On Being Irish

Back In The Day

I grew up in a house with a green roof and eaves. Most of the streets in my neighbourhood had names like Flanagan and Kilkenny. I lived with my father, two sisters and my brother Pat, who was sixteen months older than me. Still is. An Irish Setter ate and slept in the kitchen. 

There were leprechauns in our milk-box.                 

“If you want to see them, you have to sneak up quietly and fling the door open,” my father said. 

It didn’t work for me, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. What did work, ten years later, was a fat joint of BC Gold, a handful of shrooms and half a bottle of tequila. I saw five of them in the backyard. 

God Loves Ya

We were Catholic, and although we weren’t overly zealous, we did observe the church rules like, for example, meatless Fridays and attending mass on Sundays.

During the forty-six days of Lent, we were expected to give something up. For us kids, it was candy. For the men, it was usually whiskey. This presented a problem. Even though the start of Lent could vary by as much as thirty-seven days, the feast of the great Bishop of Ireland always occurred somewhere in it. What would Saint Paddy’s Day be without my father’s and uncle’s favourite drink, Rye and Coke?

So, the whiskey fasting was violated for that one day with any pangs of guilt anesthetized by the third shot. 

There was always Confession. We loathed it, but more than a few Micks came to appreciate that they could sin like sailors ashore all week and have the slate wiped clean Saturday afternoon. 

The priests were undoubtedly aware of this loophole. Still, they were reluctant to plug it as they likely employed it themselves from time to time. 

Noticeably Less Angry Lightning Bolts And Burning Bushes

God knew about it, of course, but it was apparent he had become a much nicer guy since the end of the Old Testament. For over two thousand years, the plagues, famines, and infestations had been fewer and less severe. He now seemed to favour (within limits) a “people will be people” philosophy. 

It seemed likely that hell was over-crowded due to the decadence and butchery of the past two millennia, so logically the “Eternal Damnation” bar had to be raised in order to save room for the real bums that were bullying and brutalizing humanity. 

We felt it safe to assume that fire and brimstone wouldn’t be our lot for simply saying fuck, pilfering quarters from the cookie jar bank, or taking advantage of the jackass clause in the confession contract. 

Aloof And Standoffish

We Heffernans are proud of our heritage, being direct Irish descendants on all four sides. Amazing, because with all the Brits and Scots already in Canada in the eighteen hundreds, you’d think after four generations, the bloodline would be sullied. 

Maybe it’s not so surprising when you consider that the Irish gathered together mostly in their own communities, with the Catholic church being their social center. For the boys, this was a convenient place to find a mate, and, as the joke goes, so too was a sheep herd. Ed. Relax, this is also used for the Scots. “Hey, McCloud, Get Off Of My Ewe.” 

Faux-Pas In Sizes 9 to 12

Back to Saint Patrick’s Day. In the 1980s, I dated a girl who loved organizing parties. On the Sunday closest to March 17, Lynda would crowd 25 or 30 people, the names of whom I mostly can’t remember and didn’t even then, into my basement for an afternoon of lies and half-truths proportional to the amount of Jamesons and green beer they were consuming. There would always be at least two incidents of me calling someone by the wrong name. Embarrassing at the time but probably forgotten quickly amongst all the blarney.

One time though, at a family reunion, I was talking to my cousin Betty and calling her by her sister’s name, Rose. “That’s forgivable,” you might say. 

We were wearing name tags! 

I’d Forget My __ If It Wasn’t __

As I write this, it’s still at least three weeks until March 17. I’ll post this now anyway. Events have a way of sneaking up on me lately.