On being Irish...really

America is a land of immigrants. Even the Native Americans came from somewhere else, if you go back far enough. Ireland holds the second spot as far as ancestry goes. Germany is first, don’t ask me why. There are almost 40 million of us here with ties to our homeland.

You would think that after a couple of generations, our allegiance to the "auld sod" would begin to wane. Things change over time. My great-great grandfather married a Sioux Indian woman. Another ancestor hitched a milk cow to a wagon in the Midwest and drove the Oregon trail to the Pacific Ocean to find his fortune.

The McConnell’s were farmers as far back as I can trace them…all the way to County Cork and beyond.  My grandfather started out that way but became a banker.  My dad did too, but he became a soldier. Both of them were staunch Republicans, which is just about all the change I could stand growing up.

My family were strong-willed hard workers, good athletes and singers…always singers.  Every McConnell I’ve known had a song ready when asked…and sometimes when not asked. Grandpa had “Jimmy Crack Corn and I don’t care”.  Dad loved “I love you truly”.  They taught me “I’m looking over a four-leaf clover” when I was about 4-years-old. If company was there and entertainment was called for, that was my song…no dancing, though.

Thank goodness my mother could play the piano. It would drown out some of the off-key voices. The collection of Celts that are my family were full of music.  Mom’s grandfather played the guitar and sang “Danny Boy” at the drop of a hat.  It was her favorite. So regardless of the changes in our lives, when it came to me, the Irish easily won out. Mom had only one choice for a name.

St. Patrick’s Day is an unofficial holiday in America.  But, interestingly, more people talk about it, wear green and claim to be Irish, than express such  passion for any other of the “official” holidays I can think of.  My trips back to Ireland for business or pleasure, always make me feel closer to the earth…closer to my roots…and, of course, closer to a pint of Guinness Ale…or two.

On a trip to kiss the Blarney Stone, (You need help to do it) the gentleman doing the holding asked me where I was from. “America, but my people are from here,” I said. “What do you do there?” “ I’m in public relations.” “You’ve come to the right place then.  What’s your name?”  “Dan McConnell.”  “Well, Danny Boy,” he said, “you’re about to get a big refill on your Blarney…and it sounds like you might need it.”

I’m proud to be an Irish-American…and all that comes with it.  Happy St. Patrick’s Day.