St Patrick's Day Quotes

I shall ne'er chase rainbows again, Knowing no pot o' gold awaits at the end. My Irish treasure is not there. For ye, my love, abide with me here.

In my rather brief medical practice,' said David modestly, 'I found that people spend their whole lives imagining they are about to die. Their only consolation is that one day they're right.

It is St Patrick's Day and here at Scranton, that is a huge deal... It is the closest that the Irish will ever get to Christmas.

From space, astronauts can see people making love as a tiny speck of light. Not light, exactly, but a glow that could be mistaken for light--a coital radiance that takes generations to pour like honey through the darkness to the astronaut's eyes. In about one and a half centuries--after the lovers who made the glow will have long been laid permanently on their backs--metropolises will be seen from space. They will glow all year. Smaller cities will also be seen, but with great difficulty. Shtetls will be virtually impossible to spot. Individual couples, invisible. The glow is born from the sum of thousands of loves: newlyweds and teenagers who spark like lighters out of butane, pairs of men who burn fast and bright, pairs of women who illuminate for hours with soft multiple glows, orgies like rock and flint toys sold at festivals, couples trying unsuccessfully to have children who burn their frustrated image on the continent like the bloom a bright light leaves on the eye after you turn away from it. Some nights, some places are a little brighter. It's difficult to stare at New York City on Valentine's Day, or Dublin on St. Patrick's. The old walled city of Jerusalem lights up like a candle on each of Chanukah's eight nights...We're here, the glow...will say in one and a half centuries. We're here, and we're alive.

For that sun, which we see rising every day, rises at His command… - Greg Tobin, The Wisdom of St. Patrick from St. Patrick’s Confession

Be sure to wear green on March seventeen, or else Irish leprechauns pinch your bones clean!

When we are harassed and reach the limit of our own strength, many of us then turn in desperation to God-"There are no atheists in foxholes." But why wait till we are desperate? Why not renew our strength every day? Why wait even until Sunday? For years I have had the habit of dropping into empty churches on weekday afternoons. When I feel that I am too rushed and hurried to spare a few minutes to think about spiritual things, I say to myself: "Wait a minute, Dale Carnegie, wait a minute. Why all the feverish hurry and rush, little man? You need to pause and acquire a little perspective." At such times, I frequently drop into the first church that I find open. Although I am a Protestant, I frequently, on weekday afternoons, drop into St. Patrick's Cathedral on Fifth Avenue, and remind myself that I'll be dead in another thirty years, but that the great spiritual truths that all churches teach are eternal. I close my eyes and pray. I find that doing this calms my nerves, rests my body, clarifies my perspective, and helps me revalue my values. May I recommend this practice to you?

Corned beef and cabbage and leprechaun men. Colorful rainbows hide gold at their end. Shamrocks and clovers with three leaves plus one. Dress up in green—add a top hat for fun. Steal a quick kiss from the lasses in red. A tin whistle tune off the top of my head. Friends, raise a goblet and offer this toast— 'The luck of the Irish and health to our host!'

Old enough to remember the arrival of 'Have a nice day', Patrick could only look with alarm on the hyperinflation of 'Have a great one'. Where would this Weimar of bullying cheerfulness end? 'You have a profound and meaningful day now.

Shalom is what love looks like in the flesh. The embodiment of love in the context of a broken creation, shalom is a hint at what was, what should be, and what will one day be again. Where sin disintegrates and isolates, shalom brings together and restores. Where fear and shame throw up walls and put on masks, shalom breaks down barriers and frees us from the pretense of our false selves.

That’s what the prom is—St. Patrick’s Day for the young.

He had become so caught up in building sentences that he had almost forgotten the barbaric days when thinking was like a splash of color landing on a page.

Imagine if we were all magical leprechauns, and every wish ever made on a four-leaf clover obliged us to help others obtain their wishes. Now imagine if people simply lived like this were true.

in a single day I have said as many as a hundred prayers, and in the night almost as many;

It’s simply this: the Irish kiss, a snog o’ bliss, be blessed luck from any miss.

Shamrocks And roses In an ever green flock Now Up to your noses Turning into a high stock! People nice and seen All around you green! These lucky streams Realizing major dreams. In strives, when in pain Call oh call up my name, Know it isn't in vain...

A celebrity these days is somebody you’ve never heard of,

When you make a wee wish on a green four-leafed clover, may your belly stay full and your cup runneth over.

February Soup by Stewart Stafford The February fog, Turns all into blobs, Orange street lights, To Valentine's Night. When the wind strays, Fog's mantle is grey, Laying misty bouquets, On barren, muddied days. The daffodils of March, Can cheer up Plutarch, Adorned in Kelly green, No sign of foggy screens. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.

I have a rule: Anything that can be done privately does not need to be performed publicly. It’s why I love the gays but I hate their parades. Actually, I hate all parades. Marching to celebrate something you’re born as seems silly. (As I write this, St. Patrick’s Day is in full bore in Midtown. It’s delightful how celebrating a heritage requires you to pick fights with strangers and then pee in a parking garage. The upside—the sea of clover-painted drunks moving in unison—might be the only green energy I’ve ever seen work.) And what’s the point of a parade anyway? A bunch of yahoos who share some affinity, walking in one direction? Who decided this was entertainment? For previous generations, this was called a migration, or more often, refugees fleeing for their lives

The dead don’t give up anything, but the living do.

Irish luck, aye, that I’ve got. A four-leaf clover—aye, that too. I’ll tell ye, lassie, what I’ve not, A lucky Irish kiss from you!

A wish for a kiss on St. Patrick’s Day! Catch a leprechaun but don’t let him run. Nay, kiss him right away!

I wonder now: is it fear of contact that is the real malaise of our age, underpinning the changes in both our physical and virtual lives. St Patrick’s Day.

Fate brought you to me. It’s my desire and duty to never let you go.

The Queen was saying only the other day that London property prices are so high that she doesn’t know how she’d cope without Buckingham Palace,’ Princess Margaret explained to a sympathetic Peter Porlock.

The harp player had just fallen off the stage and cracked his head on an Italian tourist’s pint. There was a big cheer, and Con the barman rang a bell on the counter. St Patrick’s Day, and McCarthy’s Bar was heaving.

Did you know ‪#‎Leprechauns‬ didn't start out in Ireland as those short little redheaded guys sporting green felt suits? #Leprechauns were once fierce warriors who protected the coast from marauders and defended the land. Then Christianity showed up and decided to do away with all that, and they downplayed the heroic actions of those warriors to the extent that we see them as the iconic little guys with pots of gold today. Nothing quite like a group of gossiping Christians to turn the tide on historical events, huh? Have a look at my story and see how magic reveals the true nature of one Michael McKnight, the ‪#‎Leprechaun‬ of Three Wishes. Treat yourself to a St. Patrick's Day Lunchbox Romance

The awful reality was that upcoming events like St. Patrick’s Day and March Madness (Memphis was in the 2009 tournament and was a regional site) offered a greater likelihood of getting a donor because the drinking causes a spike in car accidents.

In later life the idea of a moveable feast for Hemingway became something very much like what King Harry wanted St. Crispin's Feast Day to be for "we happy few": a memory or even a state of being that had become a part of you, a thing that you could have always with you, no matter where you went or how you lived forever after, that you could never lose. An experience first fixed in time and space or a condition like happiness or love could be afterward moved or carried with you wherever you went in space and time.

IRELAND Spenserian Sonnet abab, bcbc, cdcd, ee What is it about the Kelly velvet hillsides and the hoary avocado sea, The vertical cliffs where the Gulf Stream commences its southern bend, Slashing like a sculptor gone mad or a rancorous God who’s angry, Heaving galaxies of lichen shrouded stones for potato farmers to tend, Where the Famine and the Troubles such haunting aspects lend, Music and verse ring with such eloquence in their whimsical way, Let all, who can hear, rejoice as singers’ intonations mend, Gaelic souls from Sligo and Trinity Green to Cork and Dingle Bay, Where fiddle, bodhran, tin whistle, and even God, indulge to play, Ould sod to Beckett, Wilde and Yeats, Heaney and James Joyce, In this verdant, welcoming land, ‘tis the poet who rules the day. Where else can one hear a republic croon in so magnificent a voice? Primal hearts of Celtic chieftains pulse, setting inspiration free, In genial confines of chic caprice, we’re stirred by synchronicity.

Legend tells us that the High King of Tara, who ruled supreme over all the Kings of Ireland, looked out from his castle one day during the festival of Eostre and saw a fire blazing away on a far hillside. Furious with this obvious disregard for the law, for which the penalty was death, he sent out soldiers to arrest the guilty party. When the soldiers arrived at the hillside they found St Patrick, the patron Saint of Ireland, piling wood onto his fire and immediately seized him. Standing before the King he was asked why he disobeyed the law, and he explained that his fire was a sign that Christ had risen from the dead and was the light of the world. The King so admired Patrick’s courage that he forgave him and became a convert to Christianity!

On St. Patrick's Day, the traditional Irish family would rise early and find a solitary sprig of shamrock to put on their somber Sunday best. Then they'd spend the morning in church listening to sermons about how thankful they should be that St. Patrick saved such a bunch of ungrateful sinners. Nobody wore green clothing as it was considered an unlucky color not suitable for church.

You don’t believe in leprechauns. A myth you say they be. You don’t believe in pots-o-gold, or four-leaf-clover tea. You don’t believe the rainbow’s end alights on treasured finds. They are illusions meant for fools you say ‘ave lost their minds. You don’t believe in whispering your wishes to the wind, where on St. Patrick’s holiday they blow t’wards Ireland. You don’t believe in magic spells or longings coming true. Yet, head-to-toe you dress in green on Patty’s Day, you do.

When the Bolide Fragmentation Rate shot up through a certain level on Day 701, marking the formal beginning of the White Sky, a number of cultural organizations launched programs that they had been planning since around the time of the Crater Lake announcement. Many of these were broadcast on shortwave radio, and so Ivy had her pick of programs from Notre Dame, Westminster Abbey, St. Patrick’s Cathedral, the Imperial Palace in Tokyo, Tiananmen Square, the Potala Palace, the Great Pyramids, the Wailing Wall. After sampling all of them she locked her radio dial on Notre Dame, where they were holding the Vigil for the End of the World and would continue doing so until the cathedral fell down in ruins upon the performers’ heads and extinguished all life in the remains of the building. She couldn’t watch it, since video bandwidth was scarce, but she could imagine it well: the Orchestre Philharmonique de Radio France, its ranks swollen by the most prestigious musicians of the Francophone world, all dressed in white tie and tails, ball gowns and tiaras, performing in shifts around the clock, playing a few secular classics but emphasizing the sacred repertoire: masses and requiems. The music was marred by the occasional thud, which she took to be the sonic booms of incoming bolides. In most cases the musicians played right through. Sometimes a singer would skip a beat. An especially big boom produced screams and howls of dismay from the audience, blended with the clank and clatter of shattered stained glass raining to the cathedral’s stone floor. But for the most part the music played sweetly, until it didn’t. Then there was nothing.

In St. Patrick Town, we find the stubborn, sprightly residents all awake--the leprechaun I spoke to days before still in search of his lost pot of gold in the glen, rain clouds heavy in the distance, and rainbows gleaming above the treetops. In Valentine's Town, Queen Ruby is bustling through the streets, making sure the chocolatiers are busy crafting their confections of black velvet truffles and cherry macaroons, trying to make up for lost time, while her cupids still flock through town, wild and restless. The rabbits have resumed painting their pastel eggs in Easter Town. The townsfolk in Fourth of July Town are testing new rainbow sparklers and fireworks that explode in the formation of a queen's crown, in honor of the Pumpkin Queen who saved them all from a life of dreamless sleep. In Thanksgiving Town, everyone is preparing for the feast in the coming season, and the elves in Christmas Town have resumed assembling presents and baking powdered-sugar gingerbread cookies. And in Halloween Town, we have just enough time to finish preparations for the holiday: cobwebs woven together, pumpkins carved, and black tar-wax candles lit.

A Magnum Paucity by Stewart Stafford Build the nation's mausoleum, Light the people's funeral pyre, For Hibernia's sons and daughters, In genocide to expire. Romantic Ireland has no grave, It died foraging at the roadside for bites, Or on a coffin ship out of reach of the New World, An empire's boot on the throat for last rites. Did you know your identity all along? Or find it struggling and aghast? Old Eireann was the first expendable colony, And egregiously, not Britannia's last. Constricting stomachs do not growl patriotic oaths, Freedom is a stranger to a starved mind, Force-feed our children grapes of wrath, With liberation dead on the vine. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.

We are coming upon a time when conglomerates push out the idea that Irish are drunks and always fighting. It’s on shirts, mugs, you name it, and it takes place annually in the name of a saint. If you want to get toasted while wearing green, so be it, but do remember it is a sacred day of culture to some. I am not Irish, but I am of Welsh descent, and cannot imagine if St. David’s Day was reserved for mockery and mischief by the dominant culture. I know Irish partake in St Patrick’s Day and it is a communal thing, and that’s fine, but the sale of the culture is what saddens me. Every year the products roll out, and they sell it to our children: teaching it is okay to offend cultures just as long as it’s part of the mainstream.

There is a tradition relating to the proceedings of St. Patrick in this place, which deserves to be noticed, as an example of the way in which Roman Catholic miracles come into existence. One of his biographers states, that when he arrived at the top of the mountain he was surrounded by vast numbers of birds; other writers, improving on this simple fact, transformed the birds into demons, and described him as driving them into the sea at the foot of the mountain. Another, again, perhaps believing reptiles and demons to belong to the same genus, adds, that all the venomous reptiles were collected there from every part of Ireland, and “in the deep bosom of the ocean buried.”[56] This is firmly believed by the peasantry at the present day; and it is from such lying wonders they derive their ideas of the character and acts of St. Patrick.

The enemy won some points at the very beginning. On both of the two days preceding his remarks about Worth, Hitchcock notes that American deserters had been shot while crossing the Rio Grande. Probably they were just bored with army rations but there was some thought that they might be responding to a proclamation of General Ampudia’s which spies had been able to circulate in camp. Noting the number of Irish, French, and Polish immigrants in the American force, Ampudia had summoned them to assert a common Catholicism, come across the river, cease “to defend a robbery and usurpation which, be assured, the civilized nations of Europe look upon with the utmost indignation,” and settle down on a generous land bounty. Some of them did so, and the St. Patrick Battalion of American deserters was eventually formed, fought splendidly throughout the war, and was decimated in the campaign for Mexico City — after which its survivors were executed in daily batches.… This earliest shooting of deserters as they swam the Rio Grande, an unwelcome reminder that war has ugly aspects, at once produced an agitation. As soon as word of it reached Washington, the National Intelligencer led the Whig press into a sustained howl about tyranny. In the House J. Q. Adams rose to resolve the court-martial of every officer or soldier who should order the killing of a soldier without trial and an inquiry into the reasons for desertion. He was voted down but thereafter there were deserters in every Whig speech on the conduct of the war, and Calm Observer wrote to all party papers that such brutality would make discipline impossible. But a struggling magazine which had been founded the previous September in the interest of sports got on a sound financial footing at last. The National Police Gazette began to publish lists of deserters from the army, and the War Department bought up big editions to distribute among the troops. Taylor sat in his field works writing prose. Ampudia’s patrols reconnoitered the camp and occasionally perpetrated an annoyance. Taylor badly needed the Texas Rangers, a mobile force formed for frontier service in the Texas War of Independence and celebrated ever since. It was not yet available to him, however, and he was content to send out a few scouts now and then. So Colonel Truman Cross, the assistant quartermaster general, did not return from one of his daily rides. He was still absent twelve days later, and Lieutenant Porter, who went looking for him with ten men, ran into some Mexican foragers and got killed.

I want to have a case of breads over there- whole wheat, rye- and English muffins, and cranberry-nut, blueberry-lemon, and white chocolate raspberry muffins over there. I want a table in the middle filled with nothing but cookies- the dark-chocolate-walnut-toffee ones, coconut macaroons, peanut butter drops with the little Hershey's Kisses in the middle, and sugar cookies. And then on the left, I'm thinking pies: apple, peach, and cherry daily, and maybe chocolate cream espresso for special occasions. Plus, I want to have a wall for all different kinds of specials. Maybe a certain bread- like Irish soda bread for St. Patrick's Day, fruitcake for Christmas, or challah bread for Passover- whatever.

Chicago honors a saint: Patrick. But unlike the San Giovanni Festival honoring John the Baptist, St. Patrick’s Day is less about the saint, and more about dyeing everything green--hair, beer, the Chicago River--watching the parade take over the city, and getting wasted. You even get physically assaulted if you don’t wear something green the entire day. You’re supposed to just get pinched, but some of the guys at school take it a little too far. And if you forget to wear green, you can’t get by with the excuse that your underwear is green, because they’re not shy about asking for proof.

C’mon, Barney,” said Lucy. “Can’t you give me something for the paper? A body in the water is big news.” Lowering his voice so only she could hear, he said, “It’s Old Dan. At least I think it is. It’s hard to tell.” “The body’s decomposed?” she asked. “You could say that.” “His face is gone?” Lucy knew that was common when a body had been in the water. Crabs and fish usually started with the bare skin of the face and hands. “More than his face,” said Barney. “His whole head’s gone.

Trounce. Come, silence your drum — there is no valour stirring to-day. I thought St. Patrick would have given us a recruit or two to- day. Sol. Mark, serjeant! Enter two COUNTRYMEN. Trounce. Oh! these are the lads I was looking for; they have the look of gentlemen. — An’t you single, my lads? 1 Coun. Yes, an please you, I be quite single: my relations be all dead, thank heavens, more or less. I have but one poor mother left in the world, and she’s an helpless woman.

My Éireann by Stewart Stafford Éireann is my maiden, Titian grace spun gold, Fêted for her fairness, A goddess sacrificed. All-seeing eye of piety, But mauled with scars, In repose and melding, With the ire of the land. In perennial motion, Rivers meet the sea, Gaze upon a dark pool, Soubrette for new suitors. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.

St' Patrick's Day is all about being Irish and celebrating life as only the Irish know how.

I’m talking mashed potatoes. Roast potatoes. Sweet potatoes. Potato casserole. Those thinly sliced potatoes with that cheese sauce on them. Potato salad, even.” “Jimmy?” Dallas says with a startlingly sweet smile. “Yeah?” “Shut the hell up about potatoes.” “But they’re the best part of Thanksgiving dinner! Everyone knows that.” “It’s my Irish blood, makes me love the things. Can’t get enough of ‘em.” “Binge-watching Collin Farrell movies while youeat Lucky Charms doesn’t make you Irish, dumbass,” he grouches. “I dress up for St. Patrick’s day, too,” Triple J responds, defensive. I swivel from where I’m removing my shin guards to peer at him. “What the hell do you dress up as for St. Patrick’s day?” He shakes his head at me like I’m incredibly stupid for asking this. “A leprechaun, of course.” Dallas grins. “Surely you don’t even need a costume for that one.

I also bought an evening dress suit from a secondhand clothing store in Charing Cross Road. It was double-breasted and in a very heavy, uncomfortable material, and I looked, frankly, stupid in it, but it was the only one I could afford. Miss Leigh announced to us one day that Gone with the Wind was going to be rereleased theatrically, and she requested the pleasure of our entire company at the premiere, which would be my first. And so, also for the first time, I had to wear that tux in public. I had by this time bid farewell to my friends and moved out of the boardinghouse, to slightly nicer digs that were walking distance from the London Coliseum in St. Martin’s Lane. This meant that I would not need to get out of a taxi and walk the red carpet—I knew that I looked idiotic in my tuxedo and wanted to keep a low profile. Inside, there was a champagne reception before the film in the upstairs bar, and my castmates had a field day making fun of me and my shit suit. Evidently, Miss Leigh caught sight of this scene and took pity on me. For all of a sudden, her boyfriend, John Merivale, was at my side, whispering into my ear that he was going to be sitting on one side of Vivien at the screening and that she had requested that I sit on her other side. I was already besotted with her, and this act of kindness only intensified my feelings. The capper was that, once I was seated beside her, I addressed her as “Miss Leigh” and she took my hand in hers. “Patrick,” she said, “you are to call me Vivien.” My erstwhile Irish roommate was right: The memorable experiences were already piling up. One more happened that evening. The film had been running for about an hour when Vivien—I still couldn’t quite believe I got to call her that—turned to me and again took my hand. I could see that she was crying. “I am so sorry, Patrick, but I am going to have to leave,” she said. “So many of these dear people I worked with are now dead, and it is making me so sad. I hope you enjoy the rest of it.” And off she went into the night.

I have them stashed in a bag in the basement, because where is the fun in being married to four incredibly sexy Irish men if I can’t make them dress up for St. Patrick’s Day?

So you really think these all represent different holiday lands?" he asked, pulling open the door with the large bird on it. "What do you think this one could be?" "A holiday to honor turkeys?" Sally guessed. Though somehow that didn't sound quite right. "Maybe," Jack mused. "But why would anyone want to honor a turkey? They're such dumb birds. Really, the only good thing to do is eat them." He closed the door, then headed over to the tree with the heart on it. "This one's probably Dissection Town," he decided. "They spend all year long harvesting organs, and one day a year they gather together to eat them." Sally made a face. "Or maybe it's Love Town?" she suggested. "And their holiday is filled with lots of romantic proclamations?" Jack looked disappointed by this idea. He moved on to the tree with the four-leafed plant. "Garden Town," he pronounced. "They're completely vegetarian. And they hate turkeys with a passion.

Jack Reacher made his first appearance in print on March 17, 1997—St. Patrick’s Day—when Putnam published Killing Floor in the United States, which was Reacher’s—and my—debut. But I can trace his, and the book’s, genesis backward at least to New Year’s Eve 1988. Back then I worked for a commercial television station in Manchester, England. I was eleven years into a career as a presentation director, which was a little like an air traffic controller for the network airwaves. In February 1988, the UK commercial network had started twenty-four-hour broadcasting. For a year before that, management had been talking about how to man the new expanded commitment. None of us really wanted to work nights. Management didn’t really want to hire extra people. End of story. Stalemate. Impasse. What broke it was the offer of a huge raise. We took it, and by New Year’s Eve we were ten fat and happy months into the new contract. I went to a party, but didn’t feel much like celebrating. Not that I wasn’t content in the short term—I sleep better by day than night, and I like being up and about when the world is quiet and lonely, and for sure I was having a ball with the new salary. But I knew in my bones that management resented the raise, and I knew that the new contract was in fact the beginning of the end. Sooner or later, we would all be fired in revenge. I felt it was only a matter of time. Nobody agreed with me, except one woman. At the party, in a quiet moment, she asked me, “What are you going to do when this is all over?

After his transfer, Trump was put in charge of a special drill team for New York City’s Columbus Day parade. In white gloves and dressed in full uniform, Trump led the procession south along Fifth Avenue toward St. Patrick’s Cathedral, where he shook hands with Francis Cardinal Spellman. Turning to Major Anthony “Ace” Castellano, one of NYMA’s commanders, Trump said, “You know what, Ace? I’d really like to own some of this real estate someday.” When

He Said EYE-RACK Relative to our plans for your country, we will blast your tree, crush your cart, stun your grocery. Amen sisters and brothers, give us your sesame legs, your satchels, your skies. Freedom will feel good to you too. Please acknowledge our higher purpose. Now, we did not see your bed of parsley. On St. Patrick's Day 2003, President Bush wore a blue tie. Blinking hard he said, "reckless aggression." He said, "the danger is clear." Your patio was not visible in his frame. Your comforter stuffed with wool from a sheep you knew. He said, "We are against the lawless men who rule your country, not you." Tell that to the mother, the sister, the bride, the proud boy, the peanut-seller, the librarian careful with her shelves. The teacher, the spinner, the sweeper, the invisible village, the thousands of people with laundry and bread, the ants tunneling through the dirt.

One of the most ambitious men to exploit the timber trade was Hugh F. McDanield, a railroad builder and tie contractor who had come to Fayetteville along with the Frisco. He bought thousands of acres of land within hauling distance of the railroad and sent out teams of men to cut the timber. By the mid-1880s, after a frenzy of cutting in south Washington County, he turned his gaze to the untapped fortune of timber on the steep hillsides of southeast Washington County and southern Madison County, territory most readily accessed along a wide valley long since leveled by the east fork of White River. Mr. McDanield gathered a group of backers and the state granted a charter September 4, 1886, giving authority to issue capital stock valued at $1.5 million, which was the estimated cost to build a rail line through St. Paul and on to Lewisburg, which was a riverboat town on the Arkansas River near Morrilton. McDanield began surveys while local businessman J. F. Mayes worked with property owners to secure rights of way. “On December 4, 1886, a switch was installed in the Frisco main line about a mile south of Fayetteville, and the spot was named Fayette Junction.” Within six months, 25 miles of track had been laid east by southeast through Baldwin, Harris, Elkins, Durham, Thompson, Crosses, Delaney, Patrick, Combs, and finally St. Paul. Soon after, in 1887, the Frisco bought the so-called “Fayetteville and Little Rock” line from McDanield. It was estimated that in the first year McDanield and partners shipped out more than $2,000,000 worth of hand-hacked white oak railroad ties at an approximate value of twenty-five cents each. Mills ran day and night as people arrived “by train, wagon, on horseback, even afoot” to get a piece of the action along the new track, commonly referred to as the “St. Paul line.” Saloons, hotels, banks, stores, and services from smithing to tailoring sprang up in rail stop communities.

Got a pencil handy?” “Yes, I’m listening.” “Nothing in any of the interviews really stands out. A lot of people said they loved him. A lot said he was very honest. A couple told nice

And what do you think you’re doing?” he demanded, feeling a large hollowness growing inside him. “You know quite well, don’t you?” replied the crow, hopping up onto the bar with a neat flap of his wings. The bird cocked his head and looked him in the eye. “Don’t tell me an Irishman like you, born and bred in the old country, has forgotten the tale of Cú Chulainn?” “’Tisn’t the sort of thing you can forget,” he told the crow. “Especially that statue in the Dublin General Post Office. A handsome piece of work that is, illustrating how Cú Chulainn knew death was near and tied himself to a post so he could die standing upright, like the hero he was.” “Cú Chulainn was a hero indeed,” admitted the crow. “And his enemies couldn’t kill him until the Morrighan lit on his shoulder, stealing his strength, weakening him…” “Right you are. The Morrighan,” he said. The very thought of that fearsome warrior goddess, with her crimson cloak and chariot, set his heart to pounding in his bony old chest. “And what form did the Morrighan take, might I ask?” inquired the bird. “A crow,” he said, feeling a great trembling overtake him. “So is that it? Are you the Morrighan come for me?” “What do you think Daniel Malone?

You know what I think? I think you need some chocolate,” said Lucy. “I know I could sure use some. “It’s not every day that a headless body turns up and I have to cover it.

I’ve never been to a real Irish wake,” said Lucy. “Just visiting hours at the funeral home.” “You think this’ll be different?” “I’m no expert, but from what I’ve heard, they’re pretty lively affairs. Sometimes they even sit the dead person’s body up and put a drink in its hand.” “That’d be a problem for Old Dan,” said Brian, thoughtfully. “I mean, he could hold the drink, but you sort of need a head to complete the image. Not that he could actually drink it, of course, being dead and all, but you know what I mean.” Lucy did. How could you have a wake with a body that had no head?

I’m a mother. You name it, I’ve seen it and probably had to mop it up,” said Lucy.

He showed the same timidity in the two appointments he made to the Supreme Court, making sure that Ruth Bader Ginsburg and Stephen Breyer would be moderate enough to be acceptable to Republicans as well as to Democrats. He was not willing to fight for a strong liberal to follow in the footsteps of Thurgood Marshall or William Brennan, who had recently left the Court. Breyer and Ginsburg both defended the constitutionality of capital punishment, and upheld drastic restrictions on the use of habeas corpus. Both voted with the most conservative judges on the Court to uphold the “constitutional right” of Boston’s St. Patrick’s Day parade organizers to exclude gay marchers.

St. Patrick’s Day always involves fighting, public urination, vomit.

Ask a random focus group which is better—Cinco de Mayo or St. Patrick’s—and overwhelmingly, unless they’re made up of people who are at least part Irish, they’re gonna go for Cinco de Mayo.

Magazine Street was a sea of green. Piper reveled in the pleasure and satisfaction of having finished the scene in her first feature film as she made her way through the crowds and watched the floats decorated by New Orleans marching clubs. The float riders threw carrots, potatoes, moon pies, and beads to the onlookers gathered on the sidewalk. Pets joined in the festivities as well, sporting leprechaun attire and green-tinted fur. Under a bright sun and a clear blue sky, families and friends were gathered for the opportunity to celebrate one of the biggest street parties of the year. Some set up ladders along the parade route, climbing atop for the best views. Others scaled trees and found perches among the branches. "Hey, mister, throw me something!" yelled a man next to Piper. Waving hands rose in the air as a head of cabbage came hurtling from the float. Everyone in the crowd lunged for it. The person who snagged it was roundly congratulated for the catch. "What's with the cabbage?" Piper asked the man standing next to her. "They aren't supposed to throw them, just hand them out. Somebody could get hurt by one of those things." The man shrugged. "But the tradition is to cook them for dinner on St. Patrick's Day night.

I whisper in her ear, “Give me your body tonight.” I command. Of course, she can say no. But she really needs to trust that it’s in both of our best interests if she doesn’t. “All yours,” she whispers back.

She will be a quivering pile of pleasure before the night is through.

What happens in Vegas was meant to happen. Isn’t that the saying?

You’ve already stolen my heart, Cora. And I don’t ever want that fucker back.

In the harsh light of day, my head aching, my mouth dry, my eyes stinging, I don’t look back on it with regret. I said I loved her. And I meant it. And she said she loved me. Did she not? It hurts. It hurts deep that sober Cora sees our night as a mistake. As sober Nolan sees it as the best decision he’s ever made.

My time with you has been some of the best of my life. And I’ve had a grand feckin’ life. I wanted to marry ya because I wanted a taste of what forever would feel like with you. I said I love you because I love you.

Her feelings are a perfect mirror of mine. What we have is special, magical, not something that is a trick of the night burned by the light of day. Our souls have travelled the world and found home.

She is so motherly and wifely and accommodating. Again, this is not the Cora I saw in other parts of the US, when I was enjoying her parts enjoying my parts.

Today is the day I reckon with fate. The day I wrestle with my destiny to become the man of the house and win over my new heir.

When the roaring flames of your love have burned down to embers, may you find that you've married your best friend.

Listen to his performance of “Boys of Kilmichael” in London’s Brixton Academy on St. Patrick’s Day, 1994. Then compare that to any other version of the song – Jimmy Crowley, Donie Carroll, or Oliver Kane. There is no comparison. The others are pretty. MacGowan makes you want to go out and kill an Englishman. Isn’t that what rebel songs are supposed to do?

Tell me something sad about you.” He doesn’t even take a moment to think about it before saying, “I’m going to miss you.

He started doing these weird things with his lips and moving his voice up and down. When he did something called Big Face, Little Face, that made me laugh. Declan did not do any of those things. He just looked surly and handsome and stared at his fiancée a lot.

But why wait till we are desperate? Why not renew our strength every day? Why wait even until Sunday? For years I have had the habit of dropping into empty churches on weekday afternoons. When I feel that I am too rushed and hurried to spare a few minutes to think about spiritual things, I say to myself: “Wait a minute, Dale Carnegie, wait a minute. Why all the feverish hurry and rush, little man? You need to pause and acquire a little perspective.” At such times, I frequently drop into the first church that I find open. Although I am a Protestant, I frequently, on weekday afternoons, drop into St. Patrick’s Cathedral on Fifth Avenue, and remind myself that I’ll be dead in another thirty years, but that the great spiritual truths that all churches teach are eternal. I close my eyes and pray. I find that doing this calms my nerves, rests my body, clarifies my perspective, and helps me revalue my values. May I recommend this practice to you?

As Flannery O’Connor and Alice Munro have shown, it’s one thing to teach yourself to write and another to train your editors to read you. Both these regional writers – each stubbornly invested in particularity – educated their publishers and their readers with sheer persistence, by holding their nerve. Every Australian reader is forced to accommodate the strangeness of overseas – usually American or British – fictional settings. To keep up you need to adapt to new and weird idioms and soon these become normative. This provincial form of cosmopolitanism isn’t optional. Similarly, a reader from some no-account place like Perth is expected to adjust their senses eastward with no reciprocity. At nineteen and twenty it was a nasty surprise to realize just how resistant a Sydney or Melbourne editor could be to the appearance on the page of Australian places and species with which they were unfamiliar. It may be hard to believe at this distance, but in my early days it wasn’t just the foreign publishers suggesting I append a glossary to the end of a novel. As I recall, the pesky dugite (Pseudonaja affinis) caused the most editorial grief at home and abroad, and I was tempted to follow St Patrick’s lead and ban elapid snakes entirely. But I kept coming back to Flannery O’Connor. Not only was she misunderstood in New York, she was a problem for folks at home in Georgia, too. I loved her craft and the singularity of her world. But I also admired O’Connor’s cussedness, her refusal to come to heel. She was an important influence.

Beltane, man! It’s, uh . . . Irish, I think. But even better than Paddy’s Day. It’s like Mardi Gras meets Halloween!

That was the best St. Patrick’s Day ever!

A notorious broadcast occurred on St. Patrick’s Day, March 17, 1949, when an attempt was made to do a remote from the Shamrock Hotel in Houston. As Taylor recalled, reservations were oversold, and when the doors opened, some 1,600 people “were in near-mortal combat for the possession of 1,000 seats.” The bedlam extended to the booth and became critical when guests began shortcutting across the soundstage. Again, from Taylor’s recollection: “One hefty matron grabbed a microphone and, before I could intervene, announced, ‘I don’t give a goddamn about your broadcast—I want my dinnertable seat!’” In a moment of despair, an NBC engineer uttered the most-dreaded four-letter expletive, which was carried coast-to-coast before the show was cut off the air. A transcription survives at SPERDVAC, the radio historical society of Southern California.

What does this paucity of national symbols mean? You could argue that it demonstrates a certain self-confidence. No English person can look at the swearing of allegiance that takes place in American schools every day without feeling bewilderment: that sort of public declaration of patriotism seems so, well, naïve. When an Irishman wears a bunch of shamrock on St Patrick’s Day, the English look on with patronizing indulgence: scarcely anyone sports a rose on St George’s Day. This worldly wisdom soon elides into a general view that any public display of national pride is not merely unsophisticated but somehow morally reprehensible. George Orwell noticed it as long ago as 1948 when he wrote that In left-wing circles it is always felt that there is something slightly disgraceful in being an Englishman, and that it is a duty to snigger at every English institution, from horse-racing to suet puddings. It is a strange fact, but it is unquestionably true, that almost any English intellectual would feel more ashamed of standing to attention during ‘God Save the King’ than of stealing from a poor box.

You know what your problem is, Miss Perfect? Your so busy trying to create this picture perfect fucking life that doesn’t exist. Your life is now, Aoife, stop waiting for something better to come along and appreciate what you already have.

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IRISH POTATO COOKIES This dough must chill before baking. 1 and ½ cups white (granulated) sugar 1 cup salted butter (½ pound, 2 sticks), softened to room temperature 3 large eggs 2 teaspoons cream of tartar 1 teaspoon baking soda ½ teaspoon salt 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 1 and ½ cups all-purpose flour (pack it down in the cup when you measure it) 3 cups instant mashed potato flakes (I used Hungry Jack Original) 1 cup finely chopped walnuts (measure AFTER chopping) ½ cup powdered (confectioners’) sugar in a bowl for later Place the white (granulated) sugar in the bowl of an electric mixer. Hannah’s 1st Note: This recipe is a lot easier to make if you use an electric mixer. You can do it by hand, but it will take much longer. Add the softened butter and mix until the two ingredients are well combined and the mixture is light in color and fluffy. Add the eggs, one by one, beating after each addition. Add the cream of tartar, baking soda, and salt. Mix until everything is well combined. Add the vanilla extract and mix it in. Measure out the all-purpose flour in a separate bowl. Mix it into the sugar, butter, and egg mixture in half-cup increments at LOW speed, mixing well after each addition. Add the instant mashed potato flakes in half-cup increments, mixing well after each addition. Beat until everything is well incorporated. Mix in the chopped walnuts. Beat for at least a minute on MEDIUM speed until everything is thoroughly combined. Hannah’s 2nd Note: At this point, you can add several drops of green food coloring if you are making these cookies for St. Patrick’s Day. Try to achieve a nice pale green. Scrape down the sides of your mixing bowl and give your Irish Potato Cookie dough a final stir with a wooden spoon by hand. Prepare your cookie sheets by spraying them with Pam or another nonstick cooking spray, or covering them with parchment paper. Scoop out a small amount of cookie dough with a spoon from your silverware drawer and try to form a dough ball with your impeccably clean hands. If this is too difficult because the dough is too soft, cover your bowl with plastic wrap and refrigerate it for 30 minutes to an hour. (Overnight is fine too, but then don’t forget to shut off the oven!) When you’re ready to bake, preheat the oven to 350 degrees F., rack in the center position. While your oven is preheating, place the powdered sugar in a small bowl. You will use it to coat the cookie dough balls you will form. Form balls of cookie dough 1 inch in diameter with your impeccably clean hands. Roll the dough balls in the bowl of powdered sugar, one at a time, and place them on the cookie sheets, 12 dough balls to a standard-sized sheet. Flatten the dough balls a bit with a metal spatula or the heel of your impeccably clean hand. Bake at 350 degrees F. for 10 to 12 minutes, or until your cookies are golden around the edges. Take your cookies out of the oven and cool on the cookie sheet for 2 minutes and then remove them to a wire rack. If you’ve covered your cookie sheets with parchment paper, all you have to do is grasp the edges of the paper and pull them, cookies and all, onto the wire rack. Yield: Approximately 8 dozen tender and delicious cookies, depending on cookie size

Mrs. Bri. Psha! there is nothing in it: a moment, and it is over. Just. Ay, but it leaves a numbness behind that lasts a plaguy long time.

It was the most obnoxiously heterosexual thing Ava had seen since the last St. Patrick's Day parade.

St. Patrick’s Day has been celebrated in Ireland since the 17th century. For the majority of the 20th century, pubs were actually closed on March 17th. At that point, St. Patrick’s Day was only considered a religious holiday in Ireland.

The need for labour, combined with the sheer poverty of Ireland, inspired that despairing urge for emigration in search of a better life which is universal to history. St Patrick’s Day began to be celebrated in Manchester. By 1821 there was said to be an Irish Catholic population in Liverpool of 12,000, which would rise to 60,000 in the next ten years.