By Winnie Bolton
What is it to be Irish, you may ask, since St. Patty’s day is almost upon us? Well…
It is to have an angel in your mouth turning your prose to poetry. It is to have the gift of tongues to know the language of all living things. An Irishman pauses, turns an ear to a tree because he wants to hear what one sleepy bud says to another as it opens its pale, green hands to the warm sun of spring.
How can one put the wonder of what it is to be Irish in words?
Take for example the legend of the Leprechaun – those wrinkled, little old fellows who were rich but very cranky, living alone far from towns with a pot of gold hidden somewhere. You’ll have to step lively and think quickly to capture a leprechaun’s pot of gold though, because this sly little fellow will fool you into looking away for an instant while he escapes into the forest.
A story is told of the man who compelled a leprechaun to take him to the very bush where the gold was buried. The man tied a red handkerchief to the bush in order to recognize the spot again and ran home for a spade. He was gone only three minutes but when he returned to dig there was a red handkerchief on every bush in the field.
That’s the wonderful sense of Irish fun and delight of Irish storytelling.
Since I was born into an Irish immigrant family, I was raised singing beautiful, soulful Irish melodies at family gatherings. The jigs, reels and hornpipes were part of our celebration and everyone had a story to tell. My dad had a gift for insight into the meaning of right living and would compose many a happy limerick. I can still hear his words …
“May there always be work for your hands to do, may your purse carry a shilling or two, may the sun always play on your windowpane, may a rainbow chase after each spot of rain, may the hand of a friend always be near you and may God fill your heart with gladness to cheer you.”
