Derrick Coyle
“There are only two kinds of people in the world, the Irish and those who wish they were.”
The old adage will perhaps never be more apropos than on St. Patrick’s Day. The one day in the year when – across the globe – prop-adorned celebrants in various shades of envy, flock to garishly decorated establishments to order Irish stew and consume large quantities of artificially tinted Guinness they find a tad bitter. A day when patrons, and vendors alike, are determined to replicate stereotypical images and revel for a few hours, in the shoes of the Irish.
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Jimmy Gallogly, Barney Byrne, Jimmy Coyle, Foncey Kane
I’m a product of an Irish father and Scottish mother and find the passing decades have provided me with a growing appreciation for my heritage. I’ve not yet been to Ireland, but that will be remedied this summer in a vacation that starts in Scotland, to reunite with a large extended family, and finishes in Ireland to see for the first time, the world in which my father grew up.
My dad was raised in Northern Ireland in the tiny village of Drumquin, Co. Tyrone. On St. Patrick’s Day, 1953, he pulled into Toronto’s Union Station on a train from Saint John, New Brunswick – the port where he and his mates landed with light bags and big dreams. He soon found work and sent for the lass and love he met in Scotland. Cathy would leave Kirkcaldy and a family of eight, joining him in Canada to be married and raise a family of five in a new land of opportunity.
It’s a staggering example of human spirit when I think of a young couple, barely 20, leaving their homeland – and in the case of my mother, a large family – for a chance at new opportunity and a bright future for a family. My wife and I moved two hours down the road from Toronto to London, Ontario at about the same age, which was daunting enough. They moved across the world.
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Notwithstanding the 50% Irish blood coursing through my veins, my late pal and business contact, Gerry Kenny – who was born and raised in Ireland – would never fail to remind me over a pint of Guinness on St Patrick’s Days’ past, that 50%, did not an Irishman make. He gave me partial marks for naming my second born, Erin – a poetic reference for “Ireland,” but I remained, as he would proclaim with boisterous delight, an Irish wannabe. I suspect if he were here to behold the tattoo I acquired about a year ago, as a combined reflection of pride in my roots and a prevailing mood, he would likely have cautioned that such an image could get me beat up in Ireland.
Regardless of an increasingly commercialized superficiality to the modern day St. Patrick’s Day celebration, it is usually a day of friendly gatherings and raucous fun. It’s an occasion I continue to look forward to each year, and I do my best to hoist a pint at one of the assorted Irish pubs in neighbourhoods where I’ve lived over the years. For the most part, it amounts to a lot of friendly enthusiasm and noise, albeit, with no lack of abrasion in the witnessing of food and beverage ordered in poorly imitated Irish accents.
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Photo: Mike Maloney – London Community News
One exception is the unfortunate turn of events in London. Ontario, on St. Patrick’s Day, two years ago. In a display of social mayhem more identifiable with large cities and controversial occasions, than one with a reputation as a conservative University town, a mob of about 1,000, damaged property and overturned vehicles while they challenged police and firefighters in a five-hour stand-off on Fleming Drive, near Fanshawe College. The unusual mix of conditions for this St. Patrick’s Day was later referred to as a “perfect storm.” A Saturday calendar date, sunshine and 20C degree weather, the free-flowing libations of the occasion, and a concentration of student celebrants.
By the time the dust had settled and the smoke cleared, dozens of revellers were arrested, more than 170 charged, 22 police cars damaged, a media vehicle torched, and about $100,000 in property damage. The riot stood as an unprecedented embarrassment and disappointment for Fanshawe College and the City of London.
While there will undoubtedly be many spirited gatherings across the city today, at -10C degrees, I suspect the absence of what was perhaps the most bizarre piece of the puzzle mix of two years ago, will pretty much eliminate the risk of a recurrence of street chaos. And, with any luck, lessons will have been learned and a more civil approach to celebration practiced, in any event.
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For me, St. Patrick’s Day this year will provide a warm memory of a good friend lost, gratitude for the parental courage of 61 years ago, and the excitement of an upcoming summer vacation. And in the spirit of the celebration for this day, I’ll close with a wee Irish blessing for my friends, family, and SFW faithful:
“May the saddest day of your future be no worse than the happiest day of your past.”
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