My grandmother was a first generation American born to Irish immigrants who had arrived in the middle of the nineteenth century. This fact is important to the following story.

My grandmother depended on me to drive her to church. On that Sunday she did not notice at first what I was wearing except that my blouse was a cheery pale yellow.

“That blouse looks nice with your dark hair,” she said as she got into the car.

I do not remember any of our conversation on the short drive to the church that St. Patrick’s Day. After I parked the car, we walked toward the church entrance. We were almost there when my grandmother turned to ask, “Did you bring something green to wear today?”

“There’s green in my skirt,” I said pointing to the plaid skirt I was wearing. It was  a plaid with stripes of green in the shade of new leaves, a warm yellow and  soft muted orange.

My grandmother stopped at the foot of the entry stairs, her mouth open in shock. “You can’t wear that on St. Patrick’s Day.”

“Why not? It has green.” It was the only thing with green in my closet.

“It has orange,” she said the word as if it made her sick.

“What’s wrong with orange?’ As the other church goers passed us by.

Grandma shook her head and muttered, “If my parents were here to see you… Tsk. Well, it’s too late for you to go home to change. I suppose it will have to do. I just hope no one notices.”

She was still slowly shaking her head as we entered the church. It was only afterward that I learned that the Protestants of Ireland chose orange for their color while it was green only for the Catholics.

I thought it was rather nice that the two colors co-existed in my skirt. It would be nice if it were the same for the people of Ireland. But as a courtesy to my grandmother, I did not wear that skirt next year on St. Patrick’s Day.

#FamilyStories #St.Patrick’sDay #Traditions #CulturalInheritance

Snowflakes fill in all the sky

And blanket all the earth below

As soft firelight warms my room,

I am content in my world.

Squirrels still search for winter stores

As I sit here quietly sipping tea

And nightfall now comes in so soon.

A light frost creates a magical scene.

A mournful cry speaks, comes out of the wild.

But my house is safe from wintry blasts.

Though the pond is frozen

and the winter winds wail

to make animals huddle for warmth–

While I,  snug in my little house,

Munch on walnuts coated in honey.

Winter is a time of retreat yet

Also a time to reflect and rejoice.

To rest from harvest of labor

To prepare for the renewal of Spring.

#Winterandwintertime #winterandretreat

Though the sun had shown bright and clear today

And now the moon is softly shimmering

Its cloak of silver on all that is below,

Something seems to be somewhat askew.

Is the grass no longer bright green?

Or the trees, though now silvered,

Have they all died?

But I can still see flowers growing tall

Across all the nearest meadows,

The wind still smells sweet and pure.

What is it that makes me feel so disturbed?

Perhaps it was the constant drumming cries

Across the land of harsh words, angry smacks

And a sound of evil unleashed and freed

That boils as if blown out from within

And what invisible angry power erupts

In bitter and cindered homes?

Is there no way to chain within the meanness

So we no longer will be assailed?

Please, someone, somewhere answer me.

#Hatred #Prejudice

Winter is a state of the mind

A blizzard of unspoken thoughts

Born in the frigid seas of loneliness

Conceived in a lightning stroke of agony

Pursued through trial by other icy blasts

Courted with the purity of the snowflake

Framed in a cold steel blue reality.

It cleanses the mind, body and soul.

Only a winter provides time and space

To sound the depth of life’s icy cap.

With a winter in which to conceive,

How could man have acquired a soul?

#Winter #WinterandContemplation