St. Patrick’s Day

St. Patrick’s Day:  Remembering Tom (18th in a 30 part series)

Like Thanksgiving, St. Patrick’s Day was my dad’s holiday.  He was Irish and he liked to party. So, it was natural that he hosted St. Patrick’s Day celebrations at his home in San Diego. For many of the years that he hosted, I was in college in Tucson. It was the perfect time for me to drive to San Diego for the weekend festivities.

We attended the San Diego St. Patrick’s Day parade, one of the most famous in the country.  They had Gay Pride marchers long before the rest of the country allowed that in any parade.  I remember being proud that my dad lived in a city that was so progressive.  I remember being impressed that he took me to the parade and was totally cool with the expression of Gay Pride.  Until that point in my life, I had not had any exposure to the range of human sexuality that existed in the world.  I grew up in a very homogeneous part of the country, and my social, family and community circles further reinforced that homogeneity in everything; race, religion, gender roles, sexuality.  Having the opportunity to travel and live in southern CA during my teens and early twenties, opened my eyes to a whole new world.

There was always good food at St. Patrick’s Day (my dad being a foodie), green clothing and décor, green beer and plenty of other booze, including green Jell-O shots.  Of course, along with the drinking came some other excitement, usually some type of discontent that involved hollering between my dad and someone, my step mom and someone, one of my siblings/step siblings and someone, or all the above. It was a normal occurrence, nothing I thought was even out of the ordinary at that point in my life.  Conflict made for dramatic story sharing the next year – “remember the year we stayed up till 4AM cleaning Jell-O shots off the ceiling and wall?”  Who knew Jell-O was such a bitch to clean? In my dad’s telling of the stories there was always an “Asshole”; someone each year who drank too much and was a jerk or did something stupid.  I managed to avoid the asshole label.

There was one year that I was the center of the story though, and the story telling from that year seemed to go on and on for years.  A friend of my step brother got piss drunk, literally.  He thought the room I was sleeping in was the bathroom.  He took a wrong turn in the hall and when he opened the door to my room, he pissed on the floor thinking he was standing at the toilet.  I was like, “uh” and stated his name a few times, pointing out that the bathroom was across the hall.  It didn’t seem to register.   As he turned to walk away, his sneakers were sopped with piss and the sound of him walking on the carpet with his piss sopped sneakers was a squishy sound, like someone walking with water inside their galoshes.  “squish squish, squish squish.”
I told the story the next morning, with a good amount of detail and humor, being sure to make the exact sound of him walking down the hall.  The friend became known as “Squish Squish”.  I am sure it was one of his proudest moments.  I learned that drinking to oblivion was probably not a good idea (I was not quite 16), and that humor was needed in many moments in life.  My step mother was furious, protective of me and disgusted.  I think my dad was a bit peeved at first because my step mother was, but once the carpet was cleaned and she settled down, he found the story relatively amusing.   He mostly wanted to know that I was fine, and I think was pleased that I was able to handle the situation humor and grace.  He was generally a nice guy, this friend of my step brothers.

I don’t think I told my mother the story for quite a few years.  I imagine she wouldn’t have seen as much humor in it and would have wanted me on a plane back to NH asap.

Aside from my standout stories, my St. Patrick’s Day memories with my dad are snippets of his laughter, of witnessing him prepare for the day by preparing food, of him expressing how happy he was that I was there, of watching him have fun with his friends and enjoying eating good food.

I make a traditional St. Patrick’s Day dinner every year.  And I think about my dad.  He didn’t tend to visit during this time of the year, March isn’t the most enjoyable time in New England after all.  But if he had been here for dinner tonight, he would have enjoyed the slow cooker cooked corned beef, the boiled potatoes, carrots and cabbage, the variety of mustards, being together, playing a game.  He for sure would have indulged in some Jameson’s, even after a couple Jack and Cokes.  He would have ended his evening with some Irish coffee.  He would have snuck a couple cigarettes in between it all.  He would have laughed about something funny the kids did or said, a few times.  He would have loved that Liam can quote Caddyshack and that Lauren and Porter are two peas in a redheaded pod.  He would have said something about my multitasking, cooking, family caring skills. I would have shrugged it off, taking his pride in me for granted, his love for me and for all of us for granted, the way we do with the living, because, well, we are living. We are preparing meals, preparing to celebrate, having celebrations, connecting with our kids and our peeps in the moment the best way we can.  We are building memories, moments and reflections before the awareness that they will be moments to reflect on.

It sometimes seems that each moment we are in is a creation of the past.  The moment is here, and then it is gone.  Like a shell that gets washed out to sea, just as you see the light catch it under the crashing wave.  You reach, and what reaches back is the empty space of cold, wet sand, the place where the shell once was, was just and isn’t.  Just as you saw it, and realized it was special, off it tumbled, turning on the ocean floor, returning to where it came, and where it will remain, not to be caught, but to be remembered.

When I was in Ireland last year, I learned that St. Patrick’s Day is not as big of a thing there, as it is for the Irish in the US.  Perhaps the allure of celebrating St. Patrick’s Day for those who identify as Irish is an opportunity for us to stay connected to the past and to the place we came from; a place we often do not fully know or understand.  Sometimes a place we have never even been.  A place and a time that we will never catch but may be able to remember.