I've never been a green beer kind of guy.
Blame my mother.
She would always remind us that to the "real" Irish, the day reserved for the Emerald Isle's patron saint was as much a religious event as a reason for revelry.
Of course, back then, it never stopped me from seeking a party.
These days, I'm strictly a weekend tippler.
But I'm full-time Irish. One look at this face pretty much tells you that. That nose? Yeah, it's no accident.
I will today continue one tradition. I am again wearing my father's tie, which he said belonged to his father and came with him from the "old country." I wear this tie only once every year. That would be today, St. Paddy's Day. And yes, it is Paddy, not Patty. My very Italian wife's name is Patty. It's not Pat. It's not Patty. It's Paddy, stemming from the Irish form of Patrick, which is Padraig. I've had a running argument for years with my friend, County Councilman John McBlain, who thinks use of the word 'Paddy' conjures up the image of the raucous Irishman who winds up in the "Paddy Wagon."
My tie says otherwise.
Happy St. Paddy's Day, dad.
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