I learned recently that there are more Irish-Americans than people who live in Ireland. I am one of them, and although I wish that my bloodline ran more green it does, I can't help but feeling that somewhere in the mix-up, I came out a little more Irish than the rest of us. Even if I could meet my Irish ancestors and found we were nothing alike, I'd like to think that the Irish spirit - a joyous, wild way born of devastation, poverty and racism - lives on through us. We're a family of storytellers and I'd like to think that it's the Irish in us.
This year St. Patrick's Day falls dead-center in the middle of the week. Apparently the infamous Chicago festivities are happening this weekend so as not to inhibit those who love a good romp. It's fair enough, who doesn't want to have a good reason to party with strangers every once in a while? As to what I'll be doing? Well, let's just say there's corned beef and cabbage in the fridge with my name on it and bottle of Irish whiskey on the shelf that may get cracked open, too.
Even though the sun is shining only as it can on a California day, I can't help but wish I could be in Ireland today. There may be a rain storm that blows in and the good weather I hear they've been blessed with this week may subside, but at least I know there would be a pub down the road with a perfectly poured pint, smiling faces and maybe a little music to greet me.
Katie--you rock.
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