North in Alaska - 28, St. Patrick

North in Alaska – 28, St Patrick

It occurred to me that this would be the first year that I would not be attending a
St Patrick’s Day party for two reasons.  One, I was the only Irishman around and secondly, Bev and I were the only ones around.  However knowing the wilds of Alaska like I do I knew that “if you have it, they will come.”  So Bev and I started planning the First Annual St Patrick’s Day Parade and Party in this particular region.  I was sure there would be others to come.

I consulted Big Bear as to whom he thought I ought to invite and he told me that was simple, “Just invite everyone.”   Well I told him that would be sort of dangerous because I would have no idea on how much food and things to plan for.  “It doesn’t make any difference,” he said, “No one will come anyway, including myself.”

I was shocked of course and when I asked him why he said it was because it was the Regional Clan Tribal Debate that same day and people in these parts had to get ready for the Regional Tribal Debate the following day.  “In fact,” he continued, “On second thought, if you even invite anyone other than the Fink’s of course it could be considered a great insult for not honoring what has become a sacred day by making your neighbors choose between Party and party.”

Ok, I understood that but vowed to find out more about this Tribal Debate thing, but first things first, a St Patrick party and parade weight for no one other than the beer distributor.

I went over to see the Finks to invite them but they declined my invitation because it was a celebration of a saint and they were sort of “non papist.”  I tried to convince them that religion and St Patrick Day celebrations had nothing to do with one another and for them to look upon it as just a get together between friends.  It was then that Mrs. Fink sort of shocked me and said that even though they respected my position and as a human being, they did not associate socially with our kind of people, Bev and I, I assumed.

“I don’t understand!” I protested.

“No offence, but you are Catholic aren’t you, or if not Catholic you are a Mormon of sorts aren’t you?  She very nice and politely said.

“Well no, not really,” I replied.  “How did you come to that conclusion?”

“Your home is in Independence, Missouri, a hot bed of the Mormon so called religion, a cult really, and they say you wife is of Sicilian extraction thus an Italian of sorts, thus a Catholic.  So you see God tells us to be kind to everyone but not to associate with anyone not of the true faith because they will be bent on converting you to a falsehood and taking you down a sinful path and not the true road of the true religion.

“And what religion would that be I pray?”

“Why the Church of the Pentecostal Rapture of Jesus Christ, of course.”

One thing I learned a long time ago is not to argue religion or preconceived notions held by others.  To deny being a Mormon or a Catholic or attack her beliefs would only add fuel to the fire and make Mrs. Fink think I was a blasphemer or worse.  No let it pass I thought wondering if she knew that Big Bear was a Shaman.  Oh, well it was back to Bev and we would have the best St. Patrick’s Day parade and party this part of Alaska had ever seen.  That would be pretty easy under the historical circumstances.

We started the morning out by having Green biscuits and green tea after dawning green hats Bev had sewn out of dyed green Caribou hide.  To my surprise she produced a violin and started playing an Irish jig while doing a little jig herself.  I had no idea she had that kind of talent.  After getting over the shock I joined her and we jigged are way though several songs.  When I told her I had no idea she had such talent she said that she had been practicing ever since we got here because there was not much to do while I was gone during the day after the chores were complete and she had found the violin in one of the closets.

She then produced a vat of green beer that she had been brewing in one of the out buildings.  I was again marveled and asked her how she managed to do such a thing and she said it was an old Sicilian Recipe and not to be given to anyone outside the family.  I asked her if I was chopped liver or something.  She then demurred, gave me the recipe and everyone was satisfied.  Of course I cannot reveal the contents of said recipe in such a widely read blog.

After consuming several portions of the green brew she again produced her violin and I a drum I had made from walrus skin and bones stood on the front porch at attention and played and beat out Danny Boy.  With a trickle in me eye and heart filled with woe, yes indeed a true Irishman from that hot bed of Irish thinkers and doers, County Jackson along the banks of the wild and wide Missouri River, we walked are little path to the boat dock singing When Irish Eyes are Smiling.  Oh a bonnie little parade it was.