"An Irishman And An American Were Sitting In A Bar At Shannon Airport..."

"I've come to meet me brother," said the Irishman. "He's due to fly in from America in an hour's time. It's his first time back home in almost 40 years."


"Will you be able to recognize him? asked the American.


"I doubt that I will, sir. He's been away for so long."


"I wonder if he will recognize you?" replied the American.


"For sure that he will, sir," said the Irishman emphatically. "Aye, I haven't been away at all!"

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Ah, the Irish... You gotta love 'em. Especially on this their special day when we get to celebrate with them and for one day we can each claim to have a bit of the Irish in us whether or not it can be proved implicitly with a quick scan of the family tree.

I myself lay claim to having a trace of Irish blood running through my veins, even if it is only as faint as weak tea. The name Latchford, my last name, is said to be linked to an Irish heritage. I'll take that on face value. What little research I have conducted, piggybacked on what my father accomplished many years ago, seems to indicate that the main trunk of our family tree is rooted in German linage. But there appears to have been some minor degree of cross pollination that occurred on occasion back in the days before Columbus packed an extra pair of jammies and set off across the ocean blue. My dearly departed Dad didn't put much stock into that theory. But what did he know? He wasn't there. However, Dad was signed to a Boston Red Sox baseball farm team back in the 40s, so there's one more reason for me to lay claim to having at least some Irish affiliation.

There's no indication that my Mother's side of the family had any linkage with the Irish, she being a southern, born and bred, Brown. Her mother was a Douglas. Two sir names that are linked with the old rural south that came into existence just after God invented dirt. My Mother's father, Allen, whose name I bare as a middle name, missed a great opportunity to be Irish, he being able to drink any three men under the table and then be sober enough to chase with gleeful abandon the wives of those inebriated gentlemen. Rumor has it that he was shot by a jealous husband. I think the truth of the matter is that he offered his pickled liver to the Smithsonian. Sounds about right...

So, here's to the Irish...be they the real McCoy or celebratory wannabes. I'll skip the green beer, but may imbibe with a small helping of green eggs and ham and a side of cooked cabbage. To the half a million true Irish persons who marched gleefully today in Dublin...Salute!! Have a pint of bitters on behalf of my departed Grandfather. I'm sure he's appreciate the gesture.