Kiss Me, I’m Irish!

by HELEN WILDY

my new country. My classmates would ask me questions about Ireland and tell me how much they loved Lucky Charms and St. Patrick’s Day. I hadn’t discovered Lucky Charms yet and was surprised to hear how much American kids loved a religious holiday, but I appreciated their enthusiasm. I was particularly impressed with the reach of St. Patrick, the patron saint of Ireland. I was surprised that Americans with English, Welsh or Scottish ancestry didn’t have the same fervor for St. George, St. David or St. Andrew, since those countries had patron saints, as well.

Come St. Patrick’s Day, my American friends would be double-fisting Sham-

Around this time, my parents started to have an annual St. Patrick’s Day party; they were worn down after years of being asked “You’re from Ireland — what are you doing for St. Patrick’s Day?!” Baffled, my parents would say “Would you like to come over? It’ll be good craic.” (Craic — pronounced “crack” — is the Irish word for fun. It’s a sociable good time, i.e.: “I went to Helen’s last night.” “Was it good craic?” “Aye, the craic was good.”) We’d make soda bread and stew and play folk songs and sing. Indeed, it was good craic — even if it wasn’t what their friends were expecting: There were no leprechauns, no portraits of St. Patrick, not even a filthy limerick.

When I was in my 20s, I finally leaned into the American Irish St. Patrick’s Day experience. I went to a parade in Pittsburgh and bar-crawled my way through the town’s South Side, an area notoriously known for college bars. At one point, I called my sweet Irish mother to let her know I had been enjoying my first-ever green beer.

“Can you believe it, Mum? Green beer!”

To which she responded: “Aye, pet, just try to find some green water.”