On Saturday, I trekked out to the valley to dance to Irish tunes in a barn. I jumped around and clapped on the off beats. I wore green pants. I sang along to The Night Pat Murphy Died at the top of my lungs, except for the third verse which I forgot the words to. There was a live band at this barn party, along with every green food you could imagine and a ball of “Irish Mistletoe” in the corner. It was a grand ol’ Irish time. Except for the part where I had a glass of red wine instead of a pint of Guinness. For shame.
Confession: I am only about 12.5% Irish. I had one great grandma from the Emerald Isle and the rest of my family descended from the English Oppressors. Except for the parts of me that are French-Canadian and German. Ok so my heritage is all over the place. Whatever, I.AM.Canadian.
In other St. Patrick’s Day news,
It was Grandma Miller’s dad who was Irish she cleared that up recently. On Grandma’s information as a child she always had to fill in for ethnicity “Irish-Canadian” I can’t remember if her mother was also Irish or not but if she was that would make us 1/4 Irish.
I usually just describe our heratige as a mosaic of European grudges and resentment. Ireland, England, France, and Germany the poster children of bad feels from the middle ages and world war 2