Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

If I weren’t going to a St. Patrick’s Day party this evening, I might have forgotten the day completely.

My mother, one hundred percent Irish, would never have approved. Her favorite color was green, and St. Patrick’s Day was up there with her birthday in terms of significance. In fact, she pretty much celebrated her heritage every day of the year.

The Catholic schools I attended ages ago also took time to remember the Saint who, legend has it, drove the snakes from Ireland. Today’s scientists dispute this, but the legend remains. And when I lived in Chicago, I always thrilled at the site of the Chicago River being dyed green.

So I went to purchase an appropriate dessert for tonight’s event at a local bakery, only to learn it was pushing Easter cakes and cookies instead. I scoured my closet to find something green to wear tonight and came up emptyhanded. And I can’t even tell you anything about the Chicago River anymore.

All of which is to say, I’m struck by how such an important part of my upbringing has fallen into disregard.  I think I want to rethink this for next year.