St. Patty's Day

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 All of the St. Patrick's Day hoopla, the holiday set aside for getting drunk and wearing green and "Kiss me I'm Irish" etc. has got me thinking about my dad.
My father's parents came here from Ireland with 5 children in tow. They settled in Michigan and his father, William,began working in a coal mine. My dad was born here in America, the first of their family to be born outside of Ireland. The older siblings married and started their own lives and William died in a cave in of the coal mine when my dad was 12. He had an older sister, Katy, who was still at home who was 15. She began the job of raising him. His mother, started to take in other people's laundry to bring in money.
My father never really talked about his childhood, in fact what I just wrote is all I know. At Christmas, he would tell us about how his mother gave him an orange and he realized how special it was and he relished it like it was the only thing any kid had ever dreamed of at Christmas.
I got this weird habit from him of always leaving something on my plate when I eat. I asked him about it one time ( I didn't even know I did it, till someone pointed it out when I was an adult) he said when he was young, they would all eat supper vorasiously and when someone finished (his four older brothers) his mother would ask if anyone wanted seconds. He realized that "seconds" meant HER portion and began to always leave something, claiming he was full.
My dad was stocky and played football in high school, getting a college scholarship to Iowa, the first in his whole family to go to college.He played in the Rose Bowl twice. He met my mom, married. And by the time I met his mother, Sarah, she was in a wheelchair being taken care of by his sister Katy like a baby, spoon fed, and diaper wearing. She creeped me out. I was 5 years old.
Katy's kids were all red haired, and freckled, but I was adopted and didn't fit in. Even after all the family thanksgivings, and vacations visiting, my dad's family doesn't think of me as a part of theirs and I haven't talked to any of them in years.
Every St. Patty's Day my dad goes to a bar where he can sing the songs of his youth, and he gets really into his Irish roots, he knows all the cheers and songs and limericks and he is the life of the party. It is his day.
I went to a bar with him only once on this day when I was 22 and I watched in admiration and awe as people cheered and yelled requests for the next song he would sing. He was the happiest I had ever seen him and at the same time, the saddest. Once a year, total strangers validated his existence.
I was raised Irish Catholic, and I feel Irish, but by blood I am not and that makes me sad, but as John Lennon said," If it wasn't for bad luck, the Irish would have no luck at all"