St. Patrick's Day sparks memories of Irish stories

With a bold green pen, my dad wrote a two-sentence cursive inscription in his annual St. Patrick’s Day card:

“Remember, you’re Irish. That’s why you’re a good writer.”

It made sense. After all, Irish writers — everyone from James Joyce to Oscar Wilde — dominated many of my college courses.

But nobody taught me more about storytelling than my Irish grandmother.

She flaunted red hair, embraced an affinity for chocolate and had a sense of humor that often involved throwing kernels of popcorn into my grandpa’s open mouth when he fell asleep on the recliner.

Most importantly, though, my grandma could talk.

I’m not just referring to casual conversation or standard pleasantries.

Sitting down with my grandma involved setting aside at least one hour for a chat that would inevitably jump between the weather, family memories and the newest deals at the local grocery store.

My grandma did not “do” awkward silences. She genuinely enjoyed talking.

She attended every social gathering equipped with stories, some of which she repeated so frequently that they became scripts for us to recite when she wasn’t around.

Her conversation repertoire got more unpredictable as she began to lose her hearing.

She’d interpret a standard interruption as an inquiry about the ’40s, and we’d prepare to listen to her for another half hour.

The stories weren’t exactly intricately woven verbal tapestries, but they were always there.

And that kind of security meant a lot to me.

So much, in fact, that when my grandma’s health made her speechless during her final days of life — my first real experience with death — I didn’t know what to do.

Immediately, I wished I would have been wise enough to carry a tape recorder during her most memorable dinner conversations.

We lost her voice when she died — and I temporarily lost mine, too.

But months after her absence, I realized her stories — thanks to their vivid details and relentless repetition — hadn’t gone anywhere.

My grandma laid the groundwork for what would later become my lifelong passion: conveying memories with so much gusto that silence never has the upper hand.

With no disrespect to my Irish heritage, that kind of legacy is a result of forces much more compelling than sheer luck.

Sonya Sorich, reporter, can be reached at ssorich@ledger-enquirer.com or 706-571-8516.