Comments and Curiosities -- Peter Buffa

Know what day it is? No, not Sunday, you goose. Of course it’s Sunday.

If it wasn’t, I wouldn’t be here annoying you. It’s the Big Green Day --

the day upon which we are all Irish and during which we celebrate

anything and everything connected with the Emerald Isle.

Do you know what the odds are of St. Patrick’s Day falling on a

Sunday? One in seven, I think. As you know, I’m a big St. Patty’s Day

fan. It’s a product of growing up in a neighborhood that was

predominantly Italian and Irish, to say nothing of 12 years in Catholic

schools -- Irish-Catholic, to be exact.

I just assumed from day one that every nun and priest had a brogue. I

clearly remember the first time I heard a priest speak without one. He

was a visiting Maryknoll missionary, speaking to our fourth-grade class.

You could have knocked me over with a feather when he opened his mouth

sans brogue. I was fascinated, but couldn’t understand how he could be a

priest.

The Spencers lived two doors down from us. John Francis Spencer was my

first real pal. His parents, Jack and Nellie, were from the old country,

and we’re not talking about Italy. John Francis always called his father

“Dar,” and for years, I thought that was his father’s first name.

It puzzled me that a kid my age would dare call his father by his

first name. Finally, I asked one of my older brothers about it. “Dar

means ‘dad,’ you idiot,” he explained, emphasizing “dad” by smacking me

on the back of the head.

When my father -- also from the old country and we’re not talking

about Ireland -- got home, I jumped up and said, “Hi, Dar!” From the look

on his face, I knew immediately that something had been lost in the

translation. A flurry of excitement followed. My brother grabbed me by

the arm and repeated the second part of the “Dar” lesson.

“What was that for?” I whined. “I thought you said it meant ‘dad?’ ”

“It does, if you’re Irish, you dope,” he said, emphasizing “Irish”

with his hand, really hard. It was at that point that I decided I needed

to learn more about other languages.

But no matter from whence you came, you have to love St. Patrick’s

Day. Like Labor Day and Valentine’s Day, it’s one of those wonderfully

ditzy holidays whose origins are largely forgotten, and which now serve

as an excuse for us to have fun and for stores to have sales. And no,

we’re not being sacrilegious.

Let’s brush up on our St. Patrick’s lore. The person we refer to as

St. Patrick lived in the 5th century and was, of all things, British.

When he was 16, he was kidnapped from his home in Britain by Irish

marauders (marauding was a big thing in those days) and thrown into

slavery in Ireland. He escaped after six years, was recaptured, then

finally found his way back to Britain. So we know he was persistent, if

nothing else.

A devout Christian, Patrick vowed he would return to Ireland as a

missionary and did just that. Patrick spent his last years in County

Down, where died on March 17, in the year 461.

Your basic, requisite St. Patrick legends are that he drove the snakes

out of Ireland and into the sea, which is false, and that he used a

three-leafed shamrock to explain the doctrine of the Trinity, which is

true. And that’s where the “wearing of the green” business comes from.

Early Irish Christians wore the shamrock as a religious symbol,

especially on St. Patrick’s Day.

OK, fine. But how did all this green stuff jump across the big pond?

The Irish were among the earliest immigrants to America, arriving as

early as 1700. The first St. Patrick’s Day Parade was held in New York in

1779 by Irish recruits serving with the British Army. But with the Great

Famine of 1846, millions of Irish men and women set out for America.

Because so many men were named Patrick, after you-know-who, they were

quickly nicknamed “Paddys,” and later on, “Pats.” The “Paddy Wagon” was

so named in Boston and New York because so many cops were “Paddys.”

In fact, our language is shot through with Irish derivatives.

“Shanty,” from “sean tig” for old house; “shebang,” from “shebeen,” an

early Irish speakeasy; and “smithereen,” from “smidirin,” meaning “small

fragment.”

Now then, that leaves but one question. How will you celebrate this

glorious St. Patrick’s Day? A Patty party? Green beer? Corned beef and

cabbage? Fine. But when you’re through with all that, make sure you get

your Blarney Stone down to Skosh Monahan’s, which is on Newport Boulevard

and 20th Street.

You can meet an actual, living, breathing Costa Mesa council member

and former mayor named Gary Monahan who, as luck would have it, is the

“Skosh” in Skosh Monahan’s.

And, despite howling protests from everyone I served last year, I will

be at my post behind the bar once again, as inept as ever, from about 1

p.m. until, well, whenever.

But not to worry. Gary always makes sure there is a full-on,

certified, qualified bartender named Deb at my side at all times.

Oh, I almost forgot. I’m running a special this year. If you come in

and say “hello,” I will say “hello” back. Can you find a better offer

than that?

Not that I know of. So get up and out and over to Newport Boulevard

and Skosh Monahan’s. You gotta get down here! And I gotta go.

* PETER BUFFA is a former Costa Mesa mayor. His column runs Sundays.

He may be reached via e-mail at PtrB4@aol.com.