“So are you going to the parade?” Kean Riley asked me. I frowned but said nothing, in silent dismissal of the absurdity of his question.

It was followed by a long pause — silent mockery, as it were.

“Well…?” he said, clearly uncomfortable with my non-response.

“Well, what?” I said.

“Well, are you going to the parade, that’s what!”

“How long have you known me?” I said.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” he said. “Can’t you ever just answer a question? Like THIS question?”

“Of course I can,” I said. “But tell me how long we’ve known each other.”

“I dunno. Maybe thirty, thirty-five years.”

‘OK,” I said. “Let’s say thirty years.”

“And am I gonna hafta wait another thirty years to find out if you’re going to the parade?”

“Of course not,” I said.

“So what’s the answer?” he said, his patience clearly at end.

“The answer is another question,” I said. “Which is, have you ever known me to miss a parade in town?”

“It’s not like I keep track,” he sniffed.

“Well, you had, you’d knowt I NEVER miss one.”

“So why couldn’t you have told me that at the start?” he said.

“I could have,” I said. “But what fun would that be?”

He shook his head, more in frustration than confusion.

“Ya know,” he said, “I’m not sure I get your humor a lot of times.”

“Yeah?” I said. “Well, join the crowd.

So what parade were we kind of talking about? None other than our next one — today, in fact — our St. Patrick’s Day parade.

–

Traveling

–

While our parade can hardly rival New York’s or Boston’s, it ain’t too shabby either. We’ve got a Grand Marshall; we’ve got members of the tribes (just not the original 12); we’ve got music, step dancers, Soma Beats, Lawn Chair Ladies, O’Noodlers the cheering multitudes; and thank Gawd, no green beer. Best of all, it’s gotten bigger every year. Not that I’m a size queen, mind you — except when it comes to parades.

Of course, the thing about our St. Patrick’s Day is anyone with even a dram of Celtic blood becomes more Irish than Molly Malone, Mother Mcree, Robert and Ben Briscoe and Paddy’s Pig. And they show this to the world with an astounding array of tasteful baubles and bling. A representative sample: Yard-high green plastic top hats and derbies; shamrock necklaces; blinking claddagh deely bobbers; and last but certainly not least, Kiss Me, I’m Irish T-shirts, sweatshirts, sashes, sunglasses, and inflatable shillelaghs.

Given my ancestry, I can lay no claims to Irish origins, but I do have my connections to The Emerald Isle.

First, I’ve been to Ireland three times. I can’t say I explored it to its length and breadth, because after hanging in Dublin for a few days on my first trip, I headed west and discovered Galway. And there, aside from a foray to the windswept Aran Islands, I stayed.

Galway was really just a town back then, not much bigger than Saranac Lake, but geared for tourism and full of music pubs of all sorts. They ran the gamut from classic rock n roll to Chicago blues, from jazz to Europop, and of couse trad Irish music. As a a result, I spent almost all my days and nights going from one pub to another, with breaks for meals, postcard writing, and shmoozing.

Given my capacity to handle alcohol — or more exactly, my LACK thereof — I rose to the occasion as a Genius Sipper N’est Plus Ultra. To complement my sipping skills, I drank only half pints of the dark stuff. As a result, everyone I talked with in the pubs (which was everybody who sat near me, as is the custom) pointed out that if I’d ordered a pint, I would’ve saved 50p each time. In turn, I told them I might’ve saved 50p, but I also probably would’ve lost my Irish breakfast.

And speaking of the Irish breakfast (also known as “the fry-up”): If you don’t know what it is, you can experience one in The Blue Moon this morning.

The fry-up is the cholesterol-counter’s worst nightmare: Bacon, sausage, blood pudding; two sunny side up eggs, baked beans, toast, and the finishing touch — a fried tomato.

Walking through Galway one day, there was a man collecting for a charity (which seems to be one of Ireland’s favorite outdoor sports).

He gave me a big smile and said, “Would you like to support the Irish Heart Federation?”

“I already did,” I said.

“Oh?” he said.

” Yes,” I said. “I skipped breakfast.”

He laughed, as I’d hoped he would, and I put a punt in his collection box, and it was a fair exchange all around.

–

Time traveling

–

Perhaps my greatest connection with St. Patrick’s Day is my dear friend from Old Siwash, Will Kendrick. Willy and I stayed besties from 1968 till three years ago, when he departed this Vale of Tears. His background couldn’t have been more different than mine. He came from a strict 100% Irish Catholic family on Long Island. And when I say 100%, I mean it — all four of his grandparents immigrated as adults, and one of his grandmother’s first language was Irish. He had a thick mop of dark curls, a pug nose, bright blue eyes, and a natural exuberance and love of life that walked in the room before he did.

We both left school and went in the Navy in spring 1969, and one of our last times together was St. Patrick’s day in Potsdam. We never lost touch, and every St. Pat’s Day after I got out of the Navy, no matter where I was or what I was doing, I called him. My most memorable one was when flying to Florida, due to all sorts of delays and rerouting, I had mere minutes between connections and managed to call him, even though all I could do was wish him a happy St. Pat’s and give him my love.

After he died, my St. Patrick’s day ritual changed. In the morning, after I was sufficiently awake, I’d go on the internet and play as many versions of Danny Boy as I could find. Yeah, I know it was written by a Brit. I also know it’s hopelessly corny…but so am I. My favorite version is by Eva Cassidy, a songstress who could make granite eyes weep.

I think the most fitting way to end my St. Patrick’s Day column is with a joke — in this case, Willy’s favorite.

A man is standing oat the top of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, threatening to jump. Of course, a huge crowd gathers, and out of it steps a little old Irish man.

“Son, don’t do it,” he yells. “You can’t leave your children fatherless.”

“I don’t have no children,” the man shouts back.

“Well then, your wife,” says the Irishman. “You don’t want to leave her without a source of support, do you?”

“I ain’t married,” says the man.

The old man saves his big gun for last.

“But think of the disrespect and dishonor you would visit upon his house and himself, himself — Saint Patrick.”

“Saint Patrick?” says the man. “I don’t even know who Saint Patrick is.”

A long silence follows.

Then the old man growls, “Well then, jump, you black-hearted heathen.”