Good Morning Gentle Readers,
Long before I was a vagrant yoot, when TWC was just a little boy, my folks had friends that were Irish immigrants. They were turkey ranchers and did well at it. The Patriarch spoke with a heavy brogue that may as well have been a foreign language as it was entirely unintelligible to mini me.
Reading Frank McCourt's book a few years ago, I was reminded of Old Man Porter who once told me that a prosperous family in Ireland has two bicycles. That gem was entirely lost on me, but I loved his 1959 Cadillac with the bullet taillights, the 1959 El Camino with the 348, and the turkey egg that invariably found it's way home with me after every visit. For the uninitiated, turkey eggs are mostly like giant chicken eggs. Nothing exotic, but they go well with bacon, toast, and cold milk.
Years later, Old Man Porter caught a dose of the stomach cancer and it withered him mightily. My first encounter with the cruelties of life was there in that hospital room with a man I couldn't recognize.
My father was crazy for Old Man Porter's daughter. I can say that because nobody in my family bothers with this blog. I don't know if my mother realized it or not, though she may now. He was in love with the girl of his dreams, beautiful red haired Isabel. Though he would deny it if confronted, fifty years later he still carries the unrequited torch of love for this little Chiquita, a grandmother in her own right.
And, Gentle Readers, do you know why it's a Paddy Wagon? Thought so.
In Ireland, St Patrick's Day bears no resemblance to the raucous celebrations across America. Church in the morning and off to work. Most pubs are closed. Except those that cater to tourists looking for the 'real' St Patrick's Day celebrations.
Sidebar: Seen some really good blues bands at Patrick's in the Gaslamp Quarter.
On this St Patrick's Day TWC suggests that Angela's Ashes should be required reading in every classroom throughout the land. From starvation to owning the Dodgers, in one lifetime. Only in America. And don't you forget it.
UPDATE: It has been brought to my attention by Roberto M that Frank 'Parking Lot' McCourt who owns the Dodgers is not Frank McCourt of Angela's Ashes fame. I blame the wine.
The lesson still stands, it just isn't quite as dramatic.
The Wine O'Commonsewer