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THE WIND PHONE
On Navigating Holidays After Loss
The correct way does not exist, and there’s just one rule
St. Patrick’s Day was always cause for carousal in my big Irish-Catholic family, and no one loved it more than my mother.
It came naturally, what with her apparent leprechaun descendancy. I’m not coddin’ ya. Her Irish-born great-grandfather Connell Devlen stood four feet nine inches and lived to age one hundred thirteen, so you be the judge.
Mom shined when sharing the family lore, and took just pride in her heritage. The woman was incapable of crossing a clover field without stopping to search for that lucky four-leaf mutation. (There’s one among every ten thousand shamrocks.)
Here in Dallas we celebrate St. Paddy’s with zeal. There’s a footrace first thing followed by a hundred-float, bagpipe-blasting, green beer-guzzling parade and festival. By midday the host avenue is a verdant sea of river-dancers and jade fedoras and “Kiss My Shamrocks” merch.
Grief has a way of dimming red-letter days. Now bagpipes signal funerals.
On the eve of St. Patrick’s Day 2011, I laid out my racing kit and pinned my competitor number on a green sports top.
