Yesterday my Dubliners CD arrived. I’d gone looking for some Irish music with which to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day with my tiny students. The Dubliners brought back memories of a second story apartment in an old house in Omaha, Nebraska. Two doctors shared quarters, one Irish and the product of a Jesuit education, a repository of rude limericks, and the maker of one mean beef and lime curry.
As I started to sing along with familiar lyrics, I found myself caught up in the rhythm, my feet tapping out a jig of their own invention. A fiddle, a banjo, and whiskey-rough voices softened by the lyric sound of Eire spun me and waltzed me and set me back down, a little lighter on the Earth than I’d been before.