irish temper.
I am the raven-tressed, apple-cheeked, moss-eyed granddaughter of a Protestant minister from one of the roughest neighbourhoods in Belfast. We don't often see eye to eye, he and I (a grand understatement if ever there was one), but I recognize in myself hints of his oft-overwhelming personality. He told me once that it's because my blood runs Emerald green, and boils at a moment's notice. I can't disagree, because it's how I've always been, long before I knew a lick about my heritage. It is one of the great regrets of my life that I haven't yet been to the Old Country, but I remember him informing me (at 5 or 6, perched on his lap, full of sass) that I was, in spirit and fire, as Irish as they come. I'm sure he regrets saying that now, being that we've had as many rows since as cuddles, but it remains one of the best compliments I ever received.
I know that it probably seems more than a tad precious to reduce a whole country to a stereotypical temperament, just as it might seem stupid to assume every home in Eire has a leprechaun hiding in the bathtub, ready to yell "Top 'o the mornin'!" and hand you your Irish Spring soap. But who am I to argue with my grandfather?
Heh...I guess we've established that.
On this one thing, though, I shall concede his point. We're a bit outlandish, really, us two....Grumps and Meg. And we like ourselves this way. 
We'll both argue a point far past the moment when debate is sensible or even desirable, choosing rightness over peace, and passion over propriety. It doesn't matter if our most salient points possess only a modicum of knowledge and a greater helping of vitriol. It is absolutely incomprehensible to us that one might 'agree to disagree', because victory simply kicks the ass of conciliation every time. I'm not sure if we prevail because of rightness or ruthlessness in the end, but we don't sweat the semantics.
We both love a good story, too. By this, I don't mean an interesting anecdote, shared casually over dessert and coffee, or even a tale told on the phone, during a quiet moment in the day. No, we are one-body theatre companies telling majestic tales, my grandfather and I, complete with word-crafted 'costumes' sewn from preposterous adjectives; 'sets' crafted with expansive gestures and wide-stretched arms; and a full Greek chorus wrapped up in a lone voice, ready to bewilder or hypnotize our audience (depending on what the script requires). Our tones rise above those acceptable in normal conversation, and we tumble in and out of our seats, shouting dialogue like street-corner newsboys. His dramatic sensibilities are a big part of what makes him an engaging preacher, and mine are undoubtedly what make me a complete and utter goofball. I think it works out well on both fronts.
We both are full of advice that we never take. I doubt two people exist on the face of this earth who would sooner leap in to tell people how to fix an ache/cure an ill/solve an issue, but would be less apt to follow even a mite of their own advice. It's unfortunate, then, that we both have a tendency to develop outlandishly improbable health concerns, and to waste away in silence until the paramedics (or the grave!) come to steal away our sorry frames. We reccommend miracle cures to our friends and loved ones for whatever might ail them (Royal Jelly, cayenne, horseradish and fish oil pills for him; Emergen-C packets, garlic, ginger, and peppermint tea for me), but we'll nearly lose a leg (truly...we both almost did, and the same leg at that) before we'll pack our own festering wounds off to the doctor. We are either magicians or martyrs in moments of medical crisis, and secretly, I think we both believe we can cure just about anything we might suffer from with the words, "Ah, then, it'll be fine in the morning. I barely feel it."
We both love music, and it plays in our heads most of the day. We'll burst out with a jubilant song in the shower, in the grocery store, in the car...pretty much wherever the mood strikes. His voice is that of an aging balladeer, falling flat on notes that were once clarion, but making up forwhat he lacks in pitch with impressive volume. Mine is one that seems bereft of the currently-trendy capacity for vocal acrobatics; it rings out more like a 1940's radio girl singing the boys home from the war, than the warblings of a folk-vixen from Lilith Fair. I once earned the staff of my Starbucks a fifty dollar tip because I got up (on a dare, of course...same reason I've done anything fun in my life...) onto the counter in my corporate-green apron, and sang Danny Boy for a teeming Christmas crowd. An old man present that day told me I sounded sweet like his sister from Newtownabbey, who'd died 30 years previous. I gave him a hug then that made him blush straight through to his shamrock!
I love where my family is from, needless to say, and I don't hesitate for a second to identify myself with the national iconography. I know it's not a perfect place in either the South or the North, and that the world often forgets the troubled and trenchant history of the Emerald Isle in a wash of green beer every St. Paddy's Day. The hills are truly as red as they ever were green, as a result of the religious and political conflicts that have raged there for far too many generations now. One day, though, I shall see it all for myself. And maybe it will even feel like home.
So here is to my very Irish grandpa on this very Irish occasion, though Hallmark has bastardized it like everything else:
I may scrap with ye, but I love ye!
And to my parents, who are more my history and home than Eire will ever be; to all the old biddies who have needlepointed, "May the road rise to meet you..." on a pillow; to my roommates, also fiery women of Irish descent; to beloved people with 'Patrick' somewhere in their name; to the makers of green food colouring, who live for the profits of this one day every year; and to the devoted brewers of Kilkenny and Guinness, I say this:
May you have warm words on a cold evening,
a full moon on a dark night,
and the road downhill all the way to your door.
2:37:37 AM 
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