Wedding Belles


When my son was married for the second time, wife-to-be, bless her heart, wanted to have something “different.” After looking around, she decided on an old southern antebellum mansion. Actually, I’ve been to other weddings in other southern mansions, believe it or not. You have to be from the South, I suppose, to understand this particular tradition.

This particular mansion was a landmark, anciently old and resplendent in age. I suppose they rent it out due to the costs of keeping up old mansions these days.
I feel a little sick when I think about how much money it costs to rent a mansion, but we are creating a day to remember forever here.

My son does not like to argue and wanted wife-to-be to have the wedding she wanted. Besides, everyone knows the wedding day is for the bride and the groom is only there as a necessary extra.

Everything was coordinated, from the invitations, to the napkins. I was asked months ahead of time for the color of my dress in order to coordinate it with my flowers. Good grief, I hadn’t even thought about getting a dress, much less the color it would be. I asked for white flowers, figuring that would cover all my bases.

A mansion does create a nice setting for pictures I must admit. The dust and old age doesn’t show in the photos. The photographer was working overtime posing the bride and bridesmaids on the stairs and among the antique furnishings.

After that, she wanted to go outside for pictures in front of the mansion. Since it was a typical hot summer day in the South with temperature in the 90’s and humidity to match, I was rather worried that the bride would be overcome by heat before the wedding began. She wilted a bit, but survived to smile about it.

The bride came down the long stairway with her fluffy wedding gown billowing around her while the appropriate wedding march was played on the piano. I held my breath the whole time afraid she would fall down the stairs, but she didn’t share my apprehensions. Weddings always make me cry. As I looked around, however, I saw that her mother was smiling. Wait a minute, I thought, why am I crying if her mother isn’t?

They were married by candlelight while the guests sipped punch served from a silver punch bowl. A summer storm had blown up outside, so vows were taken over the low rumble of thunder. My son looked elegant in his rented tux with a long jacket, in case anyone cares, and he only messed up on his vows once. I tried to mind my own business as I didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot as a mother-in-law.

Afterwards the caterers, who were friends of the bride, served horsdovers while the musicians played jazz. The bride and groom cut the wedding cake, which my son told me he had bartered for by doing work for the baker. Just keep that to yourself, though.

While looking for the ladies room, I noted that the gift shop was open and wondered if they really thought anyone wanted to shop. Perhaps they figured that it would be a convenient time to pick up a last minute wedding gift. I noticed that mansion staff members were posted at strategic positions throughout the house, like museum guards watching the treasures.

I was thankful when I could go home and get out of that hot, scratchy dress that was squeezing me to death. None of the pictures we took with our fancy digital camera came out, which I’m sure, will make the professional photographer happy.

“The bigger the wedding, the shorter the marriage,” experts say. Sure enough, the marriage didn’t last very long. If he ever marries again, I hope he will elope. I don’t want to have to go through all that again.

Copyright 2002 Sheila Moss
Posted in Holidays, Humor, Southern Humor | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

The Mother-In-Law Dress


“I need a mother-in-law dress,” I informed the saleslady at the fancy bridal salon.

“You mean a mother-of-the groom dress?” she frowned.


She quickly and deftly passed me off to a younger colleague while smiling over my shoulder at a new bride that had just entered the store. Obviously, commissions were better on bridal gowns than on mother-in-law dresses. Oh well, it didn’t really matter. I didn’t want to be there any more than she wanted to waste her valuable time on a low commission sale.

Guiding me to the racks of dresses, the sweet young salesperson asked what color I liked.

“Well, it can’t be blue because the mother-of-the bride picked that; it can’t be off-white because the grandmother selected that. And it can’t be cranberry, because the wedding party will be wearing cranberry. What’s left?”

As you can probably tell, I was not terribly enthusiastic. It’s the second time around for my son, so I’ve been through this ordeal once for him already. It sometimes seems like the bigger the wedding, the faster the divorce. But, I’m trying to be optimistic today. Wife number two has not been married before and she wants a wedding. I need to quit acting like a mother-in-law and try to share the joy of the happy occasion.

“I don’t want sequins either,” I said. Guess I’m old-fashioned but all that glittery stuff looks tacky to me.”

Sweet Young Salesperson selected a light green dress and a peachy pink frock with a lacy top and we were off to the dressing room. It looked more like a dance studio or a health club with it’s mirrored walls.  Young brides flushed with excitement were trying on fluffy wedding gowns while sales people hovered around cooing. I didn’t realize that marriage was such big business.

I slipped into the lacy peach number and held my breath. Nope, no use, it won’t zip.

“Oh, that looks great on you,” exclaimed Sweet Young Salesperson and her cooing flock of colleagues.

“I can’t breath.” I gasped as I grabbed dizzily for the wall. “Get me out of this thing!”

I really liked the green one. Very sophisticated. Good color for me. Unfortunately, it fit me like an Army tent.

“That is fabulous!” squealed Sweet Young Salesperson.

She has got to be kidding! The entire wedding party could fit into this, all at the same time. We could add a tent pole and hold the wedding reception underneath this dress. No amount of alteration could ever make it fit. Naturally, it was not available in a pup tent size.

“I think I’d better keep looking,” I said, edging my way toward the door.

“Wait, try this!” exclaimed Sweet Young Salesperson, chasing after me waving a dark green bridesmaid dress. Good grief! Do these people never give up?

I managed to escape unharmed and locked the car door. I would check out the discount bridal warehouse that I had seen advertised in the Yellow Pages. It was on the other side of town.

was I to know they would be working on the Interstate and I would be stuck in construction traffic for an hour trying to get there? Maybe I should have tried the bridesmaid dress on after all.

I don’t know the north side of the city very well, but using a map, I finally found the place. The prices were too high. Apparently the word “discount” was just a come-on. It didn’t look much like a warehouse either, just a regular store. The sales people hung around in back by the cash register, talking to each other and ignoring the customers. You know the sort of place.

I selected a couple of dresses in my size, hauled them back to the dressing room and tried them on all by myself. I finally interrupted the chat session going on at the cash register and purchased a dark purplish gown that doesn’t make me look too awfully fat, I hope.

Okay, I’ve got my mother-in-law dress. Now if I can just get rid of my mother-in-law attitude, I’ll be ready for the wedding.

Copyright 2002 Sheila Moss
Posted in Fashion, Humor, Shopping | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

New Beginnings

blossomsAnother winter has ended and another spring has come.  Along with the robins come the dandelions. The daffodils are blooming, and the early blossoms of the pear tree are in such a hurry to bloom that they risk disaster and are sometimes killed by winter’s last fling.

This year is the same as every spring before, and every spring to come.

We greet spring with happiness as it renews our heart. We are tired of the winter, the heavy clothing, and the confinement of being forced by the cold to stay indoors.  Spring releases us and brings gladness to the soul and lightness to our steps.

When spring approaches, I remember other springs and other times so long ago that they seem like other lifetimes now. In youth spring meant the end of a season of work and study. School would soon be out, books would be laid aside, and the long, lazy days of summer lay ahead.

In the spring of adult life, love bloomed with the flowers. Spring brides were as plentiful as the white blossoms of the pear trees.  Children played and celebrated the coming of a new season. Little league baseball and trips to the park were the meaning of spring.

So many springs have come and gone. How can it be that I can scarcely remember them, especially the spring so many years ago when love was lost?  The blossoms in their exuberant joy continued to bloom and seemed not to even notice that they were watered with my tears.

And now spring is here again.  I pulled dandelions from the garden today. As the flowers bloom the memories bloom too, both the sweet and the bitter sweet.  Nature continues to renew itself and life goes on. The yellow daffodils bloom. A new love has come into my life.

I went for a walk to enjoy the warmth of the bright spring sun. I saw children practicing for the beginning of the little league baseball season. A robin searched for food in my back yard.

Like the seasons, life goes on. Our joys, our tears, our lives are really only a small matter. We are merely observers of nature who live here for a few brief seasons.

Spring goes on forever.

©1999 Sheila Moss
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Junk Cars & Tall Grass

junkcarI couldn’t believe what I saw in the paper! Our local lawmakers, in their unfailing wisdom, passed a law against parking cars on residential lawns. What is the world is wrong with these council members? Do they not know this is Tennessee?

If they do not want to have cars parked on the yard, they should move out of the South. They should go to some place like Chicago where you not only can’t park a car in the yard, you also can’t park one on the street, unless you want to get it towed and a hefty fine to boot.

Cars in the front yard are a southern tradition, a part of our heritage. After all, this is Nashville, the redneck capital of the world. Do these lawmakers not know that it is no longer a matter of shame to be a redneck, but rather a matter of pride? Our right to have a few rusting heaps on the lawn is almost as important to us as our collection of Jeff Foxworthy recordings.

Everybody knows that the best racecar drivers and many a skilled auto mechanic grew up taking apart and putting together an old junk car of some sort. Like a proficient computer hacker, they learned by trial and error. Any grease monkey will tell you that he was convinced that one of these days he would get her running and take her cruising. Whether he did or didn’t is of little consequence, rather the important thing is that he tried, that he persisted, and that he learned from his efforts.

Everyone should probably have a junk car or two, just to show support for our traditions. You might as well take away grits, turnip greens, and guitars. Junk cars are as much a part of southern culture as trailer parks. Are we going to start towing mobile homes away next? Is nothing sacred any more?

To add insult to injury, the council, passed a law that grass could not be over a foot high. Now isn’t that a hoot? If they don’t want to see the junk cars, they most certainly should not pass a law as senseless as this. Letting the grass grow tall enough to hide the old cars is how the good ol’ boys keep them out of sight. I’ll bet some folks have old cars that they don’t even remember having.

If the council had a few old cars to work on, maybe they would be too busy to have time to sit around scratching and thinking up wearisome laws that infringe on the rights of others. A few rusting cars at the courthouse might be a nice touch. They could work on taking apart an engine piece by piece and putting it back together again. They might even learn a thing or two that would come in handy in fixing some of the problems with government.

Just like we need history and antiques to help us remember our past, we need a few old rusty cars for the edification of our heritage. Not only is it our right, it is our legacy as southern rednecks. It is our obligation as residents of a city known world wide for country music to uphold all its diverse southern traditions.

So, deflate the tires that are not already flat, boys, and put her up high on some cinder blocks! They are coming for your old heap in the middle of night. If you don’t have a gravel driveway or a garage to park her in, she may be gone by morning and rusting away down at the city impounding lot. Probably she isn’t worth the price of towing and storage, even if you had the money to bail her out.

There is only one hope, one small loophole. It allows growing of tall grass if essential to a landscape design. I say get a variance! If your landscaping happens to have a few rusty car sculptures in its design, who can say that is not beauty in the eye of a redneck?

Copyright 2002 Sheila Moss
Posted in Automotive, Humor, Southern Humor | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 9 Comments

E. R.

erHave you been to the emergency room of a large metro hospital lately? I hope not! Those places are a zoo. I had occasion to visit the walk-in area of one the other day, fortunately not as a patient.

The first thing I noticed was a security guard and metal detector. Were they afraid terrorists would attack the hospital, or what? The detector buzzed as I went through, probably from the cell phone in my purse. The security guard merely yawned. Guess I didn’t fit the profile.

“Where do I go to get someone’s stuff back?” I asked.

“Get in line,” she told me. I figured I’d best not push it or they might decide it was worthwhile to interrogate me after all.

As I said, I was not there on an emergency. My daughter came through the ER as a patient earlier, and they had locked up her wallet. I just wanted to get her stuff back. But there I was in line with all the sick folks who were trying to out complain each other since the most critical patients are seen first.

The stressed out receptionist was talking to the man at the front of the line and filling out forms. He put his head down on the counter and told her he was having chest pain and felt nauseated. I tried to remember how to give CPR and drew a breath of relief when she finally finished his forms.

“Who’s next?”

Before I could open my mouth a little guy with a stocking cap jumped in front of me and said, “I am!”

“What is your problem?” asked the receptionist, with sweat beads popping out on her forehead and a wisp of hair falling over her eye.

“Psychiatric,” said the new customer, “Didn’t my doctor call you?”

Boy, was I ever glad I hadn’t argued about whose turn it was next. Maybe it was my imagination, but he seemed to get processed much faster than the guy with the heart attack had.

Finally, I made it to the front. “Err, I just want my daughter’s stuff that you locked up. See, I have the form that the nurse filled out and my daughter signed it.” I waved it under her nose.

“Lorinda!” Come out here, she yelled toward the back.

Meanwhile an injured delivery man in line behind me was dripping blood on the floor and holding a towel on his hand. “Do you have insurance?” the clerk quizzed, as the poor guy struggled to find his Blue Cross card. Fortunately, it was his left hand that was injured, so he could sign the forms without too much trouble. Forms are very important to an emergency room it seems, almost more important than blood or pain.

Lorinda eventually showed before I fainted and looked at my form. “This stuff has gone to the cashier’s office,” she said, as a wheel chair whizzed by and through the automatically opening blue doors, narrowly missing my toes.

I left with the metal detector still buzzing in my ears, and headed out to search for the cashier’s office. I finally found it only to be told that I had the wrong form. My form was only for the ER. “The patient needs to come in and sign our form,” said the cashier.

“But, she can’t come! She’s critical. That’s why I’m here.” What’s the matter with these people anyhow?

“Bring her on a stretcher to the back hall and I’ll come out there,” the clerical Einstein generously offered. Rules are rules, he insisted, and he could lose his job if he digressed from them, regardless of permissions or conditions.

What a ludicrous policy!

Believe it or not, I finally ended up meeting him out back with a paramedic pushing my daughter on a stretcher. The deal went down okay, and I got her wallet back at last.

I must be dreaming this, I thought. Surely it is an episode of MASH returning to give me nightmares. Afraid not… It is for real … just an ordinary day of business as usual at the hospital.

Copyright 2002 Sheila Moss
Posted in Health, Humor, Rants | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

The Waiting Room

waitingroomA few years ago, I was forced by circumstance to spend a great deal of time in the trauma waiting room of a large hospital. While this is obviously a place of great drama, it also became a source of great amusement. After lengthy observation, I began to notice that the people in the waiting room actually seemed to fall into amusing categories.

The Campers – These folks move in for the duration of their significant other’s illness. They bring suitcases, blankets and pillows. If anything goes wrong, they want to be there, almost as if nothing bad can happen if they are there to prevent it. I kept wondering when they would pitch a tent and build a campfire.

The Munchkins – In spite of rules against eating in the waiting room, these people have to eat anyhow. Eating is obviously their greatest pleasure in life. One family actually brought in a laundry basket and huge cardboard box filled with chips, pretzels and snacks. After watching the consumption marathon for endless hours, it began to frighten me to think about what they might do if they ever run out of junk food to munch on.

The Parkers – They mark their territory. They hang around until a good chair is vacant, preferably a recliner, and pounce on it. Like explorers, they stake a claim, plant an imaginary flag, and the chair is now their property for the duration. They proceed to pile belongings next to it. If they get up to visit or use the phone, they put a purse or pillow on it so no one else will use it. Take my advice and don’t ever trespass on a parker’s chair unless you are prepared for a turf war.

The Litterbugs – leave a trail of trash behind them. These folks are somewhat similar to the munchkins, except they spread it around. They bring in soft drinks, newspapers, fast food, snacks, and fried chicken dinners. They sit in different places and leave their trash strewn behind on tables or the floor, seldom bothering to use the trash can. Fortunately, a cleaning crew comes in once a day to prevent the other occupants from being buried in paper cups and chicken bones.

The Porcupines – These people have a problem with simple rules like “no children” allowed. They bristle and become angry when asked to go to another waiting area. Sometimes they complain loudly about security or hospital staff. They do not seem to understand that this waiting room is subject to dangerous germs and bacteria inadvertently carried out of the trauma unit by visitors. The rules are for their own protection, not just to protect the rest of the occupants from their brats. That is just a side benefit.

The Gabbers – stay on the phone all the time. While cell phones are allowed, these folks never have one and continuously tie up all the house phones with personal calls. They are oblivious to the need of anyone else to make a call, and even to the fact that doctors use waiting room phones to reach patients’ families. There were two phones in the room and one gabber often had calls on both at the same time. One could only wonder at the insensibility to anyone’s needs other than their own.

The Party People – are usually large families who come in due to the current emergency and end up having a family reunion. They bring friends, visit, talk loudly, laugh and generally have a whooping good time, seeming to totally forget the reason they are there. While I can understand families wanting to draw together in time of crisis, I was astonished by how quickly a serious occasion seemed to turn into a shindig.

Eventually, the initial shock of the situation wore off and I began to realize that the trauma waiting room was making me crazy. I escaped as often as possible and learned to visit periodically instead of staying there constantly.

I also learned that where there are people, there is humor, if only one tries hard enough to look for the funny side of life.

Copyright 2002 Sheila Moss
Posted in Health, Humor | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 10 Comments

Murphy’s Laws for Rednecks

cabinI apologize in advance if this reminds you of your relatives. It reminds me of mine also. I love our southern culture, but sometimes I just have to have a little fun with it.

If you have a double first name, you won’t be able to spell either one of them.

If you convince the sheriff that it’s poison oak instead of marijuana, it probably is.

If your latest home improvement project is designing and building a mailbox, it will look like a brick tombstone.

If your picture is hanging in the post office, it will be a perfect likeness.

If you eat with your fork in one hand, it’s because you gotta hold your cornbread in the other one.

If your front yard needs mowing, you’ll do it when you get around to fixing the lawn mower.

If you want clean your ears, you will buy a package of bobby pins.

If you say you are a songwriter, your true occupation is a truck driver or a construction worker.

If you see shotguns at a shindig, it’s a wedding, a family reunion or a combination of both.

If you don’t have any empty beer bottles for target practice, you know it’s your duty to empty some.

If want to be a NASCAR race driver, the cops will catch you practicing on the Interstate.

If you pledge allegiance to the flag, it might be the flag of the Confederacy.

If you have relatives in jail, they were either growing, cooking, or distilling.

If you need a way to get rid of cooties, you can do so by picking and grinning.

If you get slicked up and dressed up, it will be for a special occasion, like a monster truck race or a gun and knife show.

If you can’t do something today, you’re waiting for the first of the month when the check comes.

For every car you own with wheels on it, you are allowed to have 2-1/2 cars up on cinder blocks.

When you celebrate, it will be tomato planting time, catfish bitin’ weather, hog killing time, or openin’ of rabbit season.

If you get a tan, it will be on your neck, your arms, or your butt crack.

When you kiss a woman, you always remove your toothpick first.

If you own a car, you figure on spending most of your free time trying to get it running.

If hold your nose when singing, you can sound just like your favorite country music star.

If you need a cure for ailments, you will use whiskey, tobacco, kerosene, turpentine or Vicks’ salve.

Copyright 2002 Sheila Moss
Posted in Humor, Southern Humor | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

London Series

Riding the wave of the current interest in London due to the shooting incident, I’m posting links to a series of columns I wrote several years ago when I was fortunate enough to visit.

The London Series

This is a short series of columns written about my London trip.  I  hope you will enjoy it!   London pictures are also posted.

Traveling Light

My sister and I are planning a trip together to London. I’ve never done anything like this before, so it will be an adventure.

“I’ve traveled so much that I’m an expert at traveling light,” my sister told me.

London on the Budget Plan

It seemed like a great idea when my sister suggested a vacation tour to London.  I haven’t been anywhere like that before, so I was looking forward to it.  We found cheap tickets on the Internet for an evening flight.

Hop On – Hop Off

My sister is organized and has things like itineraries, maps, and guidebooks to make the most of a travel vacation like the one we took to London.  She wanted to see museums, universities, and palaces.

“What do you want to see?” she asked me.

“Er… I hear they have great pubs and fish ‘n’ chips.”

Oh! My Aching Feet!

We woke up to rain in morning.  It rains a lot in London — something about being an island surrounded by the sea, I think. What would we do since it is raining, I wondered.

“Go anyhow, of course,” said my sister.

The English Countryside

After checking out most of the museums in London, we were ready for something different.  We got up early to go to a flea market that my sister had heard of called Portobello Market. Well, actually, she had seen it in a movie.

London’s Last Fling

The entire time that I was in London, I was never able to figure out British money.  I don’t know why they don’t just use Euro’s like the rest of civilized Europe — not that I could figure that out either.


Posted in Humor, News & Current Events, Travel | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Dog Gone

dogI have a dog living under the bed. His name is Gizmo, but you can call him Giz. He is a miniature Sheltie. Giz is as weird as his name, very shy, timid and afraid. He spends most of his time hiding. I should mention that he actually is my daughter’s dog. When he is not under her bed hiding from imaginary doggy danger, he is looking out the window waiting for her to come home and protect him.

The other evening I was getting ready to go for my evening walk. Giz was not under the bed for once and was dancing on his toenails to go along. He goes on walks rather infrequently because he is either having paranoid delusions or is under the bed on the verge of another nervous breakdown.

Well, why not take the silly dog walking? He needs exercise too and perhaps a change of environment will help him to overcome some of his unreasonable fears, I thought.

I put him on a leash and Giz trotted along beside me, acting as if he had just eaten a whole box of Prozac flavored dog treats, seldom stopping even to leave his autograph on mailboxes or trees. He was almost acting like a normal dog until we reached the end of the cul-de-sac where some neighborhood children were playing. When the children spotted Giz, they came rushing over yelling, “Can we pet him?” People tend to like Shelties because they all look like Lassie.

Surrounded by strange children, instinct took over. Giz panicked and tried to pull away from me. The children did not understand why Giz was trying to escape from being petted. Frankly, neither did I. He ran first one direction and then another but couldn’t go far on a leash. I was trying to calm him when he somehow managed to pull his head through the loop of his collar, breaking free and streaking back down the street as if chased by imaginary demons.

Dogs, children, and dust swirled around me as Giz bolted down the middle of the street toward the lights of an oncoming car. With my heart in my throat, I saw him veer out of the path of the car and into someone’s yard just in the nick of time, probably setting a new world record for the canine sprint. The children chased after him squealing.

By now we were creating quite a commotion on the normally quiet street. We called and called, but he didn’t come. I stopped to ask some neighbors if they had seen a dog. “Oh, the Sheltie? Yes, he was running down the street!” Well, that didn’t help much.

It was growing dark and the dog was nowhere to be found. There seemed to be nothing to do but return home at this point and hope that the stupid dog would calm down and find his way home later. Walking back with an empty leash, I peered into bushes and shadows, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. How would I explain to my daughter that her little dog was lost, I wondered?

Well, when I arrived back home, the mutt was waiting for me on the back steps anxious to get inside. He made a beeline to his favorite spot under the bed, not even slowing down to check out his food dish. I haven’t seen him since.

I might as well face it; I have a permanent dog kennel under the bed – but at least I know where the dog is.

Copyright 2002 Sheila Moss
Posted in Creatures, Humor | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

Irish for a Day

irishToday is St. Patrick’s Day and everyone will be wearing green. I don’t want to be different. Everyone wants to be Irish. They go to extraordinary lengths to find Irish relatives and trace their geology back to Ireland.

I turn on the radio and hear strains of “Danny Boy” on an Irish flute as it plays for the first of the many times I will hear it today. I have my morning coffee and flavor the black brew with a white stream of Irish cream, just because it seems like the right thing to do.

I wonder whether to go to the grocery and buy some of red, corned beef with spices and one of the green cabbages from the huge display mound in the grocery store, or whether just to opt for a Rueben sandwich from the deli. Deli will do just fine, I decide. While I’m there, I can pick up a loaf of green bread or a Key Lime Pie from the bakery. Of course, Key Lime Pie has nothing to do with Ireland, other than the mere coincidence of being green.

Today is a day when every one appreciates a mane of auburn hair and is even just a bit envious. They will ask a dozen times if I’m Irish and, of course, I will probably lie and say that I am, when in fact I don’t have the slightest idea whether I am or not. I really don’t know what my lineage is or why my mother gave me an Irish name.

The Scotch-Irish settled in the area where my ancestors came from, as attested by the names of the name of the town, Erin. But hard as I try, the only thing I can find for sure that is Irish in my house is potatoes and even their lineage is a bit suspect.

Some people really become enthusiastic over St. Patrick’s Day, mostly because it is an opportunity to drink beer and party. By the time the evening is over they will be seeing leprechauns and the slurred speech may not be because of an Irish brogue.

I’m surprised that St. Patrick’s day has not yet been declared a national holiday since a large percentage of the population claimed Irish heritage on the last census, at least according to what I’ve heard.

The wanna be Irish carry cards with a picture of St. Patrick on one side and an Irish blessing on the other. They are all named Patty O’ Something and are offended if someone suggests that they are not Irish. They have bumper stickers that say, “Kiss me – I’m Irish,” and drink Irish whiskey to show how patriotic they are.

Personally, I’m not sure what a limerick is exactly, or how to dance an Irish jig, or what the difference is between shamrock and clover, if any. I’m not sure either why claiming heritage from a country where people kill each other over religious and political differences and where hate is carried on through generations of violence is a desirable thing.

But eons of Irish poets and great literary figures have woven a romantic and legendary tradition of the Celtic people that has grown to enormous proportion.

And so, we celebrate the Irish and their contributions to our country, which was largely built through the sweat of the Irish immigrants. We embrace the shamrock trilogy and the symbolic green of the Emerald Isle. We cannot help but admire the hardy people who have faced great diversity and hardship good-naturedly.

On this most Irish of all days, we wear our green and try to be Irish, when, in fact, the most Irish thing about us is probably the fact that we have “kissed the ol’ blarney stone” and deceive ourselves that we are Irish-for-a-day.

Copyright 2000 Sheila Moss
Edited from original
Posted in Holidays, Humor | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment