My dad wasn’t a morning person. The phrases with which he greeted each day are not ones I can transcribe here. He didn’t sleep well. He woke up in nicotine debt. He didn’t particularly look forward to going to work in the mornings. I know, I’m not painting a pretty picture.
There were a few days each year, though, when dad came down the stairs with a spring in his step, the sound of the abundance of change in his pants’ pockets jingling. And St. Patrick’s Day was one of the days that put him in a lighter mood.
He was a man who appreciated music, tradition to a point, athleticism. He was a man who every St. Patrick’s Day did a jig in front of the refrigerator while trying to sing a strangely upbeat version of “Oh Danny Boy.” I can still see him, reaching for the fridge door (for cream for his coffee?) after doing a little Riverdance and calling out “Top ‘o the mornin!”
And though on many days he greeted me with “Jennifer Erin! What are ya wearin?!,” on St. Patrick’s Day I waited for his words, knowing that a smile would be on his face. And I always made an effort to wear green.*
By rough ancestral calculations, I am one-eighth Irish. My dad, with his fair skin and thick, red hair looked the part. And today, I miss him more than usual, perhaps because he had a larger place in my thoughts as I tried to find a little green in my wardrobe to show my kids that I was celebrating the day. A day that—I realize now in my adulthood—±allowed my dad to step away from responsibility for just long enough to celebrate a moment. A moment that, ultimately, celebrated his family. Past and present.
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Originally posted March 17, 2011