Top o' the Marnin' To Yez

    My Irish grandfather, Hugh Henry Hutton,  used to have a saying about St. Patrick's Day.  It went something like this:  "I'll be at the pub.  Don't be botherin' to wait up." 

    Okay, so it's not a colourful saying, like "May the road rise up to meet ye, and may ye be in Heaven an hour before the Divil knows you're dead."  Not all Irishmen are colourful.   And they don't all drink heavily and get into fights.  Those are just old, unfair stereotypes, like the "cheap Scotsman", the "orderly, humourless German", or the "Englishman with the stick up his butt". 

    (Okay, so all Englishmen do have sticks up their butts.  Still ... stereotyping is always wrong, and people who engage in stereotyping are idiots.  Most of them, anyway.  Generally speaking.)

    My grandfather used to hate St. Patrick's Day, because it brings out the “Once-a-year Irishmen”.  These are much like the “Pretend Cowboys” you see on country music videos, wearing designer chaps, snakeskin boots and shirts with sparkly embroidery. 

    You just know if they wore those outfits on an actual cattle drive, the cows would all tip over from laughing.  And the Pretend Cowboy would wind up naked, weeping, tied to a cactus with a big Circle O branded on his delicate little designer tush.

    The Once-a-year Irishmen are just as phony as Pretend Cowboys.  They wear the stupid plastic green derbies from the dollar store and drink the green beer and say "Top o’ the marnin’!" to you, even when it's ten at night.  It's the only Irish they know. 

(Well, that and "OK, pal ... da fuck you lookin' at?"  Which isn't technically “Irish”.  More just “drunk fighting words”.)

    My grandfather hated those guys.  So he got grouchy every St. Patrick's Day.  To him, you didn't need a day to celebrate being Irish.  Being Irish wasn't an event - it was who he was.  Grandad didn't much care for cultural dabblers. 

    And that included St. Patrick himself.  Grandad used to rail against St. Patrick, whom he accused of secretly being Scottish.  Or maybe even - and this really made the veins in his forehead stand out - English.  Apparently St. Patrick was born in either Scotland or England about 1600 years ago, and only came to Ireland because he was kidnapped and sold into slavery.  Grandad called him "that English tourist". 

    So if he didn't care much for dear old St. Paddy, you can imagine how he felt about some guy named "Swischuk" or "Kobrinsky" or "Firrelli" swaggering over, spilling his green beer on the table, and wishing my Grandad "Top o' the marnin'!". 

    Over the years, more than one dust-up started that way.  But Grandad was a canny old guy.  He was never around when the paddy wagons (which were, by the way, named for his people, and don’t think he wasn’t inordinately proud of that) showed up. 

    You don't learn those kind of authority-evading skills in Canada.  But Grandad grew up in Belfast.  He learned early on in life how to throw a rock and be washed up, dressed in a suit, and safe in his church pew before the sound of breaking glass echoed in the street.

    For all that, you never met a gentler guy.  And he never had a drop of liquor in the house.  My grandmother wouldn't allow it, and he would do whatever she said because he adored her.  My grandmother  was - and this always makes me chortle - English.  Grandad was shunned - cut off and left for dead by his entire family - for marrying her.  But they were married for almost sixty years, until he died in his sleep, a happy but tired man. 

  On St. Patrick's Day. 

    So every March 17th, I have a drop of Bushmill’s finest  in honour of my Grandad.  I don't wear green, I don't carry a shamrock, and I don't fight.  But for that one day, I feel as Irish as a guy named Ling can feel.

    Except I can't bring myself to hate the English.  Even if they do have sticks up their butts.  Generally speaking, of course.

Comments

[wordgirl]

No Irish here. However, my oldest son's 17th birthday is today. I think that only makes him an honorary Irishman.

[candace]

There's a drop of Irish in me, along with a drop of just about everything else.

It sounds like your grandad was quite a man. Cheers to him.

[Squirl]

I'm plenty Irish and I don't wear green on St. Paddy's day. (That's not Patty's day as I see it written all time!) I grew up singing Irish songs and hearing Irish jokes. Your grandfather was right. You don't need one day of the year to celebrate bein' Irish.

BTW, I just re-read your book on the business trip I took this week. I had tears of laughter and sadness, but mostly laughter. It's a great book. Maybe you have the gift of gab. Been kissin' any stones lately? (And I don't mean Susie's kind of stones)

[marybishop]

I loved this post Nilbo -- My Irish father had me convinced for years that St. Patrick's Day was more important than Christmas.

He never went out on the town but would have an open house for friends and relatives that would equal the best holiday party you ever attended.

For years I haven't celebrated, but this year we were invited to a party and had a wonderful time -music, food, and booze...lots of the latter and I now know why dad also called St. Paddy's day amateur night...

It's taken me this long to sober up!

[laura]

I am also Irish and don't wear green. I find it funny to see all these people wearing green and there is no reason for it, really. They find out I am Irish and seem horrified that I am not wearing anything green. I don't get it??

Love your stories!!

[kalki]

Here's to your grandad...

[Jim Fogg]

I was born a wee bit after midnight on March 18. My paternal grandmother Agnes (Peggy)Mailey hailing from Belfast had Patrick in her sights. The compromise was a good Irish name, Jimmy. I always tell people I was hanging in the womb by my finger nails.....awaiting the stroke of midnight..

[laurenbove]

He learned early on in life how to throw a rock and be washed up, dressed in a suit, and safe in his church pew before the sound of breaking glass echoed in the street.

Best line ever.

Funny...my dad is English and married Irish. Father's side was very unforgiving but Mother's side was as warm as a fireside cat could be.

[Nils]

Ohh .. "warm as a fireside cat". Love it. Consider it stolen.

[Bucky Four-Eyes]

What's wrong with designer chaps?

[Nils]

Worn as you wear them, my dear, nothing at all. Worn as a pretend cowboy ... everything. See, it's all in the attitude.