Beyond the Byline: ‘Tis a good day when Irish eyes are smilin’

WILKES-BARRE — With an O’ at the front of my name, it’s fair to say I have a bit of the Irish blood and spirit in me.

But it ain’t all dat, ya know.

My dad was born of an Irish father and a Welsh mother. And my mom, well, she was Polish, as her last name so eloquently speaks — Kraszewski.

But there tis a spirit that lives and breathes in those with Emerald Isle roots. And not in an offensive way — they somehow make you want to be Irish too — at least for a day, as dey say.

That’s why this weekend I will stand along the parade route in downtown Wilkes-Barre watching the marchers go by and watching the smiles on the faces of “people.”

Yes, on this day, dey would all be Irish.

And, faith and begorrah, not because they aren’t happy with their own particular ancestry — rather because it’s so much fun to celebrate.

Celebrations are for just that — having fun and honoring someone or something. Give us an excuse or a reason and we will show up to have some fun, no matter the holiday or person or ethnicity.

For me, St. Patrick’s Day gives me time to pause and remember those childhood days — not just St. Patrick’s Days — but every day that we celebrated something in our small town of Plymouth.

We didn’t eat ham and cabbage only on March 17 — heck, we would eat that anytime because it’s so darn good. And the Polish delicacies my mom made were enjoyed year-round for the same reason.

And each time we did, there were stories of this Irishman or that Pole or some other neighbor or relative. Fun stories, good food, priceless memories.

I’ll wait until March 17 — St. Patrick’s Day — to have my ham-and-cabbage dinner. I’ll wear a little green as I enjoy every bite and think about those days.

And on Sunday, March 19 — St. Joseph’s Day — I’ll be sure to wear red and enjoy some Polish food.

So let me with you a top o’ the morning as you head to the Saint Paddy’s Day parade in the Downtown or to a favorite watering hole to sip a little Guinness or a green beer.

Hope to see you dere.

And having that O’ at the start of my last name certainly has given me immediate entree into the world of Irish lore and tradition. Upon past occasions, I have found the pleasure of a Guinness.

But I also loved my mom’s pierogi and haluski and gwumpki (piggies). Not to mention the kielbasa with mustard seeds and potato pancakes — plotzskis — sometimes with sour cream and even jelly.

And how I fondly recall standing on my back porch grating horseradish roots as tears rolled down my cheeks while my father would turn the handle on the meat grinder as my mom held the casings in place.

Growing up in Plymouth, I was around a lot of Irish people — and also a lot of Polish and Slovak, Welsh, Italian, and Lithuanian folks, too. I know their heritage now, but I never gave it a second thought way back then. I knew them, as my mother always would say, as people — good people.

So I will again, in celebration, paraphrase a little diddy I wrote many years ago:

You see, there was this Irish lad who asked a question of his Irish daddy — “What day’s t’day, he wondered loudly, to which his old man said, “Tis the day of dear old St. Paddy.”

So this child asked his daddy to tell him, please, “Who is this guy St. Paddy?”

The father said, “Why, son, he is the idol of every Irish lad and lassie.”

Now more questions followed from the boy when his father stopped him short.

“Let me tell you a little tale of me and me Irish Quart.”

The boy’s father went on to say that when he was his son’s age, he, too, asked these same questions of his daddy.

“Twas then me Irish old man said, ‘Tis time to meet St. Paddy.’”

Then out of a cupboard the boy thought to be bare, came a bottle that smelled of paint. And his father exclaimed, “Tonight we drink an Irish Quart and we meet that Irish Saint!”

There they were his daddy and he, til the light of the early morn. And that night that boy became a man, for inside him the Irish was born.

He remembered seeing leprechauns — all green and a little fatty. And to this day, he still does swear, he spoke to old St. Paddy.

The father looked at the boy and said, “Now I hope all your questions are answered, and I hope they weren’t too short.

“But just to be sure, let’s you and me, go drink an Irish Quart.”

This is a purely fictional tale that flew out of my mind when I was trying to convey to a couple of true Irish friends the bond that forms between Irish fathers and sons.

And before you get your Irish up, there is no indication that alcohol was involved in the tale.

So celebrate this week. And be responsible, please.

It’s always a great day when Irish eyes are smiling!

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!