We’ll Sing You a Song and We’ll Make a Fuss, Whoever You Are, You’re One of Us
Saturday, March 17 - 9:15pm - Perth Amboy, New Jersey
To the left there is my annual view from one of the few and favorite traditions my family has. For the past 25 years or so (I actually think it’s more), my grandmother has hosted a St. Patrick’s Day party. It’s on the Saturday closest to the holiday, and on this year, it actually fell on the 17th. The tradition is pretty simple. Everyone shows up. Wearing green is a must (although white with some sort of Irish saying is acceptable). My grandmother serves huge helpings of awesomely awesome corned beef, potatoes, and cabbage. My Aunt Karen makes a green concoction she calls an Irish Kiss, which is a punch that is quite delicious. Around 8:30pm, everyone grabs a set, the green books you see above are handed out, and the music begins. My grandmother leads everyone in about 90 minutes of singing. The songbook has been relatively unchanged for about a decade. No one is allowed to not sing. Enthusiasm is rewarded. And it’s a great time. After 25 years or so, and having only missed two or three years, I’m starting to learn the songs. It’s odd: I’ll be somewhere in the middle of October and randomly starting humming to myself, "Who threw the overalls in Mrs. Murhphy’s Chowder?" It’s a lot of fun. Newcomers are always welcomed. So long as you wear green and you’re willing to sing, you’re welcomed. I’ve brought a few friends over the years, and despite some initial trepidation, they eventually get into the spirit. Sure, having a few glasses of the Irish Kiss always helps. But it’s a lot of fun. It’s cheesy. But it’s a lot of fun.
There’s even a certain setup with the seating arrangements. My grandparents have a big open living/dining room setup in their house. My grandmother always sits in the back corner near the stereo to be commander of the music. My grandfater sits on the opposite side of the room, ready to make a break for the kitchen to keep the guests happy. The Italian contingent (my grandparents’ neighbors, who are more family than some actual family) sits in the opposite back corner. Then there’s the Bleacher crew. The people who sit on the stairs. I am proudly a stair member. Henry (a friend of my grandparents who may or may not be related to us in some weird way) always sits at the top, because he can belt out the songs. The rest of the young people usually sit on the stairs. It can keep you out of eye and ear shot of my grandmother, but I like it because it gives a great view of everyone singing.
I can watch some of the older people in our family (people who I wouldn’t recognize if they weren’t sitting with corned beef on a plate, a green songbook, and an Irish sweater) enjoy the time. Like I said, it’s cheesy. But it’s fun.
The songbooks are even a point of contention. Apparently, back in the day they were thicker than they are now. As vinyl gave way to cassettes, it ended up getting trimmed down. It’s down to 16 pages, with an intermission in the middle ("Time to take a wee and wet your whistle!"). The originals were typed by my grandmother. The new versions are made on computer, with amusing little pieces of clip art and stickers, all on green copy paper. This year, my grandmother remade the books. That was apparently a point of consternation for some people. They were upset their favorite song would be gone (mine is "If Your Irish, Come Into the Parlor" and always leads off the festivities — no, "Oh Danny Boy" is not my favorite as it’s incredibly sad). But they’re all there, my grandmother asserts.
Speaking of songs, Irish songs can be broken down into a few categories. We’re Going to America. We’ve Gone to America, and We Miss Ireland. We’ve Gone to America, and We’re Returning to Ireland. Someone’s Dead. Someone’s Gone to War. Someone’s Gone to War and Died. That’s pretty much the theme. God bless the Irish and the 30-something percent of their blood that runs in my veins.
We’re not a family big on tradition. I mean, we do the same stuff year after year. But it’s not like we do certain things solely for the sake of tradition as a lot of families do. I don’t know if it’s distance, family drama, family proliferation, or what which keeps us from some things. We do have some traditions. Meatball soup at Thanksgiving. Atlantic City trip the day after Thanksgiving. This chicken dish my mom makes every Christmas Eve (or sometimes Christmas if certain sons have to work at the news factory out of town on Christmas Eve). But St. Patrick’s Day is my favorite. I will gladly give up going out and getting sloppy with friends on March 17th to sit on my grandmother’s stairs and belt out "It’s a Long Way to Tipperary." As I get older, I realize that as my grandparents make it into their 70s, this family tradition won’t last forever. I hope some day when that happens, I will be in a position to take over this tradition. I’m sure one of my aunts will be happy to help. But I would want it on my own. Of course, me not living in New Jersey like most of the family will hurt. But it’s a family tradition I hold dear. It’s one I want to keep going. And it might need a little tweak or two, and frankly the average age of party-goers could be brought down a decade or four. But I want the tradition to go on. I want my little cousins to enjoy it while my grandmother is still the host, but them to enjoy it with their children as well. It’s far too much fun. Take your green beer at crowded bars on the 17th. I’ll take the flat soda, killer corned beef, and bad singing of my family every year.
Title is from the Irish folk song, "If You’re Irish, Come Into the Parlor" done here by The Shamrock Singers.
