It's been about as Irish a day as I could make it. Started with oatmeal. Then I sang the kids every Irish song I could think of -- only about a half dozen, but including a nice rendition of "Who Threw the Overalls in Mrs. Murphy's Chowder?" Once I cranked up my one and only Chieftains CD, the mood was set. By lunchtime, I had the Irish flag flying on the house. I ran over to New Seasons and picked up a beautiful corned beef; for the cabbage and other stuff, Fred's was good enough. While the Mrs. slaved over the (literally) boiling hot stove, I got to head out on a run (which I'm not sure is all that Irish a thing to do).

After the fine dinner and a pint of Guinness, I was doing the dishes when I started getting really nostalgic for my Irish ancestors -- my mom's dad, and my dad's mom. Children of Irish immigrants, the first generation born in the States, they endured some mighty lean times in the armpit of the East Coast during the depression. Raised houses full of kids. Worked 'til they dropped. Laughed, cried, ate, drank, loved, hated.

Thanks, Alice and Richard, for this day.

Here they are. Granny very much toward the end of her life, in 1975. Pop Pop, with me, in 1954. He didn't make it more than a few years thereafter.