Wearin’ O’ The Groin
I’m nearly half Irish, mostly, if not entirely, on my Dad’s side. Not a lot of the Old Sod sticks to me, however. My last name, the one I share with a venerable morning talk show and quiz show host, is apparently native to County Mayo, but that line of folks left no trail, either written or by artifact, of their journey. (The quiz show host is a vociferous Notre Dame fan, and cannot possibly be related to us.) We can trace back to my great-great grandfather on that side, who began a 5-generation run in northwestern Ohio. None of them, to my knowledge, was more than a perfunctorily observant Irishman. They weren’t even Catholic anymore - something about one of them disliking burning incense in the house. Works for me.
On my paternal grandmother’s side, the Irish strain worked on railroads, and at some point one or more of them became convinced that working indoors in one place was safer, warmer and more likely to get you laid than pounding spikes and sleeping in tents. They got jobs in a Union Pacific shop in Omaha and settled there. Eventually one of their daughters ended up in Waukegan married to a German fellow and became my great-grandparents. They either kept, or were able to obtain, a parish birth record of one Cornelius Hogan in County Cork, and this is the most definitive claim I have to origins on the Emerald Isle.
My Mom’s side is almost, if not entirely, free of the Irish taint, being mostly German, English and Scotch-Irish (who aren’t “Irish” in the conventional understanding, but instead are Scots whom the English transplanted to Ulster in hopes of improving the indigenous genetic stock).
So, St. Patrick’s Day gets a resounding “meh!” from me, for the most part. I don’t drink any more than any other day, seldom wear green and definitely don’t wear silly hats. Dinner was chile colorado with a tasty margarita.
