At a party last week, I ducked into the powder room because I do unannounced freelance inspections on behalf of one of the bigger gunpowder companies. Fortunately, it was unoccupied at the time. It’s sooooo much easier that way.

I happened to notice over the back of the hard, white appliance that shall not be named (WATSNBN Say: Watson Bin)) a framed needle-point version of an Irish blessing. It was the same one we had in our house when I was a kid.

May you always be upwind of
whatever is blowing your mind.
May the sun shine warm upon you and
may you not be naked because
our hottest friend,
Mr. Sunny,
can do some serious
deep frying of
your walleye platter,
–if you’re walking a mile
in my flip flops.
May the road rise to meet you,
which it surely will if you
come home drunk
and stumble over a banjo left
thoughtlessly in the street,
in which case
the road will say
“Oof!
Has your nose
always been this flat?”
Oh, in case the rain is
falling soft upon your fields,
may you have a good umbrella
and decent shoes.
And may you remember to take
your mudsucking shoes off
before you come in.
And may you don’t make me
say that a second time.
Until we meet again,
may God hold you
in the hollow of His hand like you
were Jiminy Cricket.
And may he whisper
in your ear that
one more
cricket peep
out of you and
it’s hand clapping
time.

Actually, the blessing in our house was a lot more religious—not surprising because my father was God’s Right Hand Man. As such he was given a 1954 Nash, the secret recipe for Rob Roys, and a stare known to cause incontinence at 40 paces.

My mother cooked and cleaned religiously and took afternoon naps while the potatoes were boiling. Every now and then she prayed out loud that Jesus, Mary and Joseph O’Hara! would give her the strength to keep from hitting one or more of us over the head with a shovel.

Our blessing wasn’t in needle-point. It was in red paint on the back of a stolen Keep off the Grass sign nailed to the wall over the Watson Bin. I mean, I’m pretty sure it was paint.

May your good life
lead you to God
and may God lead you to heaven
and in heaven,
may a kind soul direct you
to the place where they keep the beer.
If they are out, or if they only have Bud Lite Lime
may that kind soul draw you a map
to the closest beer store.
And if that store happens to be in Hell,
may your beer run be quick.
And if the devil hears you are buying up
all the Hop Devil I.P.A.,
may God divert his attention
with trash talk about
the last football game between
Satan’s Fallen Angels and
St. Michael’s Upright Angels
who also fell,
but didn’t whine about it
and got back on their feet
and kicked some bad angel butt.
And while God has the devil’s attention,
may you sneak the I.P.A.
back to heaven.
And later, may you hear
very clearly
when God says
“Don’t try that stupid trick again
hambone,
because if you’d paid attention
on the newbie tour
you’d know
we have our own distributor!
Hellooo!
Maybe you didn’t notice, but
This is heaven!”
And may you understand
soccer rules because
here’s a nice little
yellow card
for jerking my beard.
It’ll be hellfire red
the next time.

Those Irish. What would powder rooms be without them?

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2014, all rights reserved.