PASSIONATE RATIONS

As the leprechauns dance around the fire, I am reminded of the wee bit in me that is Irish.

I think of the one time I went to Ireland.  Dublin.  Its gray poverty and gracious spirit both touched me deeply, I have to say.

I remember no meals had there, as I was a student and not a rich one at that.  Living on peanut butter and crackers.

But some meals are for the spirit and there are three memories of that trip that are part of the indelible span of memory that means my soul will never entirely go hungry:

1) The little boy from Manchester, England, who stayed in the same youth hostel and who was fascinated to learn of a place far away called Manchester, New Hampshire.  Where I was born.
2) The Book of Kells.
3) The jovial taxi driver in the cable knit sweater who gave the history of every building passed and some of the people too.

All poetry.

Ah, life.   ‘Tis a grand thing in so many small ways.

Cheers!
(Raise a Guinness for my father.  Though a Frenchman, in birth he is forever linked to St. Pat).