While it's nice that in our culture just about the only Saint's day that is celebrated is my own, I've been bombarded by all the horrid cliches and stereotypes that go with it.

Shamrocks; nobody knows what they really are, and few understand their place in the story of St. Patrick any longer. Leprechauns; made out to be cute here in the 'States, but actually figures of menace to most in Ireland. Bad approximations of an Irish brogue; if I hear another person approach me trying to sound Irish and sounding like Scotty from Star Trek I think I'll run screaming into the road.

Then there are the snakes. My dear mother, who after all named me Patrick, made a point when I was a kid of buying me a really huge rubber snake every March 17th. While I continue to be amused by the Far Side panel illustrating St. Patrick literally driving the snakes from Ireland, I'm tired as hell of explaining the metaphor of non-Roman Catholic Christianity that the snakes actually represented to the Roman Bishop we all know as St. Patrick. He was a bit of an ecclesiastical thug.

Nice outfit though. I do dig the green wardrobe thing.

Worst of all is the corned beef, cabbage, and green beer. Thankfully in recent years people have mostly abandoned the green beer in favor of a good stout. While I'm not a Guinness man myself (I rather preferred Murphy's when I used the stuff) at least it's honestly Irish. Corned beef and cabbage though is entirely an American thing, not unlike parades on St. Patrick's day. Don't get me started on Lucky Charms.

One year in March I had to write a letter to my oldest daughter's teacher, correcting her lesson in Irish history that was concluded by the sentence "It's a good thing those Irish had all those potatoes or they would have starved." I am not making this up.

Celebrate being Irish we do though, so our family went out in a cold rain (now THAT'S Irish) to do our bit. There were no pipes. There were only miniature Irish flags. There was lots of beer, corned beef, and cabbage.

Robin and the kids have heard me go off on this little speech every year, so by this time they know I'd rather be anywhere than a pub, eat anything but corned beef, and no I don't want to watch "Darby O'Gill and the Little People".

So Robin made soda bread to go with our chicken dinner. For those who don't know, soda bread is a bit of magic, as it's risen with just soda (hence the name of course) and no yeast. It's fast, it's cheap, and it's really really delicious.

We did add some potatoes, so we didn't starve.

Viva los San Patricios!

Stars in His Eyes

Just the other day Izzy got his first pair of glasses. I'd had mine for many years by the time I was his age, but Izzy waited until the ripe old age of eight. He'd been telling us for a while he needed them, but since he was reading fine, and smacking the baseball regularly, we didn't think it was too bad.

It was a bit ironic to have him come show me his new specs, as they are almost identical to mine. My friend Jim Bailey and I look enough alike that we get mistaken for each other weekly. Now I have a short doppelganger too; Izzy is mini-me.

Later that night Robin and the kids were out, and Izzy and I were alone on the deck. He yelled out "Hey dad!" I can see the stars! I can really see them!"

It took a minute for it to register, but Izzy had never been able to see the stars. Now that the night sky was so clear he had me draw a map of Orion so he could find it in the sky. Needless to say I was happy to do it, and totally blown away by the chance to be there when he discovered the heavens for the first time.

For all the time I spend shooting into the night, and so many times Izzy's been by my side, I really had no clue that he could not see what I was shooting until I showed him a picture.

Now I have this picture of my boy, so I never forget that night.

Why I Love My Girls

I love my girls because they give me things. I love my girls because they feed me. I love my girls for the cute noises they make. I love my girls because they come back even if I've been chasing them around the yard.

I love my girls, so I have many. I love them for their variety and their color. I love them because if I watch them a while they never fail to make me laugh. I love my girls because they play hard to get. I love them because they stop running in the evening and let themselves be caught.

I love my girls all year round, but I really remember the basis of my love in the spring. You see, that's when my girls start laying eggs again.

Now all the reasons I've said love my girls are real, but some more real than others. I've always been true to my belly. I like to eat. Eggs from the hens make so many things so much better.

That's why I love my girls.

My New Laptop

I got a handwritten letter from my friend Eric last year. I wanted to write him back, but the penmanship classes I had at Sacred Heart were all many years ago, and I never did have a very good hand.

Around the third grade I started taking typing during summer school. My mom was a legal secretary at the time and she knocked out a blazing 80+ words per minute. It was her idea that we all learn to touch type before we were 10. She was right. It was a good idea.

Our typing classroom was a room full of Royals, Burroughs, and all the other usual giant typing machines. Any one of them could have served as an anchor to a reasonably large boat. We got a great workout doing our typing drills. These machines were beasts.

Just after my letter from Eric came, I set out to find an old portable. I liked the idea of being a bit more thoughtful and taking time with a letter...and must say it was all kinds of fun to open the mail box and find a personal letter. It'd been a long time.

So I got this wonderful machine at a yard sale for five bucks. Nice. Robin cleaned it up and got me a new ribbon for Christmas. During her research locating the ribbon etc. she found the same machine for sale on the internet for many hundreds of dollars. Evidently it's rare and there are collectors. I have a collection of one.

While it's in pretty good shape, it can't make the letter G or the number 6.

My street address is 9767 so I thought that'd present a problem with return addressing an envelope, but I've got a PO Box 1104...OK problem solved there.

But the letter G is something else. Count your Gs...consider your gerunds! They are everywhere; and not. Being raised on my grandmother's knee so to speak, and she being a native of Alabama, she disdained the use of the final G almost completely. There was a lot of doin', goin', and workin' with Grandmere.

So along with a lot of clickin' and clackin' as I churn out the post, you might hear a Coosa County drawl echoed in my typewritten lines.

Back to my typin'...