Among the Shamrocks

Offhand, I'm guessing it's likely my maternal grandmother, Mary Leahy Reinhardt, did not celebrate St. Paddy's Day even though she was born in County Wicklow. She did give presents at birthdays, though. Other people's presents. One January my mother sent a gift to her sister, Stella, in Providence, Rhode Island. In May, Stella sent the gift on for Granny Reinhardt's birthday. Later that May, came the same gift back to my mother with a note, "Stella sent this blouse. She doesn't know my taste." It was true. When Granny R. died, Stella had the funeral director use a pink theme. My mother said, "Mama never liked pink. It didn't go with freckles." My mother didn't like pink, either. Stella was not one for "go with" so she didn't notice. She also had fewer freckles. I have a photo somewhere that shows a genetic link between Granny R. and me. She is wearing a plaid jumper (my standard uniform for most of my life), a hat, and she it toting an oversized handbag in which she, no doubt, carried one of the volumes of the complete Charles Dickens. She is waiting at a bus stop to go into town for her weekdays salad, pie, and coffee at the YWCA. I don't think she ever cooked after her husband died. Well, no wonder. She had the reputation of baking the hardest biscuits in Indian Territory. Like me, she was also a bear about alcohol. Despite her entering a household and immediately pouring out all the whiskey bottles, she was still every woman's favorite midwife. Whenever my mother was sick in some foreign country she pined for Mama and in a tuneless quaver, sang, "Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child." Once when I was frantic with helplessness, I asked my mother what was so special about Granny R.'s healing powers. There was no definite description but it had to do with Irish humor, no-nonsense, and a very strong streak of optimism she called Muddling Through. Granny R. was one of the few in miles who could read music so she played for the Saturday night dances and three church services on Sunday. In her way, celebration was not a set aside time. It was all the time in her steady quiet manner. I was going to post another Irish poem but I happened to come across this one by Sarah N. Cleghorn which is very Granny Reinhardt. Someone wrote about Sarah, "She called her earlier poems 'sunbonnets' --poems which characterized country life--and her later poems 'burning poems'--poems that pointed to social injustices." It has the lilt and imagery of an old Irish ballad, perfect for recitation. Sing away, delve into some myths of kings, and do a little jig!

In the still cold before the sun (Her Matins)

Her brothers and her sisters small 

She woke, and washed and dressed each one.                 

And through the morning hours all (Prime) 

Singing above her broom she stood 

And swept the house from hall to hall. 

Then out she ran with tidings good (Tierce)

Across the field and down the lane,

To share them with the neighborhood.

Four miles she walked, and home again, (Sexts)

To sit through half the afternoon

And hear a feeble crone complain.

But when she saw the frosty moon (Nones)

And lakes of shadow on the hill,

Her maiden dreams grew bright as noon.

She threw her pitying apron frill (Vespers) 

Over a little trembling mouse 

When the sleek cat yawned on the sill.

In the late hours and drowsy house, (Evensong)

At last, too tired, beside her bed 

She fell asleep — her prayers half said.

...may the blessings of little green sprouts be with thee...