Lindsay Woods: I envisaged basking in her worldly sophistication
Let’s get the obvious out of the way; it’s called St Patrick’s Day. Paddy’s Day is also acceptable. What it is never called is, Patty’s Day. Never.
Who even is Patty?
The first image that springs to mind is the chain-smoking sister of Selma from The Simpsons. Certainly not the same person who was a fifth-century Romano-British Christian missionary and bishop in Ireland.
Nor the same individual who became essentially one of our first known influencers due to his popularisation of Shamrock or his ‘alleged’ banishing of the snakes from our fair isle by chasing them into the sea after they attacked him during a 40-day fast he was undertaking at the top of a hill.
No, the person we owe our national holiday to is Saint Pat. A day which has evolved into children painting the tricolour across their faces as they march behind a float containing a selection of lawnmowers, a troupe of Irish dancers freezing on some tarmac as they attempt to stay their teeth from chattering in order to knock out a jig or two, and pubs which spill their overflow of patrons onto the footpaths outside to a rousing, yet garbled rendition of Amhrán na bhFiann.
I too have been that soldier, standing in a velvet above-the-knee number, a sash fastened with a Tara brooch as it flapped behind me in the gale force wind, like a wannabe superhero.
Looking back, it is a wonder that the entire group did not develop shin splints. Have you ever had to knock out a reel on concrete? It is not for the faint-hearted let me tell you.
To add insult to impending injury, you not only had to brace yourself against the elements but also gravity. Because Murphy’s Law would predict, that the spot at which the music would begin to hiss and crackle over the tannoy, normally reserved for use during the May procession, would be on an incline.
Attempting to keep our rhythm and not break formation proved beyond taxing when many of us spent a considerable amount of time casting anxious glances upwards towards the tannoy as it rocked in the wind, fastened to an electricity pole with a wing, a prayer and the power of Darby O’Gill.
During primary school, I, along with my classmates, were all assigned a pen pal by our teacher.
I drew the long straw by securing an American. Not only that, but a Texan! Many letters later, she advised that she and her family were travelling to Ireland to participate in the parade in Dublin. ‘Why would you come here for the parade?’
I enquired, ‘Your’s are so much better.’ The warning signs were there really but I ignored them… demonstrations of longing to see our ‘cute country’, the fact that her entire family were in a marching band when I couldn’t stand being around mine for five consecutive minutes.
But I was too invested in the glamorous school photo she had sent me of her in front of a cobalt blue backdrop with her perfect American teeth. Meanwhile, the school photographer who had taken mine had zoomed in to such close proximity as to leave nothing to the imagination. Including my jagged eye teeth which were descending from my top gum.
She advised that they would be staying in Killarney prior to going to Dublin and it would be ‘awesome’ if we could meet. That was all my parents needed — the lure of some exotic Americans! So, one weekend, they piled us into the car and trundled us to Killarney to extend a thousand welcomes to the Texans.
My pre-teen self was giddy with anticipation. Buoyed on by the information I had gleaned from my Sweet Valley High books, I envisaged basking in her worldly sophistication and the thought of future trips to Houston.
Killarney was bedecked in its finery for the impending celebrations and I could barely contain myself as we ambled into the hotel to meet them.
To say I was not expecting a perm was an understatement. I was deep in the trenches of my French phase, pretending to be older than I was. I was not expecting full-on 1980s — I was expecting a Wakefield twin.
Strolling around the town, she kept asking me to translate the souvenir plaques in windows which would cause her to deliver a resounding, ‘Cuuuuuuute!’.
There was talk of Jesus and saving herself whereas I just wanted to know what sweets they had over there; at that stage I was already mentally back in Cork.
We had one more letter to each other after the visit: along the lines of, ‘Thanks but no thanks’. In the end, their marching band wasn’t even featured on TV during the parade.
The big pack of boasters.
