So on the eve of St Paddys day, sated with corned beef, cabbage, carrots, potatoes, and Guinness (we called this New England Boiled in Boston, and I certainly grew up with it---minus the Guinness of course), one recalls, first, that the mass of Irish who came here fled starvation and poverty that wealthy nations of the time (principally England) refused to address; then, that they became the greatest writers of the English language (and the next time you hear something from My Fair Lady, dont forget where it came from), and I remember holding in my hands correspondence back and forth between OCasey and Shaw, where the sentences of Faulkners shadows of blood time took him, and the tears I dripped when listening the boatman to Inisfree recite The Second Coming in the fog; and every stop of Leopold Blooms walk through Dubilin, starting out at SandyMount (well, Bloom wasnt at that stop), and reciting the opening of Sirens at the annual Bloomsday reading of Ulysses at Hugh Kellys Irish Times here in DC. And thats hardly all: I can still smell Dingle and Inch, and when that volcano in Iceland let forth a few years ago, how my Irish colleagues kept me at a hotel for a week, and cleared a desk and computer to sooth parts of my soul, and during that time, walking out the Howth Road in search of Commitments territory (the greatest rock-and-roll movie ever made), stopping at a hardware store where a father and daughter patiently repaired the connections of an over-the-shoulder sack. You dont have to be from Boston to have all this in your blood and hold it dear, but I am, and its closer still. Heres to St. Paddy! Everybody rise!
Posted on: Mon, 17 Mar 2014 00:34:15 +0000
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