Why, I’m old enough to remember cruising down West Broadway in Southie, men outside the bars glaring and bleary eyed in the morning. It was very much a “Where Ah You From” kind of spirit in the Hub of the Universe, a mere four years after the busing “crisis” that brought the city to its knees.
Nowadays you’re as likely to hear Spanish or Vietnamese on West Broadway and see shades of melanin as you are glaring, bleary men tied to Eire. Another generation has died out! New ones replace it. The folks outside the bars are there to smoke cigarettes.
In Harvard Square I saw many green people and then others garbed in green. The alcohol had not yet reached the legal limit, but folks were well on their way to states that would lead to statements and behaviors they would forget only a day later.
I was giving serious thought to corned beef and cabbage in honor of my paternal grandfather, O’ Toole (no first name, he was a progenitor like Prince), but then I came to my senses. So instead it’ll be Sicilian swordfish–olive oil, bread crumbs, grilled–and a glass of wine.
I will say I think each St. Patrick’s Day of a girl I met, a girl who shall remain forever nameless, who, on the holiday, stood at the door of the Tipperary Pub in Detroit greeting people at the door. Big smooch on the lips from her, and I was inside. “Today everyone’s Irish!” she said and beamed in that glow brought on by many beers. Mind, this is the same Pub where, parking my car too close to another free space, in the opinion of an about to be inebriated jack-of-all-trades, I was informed: “That’s a real Jew way to park!”
Happy St. Patricks Day, one and all!