When I was growing up, my mother never missed a chance to bust out the decorations and gussy up our house for every single holiday that came down the line. The “big” ones were no surprise – Christmas, Halloween, and Easter – those seemed to warrant the time and effort spent on breaking out the large cardboard boxes and masking tape to festoon our front door and entranceway and kitchen shelves with the knick knacks and streamers, and pictures drawn in primary grades to herald in the coming revelry of these common celebratory days.
It was the “other” holidays – the ones that took a minor role in our small mill town that always surprised me a bit, and especially so as I got older. Did we really need to have a giant groundhog on the door and silhouettes of shadows on the walls for Groundhog Day each year? And why didn’t I see everyone outside and piecing together their 10 foot pole complete with ribbons for the coming of the May Day celebration? If there was a holiday to celebrate – my mom was on it, and on it completely.
Ironically enough, my wife is the same way. For this reason, I continue to live in a house where the inside of our living space is forever changing with the expectation of a coming celebration. And we have boxes for each one. Lots of boxes containing lots of decorations for lots of holidays. Usually I can find them. Sometimes I can not. Last year I spent a week sawing holes in our garage attic and piecing boards together up there just to create room for the overflow of ghosts and scarecrows from Halloween. My next project is to create a template or map of some sort for the location of every item so that the annual hour and a half treasure hunt to find the outside flag announcing the coming of President’s Day does not cause the other yearly tradition of frustration, blame, and promises for resolution and better organization of our growing decorations.
You see, my wife and my mother are both elementary teachers. My mom is retired now, but the heyday of her career was during that time when it was not considered politically insensitive to hit the kids smack in the face with each and every holiday, regardless of its overall significance or the fact that their particular culture may not agree with the message of the celebration. “We are celebrating the birth of Jesus soon, Mohammed – so take this red and white stocking with the cross on the front that we made from construction paper today and hang it on your front door.” I am not criticizing these practices – in fact I think most schools have gone too far in the other direction today. Nowadays, many schools refuse to create or hang anything in their classrooms or hallways at the risk of offending someone, or, more to the point, at the risk of being sued by a young person who felt “intimidated and uncomfortable” by the presence of the large basket wielding bunny that Mrs. Smith defiantly hung over the Smart Board in the room. Stay strong, Mrs. Smith – the bunnies will rule the school again some day!
And, fortunately for people like us, there have not been any laws or mandates about the outfits we send our children to school in on these smaller holidays. We have other boxes for these costumes, and my mother has devoted an entire walk in closet to outfits for every occasion – from large stove top hats for Lincoln’s Birthday to the obligatory green beard for St. Patrick – it’s all in there!
In truth, I am a bit jealous now that I have passed that age when I can go “all out” for a holiday like St. Patrick’s Day. Sure – I can wear a green tie, or tie clip, and maybe even get away with a green button down shirt to work, but the days when I can don the green overalls and the large green and white hat with the battery powered leprechaun that pops in and out of the top are over. Now my pleasure is a vicarious one that comes from watching my kids in similar vestments, happy and without a hint of self-consciousness, bounding onto the school bus and completely caught up in the festivity and the fun for the day. And I am glad that they are excited to do so. I am glad that they are growing up with similar traditions to the ones I had. I am glad that they view life as a festival, a celebration, a series of unending boxes full of wild decorations and things to make us all smile, and laugh, and dance and sing with complete and utter abandon. I think there is great value in these things. I think that all kids should be allowed similar experiences.
Recently I heard the song “Danny Boy” on the radio and I started getting very emotional. I have had similar experiences lately when I hear other Irish music, or when I read various Irish blessings posted around our house. They seem to affect me more now, and I find myself surprised by these reactions. Why am I feeling so impacted by these things? I have always been Irish, and I have been aware of my heritage from a young age. I honored my proud lineage by wearing a crazy outfit on St. Patrick’s Day, eating an above average portion of potatoes throughout my life, and respecting the fact that a “few” of us Irish folks occasionally might have a bit of a problem with “the drink”. I never really thought about what being Irish meant or means to me beyond these things – until recently.
My maternal grandmother immigrated to America from Ireland, by herself and with very little money, and started a new life in New York City. She married an Irishman who worked hard and drank hard and died young. My grandmother then packed up her three kids and moved back to Ireland for what turned out to be a “New York Minute,” when she saw that nothing that had caused her to leave the island in the first place had really changed. The family came back to America with even less money and settled in Bedford Stuyvesant in Brooklyn to chase the American Dream. Throughout my life I have heard countless other stories about my grandmother, and her family, and the culmination of moments, events, and decisions that defined her family – our family – and which have lead in no small part to my perspectives, and beliefs, and to the continued pursuit of that American Dream. Those crazy outfits, and decorations and shamrock cupcakes we broke out each year were only the outer layer of my history. The real stories, the true things that defined us needed to be passed down through the bloodline around dining tables, and fire places, and living room conversations over these many years.
I’m proud to be Irish, and it seems to mean more to me as I get older. But I’m even prouder of the brave and risky decisions my Irish relatives made so that I can be who I am and where I am today. I’m not sure I would have had the wherewithal or the strength to face the adversities my kin have overcome. I need to tell their stories to my own kids more often. And I also need to respect, and honor, and challenge myself to follow my brave relatives’ examples and to live a life of healthy risk taking. Because we Irish were not made for a boring life, you know.
But regardless of your nationality, or heritage, or the series of events that have brought you to this point in life, I hope you all will share it with those around you – especially with your kids. Our stories are really all we have in the end, and your legacy is really in the hands and the tales that exist long after you have moved on. I hope I am telling my kids enough, and I hope they will take the good, the bad, and the ugly of our collective history and will continue to pass it down with fond memory and smiles on their faces.
In an act that I find utterly, ironically, spiritually hysterical and perfect, God decided that my oldest daughter would be born on St. Patrick’s Day. I guess God wants me to remember how important a day it is for our family. I’ll do my best to honor His request. Right now, however, I’m on my way to the attic to dig out the green spotlight, the large wooden rainbow, and the pot of gold for the front yard…
My challenge is to incorporate Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day and Easter. I spent one day this week dressing bears in Easter outfits, and putting them on shamrock placemats. I’m glad I started writing. It might pass the Irish values on to your children. We are a proud, optimistic people who use humor to deal with life. Most of all we love our family. We may not be the best cooks, but we are the best storytellers. I still love all holidays, and have been wearing green all month. I’m glad you have good memories. You and your family continue to make my heart happy. You are such blessings. May the wind always be at your back. God bless, and Happy St. Paddy’s Day.
How could I forget about the bears? Thanks for all the joy and stories. I’m glad you’re writing, too!