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In Dublin’s Fair City
Sure, and I’m still on my wee travels, don’t you know?
This is a pre-recorded message, as you’ve perhaps guessed. Right about now I should be winging my way homeward. I do hope I had a lovely time and have lots to blog about when I return to Good Girls HQ.
I hope I didn’t forget my toothbrush. I hope I got to visit some used bookstores and found some old funky British mysteries. I hope to hell they didn’t lose my luggage. Again.
Ah, but whatever happened, it’s over now. That’s the weird thing about being able to time-stamp these blogs. Not to get too philosophical.
I think I’ll keep this post short and sweet. They say that everyone is Irish on St. Paddy’s day, so let’s take an informal poll. What did you do last St. Patrick’s Day? Can you remember?
I generally “work” St. Paddy’s — meaning gig somewhere — but the nicest St. Paddy’s I recall was the first year I was married. Somehow we didn’t have gig that year; I forget why. My husband made corned beef and cabbage and colcannon — and Irish coffee, which you will be amazed to know I’d never had before (since I’m not much of a coffee fan unless whip cream and ice is involved). I think I made Mr. Thrilling watch THE QUIET MAN, but I’m not positive about that.
Therefore, second question: what was your most memorable St. Paddy’s?
I’ll leave you now with one of my favorite poems by W.B. Yeats — and, yep, one of these days Grace Hollister is most definitely headed for Ireland.
THE SONG OF WANDERING AENGUS
I WENT out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire aflame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lads and hilly lands.
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.