Happy St. Patrickstein's Day

I'm guessing that historically St. Patrick's Day has as little to do with overindulging in beer as a Jewish ritual circumcision has to do with eating little hot dogs wrapped in dough, but both are most certainly designated feast days, and one man's feast is, well, not necessarily the same as another man's.

Ironically, while a poor unsuspecting Jewish male baby is being prepped to have a piece of his penis lopped off in front of a crowd of revelers, he is given his first taste of wine, which might help explain the low incidence of alcoholism among Jews. And though we pride ourselves on being a civilized people, we refer to this barbaric ritual a mitzvah (a good thing; we are good rationalizers) and we come dressed to party and shout Mazel tov! and stuff in all sorts of fleshy treats. But no beer, definitely no beer. Even on St. Patrick's Day.

Today I will be navigating the green-clad and the hung-over on the streets of Chicago to attend the bris of my old friend's grandson. My friend, gone too long now, would have cringed with the rest of us at the thought of her grandchild feeling even a slight twinge of pain, and at the same time kvelled (does it need translation?) more than anyone at the sight of the brand new addition to her family. Like the rest of her surviving mosaic of goofy family and friends, she was offbeat, sometimes mystified by life, terrified of death, and filled with love for the people who loved her. Unlike many of us, she possessed an amazing capacity for gratitude. Even when she knew her time was winding down, she thought herself to be lucky, just for having all that she had for as long (or short) as she had it. She would have worn something green to the St. Patrick's Day bris, might even have snuck in a beer. For those of us who knew and loved her, the hole created by her passing will be obvious, but her unique presence will be felt. She will, no doubt, arrive late, as was her habit. The energy in the room will suddenly pick up, and the party will start in earnest.

It is my hope for this baby, once the wound heals and the memory fades, that he will get to know his maternal grandmother and learn the many lessons she could teach, even though he will never lay eyes on her. It is my hope that he will be reminded, one day, that his Jewish ritual circumcision and his first taste of alcohol coincided with St. Patrick's day, and that the irony of that coincidence will not be lost on him. Because whether you're on a morning pub crawl with good friends or having, um, a delicate procedure performed by a shaky looking old Jew in the company of people who are celebrating your arrival into the world (both customs weird in their own special way), life is -- and should be -- about sharing good times with people you love. Or at least like. Or don't hate.

It is my hope for this baby that, like his grandmother, who did not have so much as an ounce of Irish blood in her veins, he will always believe that there is a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, and believe that it is well within his grasp.