Three leaves to the wind
by Albo P Fossa ✍ March 15th, 2015
St. Patrick’s Day rolls around Tuesday. I have one ol’ green shirt, in case I want to go out in public and avoid getting peenched. Can’t say I’ve been peenched since childhood years, of course. There’s not too many Irish folk running around in Santa Fe, New Mexico.
Folks like an excuse to get tipsy. Call it a “Cinco de Mayo with an attitude”, maybe. (Yeah, well, lest the Gaels among ye get uppity, call it “Seachtú de Márta”.) Wikipedia states,
…the Lenten restrictions on eating and drinking alcohol are lifted for the day, which has encouraged and propagated the holiday’s tradition of alcohol consumption.
Yer green shirt might serve double duty as camouflage, as it were. Then again, yer camouflage might lead by a commodius vicus of regurgitation to a green shirt. But you shouldn’t get so green-eyed yer hauled off in a Paddy wagon.
Alas, Patrick, like any self-respecting Saint, went through younger years of appropriate hard times. His use of the shamrock as a teaching symbol is legend. A living tree grew from Patrick’s ash walking stick, story goes. They say he chased every snake away: a great deed for any man (or at least perhaps a boon to drinkers). St. Patrick’s Day recalls a wake, and celebrates the heritage and culture of Eire.
Even part of our backyard is wearin’ the green. Junior Tree has three or four leaves. And we haven’t seen a single snake—or lizard, much to Kitty Hippy’s dismay. Birds, prairie dogs and aints? Here comes everybody.
The thought of corned beef and cabbage gets me doublin’ up green. I guess we’ll have potatoes.