Dear Ones,
March
…many weathers….and many events. There’s
March Madness and The Ides of March and Nation Pi Day on 3-14. Add to that the first day of spring and spring forward day
which I understand was dreamed up by no less than Benjamin Franklin. A pox on old Ben and our Congress. It’s a
disturbing and disruptive practice leaving millions sleep deprived each spring.
My favorite day in March is the 17th,
the feast of St. Patrick. I settle in
for Irish music from my albums and lately from Pandora too. It was a challenge to find Irish music on the
radio. Now with streaming and the internet, it’s not a problem but years ago,
not so easy to find the traditional Irish music my mother yearned for. Except for the beloved Karl Hass. Without fail every St. Pat’s day he would do
an hour program of classical Irish music.
Mother would beam as his melodic voice filled the house. He’d chat about the Irish composers and then that
haunting lyrical music would coddle your heart.
Nowadays,
while listening to the music, I first get down the Irish Belleek teapot which
is lighter than the voice of an Irish tenor.
It almost glows with ivory translucence.
Next I set the cups and saucers out.
Each cup is so delicate weighing about as much as one green
shamrock. Then I warm the pot and pop in
an Irish teabag and wait while the brew steeps.
Not to be rushed, my Irish tea.
Savoring that first sip stirs up the memories and I settle in for a talk
with my mother. That’s been my custom,
these last few years. I usually get a
wee weepy as memories flood my mind. My
dad used to say I had the Lakes
of Killarney stashed
behind my eyelids because I’d cry easily.
Now I don’t cry as often. Takes
something major. I wonder. As we age, do we keep our emotions tighter in
check? Less likely to share, more
guarded about opening up? Do you
agree? But not when I sit with my dear
old mother. I tell her all.
When the
tea grows cold and the music ends, I put the china back on the shelf. You’re probably thinking it’s on to an Irish
dinner but the sad fact is I somehow didn’t get that strand of DNA that spelled boiled dinner. I do not like corned beef and cabbage. Yes, I cooked it for years…till Mother died. Then I made a brave announcement. No more corned beef and cabbage. Perhaps lamb chops and green asparagus. I think it’s the smell of cabbage that turns
me off. Don’t tell my mother…please.
We all have
traditions; some cherished family ones, others recently acquired that though
newer are meaningful and reassure us that there is a pattern to this unfolding
of daily life. Many are connected to the
seasons. Take the hummingbirds. I put my feeders out mid-March and yesterday,
they were at the feeder causing my spirits to lift and flutter just like their
tiny wings and promising months of bird acrobatics. Also March means Lent to me
and Lent means hot cross buns. I can’t
wait till I see them at the bakery. That
memory goes straight back to childhood.
Anyone else remember this song?
‘ One a
penny, two a penny, hot cross buns, hot cross buns. If you have no daughters, give them to your
sons. Hot cross buns.”
On that
note, I’ll close and say Happy Spring.
It is in the shelter of
each other that the people live
An
Irish Proverb
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