St. Patrick’s Day began as a religious feast observance on the supposed date of death of a patron saint (c. AD 385–461), missionary to Ireland. That continues for a few. For the rest of us, this day is about luck, prosperity, a bright future, and wearing of the green.
My childhood memories of St. Patrick’s Day were filled with stories about green clover, leaping leprechauns, and a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. These traditions were handed down to me at school or by friends, even from window shopping at local stores, but not at home.
I grew up during the “pinching days.” If no green was visible, childhood friends pinched the other child on the arm. Emerald green wasn’t a color in the homemade wardrobe Mama sewed for her young twins. If I forgot to pin a clover from our yard to my dress, I became the most pinched girl of the day.
When I married a Moore who relished his Irish ancestry, St. Patrick’s Day became a joyful time without the pinches. Decades later when I became a foster parent, construction paper clover and leprechaun stickers resurfaced. I baked cookies sprinkled with shimmering green sugar. I added drops of green food coloring to dinner dessert. It was fun to be Irish for a day. Then single again, I continued to sport the tiny plastic shamrock I’d worn for more than twenty years. Last March I lost it while shopping.
My twin participated in the Parker lineage DNA project. The results were surprising. Thomas Bryant Parker, our second great grandfather, was Irish. Now that I have a drop of Irish blood in me, perhaps I’ll buy a new shamrock pin.
Oh, yes. I’m one clover leaf ahead of St. Patrick because history says he was Romano-British, not Irish.
When I was in first grade, my mother let my twin and me play with neighbor kids anywhere on our block in our small town if their parents were home. Her safety rule was to “be home by dark.” I had several close calls when I dashed onto the covered front porch in the waning light of sunset. I needed more light after school.
One cool spring day at the end of World War II, I overheard my father talking about the return of “War Time.” War sounded terrible to me until he said it was a way to save daylight like people did during the war. Grandpa Carr had saved cans for dimes in the war. Maybe I could save time like pennies in my amber glass piggybank. Excited about a way to prolong sunset and play longer, I asked him what it had been like to save time.
He harrumphed and shook his head. “Like cutting off one end of your blanket and sewing it on the other end to make it longer.”
A quilter or seamstress invests in the machine best suited for her hobby. She has a sewing room stocked with shelves of materials, trims, and embellishments. A knitter has baskets of yarn, pattern books, needles, and accessories. Artists have easels, paints, and brushes. Most of these crafters have supplies they will never use.
A silhouette artist works with minimal materials. A person chances by. A smile or turn of the head alerts the artist. From a canvas of black paper, he captures the profile with clean, sharp blades. He creates curves and angles that detail the subject. The framed product becomes a visual treasure.
My sewing machine and serger sleep like Rip Van Winkle. My knitting baskets overflow with yarn, needles, and supplies. I’ve donated my colored pencils and construction paper to a charity.
I’m a writer. My hands are my tools. I mold the shape of a head, add a beard or mustache, and dress a dapper character. If the look isn’t pleasing, no need to rip out stitches, or change the canvas, or discard the paper. I can add a hat, shave the beard, and update the wardrobe—all with words that dance across my computer screen at the command of my fingertips.
There much ado on Capitol Hill about the importance of spelling. It’s about time. Ask me. I’m a grammar cop with a badge to prove it.
I’m a writer—at least that’s how I use to identify myself before I realized that editing is my niche. I’m a member of California Writers Club Tri-Valley Branch also known as Tri-Valley Writers. I’ve been part of a novel group, one of the individualized critique groups that meet monthly. There I’m known as the grammarian—often editing English more than critiquing the story.
Grammar Police Award
Long before Trump was elected president, Lani Longshore, a multi-talented crafter, presented me with a Grammar Police shield embroidered on the right inside of a folding credential case. My editing card fits in a clear plastic slot on the left. I seldom have to flash it because most writers know I spout Chicago Manual of Style (CMOS) rules as often as President Trump tweets.
If I had made this award public sooner, perhaps the U.S. Library of Congress would have consulted me (or at least the 16th Edition of CMOS) and been spared the embarrassment of a grammar error in President Trump’s inaugural poster.
Too late to correct the posters but production has been halted. If you bought a first run at $16.95, the odds are that someday it will be a collector’s item—not because of the grammar error but because of the wasted taxpayer dollars for a reprint that reads:
No dream 2 big, no challenge 2 great…
Today, February 2, 2017 is celebrated by some and bemoaned by others as Groundhog Day. On this 131st weather prediction by Punxsutawney Phil, he resisted being dragged from his burrow. Why?
- Maybe because nature says Phil is supposed to emerge from hibernation on his own, not be extracted by human hands.
- Maybe because his sweet dreams were interrupted.
- Maybe because he was exposed to the below-freezing temperature with no insulated underwear, top coat, hat, or gloves like the human handler.
Phil’s predictions have only scored right for about half of these 131 years. I suspect it’s because his mind isn’t clear when his heart rate accelerates from the hibernation rate of about 16 beats or less a minute to a fight-for-life 80 beats when extracted from underground darkness.
Picking only Phil on this day every year hints of discrimination—maybe even a hate crime. My advice to Phil: Rest for the next six weeks, then get a good lawyer.
Neighbors in my senior apartment community celebrated the Chinese lunar New Year 2017 yesterday. A few sang solos in Mandarin while others danced. They floated across the floor dressed from traditional Chinese to casual California. I salivated from the aroma of Chinese food while a costumed woman stood in front of the buffet and welcomed all. She explained the traditions associated with the holiday. A woman dressed in an embroidered cheongsam translated into her broken English for those who understood no Mandarin.
Before the speech, the man sitting next to me had told me in his slow English that this was the year of the cock—something I already knew. Then he explained that a cock is a rooster—something I knew too well from my childhood.
Neighbors had green lawns topped with badminton nets or metal croquet hoops stabbed into the grass. We had a vegetable garden, fruit trees, and a chicken pen. While people on both sides of us lounged on patio chairs, played games and barbecued in the back yard, my parents labored for our food.
Mother enjoyed raising the chickens, but her favorite activity was taking care of newborn chicks. In storms—back when it rained frequently in California—she braved the rain and lightning to check the safety of the chicks. Perhaps her motherly nature, but maybe so they would grow into laying hens and produce eggs for our table.
Our Leghorn rooster had aged, so Mama added a Bantam Rooster to the flock. The Banty was a series of reds—the color of the Chinese New Year although we didn’t know it then—opposed to the stark white feathers of the Leghorn. His only contribution to the Chinese tradition was a fiery red comb that centered his head splitting jealous eyes as he watched the small rooster invade his kingdom. The Leghorn crowed strong every morning, earlier than usual it seemed, or perhaps to show his dominion of the chicken yard.
Although I didn’t like chickens and stayed away from the pens as much as possible, I loved Mama’s chicken recipes. One evening I snuggled under several of Mama’s quilts after gorging on chicken and dumplings and fried pies. The next morning, the Bantam rooster crowed his version of cock-a-doodle-do to announce a new day.
At the Chinese celebration buffet yesterday, I spooned the vegetarian dishes onto my plate and skipped the chicken.
Filed under Events, Memoir