ST. PATRICK'S DAY - WHEN EVERYONE IS IRISH!

St. Patrick’s Day in the United States is the only day when everyone is Irish. It’s a time for wearing green, reveling with friends, drinking beer—often also green—eating Irish food, watching parades, and generally celebrating Irish culture, heritage and traditions. 

St. Patrick’s Day was officially declared a Christian feast day in the early seventeenth century in honor of St. Patrick. It was observed by many (Christian) religions because it commemorates the arrival of Christianity in Ireland.

 

Patrick was born in Roman Britain in the fourth century to wealthy Roman Christian aristocrats. His father was a deacon and his grandfather was a priest. At the age of sixteen, he was kidnapped by Irish raiders and taken as a slave to Gaelic Ireland where he spent six years there working as a shepherd.

After making his way back home by escaping to Gaul, now France, Patrick became a priest and studied for fifteen years before returning to Ireland in 432. According to legend, St. Patrick used the three-leaved shamrock to explain the Holy Trinity to Irish pagans. 

 

The first organized observance of St. Patrick’s Day in the British colonies was in 1737 when the Charitable Irish Society of Boston gathered to honor their motherland. During the American Revolution, George Washington, realizing his troops had a morale problem and in acknowledgment of the valiant Irish volunteers who served in his army, issued an order declaring the 17^th of March to be a holiday for the troops in honor of St. Patrick’s Day.

 

Throughout the years and throughout the United States, cities with Irish populations continued to celebrate the special occasion with parades and festivities. Even the White House celebrated St. Patrick’s Day, starting with President Harry Truman.

 

So to everyone, whether you are Irish or wannabe Irish, I lift my glass of ale and wish you this Irish blessing:

These things, I warmly wish for you
Someone to love, some work to do,
A bit of o' sun, a bit o' cheer.
And a guardian angel always near.

 

To your good health—“Slainte.” 

 

                                                 LINK to my AMAZON AUTHOR PAGE

 

Saluting Grace Noll Crowell, American Poet - This, Too, Will Pass

February in Central Pennsylvania is always a dismal, dull month. For me, it’s always been the month which I “just try to get through” to be able to welcome spring in March.

The beginning of this year in the United States has been a tumultuous time with sadness, political disruption, and tragic loss of lives. How does one navigate through and overcome the somberness, the gloom?

Denali National Park, AK

The other night, while I was reading in bed, I heard our resident owl on the roof sending out his persistent strings of intermittent “who, who, who.” In the morning, despite the frigid temperatures, our resident chickadee was calling out its name from a leafless tree beside our back deck. Talk about two tough, persistent balls of feathers who croon despite the cold, the snow, or the sheer bleakness of the day or night.

Whenever I get down and out, I think of my mother’s words when dealing with a problem, “You can’t move a mountain in your head. So, just move one stone at a time.”

One of my favorite poems is by Grace Noll Crowell, an American poet (1877-1969), who wrote over 20 books of poems. “This, Too, Will Pass” is one of my favorites.

And I hope, with all the gloom and doom we often endure, the poem will help as we move one stone at a time to tackle those problems and mountains in our path.

This, Too, Will Pass

This, too, will pass.
O heart, say it over and over,
Out of your deepest sorrow,
out of your deepest grief,
No hurt can last forever--
Perhaps tomorrow will bring relief.                               
          
This, too, will pass.
It will spend itself--
Its fury will die as the wind dies down
with the setting sun;
Assuaged and calm, you will rest again,
Forgetting a thing that is done.

Repeat it again and again,
O heart, for your comfort;
This, too, will pass
as surely as passed before
The old forgotten pain, and the other sorrows
That once you bore.

As certain as stars at night,
or dawn after darkness,
Inherent as the lift of the blowing grass,
Whatever your despair or your frustration--
This, too, will pass.

WELCOME JANUARY 2025

The beginning of each year is always filled with thoughts that we need to make changes in our lives. I think of January as the month of anxiety, tension, and resolutions. You can throw in upheaval, too, if you like.   

There are two kinds of guilt. The first is the unhealthy guilt that there will be terrible consequences if you don’t accomplish certain tasks or do certain things, such as exercise every day, clean the house every Saturday, forget to attend a meeting or an appointment, etc. Then there is the healthy guilt which is a natural response to the current circumstances, such as hoping to continue or pursue a hobby you’ve neglected, missing being with family members, or even as simple as forgetting to turn the dishwasher on.

Whether it’s an unhealthy one or a healthy one, I’m not a fan of making resolutions and putting pressure on my life or increasing stress. I do believe that we can make decisions or intentions for our betterment as we look to the future. Life itself, with all its quirks, is often pressure enough without strict guidelines, rules, or repetitive activities for successfully living each day. Maybe what we need is to make a list of all things we want to “enjoy in 2025” instead. How about that for a change?

Author Victoria Erickson says it best:
“Just a little reminder that you don’t have to make resolutions,
or huge decisions or big proclamations.
You can just set some sweet intentions and take each day as it comes.”

Happy New Year!

                                                 LINK to my AMAZON AUTHOR PAGE

DECEMBER ~ Bringing Home the Christmas Tree

“Who we are is where we’ve been, who are parents are, where we lived, who are friends were and are. All these influence what we see and how we see it, how we talk and what we say, how we think and what we think about, what we believe and what we value. We are our histories.”  
                                  ~ Jerry Apps, Renowned storyteller, author, educator and historian
                                                                                               ~ from Living a Country Year

As December rolls around, often into a snowy wonderland for northern states’ residents like myself, we look forward to holidays and the simple joys of country living. When I was growing up, it was an exciting time for farm kids to get the family Christmas tree. Never was there any discussion about visiting a Christmas tree farm or buying one. Bundled up and with boots on, we trudged through the white stuff, searching our own woodlands for an evergreen tree to fit in its rightful place in the corner of our dining room. Even a less-than-stellar, often lopsided, Charlie-Brown-like pine or spruce tree would do. After all, we were going to position it with its best side looking outward, weren’t we?

Our ornaments were glass, shiny, and old—and in all the colors of the rainbow along with silver, white, pink and other variations. We also had small plastic Rudolph reindeer ornaments to add to the seasonal vibe. Mother usually let us decorate without any interference, except with the warning not to throw the icicles on the tree, as we were apt to do as we tired of the final step. The plug for the light was one set into the floor. We were also sternly reminded not to drop anything into it—like tiny metal hangers used to fasten the bulbs on the branches. 

The tinsel on the tree was silver and thinner those fluffy ones of today and served to help hide the holes between the branches. Our colored light bulbs each had a reflector with mirrors on each point of the star to send up a dazzling display. Beneath the tree was a white skirt with a manger scene and a score of cardboard houses where a bulb from a string of lights could be inserted in the back of each to illuminate the vivid paper windows. On top, a lighted angel sat looking out and guarding our cozy farmhouse. When we finished, our tree was sometimes gaudy, but always a lovable one. The lights were a merry sight to behold when lit in the evening. The fresh pine scented the air with a pleasing, clean smell. 

Now, with the multitude of new and various holiday decorations for trees and our homes, I wonder whether we’ve lost the true delight and excitement of digging out all the boxes with old treasured ornaments and re-engaging in the fun of discovering familiar things that were so much part of our past and traditions. The humble tree reflected a multitude of joys in many Christmas celebrations of long ago.  

It truly was a part of who were, where we’ve been, how and where we lived, what we believed, and what we valued. It was our histories.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all!

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