My Blasted Irish Roots

As I sit here getting ready to celebrate my Irish roots in honor of St. Patrick, (thanks for chasing all the blasted snakes out of the motherland!), I find meself pondering where all my creative, craziness, and wanderlust came from. Carbombs and Guiness tonight, a toast to chasing the snakes out of Ireland... Kiss me I'm Irish.

Ah yes, I used to love to sit and listen to dad's mother talk.. Grandma Joyce.. what a pistol. She was so Irish, when she spit it was green. (Thinking back on things, that was probably not to healthy) She was a wee bit of woman, nearly 5 feet tall when she wasn't hunched over her balcony, spitting down at the blasted youngsters who would mock her for thinking she could beam down the sun with her blasted mood rock. I sometimes thought she actually could, beam down the sun... sometimes when the light hit the colorful mood rock.. a briliant light display occured and yes, maybe...

Her favorite word was -blasted. She could spin a colorful web of blasted babbel so strange that one had to stop and listen just to make sure the universe was still there. She was my first introduction to real life engineer.. she truly thought different.

I remember many summer nights, I would see her outside in her blasted garden.. dancing and singing some blasted Irish song, happy that she finally beamed the blasted sun down... I give her credit, whenever she spun a crazy yarn, she always made it manifest and it always made me feel like anything is possible. She after all was capable of beaming down the sun, once a day.

Happy St. Patrick's Day, where ever your blasted spirit is grandma.. give 'em hell!