My Dad always told me that real Irish folks don’t wear green and consume enormous quantities of beer on St.  Patrick’s Day.  Though Wikipedia seems to disagree, nonetheless, I’m not the kind to slug down beer in any quantity.  I’m in court today; between appearances, I’m hunkered down at my friend Pat’s office, avoiding Westport where unofficial signs have designated my customary city-sequestered handicapped space as “emergency no parking”.

But my Irish eyes are smiling.  They are blue-grey and peer from my father’s pale skin.  My mother’s auburn hair once surrounded them.  Its burgeoning grey has been hidden by blond highlights and auburn low-lights.

With a name like “Mary Corinne Teresa Corley, there’s no doubt that I’ve a bit o’ the Irish in me.  My parents originally selected “Bridget Kathleen” as my Christian name, but my father and his girlfriend decided “Mary Corinne” rang better.  I dropped the “Mary” forty-some years ago, and, truth be told, “Corinne” is a French version of “Cora”.

My dad relished the Corley history which he snagged from some Rent-a-Crest business back in the days before the Internet gave us access to reasonably reliable ancestral tales.  He claimed that “Cor” meant “small hill” in Gaelic, and that “ley” came from “Leigh”, which supposedly was the name of a river near our family home in County Armagh.  I don’t know if any of that was true.  I once met a man from Ireland.  I told him that my family came from County Armagh, and that my brother went to Ireland but the records had all been lost in a village fire.  His eyes lit and he replied in an excited voice. He said that he came from the Armagh County seat and indeed, there had been a fire.  He clapped a hand on my arm and told me that of all the crazy Americans whom he had met who claimed to be Irish, I was the first with whom he felt a genuine kinship.

My dad maintained that his family was 100% Irish, but my great-grandmother Corinne’s maiden name was “Hahn”.  I think there might be a little German in the mix.  I don’t feel a need to be pure-blood, but if the luck o’ the Irish might help me, I’m willing to claim my heritage.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day, everyone.  Be well.  Stay safe.  And if your head pounds in the morning, remember, no complaining!  Especially about troubles of your own making!