Pot o' gold
The Spring steps in so charmin',
So fresh and arch
In the middle of March,
Wid her hand St. Patrick's arm on..."
~Alfred Percival Graves
When I was little, my mother would take us to the Jazz Festival at SPAC. An all day affair that meant fried chicken wings and my mother’s onion dip. It meant sitting outside on the grass and eating by day and James Taylor by night indoors. On occasion we’d be walking around and see my father on the opposite side of the grounds where he’d have a tent and a grill set up. The difference between the two parents was that my mother would be filling up on coke while my father enjoyed an Amstel or three and cognac. It was during one year that I was given my first sip of Coor’s and promptly swallowed with a look of pure disgust. A look that conveyed my disappointment and bewilderment towards grown ups and their obsession with the fermented drink and why on earth would one enjoy drinking in the middle of the day.
I probably also believed that Santa Clause shoved his fat ass down the chimney and that an adult woman flew through my window to take my grimy baby teeth in exchange for a bright and shiny half dollar.
I’m practically a small child therefore I do not do well during an all day affair. I get tired and need a nap or a place to just put my head for a short while. I’m not really a marathon take it easy, yo, type person. Which is why my feelings towards an offer of VIP tickets to Shamrock fest* was met with trepidation, even though it meant free beer all day long (!!!) Which meant rejoicing for any day that begins with Bass and Heffevisen is a day to be extraordinarily grateful for.