One of the great things about being an American is that during one time of the year I get to call myself Irish! So on this #beersaturday I am Irish!
I wear the Green and call myself a Son of Erin! I get to remember the days long gone, the days of yore, the days of glory the days that may yet come again.
To be Irish, even if it is just once a year, it is to remind me of the will to Live. The decision to be happy, regardless of the troubles of today.
Being Irish, even for the day is to remind myself to keep a song in my heart. Being Irish, even for the day, is to remember that the songs of the harp are meant only for the Free and the Brave.
Funny I pulled out the mug that I got for Oktoberfest to pour my Irish Stout on on St. Patrick's Day. See the Irish hit it HARD on one day of the Year. The Germans are more staid and stoic and take an entire month to build up to what the Irish do in a single day.
Cheers to the Four Provinces of Erin.
A picture of the "half pour" before the final topping. Yea apparently that is a thing, pour half let the head settle and then pour the rest. At least that is what I read on the interweb.
So the question must be is the 
So I scoured my bloodlines to see if there is even a single drop of Irish Blood running in my veins.
Well, their is a great deal of Dutch and German. There flows through my veins the blood of the Scots and the Cymry. There is the blood of Aquitaine and Alsace. There flows the blood of Catalonia and Switzerland. Inside this mortal coil flows the blood of the Algonquin and the Shawnee. And yet is there any Irish?
Hold on lassies, I have only traveled back several generations and a few centuries. There is more to go!
And then, I found her, yep a her, a sweet colleen! And if you call yourself Irish then you know that the names of our mothers are to be remembered, or they will beat the crap out of us.
Her name, Margaret McMaster of County Antrim, Province of Ulster, Kingdom of Ireland.
So how far back did I have to go to find my Irish.
Well as near as I can decipher, shortly after the Fall of Quebec to the English in 1759, Margaret McMaster left Ireland for Quebec, Canada.
She ran a tavern and a trading post.
So imagine your life is soooo horrible and sooo hard that as a single young woman, you think to yourself this is sooooooo bad, I will leave hearth and home and go half way across the world to sling whiskey and buy furs from men who just as soon slit your throat as to look at you, on the edge of the world where one step farther will cost you your life.
If ever I even think to myself "I have it so tough", I can hear the smack coming across the centuries right to the back of my head. A blow issued by the hard hand of Margaret McMaster of County Antrim.
I have no illusions, I am sure that Margaret McMaster was no "grand dame" or proper lady. What I am sure of, is that she was a survivor, who in Canada married and had children, who had children and they in turn had children . . . etc. until you get to the old
Well done Maggie!
So tonight I raise a glass of Guinness to Saint Patrick, to Old Ireland and most especially to Maggie!
