St Patrick’s Day is almost upon us and I suppose the poor auld saint will be all but eclipsed by the 1916 celebrations, he’ll barely get a look-in with all the other shenanigans.
Anyway, the day itself will be celebrated with even more gusto than before. Our caretaking Ministers will no doubt take themselves off to the four corners of the globe to wear the green for God and country – not a bad gig for people on ministerial jobseeker’s allowance.
As a territorially confined local politician, I’ll stroll down to the local effort here in Killdicken and if I can get a lift I’ll make an appearance in Clonmel. After that, I’ll probably end up in Tom Walshe’s to raise a glass to whatever people are raising glasses to.
While I’m happy to stay local for the national holiday, I’m always amazed at the international dimension to the celebration; all over the world people know the 17th of March is Ireland’s national feast day, even people who don’t know where Ireland is and couldn’t find it on the map.
I suppose our capacity to make a spectacle of ourselves draws all kinds of attention and the passionate homesickness that infects Irishmen and women everywhere makes them do mad things on Lá le Pádraic.
Two stories I heard illustrate this very clearly. They concern two Waldron cousins from these parts who emigrated to the southern states of America at the turn of the last century. One of them, Ted Waldron from Teerawadra, set himself up as a blacksmith and farrier at a dusty crossroads on the border between Texas and Arkansas. He went quietly about his work all year round except on St Patrick’s Day when he’d ride his pony into the local town and spend the day going from pub to pub picking fights, creating trouble and wreaking havoc. Like many a quiet man, he was a hoor with drink in him.
One particular year he came into town and created his normal disturbance until eventually it came time to go home. He staggered out of the last pub and was untying his horse when he noticed the animal was painted green.
He went back into the pub, stuck out his chest and shouted: “I’d like to know who painted my horse green?”
This big tall Danish lad, about six foot six and built like a bulldozer, stood up and towering over Ted said: “I painted it. So what’s your problem with that?”
Ted looked up at the colossus and, even in his drunken state, knew the odds were stacked against him.
“Oh,” says Ted, “I have no problem with that, none at all, sir. I just came in to tell you the first coat is dry.”
His cousin, Mick Waldron, travelled over with Ted but they parted company in Kentucky. Mick, who was also fond of the horses, got work on a big stud farm breaking young horses. Like Ted, he was a paragon of virtue except on St Patrick’s Day when he broke out and inevitably made a fool of himself.
One particular St Patrick’s Day, he started his celebrations early and by midday was somewhat the worse for wear.
He suddenly realised he hadn’t been to mass so he decided to walk to the next town, home to the only Catholic church for miles. He took a short cut along the bank of the local river and as he staggered through a wooded area he came upon a crowd gathered around a wandering preacher baptising people in the river.
Mick edged his way into the crowd to get a better look and before he knew it he was standing waist deep in the water beside the preacher. The holy man looked up to the sky and asked: “Who is next to find the Lord?
No one answered so he grabbed Mick by the scruff of the neck and shoved him into the water. Mick hadn’t a clue what was going on. The preacher pulled him back up and asked: “Brother, have you found the Lord?”
Mick answered: “No, I haven’t.”
The preacher shoved him in again and held him down a bit longer. He pulled him out of the water a second time and asked: “Brother, have you found the Lord?”
A breathless Mick replied:“I cant’ say that I have!”
The preacher was getting impatient and shoved Mick down a third time and held him under for about 30 seconds until he began to kick his arms and legs about.
He pulled him up, shook him and shouted: “In the name of all that’s good and holy, in the name of every word in the good book, did you find the Lord?”
Mick straightened himself, caught his breath and asked the preacher: “Are you sure this is where he fell in?”
Happy St Paddy’s Day.
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