Kiss me — I'm Irish (but mostly German)!
In elementary school my mom always made my sister and I wear green on Saint Patrick’s Day. I thought she did it because everyone else wore green. Nope. In high school I said something to the affect of, “I wish we were Irish so we had a real reason to celebrate Saint Patty’s Day.” My mom looked at me and said, “We are Irish. Why do you think I always made you wear green in grade school?”
The Irish in me doesn’t come from my dad’s side; he’s pure German. It comes from my mom, from my grandma’s side. Along with being Irish, the Lowery’s were Scottish, English, French (what a combination — three nationalities that have deep hatred for each other), and a little bit of Chippewa (which completes the Colonial chaos of my bloodline). So, not only can I claim to have had distant relatives who roamed the great American plains before the discovery of the New World, I have a reason to celebrate Saint Patrick’s Day.
Let me lift my glass of Mackeson for a toast to my elementary self, who thought mom dressed me in green to blend in. Long live Leopold Bloom! May the agonies of his fateful day dissolve in drunken dementia.
Gulp.
Speaking of elementary school, Grant Wood always had a contest for Saint Patrick’s Day. A leprechaun was supposedly hiding somewhere in the school. Every morning Mr Davis got on the intercom and read a cryptic riddle. We had to decipher the descriptions to figure out where the wee Irishman was hiding (did I just write “wee Irishman”?). We submitted our guesses, and through the miracle of adult magic the results were tallied and winners were announced.
I never won. I remember times when I knew for sure where that damn leprechaun was hiding. I’d sit at my desk, imagining the prizes I’d win. But my name was never read over the intercom at the end of the day.
Looking back on the great, Grant Wood Saint Patrick’s Day contests, I wonder if the whole thing wasn’t rigged. I wonder who picked the places where the leprechaun was hiding. I wonder who wrote the riddles. I’m willing to bet a group of teachers stayed after school, passed around a blunt, and sat in an inebriated haze, laughing their asses off at the game they created to play with the minds they were molding. I bet they picked a room in the school, a place everyone was familiar with, then wrote some stoned jabber on a piece of paper and had the principal read it the next morning. I don’t know how they picked the winners. I might need another beer to figure it out.
The Irish in me doesn’t come from my dad’s side; he’s pure German. It comes from my mom, from my grandma’s side. Along with being Irish, the Lowery’s were Scottish, English, French (what a combination — three nationalities that have deep hatred for each other), and a little bit of Chippewa (which completes the Colonial chaos of my bloodline). So, not only can I claim to have had distant relatives who roamed the great American plains before the discovery of the New World, I have a reason to celebrate Saint Patrick’s Day.
Let me lift my glass of Mackeson for a toast to my elementary self, who thought mom dressed me in green to blend in. Long live Leopold Bloom! May the agonies of his fateful day dissolve in drunken dementia.
Gulp.
Speaking of elementary school, Grant Wood always had a contest for Saint Patrick’s Day. A leprechaun was supposedly hiding somewhere in the school. Every morning Mr Davis got on the intercom and read a cryptic riddle. We had to decipher the descriptions to figure out where the wee Irishman was hiding (did I just write “wee Irishman”?). We submitted our guesses, and through the miracle of adult magic the results were tallied and winners were announced.
I never won. I remember times when I knew for sure where that damn leprechaun was hiding. I’d sit at my desk, imagining the prizes I’d win. But my name was never read over the intercom at the end of the day.
Looking back on the great, Grant Wood Saint Patrick’s Day contests, I wonder if the whole thing wasn’t rigged. I wonder who picked the places where the leprechaun was hiding. I wonder who wrote the riddles. I’m willing to bet a group of teachers stayed after school, passed around a blunt, and sat in an inebriated haze, laughing their asses off at the game they created to play with the minds they were molding. I bet they picked a room in the school, a place everyone was familiar with, then wrote some stoned jabber on a piece of paper and had the principal read it the next morning. I don’t know how they picked the winners. I might need another beer to figure it out.
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