By Alex Berger
The duties include conjuring up images of shamrocks, leprechauns and shillelaghs (before the parade); viewing the world through green-colored glasses (as the parade passes by); visiting Bayside's Monahan and Fitzgerald and/or Donovan's Irish Pub for a quick glass of Irish stout (after the parade); and bringing Gloria to see the Irish movie, “How Green Was My Valley,” three times (before next year's parade).Throughout the year, I must utter the expression, “May the luck of the Irish be with ye,” (with the proper Gaelic lilt) to all I meet and greet in the street every Saturday morning; wear a “Kiss me, I'm Irish” button on my person (preferably over my heart) every Monday; and attack a corned beef and cabbage meal with gusto every Wednesday. The other days of the week are optional.Yes, Gloria and I will lovingly watch other green-blooded fellow Irishmen and women step-off and march on St. Patrick's Day to honor the beloved saint who chased all the snakes from Ireland. Now, if we could only get him to do the same with some of our politicians in Washington D.C.I love us Irish for our bravado. We are the greatest fighters, the greatest drinkers, and the greatest lovers – well, two out of three ain't bad. We also tend to fight amongst ourselves just to ensure that we have a worthy opponent.A wise poet once wrote about the Irish: They're wild and they're gentle; they're proud and they're humble; they're happy and sad. They're in love with the ocean, the earth and the skies. They're enamored with beauty wherever it lies. They're victor and victim. A star and a clod; but mostly they're Irish, in love with their God.I love us Irish for our self-deprecating humor: A homeless man once asked Paddy McGurk for a handout. McGurk refused, stating that the man will only waste his money on “evil” things. “No, “he answered, “I need it for food. I don't drink, smoke or gamble.” “Come over my house,” McGurk then told the man, “and I will give you $10.” When Mrs. McGurk opened the door, she looked at both men somewhat shocked. McGurk smiled and said, “Siohben, I just want to show you someone who doesn't drink, smoke, or gamble.”Through the years, I have received many Irish blessings on St. Patrick's Day. They were sent to me addressed to “MacBerger,” “O'Berger,” and “Patrick Berger.” Thanks for loaning them to me, readers. I appreciated the blessings and I put them aside until one appropriate St. Patrick's Day, when I could return them all to their original owners. With so much stress and turmoil in our lives today, I feel now is the appropriate time to do it.I do apologize for selfishly holding on to your blessings for such long a period and I return them to you via this column, in mint condition, intact, and all in their original packaging.”May the road rise to meet you. May the wind be always at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face, the rains fall soft upon your fields and, until we meet again, may God hold you in the palm of His hand.”May love be in your heart. May joy be yours to share. And wherever your dreams lead you, may contentment meet you there.May you never forget what is worth remembering. Or, remember what is best forgotten.May your troubles be less, your blessings be more. And nothing but happiness come through the door.May you have warm words on a cold evening. A full moon on a dark night. And the road downhill all the way to your door.May the raindrops fall lightly on your brow. May the soft winds freshen your spirit. May the burdens of the day rest lightly upon you. And may God enfold you in the mantle of His love.What is done is done. What is won is won. What is lost is lost and gone forever. Now we hope and pray, for a bright brand new day, for this town that we've loved so well.May those who love us, love us. And those that don't love us, may God turn their hearts. And if He doesn't turn their hearts, may He turn their ankles so we will know them by their limping. Oh, those devilish Irish.Getting my Irish up: A few St. Patrick Days ago, an Irish reader sent me, “unpolitically correct” lyrics to the song, “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling.” He dared me to print it. At first, I ignored the dare and did not accept his challenge. However, I have since given it much thought and I wondered what any other fearless, quasi-Irishman would do under similar circumstances?I then decided to print it because a dare is a dare and no proud Irishman (however “quasi”) cowers to any dare. So, readers, read it if you dare, but, puhleeze, no sending of dissing letters to your humble, adorable, Jewish-Irish, columnist!”Oh, the Hebrews they were talking, Of the time when they should die. They were all so undecided, In the plots where they should lie. Abie Cohen – he chose Jerusalem, New York City – Aaron Stein. But when it came to Levy – He said “This is the place for mine.” By the river, Shannon, The plot where I repose, In an Irish cemetery, with a shamrock on my nose. The devil he'll he looking, Trying to find me. I suppose But he'll never think of looking – For a Jew with an Irish nose.”A fond Irish wish from Gloria and me to everyone: Slamte (Slawn-cheh), meaning “to your health.”Reach columnist Alex Berger at timesledger(aol.com or call 718-229-0300, Ext. 138.
