Saint Patrick’s Day has traditionally represented an important occasion for celebration amongst many, including my maternal relatives (my father’s maternal grandfather hailed from ye old sod, but since my search for my paternal relations is at a most unfortunate standstill, I still suffer from a dearth of information regarding my paternal relations to properly know the extent, if any, to which they celebrate Saint Patrick’s Day).

Although my mother’s ethnic heritage consisted of at least five diverse nations, our Irish heritage is the predominant ethnicity discussed and celebrated. (In fact, one year when I inquired as to further specifics regarding my maternal Scandinavian heritage, my mother’s family shared a look of utter astonishment and disbelief, quickly followed up by scathing scowls, all focused in my direction, accompanied by the usual murmurs consisting of “mix up at the hospital” and “likely takes after her father’s side…” And, I was coerced to fend off a maternal cousin who tried, yet again, to brush the inside of my cheek with a cotton swab. Additionally, my mother’s relations have yet to forgive me for searching Ancestry.com Library Edition with my nephew, Charles, a few years ago, as Charles discovered that one of my great-great-great grandmothers hailed from Scotland, not Ireland as family legend had indicated for so long.

So, I was not surprised when I received a telephone call from my male sibling, stating he was in the process of planning a vacation to Ireland this summer. My lack of surprise quickly morphed into utter disbelief and suspicion when my brother added, “Maybe you’d like to go with us.” I asked my brother to hold on, quickly depressing the play button on the tape recorder that I keep ever ready for his calls, and the apt lyrics of Sarah Bareilles’ King of Anything drifted over the phone wires. I rummaged around for my high blood pressure medicine, gulped down a capsule, and resumed my conversation with my male sibling. “You know, Muriel, you’re the only person that I know who has arranged for ‘hold’ music to play on her telephone. And, even odder still, neither of my children have ever recalled hearing it when they call you.”

“Well, you know just how fickle technology can be! Er, um, anyway, what is this about your visiting Ireland?” My brother responded, “Yes, well, as you know, we are of Irish descent…” (A memory came, unbidden, of my being hastily shoved into a bathroom in my brother’s abode when I commented to one of his visitors that my brother and I are also of, amongst several others, Swedish heritage.) “…and I figured a sojourn to the Emerald Isle would be ideal for my kids. You know, both are redheads…” “Just like Daddy,” I interrupted, with more than a smattering of Schadenfreud, as my brother, for reasons that would very likely have stymied Sigmund Freud, detests any (valid) comparison of his children to their paternal grandfather. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Anyway, if you’d like to join us…” “Wait a minute,” I interjected, “what is the flight pattern of the relevant airplane? Venturing anywhere near the Bermuda Triangle, is it?” (Professional courtesy would prevent any ogre from devouring my brother, so he would experience no trepidation in flying over that notorious air space.)

A trifle too expeditiously for my comfort, my brother chuckled and responded that insofar as he was aware, the airplane to Ireland would not fly over the Bermuda Triangle. “You know I am a fairly adept swimmer,” I stated, as visions of my floating face down in the Irish Sea danced in my head. “Yes, yes, I know” he replied, again, a tad too hastily. My brother interrupted my silent ruminations regarding the various methods of which he was probably plotting my demise on Irish soil when he interrupted my train of thought by stating, “Hold on. I have to run to the bathroom.” The mental imagery of my brother calling out,“Ooops! How do you say, 'That’s why they call me ‘Ol Butterfingers' in the Irish form of Gaelic?” as I plummeted several stories to my death from the famous site of osculation, the Blarney Stone, was interrupted by the voice of my niece. “Hi, auntie!”

“Er, hi, Amanda. I didn’t realize you were home.” “Oh, Daddy wasn’t expecting me home tonight, as I was sleeping over Emma’s house, but she suffered an asthma attack, so I figured I’d just head on home.” Without pausing for oxygen, my niece blurted out, “Hey, did Daddy inform you about that virulent former Sinn Fein member who bears an uncanny resemblance to you? She is currently an internationally ‘Most Wanted’ fugitive. We stumbled across her photograph on the Internet while we were planning our family vacation to Ireland this summer. After my brother stated that he could certainly understand if Scotland Yard, in a case of mistaken identity, arrested you and tossed away the key, my father developed this strange gleam in his eye.” “Oh he did, did he?” Squelching my fury and, as usual compartmentalizing it for the sake of my relationship with my nephew and niece, I temporarily allowed the matter of my brother’s latest attempt to decimate my life lie fallow. After chatting with my niece concerning her schoolwork, my brother began speaking to me again on the phone. “So, think you want to journey with us to Ireland?”

Taking a deep breath so as to insure I retained sufficient oxygen to complete my next sentence without interruption, I said, “Do you know, dearest brother of mine, that I heard that all red hair originated from the Vikings? And do you know that there was an article on the Internet that stated that DNA technology revealed that one of the earliest inhabitants of Ireland was not Celtic in origin but from the Basque region of Spain?” I heard an anguished wail from the other end of the line followed up by my brother hurriedly stating, “Er, um, I have to go.” When I reminded him he just visited the bathroom, he said rather unconvincingly, “Um, er, I am thirsty! I need a glass of water.” I shouted out, "Slainte" ("good health" in Irish Gaelic!) before disconnecting the line. Certain family maternal family members notwithstanding, the Irish on the other side (of the Atlantic Ocean) as well as those scattered across other regions of the globe enjoy a lovely, lyrical, riveting history. The NYPL contains many items in its circulating collection that pay homage and educate readers on the wonderful culture of Ireland.

See also: 20 Books Every Irish American Should Read.

Fiction

• Dubliners
• A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
• Brooklyn
• Let the Great World Spin
• Run
• The Temporary Gentleman
• The King with Horse's Ears and Other Irish Folktales
• Behold a Pale Horse
• Atonement of Blood
• Irish Tales of the Fairies and the Ghost World
• The Oxford Book of Irish Short Stories
• The Secret Place
• We Are Not Ourselves
• St. Patrick's Day Murder
• A Catered St. Patrick's Day
• Ghouls, Ghouls, Ghouls
• Irish Eyes
• Shadow Spell
• The Long Stitch Good Night

Nonfiction

• Maeve's Times
• Religious Women and Their History
• Ireland
• The Grand National: the Irish at Aintree
• Real Irish Food: 150 Classic Recipes from the Old Country
• The Irish Pub Cookbook
• The Westies: Inside New York's Irish Mob
• Oscar Wilde's Wit and Wisdom
• DK Eyewitness Travel ireland 2015
• The Claddagh Ring
• The Ancient Celts
• Cavalier
• The Fields of Atherny
• St. Patrick's Day Crafts

Biography

• Sister Genevieve: A Courageous Woman's Triumph in Northern Ireland
• Angela's Ashes
• George Bernard Shaw

DVDs

• Ireland
• Circle of Friends
• Riverdance: Live from Geneva
• The Eclipse
• The Dead
• Shergar
• Philomena
• The Quiet Man

Audiobook (CD)

• Ireland

E-books

• A Dublin Student Doctor
• The Bishop in the Old Neighborhood
• Irish Mist
• In Dublin's Fair City

Music CDs

• San Patricio
• Lullaby