It’s another St. Patrick’s day and don’t you dare call it St. Patty. No living Irishman would ever forgive that. My mom was Italian and my dad was Scotch-Indian so the holiday shouldn’t have meant that much. But it did. The corner beef was on the table and we always walked down to Mc Kinley’s tavern where “ladies” were welcome. I would have a root beer and they would each partake of a glass of the real stuff. Mc Kinley used to put out quite a spread. The corned beef and all the trimmings, as much as you wanted all for the price of a nickel beer. He was glad to do it. Part of his heritage. The money wasn’t important on that day. What was important that he celebrated his birthplace with those who didn’t. My folks are gone and so is Mc Kinley but the memory stays. Happy St. Patricks day.