Tuesday, March 18, 2014

Harry Nilsson Is Not Even Irish But It Doesn't Seem To Matter

^ The wearing of the green. And yes, temporary tattoos count. Green is not a featured color in my wardrobe, so I gotta do what I can so I don't get pinched.

 ^ The boiling of the beef. And cabbage. And potatoes. Those old Irish house mums knew a few things about how to string their flavors together, and as usual, this delicious holiday meal was off the hook. 

^ The charm of my Irishman. Good ol' Ranger - my Irish Setter - gladly wears a bit o' the green himself. And to celebrate this special day, he was treated an afternoon outing to the beach. Now that's what I call the luck of the Irish.

* * * * *

As much as these beloved traditions conjure up a wealth of good memories from the Saint Patrick's Days of my past, I must say that the events of one particular March 17 stand out above them all.

I can't quite nail down the exact year, but at some point in my high school career, a massive Michigan winter storm unloaded in the wee hours of that holiday morn, and all us merry school kiddies were rewarded with a Irish snow day. My elder brother went out with his friends for the day, and I seized this unusual opportunity to raid his albums. 

Alright. I admit it. I was a sneaky little music thief. But he had a massive collection of interesting albums and I could not resist exploring his latest finds. He had already caught me red-handed enough times that I should have been ashamed to keep up my shady dealings, but I brazenly persevered. 

Anyway, on this particular snowy afternoon, I discovered this gem of an album and this, my favorite track. And even today, oh, so many years later, listening to this song feels exactly like Saint Patrick's Day to me. 

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