Slept late so drove to the River Park for a very quick 10 mile commute to the office—but it was still a bit windy. No matter what gear or how fast I tried to pedal—it was slow. I was slow.
My change of clothes packed in for the week had no green item—no green socks, no green shirt.
So at this time I will relate my St. Patrick’s Day story.
Back in Oklahoma, I grew up with my Grandmother on my mom’s side—Grandma Crosslin, always forbidding us kids to eat Fish on Friday. I, for forever, did not understand this rule—because, Gentle Readers of This Blog, Fish was always served on Fridays—even at my elementary school—Always! Friday night Fish Fry at the local rest-runts—yee haw! Confused, I never asked—and I never ate the fish—I just tried to eat my peanut butter and jelly, or baloney sandwich, and blend into the wood work.
Then there was something I read or heard about the Pope—back in like “Mid-Evil Times” making some kind of decree for the citizens to eat Fish on Friday to boost the local economy—of like Italy or something? (If anybody knows, please send me an email)
Since good Protestants don’t take orders from the Pope—only the President of the United States of America—Fish will not be eaten on Friday!
Grandma Crosslin always wore Orange (I kid ye not) on St. Patrick’s Day. My younger brother was also named William, for William of Orange (so I heard) and oh yeah, his middle name is Robert (for Robert E. Lee) But really I have recently discovered, and this comes from my Uncle, Robert Lee Crosslin (I’m not kidding) that back in Shawnee, Oklahoma—in the 1920’s—there was a clan of Crosslins—Irish bootleggers, that besides selling white lightning, were a rowdy bunch of Hell Raisers. My Grandmother’s boyfriend (soon to be my Grandpa) was a minor league baseball player from Tennessee, named Vernon Crosslin—no relation to the Shawnee Crosslins. Grandma's maiden name was Hunsicker.
Uncle Robert told me she made it a point to always let people know that she was in no way related to the Outlaw Crosslin Clan of Irish Bootleggers—and she may have kept a beef with Irishmen, and anything associated with them. I also know that my Great Grandfather Hunsicker was a Klansman there in Shawnee. When shit hit the fan back in those days, they had to blame somebody for the ills of the economy and the markets, and for the droughts, and the Influenza Epidemics.
The Irish were convenient and so they were at fault. Because they ate Fish on Friday?