Proudly Irish

For years, perhaps even a decade or two, I was in denial of my Irish heritage. I tried my best to convince people that my ethnic roots were Danish, that my name was actually a rough translation of Crag Fonstad. Somehow I felt a closer kinship to a sweet breakfast snack, rather than a bar of soap.

Why I chose Denmark over Ireland I have no idea.

The turning point in my ancestral journey is connected with the letters PC. I would be curious if anyone out there in newspaperland could venture a guess as to what those letters stand for? Politically Correct? Incorrect. President's Choice? Wrong choice. Personal Computer? Hit the "delete" key. Protestant-Catholic? How sacrilegious!

Try Perry Como.

I typed that slowly, so you can read it slowly, and in fact I will repeat it: Perry Como. Many of you will have no idea who and what Perry Como is, and many others may be reluctant to admit you do. The late Perry Como was a crooner - a mellow, romance-type singer - probably most popular during the '50s, '60s, and into the early '70s.

Mr. Como was doing a Christmas special in Belfast a number of years ago, and I saw the DVD recording of that performance. I remember thinking as clear as day, as if it was some sort of spiritual conversion, the following thought: He is singing to my people.

Now I suppose I have removed all doubt in your minds as to my sanity. Well, be that as it may, though I can assure you that I am not out of my mind. Eccentric, perhaps, but not crazy. While I recognize my Irish roots, there are a lot of things I don't know about the land of my paternal grandparents. Let me list just a few here: I can't name all their the counties, I don't know what their flag looks like, I have no idea what their national anthem is.

For that matter, I would also add that I have serious issues with the IRA (Irish Republican Army), the UDR (Ulster Defence Regiment), and the Fenians (an Irish militia of about 150 years ago). Spilling blood in order to get one's way is an evil practice. True democracy is the higher road to take. Regardless of what side of Ireland's quest for independence you come down on, you must admit that their violent history for the past forty-plus years is very shameful.

My dad's parents came over to the New Country – as opposed to the Old Country - at the turn of the century (that would be about 109 years ago, Horace). They established a home in Winnipeg, Manitoba, before common sense prevailed and they moved out to Vancouver, British Columbia. All I really remember about them is that they talked funny, and by the mid-'60s they had both passed away. I was really young at that point, so I really never got to know them, much to my regret.

Today is, of course, St. Patrick's Day. I am celebrating it by eating some soup from last week: Seven days of food without refrigeration will turn anything green. And speaking of St. Patrick, he wasn't all that Irish: A recent book I read documented his Roman-British roots. As you likely know, what we call modern-day Britain was once controlled by the Romans. Patrick was taken to Ireland as a young man, but escaped back to his homeland. He later returned as a missionary, now with an adopted name in an adopted country.

So I am Irish and very happy to admit it. I think technically I should be wearing orange and not green, owing to the Protestant-Catholic differences. But I am not that different: One might say that, while I am a not religiously Irish, I am ethnically Irish (though two generations removed). (Which one reason why I speak of "them" and not "us.")

I don't know how you are going to celebrate St. Patrick's Day this year, but here are some suggestions: Have a shower using Irish Spring soap, drink some Irish-cream-flavoured coffee, watch John Wayne's "The Quiet Man," and eat a potato or two.

Then sit back and relax on that Irish summer lawnchair. You know, Paddy O' Furniture.