And may the strength of three be in your journey. Sláinte’.

 

Saint Patrick's Day: At King David’s Pub and Winery

(Scene opens in Heaven, at David's Pub.  Seamus and Patrick are sitting at the bar.  Patrick is asleep, with his head on the bar counter.)

Seamus (St. James):  Say, Paddy, now.  Wake up, you idjit. 

Padraig (St. Patrick)/Paddy:  Ah, Seamus.  Can ye not leave a good saint to a daecent sleep?

Seamus:  It’s yer people there, Paddy.  They’re at it again.  (Leaning over his pint, looking down on the velvet green)

Paddy:  Oh, Mother of God, is it that day already?

Maire (St. Mary):  Paddy, was it ye who called?  Oh.  (She looks down on Dublin.)  So.  Yer Irishmen are at the celebratin’ yer Holy Day.  The day ye up and died down there.

Paddy:  (Looking down) So ‘tis, Maire.  And would ye look—Chicago has dumped green into ta rivers again!  As if that meant a ting, Lord help us.

The Lord God: (enters with angels singing and clouds billowing)  Was it ye, Paddy, that called m’name?  (Seamus and Paddy vacate their pub stools immediately.)    David, here, be a good man, and pour me a glass of cider.

King David:  Aye, My Lord.  The best Yer Hands ever made, here Ye go.  Have at it. (David pushes the glass over to God, who has settled down on a stool.)

The Lord God:  So, Paddy, what’s troublin’ ye, up here in heaven? 

Paddy:  Oh, it’s the Irish people agin.  They’re after celebratin’ my holy day with all sorts of carryin’ ons.  And it bein’ Lent, ‘tis a sad ting ta behold. 

Chicago

The Lord God:  (quaffing a satisfying amount of apple cider) Well, ye know, Paddy,  People ha’ forgotten jest what I did for them, sendin’ ye to Ireland.  They were a terrible mean group, worshippin’ trees and such, ‘fore ye taught ‘em about the Trinity.

  

Seamus:  Yer right, My Lord.  An’ Paddy drove out them there serpents, and done all them miracles.  Ye did right good work, there.  (Seamus pats Paddy on the shoulder, who nods and perks up a bit.  Maire sits down next to The Lord God.)

The Lord God:    ‘Tis my desire that ye shake the Irish up a wee bit.  Paddy, ye go down to yer holy wells—there’s one down near Cork I’m partial to.  Stir the waters up a bit when there’s a group there.  And, Maire, go to some of yer holy grottoes, and send some tears down the cheeks of yer image.  That’ll make the Irish think a bit.  I bet ye’ll see more pious Irish at Mass come Good Friday.

Ballinaspittle, Cork Ireland

 Seamus:  I’ll go along with ‘em, My Lord, jest to keep ‘em company.  (The three saints exit.)

The Lord God:  (watches the saints depart, and laughs softly) Ah, there go some fine saints.  Glad I made ‘em.  (He leaves the pub in a cloud of glory, with angels singing.  David gathers up the glassware, and hums “When the saints go marching in…”  Scene ends.)

Hand hurts less.  Right hand is complaining. This is a repost from 2015. it was fun to do.  How to pronounce Toast below.. 

SLAHN'-CHUH

St. Patrick, not as you think of him

What St. Patrick Can Teach Us

Saint Patrick's Day: At (King) David’s Pub and Winery

(Scene opens in Heaven, at the Pub.  Seamus and Patrick are sitting at the bar.  Patrick is asleep, with his head on the bar counter.)

Seamus (St. James):  Say, Paddy, now.  Wake up, you idjit. 

Padraig (St. Patrick)/Paddy:  Ah, Seamus.  Can ye not leave a good saint to a daecent sleep?

Seamus:  It’s yer people there, Paddy.  They’re at it again.  (Leaning over his pint, looking down on the velvet green)

Paddy:  Oh, Mother of God, is it that day already?

Maire (St. Mary):  Paddy, was it ye who called?  Oh.  (She looks down on Dublin.)  So.  Yer Irishmen are at the celebratin’ yer Holy Day.  The day ye up and died down there.

Paddy:  (Looking down) So it ‘tis, Maire.  And would ye look—Chicago has dumped green into ta rivers again!  As if that meant a ting, Lord help us.

The Lord God: (enters with angels singing and clouds billowing)  Was it ye, Paddy, that called m’name?  (Seamus and Paddy vacate their pub stools immediately.)    David, here, be a good man, and pour me a glass of cider.

King David:  Aye, My Lord.  The best Yer Hands ever made, here Ye go.  Have at it. (David pushes the glass over to God, who has settled down on a stool.)

The Lord God:  So, Paddy, what’s troublin’ ye, up here in heaven?

Paddy:  Oh, it’s the Irish people agin.  They’re after celebratin’ my holy day with all sorts of carryin’ ons.  And it bein’ Lent, ‘tis a sad ting ta behold.

The Lord God:  (quaffing a satisfying amount of apple cider) Well, ye know, Paddy,  People ha’ forgotten jest what I did for them, sendin’ ye to Ireland.  They were a terrible mean group, worshippin’ trees and such, ‘fore ye taught ‘em about the Trinity.

  

Seamus:  Yer right, My Lord.  An’ Paddy drove out them there serpents, and done all them miracles.  Ye did right good work, there.  (Seamus pats Paddy on the shoulder, who nods and perks up a bit.  Maire sits down next to The Lord God.)

The Lord God:    ‘Tis my desire that ye shake the Irish up a wee bit.  Paddy, ye go down to yer holy wells—there’s one down near Clonmel I’m partial to.  Stir the waters up a bit when there’s a group there.  And, Maire, go to some of yer holy grottoes, and send some tears down the cheeks of yer image.  That’ll make the Irish think a bit.  I bet ye’ll see more pious Irish at Mass come Good Friday.

Seamus:  I’ll go along with ‘em, My Lord, jest to keep ‘em company.  (The three saints exit.)

The Lord God:  (watches the saints depart, and laughs softly) Ah, there go some fine saints.  Glad I made ‘em.  (He leaves the pub in a cloud of glory, with angels singing.  David gathers up the glassware, and hums “When the saints go marching in…”  Scene ends.)

If I have offended any, please forgive me.  I lived in Ireland, and have a different perspective. This is a re-post from March, 2011.

"Th" is not pronounced as written. 

Waiting for Death

Source: xymonau

I have been waiting for someone to die.  This could sound very evil, but it is not.

My sister-in-law Cheryl has died from complications of diabetes.  She has been in a nursing care facility or hospital for several years.  Diabetes is a debilitating disease that slowly takes away part of a life, a bit at a bit.

Sadly, there are no pictures I can post.  Cheryl hid from the camera, for many different reasons.

Eyes, kidneys, feet, legs, hair, mobility—just about anything can be listed with this horrible disease.

Cheryl.  I have known her since our freshman year at high school.  She sat next to me in freshman English.  She was shy but friendly.  We found were also in chorus and P.E. 

My brother Robert started dating Cheryl in the end of our senior year (I think). They married young, the next year.

So much could be written, but won’t be.

Cheryl has passed from this life to God’s Presence, where Robert waits for her.  Peace and completely healed.

Source: gabriel77

St. Patrick's Day: a re-post

Saint Patrick's Day: At King David’s Pub and Winery

(Scene opens in Heaven, at the Pub.  Seamus and Patrick are sitting at the bar.  Patrick is asleep, with his head on the bar counter.)

Seamus (St. James):  Say, Paddy, now.  Wake up, you idjit. 

Padraig (St. Patrick)/Paddy:  Ah, Seamus.  Can ye not leave a good saint to a daecent sleep?

Seamus:  It’s yer people there, Paddy.  They’re at it again.  (Leaning over his pint, looking down on the velvet green)

Paddy:  Oh, Mother of God, is it that day already?

Maire (St. Mary):  Paddy, was it ye who called?  Oh.  (She looks down on Dublin.)  So.  Yer Irishmen are at the celebratin’ yer Holy Day.  The day ye up and died down there.

Paddy:  (Looking down) So it ‘tis, Maire.  And would ye look—Chicago has dumped green into ta rivers again!  As if that meant a ting, Lord help us.

The Lord God: (enters with angels singing and clouds billowing)  Was it ye, Paddy, that called m’name?  (Seamus and Paddy vacate their pub stools immediately.)    David, here, be a good man, and pour me a glass of cider.

King David:  Aye, My Lord.  The best Yer Hands ever made, here Ye go.  Have at it. (David pushes the glass over to God, who has settled down on a stool.)

The Lord God:  So, Paddy, what’s troublin’ ye, up here in heaven?

Paddy:  Oh, it’s the Irish people agin.  They’re after celebratin’ my holy day with all sorts of carryin’ ons.  And it bein’ Lent, ‘tis a sad ting ta behold.

The Lord God:  (quaffing a satisfying amount of apple cider) Well, ye know, Paddy,  People ha’ forgotten jest what I did for them, sendin’ ye to Ireland.  They were a terrible mean group, worshippin’ trees and such, ‘fore ye taught ‘em about the Trinity.

  

Seamus:  Yer right, My Lord.  An’ Paddy drove out them there serpents, and done all them miracles.  Ye did right good work, there.  (Seamus pats Paddy on the shoulder, who nods and perks up a bit.  Maire sits down next to The Lord God.)

The Lord God:    ‘Tis my desire that ye shake the Irish up a wee bit.  Paddy, ye go down to yer holy wells—there’s one down near Clonmel I’m partial to.  Stir the waters up a bit when there’s a group there.  And, Maire, go to some of yer holy grottoes, and send some tears down the cheeks of yer image.  That’ll make the Irish think a bit.  I bet ye’ll see more pious Irish at Mass come Good Friday.

Seamus:  I’ll go along with ‘em, My Lord, jest to keep ‘em company.  (The three saints exit.)

The Lord God:  (watches the saints depart, and laughs softly) Ah, there go some fine saints.  Glad I made ‘em.  (He leaves the pub in a cloud of glory, with angels singing.  David gathers up the glassware, and hums “When the saints go marching in…”  Scene ends.)

If I have offended any, please forgive me.  I lived in Ireland, and have a different perspective. This is a re-post from March, 2011.

Home!

All through my adult life I have known there were options, if I ever needed to make a change and make it quickly.  I could close my eyes and see my parents’ home on the farm, and know that in a matter of hours, I could be there.  I could go home.

No matter what happened, the image of home hung in my mind, and I could face anything.  Just knowing that helped me find ways to work through a harsh situation or painful reality.

Built in 1860s, I think

Home meant that my mother would be making a pie in the kitchen and my father would be pulling into the driveway on his John Deere tractor.  We would sit at the kitchen table and talk, drinking cup after cup of coffee.  Dad would tell a greatly embellished story which I had heard a hundred times, but my children would listen to it and laugh.  He would sit with his long legs in front of him, and his feed cap tilted to one side, rakishly.  My mom would laugh, and hold one of my children on her lap, helping him/her to eat that last piece of pie.

Our old barn, wooden nails and all

Home meant that we would sleep upstairs with the windows wide open.  The silence would be broken only by a dog’s bark, or the sound of the hog feeders opening and closing.  I would listen to the sounds an old farm house makes.  I used to think that the old house would groan at night because its joints hurt; maybe they did.  My children would be safe in bed while I struggled with the dilemma that sent me running home in the first place.

North porch, Dad's boots

The old cistern and Mom's cactus

But now I find myself in a peculiar time of my life. The place I always called home is gone.  Gone.  When my father retired from farming, they left the farm and moved into a nice house in town, near wonderful neighbors.  The farmhouse was bulldozed away by new owners who built a modern home, and it won’t groan at all.  The house in town, which held together the concept of home, is now up for sale, along with all the precious things that defined home for me.  My parents are together in heaven, their new home.

So now my generation has the role as the keepers, the guardians of our own children’s concept of home.  My home is the place they will close their eyes and picture at the desperate times of their lives, and feel a rush of relief.  They can come home.

Now, I close my eyes and hear the sounds of my own home, enjoy the memories of my children running through the hall and eating my pie at my kitchen table.  My home.