Normal and regular readers are going to be surprised to see this message.  It’s not a normal one for me.

You see, some of these postings have been written in advance.  A couple of weeks in advance, for a couple of reasons.  First of all, I went on vacation.  It was good.

Second of all, my computer died.  Actually, it kept on dying.  Every fifteen to twenty minutes, it would just die on me.

It was overheating.

So, the computer is in the shop.  They tell me it is a two week turn around time.  But just in case….

I’m writing this post.

There are a few more days left on the abroad category, but times up on this one, with any luck, you never see this message…

If you do, bear with me, it’ll be back soon enough.

 It was one of the big spiritual events of our lives growing up in our small town on the northern prairie.  It was also one of the many family celebrations that marked our lives - a milestone in our religious upbringing, our first communion.

In our community, as well as our family, it was a right of passage, one of the first movements from childhood to adulthood.  It meant that on Sunday mornings, we were no longer left behind in the pew when the rest of the family went up for communion.  Spiritually, it was much more significant - but there was a social aspect to it as well - a sense of belonging.

For our family, it meant that our family, brothers, sister, grandparents, and great uncles and aunts had to come together to celebrate.  My first communion back on May 1^st, 1982 was no exception.

The first communion traditionally took place at the 10:30 Mass at St. Micheal’s.  Father Wesley was the priest at that point in time in our parish.  As a first grader, this was a big deal to me.  It would mean the first time I’d be up front in front of our church.  It was a bit nerve wracking.  Just me and about thirty other eight year olds would be standing up there with father at one point.

For Mom especially it was a busy time.  She not only had to worry about our own family celebration, as the president of the Ladies Aid, she was in charge of the celebration at church.  You see, it was a community celebration too.  After Mass, there would be coffee, kool-aide, and goodies downstairs in the church basement.  We would be congratulated by friends and neighbors.   So she was on double duty - making sure that all was squared away at the church basement, but also making sure that the full formal meal at the house was prepared and ready too.

Grandma and Grandpa Mason came to the farm to help get ready.  I got out of chores early to get up the house to shower and change into my new suit - one of the first pieces of dress cloths that I ever got new - most of my clothes being hand me down from the older brothers.  This was a classy one for 1982 - a tan jacket with brown trousers. 

Grandma Mason, being a retired hair dresser, was in charge of making sure that I looked my best.

In hindsight, not the best decision, as she was at the top of her game thirty years earlier.  With a little help from Dad’s tube of Groom and Clean, I looked like I could do a stand in on the set of the hit music classic Grease.  Perfect for the 1950’s, not so fancy for the 1980’s.

Thought horrified, the show must go on.

In truth, it went off well, with both the religious reverence that was needed, but also with all of the family and community fanfare that is necessary for the event too.  Mom did a great job - both at the church celebration, but also at home, where the family, extended family, and Father Wesley (who knew the best cooks in the community… was quick to take up Mom’s invitation for lunch) enjoyed a good home cooked meal.

The pictures paint a picture of a reverent farm kid, intent on the seriousness of the occasion. In truth, it was a right of passage, and an important social gathering - one of many that marks the life of times of growing up on the farm.

 Our farm was in the heart of dairy country in Northwestern Minnesota.  Years ago, there were about five dairies within a one mile radius of our farm.  It was a way to diversify.  There were a fair number of beef cattle as well, and a few small feedlots.  There were even a few guys that had pigs - and you could smell those places for miles.

Only one neighbor had sheep.  I’m not sure if it was bravery, courage, a love for things small and fluffy, or just because what they had it worked well with.

Vern and Lois were some of the best neighbors.  Their farm is just east of our place, and while Vern past on a couple of years ago, Lois still lives on the little farmstead.  Vern was always willing to come over and give a helping hand.  If it was baling hay, chopping corn, or just someone to come over and check up on us boys when Mom and Dad were out of town, Vern was the man for the job.  Lois is still a good friend - she and Mom used to have great conversations, and now, she makes sure that Dad is well fed, supplying treats and candy, and also well thought of - bring back gifts from her trips.

Their place a piece of pasture just to the west, with a ditch that drained part of the section, to the east was a small hay field.  In the middle, was the house and a barn - the headquarters for their burgeoning sheep operation.

In truth, I don’t think that the extent of their sheep outfit was on purpose.  They just took darn good care of their animals.  I’ve been told that the number of twins and triplets that you get is now scientifically proven to come from the level of care that ewes get through the year.

Vern and Lois must of have been great shepherds.  It seemed like every one of their ewes was giving them twins and triplets.

They would feed them grain and hay, and usually, we’d reciprocate the help that Vern provided by helping him get his little field of hay off (though it was a pittance compared to the help he gave us at harvest).

I must admit, it was good having good neighbors around, and the sheep added to the landscape.  There was nothing like driving down the road and seeing waving fields of wheat, barley and oats, the green hay field, our pasture and feedlot with the white and black Holsteins, and the small field with the grazing sheep.

It also gave us a great excuse to go over and visit, especially in the spring with the little lambs.  Seeing the twins and triplets was a thrill for us kids - so similar to the calves that we dealt with everyday, and yet so very different.

Vern and Lois always made sure we were welcome, letting us into the pen to pet the lambs.  Laughing as the mothers shoved us around, and always seeming to have milk and cookies for us to tide us over until after chores.

In the end, they were pretty good to their own flock, as well as the little flock of kids, just down the road.

 Walking into the kitchen, Jaime stood there.  The table had been pushed to one side as Dad had carried Mom out to the car.  Margaret stood in the living room.  We were all dazed.

I don’t remember saying anything.

Jaime and I put the table aright and put the chairs in order.  Then we waited.  We paced.  We sat in the living room.  The roast, the potatoes, the carrots all sitting on the table.  We waited for word from town.

No word came.

I called one of the organizers for the talent show where I was to have spent my afternoon. “Hey Diane, this is Mark, I won’t make it to the talent show.  We don’t have an Easter bunny.  Mom went to the hospital.  We don’t know what is wrong.  I can’t make it.  Sorry.”

I don’t remember what she said.  I don’t remember much.

The three of us sat and waited and wondered.  The dinner getting cold on the table.

About three o’clock we came to our senses.  We ate the cold meal.  Still in shock.  Still not saying much.  I don’t think we watched television.  I don’t think we did homework.  I don’t think we did anything.  We just sat in the living room.  Waiting.  Hoping.  Praying.

Dad finally came home and gave a brief update.  Mom was doing fine.  She had suffered a minor stroke, but was resting and in good spirits.  She was evening joking with the doctors.  But they wanted to keep in the hospital.  She had lost some functions.  They didn’t know how bad.  Only time would tell.

He called the other boys, Jack in Rochester and Tom in Iowa, as Jaime and I did chores and milked the cows.  He was back in the hospital by the time we were done with evening chores and milking.

Jaime packed his bags and left for school.  Margaret and I saw him off in the driveway.  It was a family tradition.  Seeing family and friends off, waving from the doorway as they drove down the driveway.  Something seemed ominous this time.  The world had changed.

Margaret and I were left there on the farm.  Alone.

Dad came home after eight o’clock that night.  Mom was resting.  Dad on the other hand, looked older.  He looked mentally, physically, and spiritually exhausted.

There wasn’t much said that night.  There wasn’t much to say.

Chores were done quickly and efficiently the next morning.  Dad and I were both nervous, and it showed.  This wasn’t how life was suppose to go.  Dad was ten years older than Mom.  Had lived a harder life.  Smoked twice as much.  As kids, they had prepared us, had warned us, Dad was older than average as well, women lived longer than men.  All our documents, our bonds, our savings and checking accounts had Mom’s name on them.

Mom wasn’t suppose to get sick.  We didn’t know how to cook, or clean, or wash laundry.

“I’m going take the pick up in this morning.  We’ll come over and see Mom after school.” I said.

“She might be home by then.”  Dad replied hopefully.

“Well, we’ll stop in and see.”  I said.

I told very few people at school.  Suffering was a personal thing.  She might be home already anyway.

But it is a small town, and a small school.  Word gets out.

“Is your mother in the hospital?” Mr. Erickson asked before Ag class.

“Yeah, they think it was a little stroke.” I replied, my voice begging him not to ask more.

As the bell rang, I collected my books and headed down the hallway, collecting my little sister in the process, past the gym, and out by the pool.

There by the pick-up stood my brother Tom and my sister-in-law Mary.  I was happy to see them, but I knew in my heart this was an ominous sign.  Hoping for good news.  We all smiled big seeing each other.  Family will do that to you.  “Hey!” I said, “What are you guys doing here?”

“When we heard Mom was sick we figured we would come home for Easter.”  Tom replied.

“We were just going over to see her!” I replied happily.

A cloud came over Tom’s face.  “They took her to Fargo today.  She got a little worse.”

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Mom would spend the next two months at the hospital and rehab before she was released and Dad brought her home.  We found out via a letter from Mom’s doctor about three months later that the stroke was actually an aggressive brain tumor.  Dad brought Mom home again for good after surgery and more rehab at the start of my senior year.  For the eighteen months, we cared for Mom at home.  She passed on less than twenty-four hours after getting hospice care on March 23^rd, only a couple of weeks before Easter.

 We were up before dawn.  The chores had to be done.  Jaime and I heard Dad rummage around in the kitchen under us, making his coffee, rustling papers, moving the wooden chair across the linoleum floor.  We stayed under the comfort of the covers, trying for those last few minutes of sleep before we got the call.  The call that we knew was coming…

“BOYS!  BOYS!  Come on!”  Dad would holler up.

“Coming….” One of us would reply, like pushing the snooze button on the alarm.

A couple of minutes later….

“BOYS!  Come on!  Time to do chores!”  Dad would holler up again.

One of us would holler back…”Coming!”  A little louder this time.  One of us would put a foot out and stomp…making it sound like were up and moving.

But not this morning. This morning, Jaime was up and at ‘em with the first holler.  He was in bed earlier then I was the night before.  “Come on, lets go.”  Jaime said with a sharpness in his voice.

I grumbled as I made my way downstairs.

“Jaime is already outside!”  Dad scowled at me.  I’m sure he heard me come in too about midnight the night before.

“I’m going.”  I snapped back, heading straight for the entry to get my boots laced up and coveralls on.

The morning cool, clear and crisp.  The joy from the night before had worn off with less than six hours of sleep.  I was tired.

Jaime and I fed the cows and prepped for milking.  We could milk three cows at a time with our pipeline system, which meant with our thirty cows, it required ten changes.  By the time Dad joined us, we were already on the second changing and the bulk of the inside chores were done.  All of us in a much better mood then about thirty minutes earlier.

“Why don’t you boys do the chores outside and I’ll finish up here.”  Dad said.

Doing chores outside meant hefting bales and driving the tractor, as well as carrying five gallon buckets of feed to the small feedlot next to the barn.  Because of extreme allergies, Jaime’s ability to heft bales and fill feed buckets was limited, plus he was older, which in the natural pecking order of life, meant he got the first pick of jobs.

He got to drive the tractor.

But I knew what waited for me when chores were done, as did Jaime.  Because I went to church the night before, I could take a nap for an hour while the rest of the family went to Mass.  Which was good.  I had another full agenda for the day.

The local MCCL Chapter (the local Pro-Life Group), that Mom was a founding member and active participant in was having their annual talent contest, a contest that I’d helped organize.  Finding acts and signing up someone to be the Easter Bunny.

A job that I did not want to do.

We ate a little breakfast and as the family scrambled to get ready for church, I crawled back into bed.

“YOU CAN SET THE TABLE WHILE WE’RE AT CHURCH!” I heard Dad yell up the stairs.

“OK!”  I yelled back, half awake.

I was jarred awake about thirty minutes later by the phone….”Hey, this is Mary, I can’t come to the show today and be the Easter bunny.” Said the voice on the other end.

“Got it, no problem.” I sighed, hanging up the receiver on the old rotary dial phone.  This wasn’t the plan, but now that I was awake, I could at least set the table.  Mom already had a roast in the oven that would be done when they got home.  I must admit, I was oblivious to things that morning, still being tired and not participating in the hustle and bustle of getting ready.

I pulled the dishes out of the cupboard, the same ‘everyday’ dishes we had used for years - the simple green flower pattern on the edges, simple pattern for a simple life.  The same silverware.  Five place setting.  The same glasses.  Then I went back to bed.

I heard the car drive in the drive way.  I heard the front door open.  I heard the voices in the kitchen.  I heard something drop on the stove.  I heard the shouts.  I heard the panic.

I made my way to the stairs and walked half way down.

I heard Dad shout to Jaime to call the hospital.  I heard Mom crying that she couldn’t feel the right side of her body.  I heard the panic in Dad’s voice as he told Jaime to tell them he would be in in five minutes.

I stayed on the steps, half way up, half way down.

The table was pushed aside, chairs set askew.  Mom was crying.  Little sister Margaret came and stood in the middle of the living room, her eyes wide.  Her faced scared.  She looked wounded.  Her innocents were gone.

I heard the car start and drive off…the house fell quiet.

The old Ford pick up truck rattled down the gravel road to home.  The yard light standing like a beacon, guiding me in.  It was late, past midnight.  The folks never gave us boys a curfew, but we always knew the cows had to be milked the next morning.  Plus Mom was usually awake when we rolled in.

Not tonight.  The house was dark.

Tip-toeing into the darkened house, it was quiet and still. I took of my shoes and walked through the kitchen.  Normally, this is where we would be met by Mom, at the table reading a book or playing cards.  She would keep the home fires burning for us, waiting until her brood was home safe.  This was where we would grab a glass of milk and have the serious discussions that mothers and sons have.  This was that sacred time when you could share hopes and dreams and stories of girls and class.

Tonight, just darkness.

There was a spot or two on the stairs that creaked and groaned as you stepped on them.

“Mark, is that you?” came a voice from our folk’s bedroom.

“Yeah Mom.”  I yelled in load whisper.

“Did you have a good time?”  Came the voice again.

“Yeah, it was pretty good.”  I think she could hear me beaming.

“OK, let’s talk about it tomorrow.”  Came the reply again, clearly tired.

“OK, goodnight Mom.”  I said.

“Goodnight!”  She whispered back.

After a quick stop in the bathroom, I walked back to the area of the ‘old’ part of the house that was where us boys called home.  It was open to the rest of the upstairs hallway and was in truth a half story section of the original one and half story house that Uncle Charlie had built sixty years ago.  It was a bit of a maze of walls and door ways, but no real doors, and little nooks with the dormer in the front section giving some natural light to the front section and the window on the end giving a pale glow to the back section.  The two rooms, sections really, had three double beds in them.  My older brother Jaime and I had shared one for years, before Tom moved out, then we just shared the room when brother John moved out.  Now, the whole maze of walls and doorways was all mine with Jaime off to school.  Another reason to make me smile I thought - though tonight, I’d be sharing again with Jaime home for the weekend.

A good day - work, church, family, friends, girls, and a good week.  Two words describe the sleep that night - peaceful and joyful - and I slept well.

was at our finger tips.  It was a great time, a great place, to be alive.  In the quiet of the Minnesota night, passing through the farm fields surrounded by friends, I quietly said a prayer, thanking God for the wonderful life he’d given me.  Nothing could destroy the plans, the hopes and the dreams.

What a fool I was.

Detroit Lakes was the biggest town around.  About forty miles, it also had the only movie theater, Dairy Queen, and a big lake that just seemed to attract the young ladies.  Though it was early spring, I think on the back of each our minds was Playboy’s ranking of Detroit Lakes as being one of the best places to be on the 4^th of July.

We were teenage boys after all.

Tonight, we were cruising in Matt’s maroon Ford Taurus, technically his folks, but he had a dried frog’s head key chain that more or less said, “This car is mine” - as I don’t think either of his folks cared to walk around with a dried frog’s head in their pocket.  We drove the forty miles south to the sounds of the Fargo radio station pumping pop rock in the back ground. Laughing and talking about our plans for the future, girls, the latest gossip in school, girls, the news from colleges and universities we planned to attend, girls…

Hey, we were teenage boys.

Though I there had been mention of going to a movie at the theater, there would be no movie tonight.  Tonight was about the first nice night of spring.  Tonight was about freedom.  Tonight was about the fact that we were two months from officially becoming seniors.  Tonight was about having the world on a string.  Tonight was ours.

We grabbed a couple of bottles of Mountain Dew and cruised the strip.  Now, the strip in Detroit Lakes was more of an ‘L’ shape that started on main street, or Washington Avenue to be precise, and often included a good loop around the little mall where one of the Dairy Queens and the movie theater was located.  From the mall, we would head towards the lake, past the big Catholic Church, the Subway and the Dairy Queen down by the lake and at the Pavilion, we would turn and follow the lake front, past the classic ‘Fireside’ restaurant and the modern, trendy, and quirky Zorbaz, the Mexican/Pizza bar and restaurant that was, and is, a Lakes Area tradition.  At the American Legion, we would swing into the parking lot and head back the other way.

We could do this loop a dozen times or more in one night.

This night was perfect.  The first true night of spring, with the snow gone, the moon out, and the temperatures warm, it was a night that made young hearts passionate.  And we were no exception.  We weren’t alone cruising the streets of Detroit Lakes, with hundreds of teenagers from neighboring towns doing the exact same thing on a Saturday night, especially one as nice as this.  Hormones filled the air.

I think Derek was the first one to notice them, and the shorts were a dead give away.  Though it was warm, it was still too warm for the average person to wear shorts.  But not these girls.  Coming out of the Subway on Washington, they were a sight to behold for four lonely boys from small town Minnesota.

As a teenager, there is just something about leg flesh on a woman on a nice evening…

Matt swung the car around the block and we made another pass, like normal boys, hanging out the windows and shouting at them.  We thought we looked cool.  We probably looked like a bunch of chimps bellowing out of the windows.

The girls laughed at us, flirted with us, encouraged us.  The ancient mating ritual was well underway.

On the second pass, we pulled up and talked to them.  They were ladies from Perham, our own ages. Four of them.  Wearing shorts.  We talked to them what seemed like hours, but in truth was only minutes.

We were smitten.

The four of us got out of the car and acted cool.  Some better than others.  In my mind, they are still some of the prettiest girls that I can remember.  We talked about school and sports and friends.  School rivalries were brought up a bit.  Plans for college were discussed.

We were all young and innocent and full of hopes and dreams.

They drank their drinks from their Subway cups suggestively, we took good swings on our bottles of Mountain Dew in manly chugs.  Clearly, all of us nervous as hell.

None of us got phone numbers, but all of us got promises that the girls would be back in two weeks time.  For a teenage boy, two weeks time seemed like an eternity, especially when it was the testosorone thinking.  But a promise was a promise.

And how much could really change in two weeks?

The car was quiet driving back home.  We were all lost in the thought of the spring weather and the promise of the cute girls from Perham in their too short shorts on the first warm weekend of the calendar year.

I remember thinking this was what life was about.  That the mix of classes, chores, sports, extracurricular, church, and friends was the charmed life.  I remember thinking that this weekend, this very weekend of the spring weather and the hard work and the cute girls was really the first weekend of my senior year in a lot of ways, and was to set the tone for not just my senior year, but how I wanted to live my life.  Church, family, community, school, friends, girls.

I remember thinking, life doesn’t get any better than this.

Sure I had the cows to milk in the mornings and the evenings, but I embraced that - it was what kept me grounded.  But for seventeen years of my life, I’d worked and studied, and sweated, and toiled and now - now was going to be where I reaped the rewards.  Now was when my harvest of plenty was going to take place.

Now, this time in life, was the start of something very good.  The world was at our finger tips.  It was a great time, a great place, to be alive.  In the quiet of the Minnesota night, passing through the farm fields surrounded by friends, I quietly said a prayer, thanking God for the wonderful life he’d given me.  Nothing could destroy the plans, the hopes and the dreams.

What a fool I was.

The chores were more or less done, with the exception of milking, by the time I made my way to the house to shower and change into my shirt and tie.

“Good luck!  You’ll do well!”  Mom shouted as I shot for the door and our old 1975 Ford pickup truck with a small duffle bag under my arm.  The old truck was falling apart at the seams, but it was my main form of transportation that year.

“Thanks Mom!” I replied, “I’m meeting up afterwards with some of the guys.  We’re going to DL, so I’ll probably be home late.”

“OK, well be careful then.” Mom replied.  Regardless what time I got home, odds were that Mom would still be awake.  As a night owl, she usually waited until all us kids were in bed before she shut the lights out.  I’d come home to find her playing solitaire or reading a book.

“See you later!”  I said with the door closing behind me.  Not doubting that I would.

Church was an integral part of growing up.  It was part of life.  It was part of our identity.  It was part of community.  Each of us played a part, and tonight, on the Saturday night before Palm Sunday, I was going to be one of the lectors for the reading of the Passion. 

What an odd combination for the day, family chores, Mass, all followed by a night out on the town.  The contrast wasn’t lost on me.  A track placing that week, an election or two won for FFA and National Honor Society, a Regional FFA election the next week, and a night out on the town in Detroit Lakes with friends.  This was the senior year - the life - that I’d dreamed and worked for.

Walking into church and into the sacristy, it was crowded that night, as it always was for the big feast days.  Tonight was the vigil of Palm Sunday and the start of Holy Week at St. Michael’s.  In addition to the normal contingent of alter boys was a full docket of readers.  There was the normal lector, then there were those of us assigned to do the passion - the Gospel reading that entailed two additional readers, one as narrator, one reading the parts of the ‘others’ - Peter, Pontus Pilot, the slave, good and bad thief…

Compared to the normal crowd, it was a darn right bustling affair.

At 5:45, we all made our way down the isle as Father John blessed the palms, and went through the procession to our seats on the left side of the sanctuary.  There was a bit of pride in me, I think I was the youngest person to participate in reading the Passion in my memory.  As a kid, it was one of those things that you always respected.  It seemed like the good readers, the good lectors, got the call to duty on the Holy Days, and especially on Palm Sunday, Good Friday, and Easter Vigil.

And here I was.

We had small binders with the Passion typed out and our parts highlighted.  I had the microphone by the choir, on the left side of the Altar.  It was a back and forth affair, and I must say, I put some flair into it (”Surely you are one of his followers.” “What man is this to me?”  “Shall I give you the Nazorean or Barabbas?” “Crucify Him!  Crucify Him!”).  And it went off with hardly a hitch.

I have to say hardly, because I looked up once from my reading - and saw three faces staring back at me from the back of church.  Though it was never talked about, I’m sure that I saw my three friends, Matt, Derek, and Chad, standing in the back of church.  Two of them Lutheran no less.

Truth be told, I lost my place!

But all was well, and with Mass done, I lit out to catch up with them to hit head out of town for the big city of Detroit Lakes, the largest town in our area, and a sure fire place to find a few girls on a Saturday night.

It was a quick change of clothes again from my Sunday best (on a Saturday night) to my jeans and polo shirt - my best, ‘out going cattin’ clothes for the ride to Detroit Lakes.

.

 ”When you boys are done pitching out that pen, try and take a load out to the hole.”  Dad said over the noon dinner.

“Might be a little wet.”  Jaime said between mouthfuls of the standard Saturday noon fare of meat and potatoes.

“No, it’s fine.  I took the pick up around there last week.”  Dad replied.

It was a perfect day in northern Minnesota. After a long winter, this first weekend in April was the first real day when spring felt like to truly arrived.  The snow was more or less gone, the weather was heating up.

“Make sure you bring some bales up to the barn too.”  Dad said.

“I’ve got to go to church tonight.”  I said, interjecting into the conversation.

“You are reading the passion tonight.”  Mom said matter of factly, “Did you practice at all?”

I’m not sure when I would have had time.  Spring, this spring especially, was shaping up to be a busy one. The fourth of four boys and the last one at home, my Junior year was a busy one.  My older brother John had been in football, Jaime in basketball, and I was in track - each had a different season so that there was always one of us there for chores.  The track coach was more understanding then most - track was a team sport, with a heavy emphasis on the individual events, so I could duck out of practice early to be home in time for chores.

It was the meets that were the issue.  That week had been a good one - I’d placed in discus, “Years of throwing bales.”  Coach Colligan beamed at me.

On top of track was a litany of other events, sports, and church groups.  I was a busy teenager.

“I didn’t come home to milk cows.”  Jaime, home from his first year at tech school said, a little perturbed that I’d be ducking out on chores.

“What part are you reading?” Mom asked, ignoring the comment.

“The ‘other’ people.  Not the narrator.”  I replied.

“You going to have to use different voices then right?” Dad teased.

“It’s not a play, it is the Gospel.” I replied, not taking the joke very well.

“Are you going out tonight Jaime?”  Mom asked.

“Yeah, I was hoping to catch up with some friends tonight.” Jaime replied.

“Pass the milk please.” Little sister Margaret said from her spot beside Mom as dinner continued with its normal rhythms and conversations.

It was the spring days, and these meals, this family, and the success of the last week at the track meet that had me feeling good.  Reading the passion tonight, FFA Region Rally where I was running for office this next week, recent elections to be president of FFA, the speech club, band, and the National Honor Society (”That is an odd combination of things to be president of.” My oldest brother Tom remarked).

There was something in the weather, something in the air.  As a seventeen year at the last of my junior year in high school.  The world seemed right. Things felt good - and it seemed like only the beginning.

The rest of the day’s chores were done in t-shirts, the early spring weather was rarely this nice.  And though we were pitching out a winter’s worth of manure from the little pen in the barn and hauling a winter’s worth of accumulated trash out to the garbage pit, it still seemed like a good day.

 I’m not Irish.  I don’t even play an Irishman on television.  But somehow, someway, over the years, I’ve fallen into a band of Swedish, German, English, Scots - Irish that all, not only like to have a good time on St. Patrick’s Day, but genuinely enjoy the Celtic culture, and St. Patrick’s Day is the prime time for that me lads and lasses.

As for me, I’m the token Czech.

All of enjoy St. Patrick’s Day and as a group, we have celebrated that fine March day at two of the greatest Midwestern St. Patrick’s Day celebrations, Chicago and St. Paul. 

But what to do when kids, time, and a midweek St.Patrick’s Day are in cards?  For us, there was only one answer, we had to go Wild.

And this wasn’t any hockey game.  This was a St. Patrick’s Day game in St. Paul with the Minnesota Wild - there is a reason they where green - against their arch rivals, the Colorado Avalanche.

The Minneapolis-St. Paul bus system worked very well and a few of us made it to our favorite gathering spot well in advance of the game, also very appropriate for the day - the Liffey, named after the famed river that cuts through Dublin, it has Guinness on tap and corned beef and cabbage egg rolls. 

Our seats weren’t together for the game, but the meet ups between periods were a time for reminiscing and telling tales of St. Patrick’s Day’s past.  Storied legends of car bombs, parades, disappearing Maxwell, green feather boas, all night dance clubs and seeing the sun rise over Lake Michigan. Tales of parking garage gatherings, buses to Minneapolis, and a final steak dinner in a very un-Irish part of town.

And our Wild (which had at least one true Irishman on the team) put on a show for us too.  Though falling behind in the second period, one final score in the third put them into overtime and with the crowds thinning out, we gathered for a pint and watched the fray from the back.

And an impressive display it was too.

It wasn’t to be an overtime victory, that would not require the luck of the Irish, no it would be a win during the ultimate end - a shootout victory at the end of the night.

What a way to cap a St. Patrick’s Day victory!

With the luck of the Irish clearly on our side, we proceeded to the most Irish of the Scottish bars on West 7^th (or at least Scottish sounding name for a truly Irish bar) - McGovern’s Tavern for last good dose of blarney before we each went our own way.

And it must have been the luck of the Irish with me that day - spending a good day with good friends.  I think St. Patrick would have been proud.