Our Emerald Isle – Mc and Mac
McSahne and MacDougan were about as much a fixture at Brian's Black and Tan as anything else. They would arrive every morning after morning Mass, sit at the same table off in a dark corner only lit by the Irish morning sun, order a cup of coffee and two shots of whiskey each, then play dominoes till around when they went home and took a nap. They would return around and repeat the process except they drank Guinness with their shots of whiskey till closing time. During their vicious domino games, sips of coffee, shots of whiskey and glasses of Guinness they would argue. Their sometimes heated banter had no particular topic. If McShane was for it MacDougan was against it. The village had been watching the two battling over the years with great amusement but never took sides as to who was right and who was wrong.
Their arguments while very serious did not deter their friendship but to the casual observer kept it well hidden. Their true feelings had been cemented many years ago by a common tragedy. They were widowers - their wife had died. I say wife and not wives because they had been married to the same women, not at the same time of course except in the eyes of the church, but when Marry divorced McShane she had married MacDougan and when she divorced MacDougan she left town and married a dairyman from Sallyport a few miles down the road. She was glad to get rid of McShane and MacDougan and looked forward to a life of luxury, for the Dairyman was very successful and did not drink. She did not count on the lead milk cow getting her utter in a ringer and kicking her, Mary, in the head which I guess one never does think.
At the funeral McShane and MacDougan started arguing about who was really the widower, giving no credence to the Dairyman’s claim. The Dairyman returned to Sallyport never to be heard from again in De’Vere. That was twenty years ago and the two old combatants had argued ever since.
One morning, during an especially heated game of dominoes, MacDougan said that all St. Patricks Days ought to be celebrated on a Saturday like Easter was on Sunday. McShane said that would be ridiculous. The argument was on.
“How would we know what the proper Saturday would be, if that were the case.” Said McShane.
“The same way we know when Easter is you stupid Irishman.” MacDougan responded.
“Well how do we know that?” snapped McShane
“It’s always on the calendar. You could just look at the calendar if you knew how to read you drunken sod.” Replied MacDougan.
The argument and insults kept going on for about a half hour when I decided to step in and put in my two farthings worth. It wasn’t the brightest thing I ever did.
“Alright my fine Irish gentleman,” I interupted, “I do not wish to take a particular side at this point but I think I need to add some reasoning to this banter. If one wants to debate you must define your terms and establish some agreed upon facts. First of all Easter is always the first Sunday after the first full moon after the vernal equinox and St. Patrick’s Day is always on the 17th of March. Can we agree on that?” There was a little grumbling but finally they both agreed that the 17th of March was correct but they were not sure if Easter was really established the way I said.
“I know it may be a little confusing,” I continued in my professorial tone, “If we want to stay consistent about such things we could stay with the St. Patrik’s Day date and change the Easter celebration to a specific day also. The only problem I see with that is that Easter would be celebrated on any day of the week and not just Sunday. If we kept Easter following the vernal equinox tradition, and wanted to keep consistent we could make St. Patrick’s Day be the 1st Saturday after ground hog’s day, or something like that. No gentleman I think you have been arguing about a system that has lasted for years and done us all very well. McShane I agree with you, MacDougan you are wrong.”
A hush fell over the Pub. No one had ever taken sides with McShane or MacDougan at least publicly in one of their arguments. All were waiting to see what would happen next, but silently agreeing with either McShane or MacDougan.
“Sir,” McShane said in an angry voice, “you have just insulted my friend.”
“I agreed with you McShane,” I said perplexed.
“MacDougan may be an ignorant drunken Irish sod, but he is my ignorant drunken Irish sod and not to be insulted by the likes of you.” He challenged while raising his shaleigh.
The next morning the local newspaper, reporting the events that followed, used as its lead in sentence to the story: “Among the injured were…”
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