Greetings, me fellow port swillers, and a happy St. Patty’s Day to ye!

Well, ol’ Ma Nature has delivered yet again, dumping (as reported by the NWS) something like 7 inches of snow in the neighborhood of Port Swiller Manor and, of course, bringing  Your Nation’s Capital to a screeching halt once more.  At the moment, I’m loitering around waiting for her to finish up so that I can go out and get cracking on the driveway, after which I intend to spend the afternoon gently dozing in front of the fire in well-earned sloth.

This is the first big late season storm we’ve had in ages, as I ought to know.  For one thing, the Eldest Gel turns sixteen this week (YIKES!) and  weather has never been an issue round about the time of her birthday before.  Also, I happen to remember the last mid-March blizzard (in 1993) because I was moving from one apartment to another that weekend in anticipation of my June wedding to Mrs. R.  When you have to haul heavy boxes around in the snow, it tends to stick with you, even if you have as porous and fluffy a memory as I do.

So anyway, here we are.

I was musing this morning on the bizarre transmogrification of the Feast of St. Patrick into the modern, secular “holiday” which seems to have no other function than to give  people an excuse to get blotto and to provide a forum for vicious public spats over whether Gay Pride groups should march in parades.   Of course, many of our major modern holidays are similar corruptions of Church originals, but at least with most of the rest of them there is still recognizable some faint image of their religious intent and meaning.   For the vast majority, St. Patty’s seems to me simply an excuse for self-indulgence, no matter how much green one is wearing.

Eh.

Then, of course, there’s the whole leprechaun biznay.   If you’re looking for an example of the real Irish attitude toward the Little People and pots of gold at the ends of rainbows, may I recommend to you a short story of Patrick O’Brian (yes, of Aubrey/Maturin fame) entitled “The Happy Despatch”?  It’s part of a collection called The Rendevous and Other Stories, all of which I would recommend and, without giving anything away, is really quite terrifying.

Well, it appears looking out the window that Ma is just about done, so I suppose it’s time to get dressed and get busy.

UPDATE:  Well, it was closer to 4 inches than 7 on Robbo’s driveway, so shoveling didn’t take that much time after all.

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