Lucky Me

The following is a guest blog from my wife Mary Kate. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.- Frank

My parents were married on March 17, 1973. St. Patrick’s Day in our house, then, became twice as big of a deal (as if it wasn’t big enough on its own). My early memories involve sips of wine during dinner, with music from the Chieftain’s and Tommy Makem playing in the background. And my later memories involve pints of beer during dinner, with the same music from the Chieftain’s and Tommy Makem. Every memory in between is a good one – the year that we gave my parents green jellybean-filled wine glasses and the Riverdance soundtrack (one of the first CDs in our home!), or the year that my sisters and I cooked dinner for them and I almost dropped the cake we made because I insisted on dancing a jig while bringing the cake in from the kitchen (note: I’m a Lenihan School of Irish Dance drop out and have not fully come to terms with it). Sure, some years have been better than others, but the day always guarantees delivery of a few basic things: having some drinks with family, enjoying good music, sharing memories and being proud of being Irish (or half-Irish, as the case may be…).

Since 2005, I’ve been fortunate to share March 17 with Frank, the only person I know outside of my own family who knows what the day means for me and, more specifically, my parents. Each year since 2005, he’s been ready with a whiskey if ‘The Parting Glass’ or ‘Galway Bay’ is played, knowing that it’ll calm me down as I’m reminded of my dad. He’ll sit through watching ‘The Quiet Man,’ hokey as it is, because I get to hear John Wayne say my name. He always offers an invitation to my mom for any of his family’s events of the day (she especially enjoyed the year that we found ourselves in the private party for the pipers at the Roosevelt Hotel after watching the parade. I remember her saying, “Your dad would be like a pig in poop if he were here!”). He sings a mean ‘Streets of New York’ and is perfecting the art of Irish coffee. In all, he’s a catch. But on March 17, he’s exceptional.

My parents would have been married 37 years tomorrow and I hope that I have at least 37 more March 17ths with Frank, my proud Irish man.