Monday, March 17, 2008


I’ve heard it said that nearly every American has a little bit o’ Irish in them.

Who really cares about everyone? And especially when their bit ‘o Irish is such a teeny little bit—like a 16th, or a 32nd.

My sisters and me, we’re different. One whole quarter of my blood runs green (like I’m a quarter Vulcan).

At the wise age of 16, my momma’s mom, tiny Grandma Sally (who I came to call Midge—short for “midget”—towards the end of her life, as osteoporosis riddled her bones and she melted from her already diminutive five feet or so) hopped a boat headed for America. Now, we can’t find her on the Ellis Island register (though we did find her sister Delia), and I look forward to having a chat about that whole experience with her one day, but there’s no mistaking that accent she couldn’t seem to shake, even if she did sneak into the country stuffed into some kind soul’s suitcase.

So thanks to her trek, I actually am Irish, not just saying so today.

Don’t try kiss me ‘cause I’m Irish, though—I’m married. Duh. Only my Mexican husband can do that (another story for another day—perhaps Cinco de Mayo) . . .


Tara Fears said...

As am I 25% Irish! My Mother's Mom hopped on a boat and sailed to Canada when she was 18! And then many moons later MY Mom hopped on a Uhaul and rolled to the USA! That's how I got here!

M to the E to the R to the I said...

I am scottish, so are we enemies? Ha ha. You look adorable in your green shoes and shirt. I am assuming that you didn't get pinched, correct?