A few years ago, on a beautiful afternoon in early March, my daughter Gigi hop-skipped out of school with a smile on her face and a sparkle in her eyes. Slipping her hand in mine, she began chattering excitedly. “Mama, did you know that leprechauns come to your house? Well, they do. They come and play tricks and leave messes and they are really cute. So we need to make a trap and catch one.”
“Sure, sure,” I said, edging her toward the car.
“And Mama? Sometimes they leave presents.”
Whoa! Presents? From leprechauns?
An Internet search confirmed that leprechauns are now vying for the attention that their pesky cousins — those elves who (rarely) sit on shelves — get in December. I found page after page of leprechaun madness.
Believe me, I am not the O’Grinch of St. Patrick’s Day. I grew up with a generous pour of Irish thrown into my genetic cocktail at birth. But never did leprechauns come calling, let alone leave me with tokens of their affection. Apparently, St. Patrick’s Day has fallen prey to the cleverness of today’s holiday festivities. I now barely recognize the celebration of my childhood.
Every St. Patrick’s Day, I would awaken to the stench of corned beef and cabbage in our Kansas City home. I would scrunch up my nose and moan in disgust. But it was one of our family traditions — so, no matter my protests, I spent the greater part of that particular dinner casually rearranging the food on my plate but rarely eating it.
It also was a day of great celebration. I did not go to school on St. Patrick’s Day. And, if I had, I’m not sure who would’ve been there anyway. With a school full of Brydes, O’Briens, Fitzgeralds and Fagans, there were plenty of empty seats every March 17. Everyone within a 50-mile radius was down at the St. Patrick’s Parade, either attending or waving merrily from haphazard (and probably very dangerous) floats.
It also was the day of stories told and made larger with each iteration (in the Irish way), of ancestors who had come over “on the boat,” and of ne’er-do-wells, hard workers and drinkers. We wore green, painted our faces and fingernails, and took pride in everything Irish. Still, I do not remember a single leprechaun.
Then I grew up, moved to Denver, got married and had a child. The first St. Patrick’s Day after Gigi was born, I decided to resurrect a few of those traditions … if only to have her grow to dread the smell of that cabbage cooking. We were gonna make the loathsome dinner, invite some friends over, load up the iPod with Irish fight songs, dance without moving our upper bodies, tell stories, drink green beverages, and remember just who we were and where we came from.
But something happened along the way. I loved that corned beef and cabbage. It was delicious. And the smell? It brought back memories of freckles across upturned noses and sunburns on pale skin, of story-telling full of embellishments and parades full of joy, of green gone viral and pride gone monochromatic.
It is the smell of my childhood.
St. Patrick’s Day is magical, but not because of the antics of overzealous sprites. In fact, leprechauns have yet to stop by our house.
Still, Gigi builds a trap every year, just in case.
Siobhan Sprecace lives in Englewood.
To send a letter to the editor about this article, submit or check out our for how to submit by e-mail or mail.
