Grief
When A Blessing Doesn’t Feel Complete
May the road rise up to meet you
St. Patrick’s Day is one of my favorite holidays. Not so much for the raucous debauchery that occurs throughout the city, but because it has always been a family celebration. The Irish roots on my maternal side are deep and strong. They certainly have a strong hold on my psyche.
My dad, whose family hails from the north of Spain, became used to the shenanigans after a while. Certain things did drive him over the edge. Green potatoes or green milk did not sit well with him. Nor did green hair, as I found out one year after being suspended from school for “improper school dress”.
We always gathered the clan for a corned beef and cabbage dinner. It became a tradition to invite family and friends. Our German neighbors and our Italian neighbors joined us singing Danny Boy and Wearin’ of the Green. My mom would fix the dinner while my dad drove her crazy helping in the kitchen. Irish coffee was always served in glasses reserved for the occasion. The house was filled to overflowing with love and affection.
