The Luck of the Irish

St Patrick's Day today.  It would have been my dad's 109th birthday. His name, oddly enough 😉, was Patrick. He was born to Irish Catholic parents in Philadelphia.  I know his mother emigrated to the States when she was about  20.  I know little about her, other than  that I was named for her, and that she is said to have put an Irish hex on my mother. I know even less about my paternal grandfather. Despite  my father being one of  seven children, I had only five cousins. One uncle died as a child, one became a priest, another had no children,  and one had one son and one daughter. One of my aunts had two daughters and the other had one daughter.  Only one cousin, the only  male in the group, was close to my age, and we   didn't get along well at all.  The rest were much older.  My dad died at the age of  fifty-four when I was sixteen. The family wrote me off when I left the Catholic church a year or two  later and there has been no contact with them for over  fifty years. Anyway, I feel Irish enough that I don't need to prove it, so I don't wear green and   don't  cook Irish food.  In fact, we had fish curry tonight- definitely NOT Irish fare! I do admit to listening to an old LP of an Irish tenor singing Danny Boy every once in a while, though.

It was much warmer today, but   cloudy and dull until late in the afternoon, when the sun as it set, cast a lovely golden glow on the trees.

The late afternoon sky was a brilliant blue, as a  plane streaked by  leaving a wispy white vapor trail. In the western sky, contrails resembling cirrus clouds had formed a cross.

I am happy to report that the rosebuds survived the two nights of temperatures that dropped into the  20s.  The blossoms, as they open,  are a little damaged around the edges but not enough to mar their beauty.   They must have had the luck of the Irish protecting them from the frigid weather. ☘☘☘