I visited Ireland seventeen years ago. Lifetimes ago, now. It was then I first heard the term "a soft day." I was standing outside the loveliest old stucco house in Cleggan, a tiny fishing village at the jumping off point to Inishbofin Island. The ends of earth, really. The land's end. It was a crumbling ruin, in truth, the house. All overgrown, and with a streaky pink weathered exterior. I paused to snap a picture. The young owner emerged from the front looking a bit like a young Bob Dylan, and friendly as ever. He greeted us with " A soft day, isn't it? . . . All the beautiful houses on the lane, and you want a picture of mine!" He explained that he was in the process of restoring his new purchase. I returned how beautiful I found it just as it was. He walked slowly with us down the rest of the lane along a stream, all lined with bleeding hearts and peat stacks for the stoves. A light drizzle was softly falling--what the Irish call a soft day.
of a useless fellow
He's fit to mind mice at a crossroads
to someone who committed some small fault
'Tis only a stepmother would blame you.’
of a tall, large woman
That's a fine doorful of a woman.
of a gossiper
She has a tongue that would clip a hedge.
of a coarse, ill-mannered person using poor language
What would you expect out of a pig but a grunt?
What would you expect out of a pig but a grunt?
on trying to change a stubborn person's mind
You might as well be whistling jigs to a milestone.
of very bad music
Aw, that's the tune the old cow died of.
There are only three kinds of Irish men who can't understand women--young men, old men, and men of middle age.
And finally, Murphy's Law:
Nothing is as easy as it looks.
Everything takes longer than you expect.
And if anything can go wrong,
It will, at the worst possible moment.
But I'm wishing you the luck of the Irish anyway!
A Happy St. Patrick's Day to you!
Jacqueline
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