The Wearin' o' the black...

Saint Patrick’s Day has come and gone, but for this proud to be Irish woman, from the "built like a brick outhouse clan", auburn hair, green eyes and all, there was no "Wearin' o' the Green". I actually spent the so called "holiday" like an Irish Goth, all dressed in black. A strange day indeed.

Everyone who knows me knows my heritage. I think that is a Boston thing. Recently, the woman who brings our pastries into the shop complained that she loves Boston but dang, everyone there is just so darned proud to be Irish. I turned to her, smiling, and answered "Of course we are!" She just rolled her eyes, laughed, and made some comment about "another one". My boss, who loves a good debate, and is like a poke in the eye with a sharp stick sometimes, called out "You’re not really Irish, you’re American". I quickly replied "If you ever say that again I will slap you around". My co-worker Michael thought this was great fun and joined in with a quick retort "Ah, hear that? She IS Irish" LOL, and yes, just so darned proud of it.

So, you are probably wondering by now why me, of all people, spent Saint Patrick’s Day wearing all black. It has to do with honoring my ancestors, making a political statement, and all that. For those not in the know, Saint Patrick was not some happy go lucky guy who drove the snakes out of Ireland. There were no actual snakes in Ireland. Instead, the word is used in a metaphorical sense, representing the Druids of Ireland, and the Druid and Pagan religions in general. Saint Patrick was indeed responsible for the converting of many of Ireland’s people to Christianity. Is that a good thing? Maybe yes for some, maybe no, for others. Often, at that time in history, the converting of others to Christianity came the total desecration of another religion, another way of life, and so it was, in Ireland. A lot of Ireland’s history, traditions, and customs were lost during Saint Patrick’s "Driving out the snakes".

I do not celebrate what Hitler did to the Jewish people. I do not celebrate what happened to the American Indians. And I do NOT celebrate what Saint Patrick did to the Irish.

On a lighter note, back to Jenny (the baker) and her comment about Boston. She's right, I grew up in the Boston area, and people there are proud to be Irish. Yes, including me. In my family there were blue collar workers, fisher men, cops (what? Irish cops in Boston?!? lol) and more. Growing up on the coast just outside of Boston, I have always been particularly fond of the fishermen. I can remember being little and going down to the docks, and watching the fishermen come in at night, as well as the scallop draggers, and lobstermen. I just knew when I was little that I would grow up to be a lobsterman! (I didn't, but more on that later). Even at that age I loved the sound of the men shucking scallops, and pitching fish. I could watch them for hours! Men in cable knit sweaters, rain gear and black boots as far as you could see. They would stand around smoking, swearing, and laughing at dirty jokes I was too young to understand. It was better than the summer fair!

Fishermen are a rough and tough lot. They work long and hard days, for not a lot of money. I think they do it because they love it. It is either in your blood, or it isn't, and you can't change either one. It is in my blood. I have lived on the ocean probably a full 95% of my life. I feel lost without it, claustrophobic under all the trees. I need to smell the sea, and feel the salty air. It sounds like a cheap cliché, yes? But it is SO true. I love the sea so much that although I did NOT grow up to be a lobsterman I did grow up to work on a fishing and scallop dragging boat. I cannot remember a day of not being excited to go to work. I remember clearly heading out from port on foggy mornings, the salt spray in my face, the sound of the gulls over head, and everywhere the wind, the beautiful, wonderful, never ending ocean wind! I was all grown up, and although not a lobsterman, my dreams had come true, and I was now one of those rough and tough, smoking, swearing, laughing, fishermen! Strange dream for a little girl, but it was mine, it had come true, and I was happy!

On a side note, it is considered bad luck to have a woman on a working boat unless she is the captains’ wife, and yes, I WAS the captains’ wife, but that, is a different story than this one. I am no longer the captains’ wife, and live literally thousands of miles from that place, and time, in my life. I am happier now than I was back then, but still some days I feel the calling to go back to ocean. Not the beautiful sunny beaches here in Hawaii, but back to the working harbors, back to cold mornings, bitter coffee and cigarettes, and a good laugh at great dirty joke at 4 am.

My fiancé who has never lived on the water until we lived here in Hawaii, would make a great fisherman, he just doesn't know it. He would look great in the aforementioned cable knit sweaters, rain gear, and boots. I see it in him, and love him all the more for it. It’s like a little piece of home, across an entire nation, and the great big sea.

Speaking of the Great Big Sea, go listen to some good music, Newfie style!