Patrick, legend says, was a citizen of Britain when Britain was still under Roman influence. Those nasty pagan Celts swam over, bagged him when he was just a tender teen and forced him to become a shepherd. Eventually he ditched the flock, went back to Britain and became a super christian. Then hurried back to the emerald isle, where he made those pagans pay, pay, pay by converting even the stones. He “drove the snakes out of Ireland” which is one way of saying that he put the kibosh (cap of death) on the old goddess filled religion (snakes being one of the super symbols of chick worship throughout the ancient world).

Now we grew up in a strict Irish and French Roman Catholic family. Even back when my brothers and I were little kids, it was hard to associate St. Patrick's day as a day of holy obligation, meaning you had to attend Mass. Of course, Saints days were great when they got you out of class early, even if that meant having to go to church; you still got home early enough to have a long afternoon spent playing outside in the crisp late winter's air. They were still all right when they fell on a Sunday, when you were stuck going to church anyway, then it became two obligations for the price of one. Now St. Pat's on Saturday was another matter entirely. Here he was putting the kibosh on the sweetest of all the days of the week, and if you were a little kid you were stuck with it. Mass on Saturday and Sunday. Even the grownups might be heard to groan at the prospect of having church time cut into the few precious hours they had off from their often dismal work week. And don't think it was a rest period for the stay at home mothers, who had to fit the kids out in their Sunday best two days in a row. They don't call them days of obligation for nothing, you know.

But mostly, aside from the deadly weekend combo, St. Patrick's Day in the Carrageen household meant more free time to spend getting ready for Pap Carrageen's parish church hall extravaganza. Hey, kids, Pap's putting on a show! Pap'd been doing it since his first born Carrageen son had been two years old. Pap had parlayed his early years of local performing in the Catholic Youth Organization into a forty plus year gig down in the church basement. Sometimes he'd have as many as five hundred parishioners packed into that chilly basement under the church proper, their faces peering around the thick pillars while they rattled their freshly printed black on green programs.

Pap would spend the last weeks of winter getting ready for the show. He'd be on the phone lining up acts, whatever the local talent pool could offer; as long as it was family fare, it was in. The local Irish dancing troup, glee clubs, the church choir, folk singers strumming acoustic guitars- Pap was inclusive. Miss Mantha's first graders wish to recite ToRaLooRaLooRa? They're in. The Folk Mass teens wrote their own skit? They're act five on the bill!

And Pap loved it. He was the emcee as well as a performer. His specialty was pantomiming to recordings of Danny Kay and Bing Crosby. He had started off when he was seventeen pantomiming to Al Jolson records. Over the years he broadened his repertoire, emphasizing Irish American specialty numbers. When there was just my older brother and myself back then, I remember him practicing next to the family's portable record player, my brother and I kicking our legs on the bed as Pap waved and skipped to tunes that were chestnuts when even he was a boy, like I'll Be Off To Tipperary and MacNamara's Band. When we were a bit older we got to help by folding the black and green programs (with the big add for the local funeral parlour on the back), trying not to cut ourselves on the razor sharp edges while breathing in the sweetly toxic smell of that still fresh printer's ink. We also got to see Pap try on all of his different outfits. One year Gramma, his mom, who made all the costumes, sewed him a giant elf outfit with a pink hat and jersey and green pantyhose. Show me any five year old who wouldn't find that a laugh riot. Watching your father dance around the room with his plaid kilt flying or stuffing balloons underneath his floral muumuu while Rosemary Clooney sang in the background- now that's entertainment!

The only problem with Pap's shows was that he expected you to be in them. I did it once and then refused to ever do it again. Pap dressed up in old man gear and sang When You and I Were Young, Maggie to me using for once his own voice. I think I had two lines to say and I was dressed in my school tunic. I was a painfully shy kid and hated being in front of all those people. I got demoted to program distribution, which we kids all loved. You got to take the deliciously smelly programs and slap them onto the rows of folding chairs that had been set up by Pap and crew earlier in the day. Since the girl didn't work out in show biz, my brothers were drafted. A couple of them took turns wearing the dreaded family miniature leprechaun outfit, along with a really itchy beard that our Gramma knitted out of brown mohair wool. Poor fellas.

Here is a picture of a friend from grade school and myself, when we got to ride on the parish float during the seasonal parade. At the time females weren't permitted to march- the only other members of our fairer sex included were the queen of the parade and her attendants, usually riding on a much grander float.

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