Anno Domini

The players are all set this morning. There are fire-fights in Waziristan, in the tribal area of north Pakistan, and the big Spring Offensive is underway. Revanchist Iraqis are well into it, continuing to murder American civilians in the Sunni Triangle. President Arisitide, accompanied by Congresswoman Maxine Waters of California, has returned to the Caribbean from Africa. He is sipping coffee by a pool in Jamaica, plotting his return to power.

Secretary Powell is trotting through South Asia, shoring up the alliances and reiterating support to the nascent democratic state in Afghanistan. Senator Kerry alit, briefly, in Charlestown West Virginia just up the road to lay the ground for victory in the fall. Basketball coaches are screening tapes, getting ready for the NCAA tournament.

We missed the cruelty of a mid-March storm here in the imperial city, drenched in a chill rain that brought snow to the North East. It was a psychological blow, since there have already been a few days of glorious tantalizing warmth. The light of dawn is rising by 5:30, and I managed to slug back into town from McLean in the twilight that lingered almost to 6:30 PM.

I have survived another winter without a long formal coat.

Everything is ready, the beer has been delivered. According to tradition, the Patron Saint of Ireland died this day in the year 461 AD.

We have embraced the tradition with fervor. We dye the Chicago River green, and march en masse up Fifth Avenue in new York. Closer to home, there are 75c Bud Light drafts starting at 8:00 AM, and cut-rate prices on Bloody Marys and mimosas to start the day off right.

I would like to take advantage of the specials, though it may challenge my concentration at the meetings beginning at 9:00 sharp.

Patrick’s Day is a big deal here. There are 40 million Americans who claim some lineage that began in Ireland. We got here through a great diaspora. My Irish arrived here in the late 1840s and began work on the railroad, right here in Alexandria, Virginia. Many of them provided the cannon fodder for the Civil War. My great-great grandfather was a bluff blonde young man who was born in County Cork and stood six-foot tall at his enlistment in the Union Army in Steubenville, Ohio.

His future brother-in-law signed up in the 10th Tennessee Irish and was a Confederate.

The fact that they were both fair and from coastal Ireland suggests to me that the genes they bequeathed me originated in Scandinavia with the Vikings who summered by force in the emerald island.

That sort of violence is intrinsic to the history of the Irish, and Patrick, or Patricus as he was baptized, was very much an exemplar. He was born to a wealthy Romano-British family with excellent connections and a bright future.

His prospects changed at the age of 16 when he was kidnapped by Irish raiders under the command of High King Niall. He was taken as a slave to County Antrim and sold as a slave. For the next six years he tended a flock on the slopes of Slemish, near the modern town of Ballymena.

He became devout in his Christian faith under the Druid yoke. He spent much of this time in constant prayer and had a holy vision. He ran away and re-joined his family, now a man with a vision and a passion. He studied for the priesthood in the south of France and was ordained by the Bishop of Auxerre in 417.

Patrick spent most of his young professional life in the lush south of France. But he burned with the idea that he could convert his one-time captors to the True Faith. In 431 AD, the first Bishop of Ireland died and Patrick was recalled to Rome to be consecrated as his successor.

With twenty-five acolytes, he made landfall at Slane in the winter of 432. Under the protection of the local king, he began making converts and established his first church in large barn there.

He spent the next three decades criss-crossing the island, preaching and teaching, opening schools and monasteries and converting the heathen to The Word. During his ministry, he consecrated no fewer than 350 bishops and performed 33 major miracles, including the raising of the dead.

He is said once to have once raised a dead horse belonging to the charioteer of Darius, and he expelled the snakes from the island, sending them overseas.

In the days of his age, Patrick turned his oxen toward home. St. Brigit had seen his passing in a dream, and was prepared with a shroud she had woven herself. Arriving near near Saul, in County Down, on the 17th of March in 461. She found the Saint laid peacefully by the side of the road. She and her nuns, accompanied by Angels on golden harps, spent a fortnight singing hymns of joy and sorrow. She buried Patrick in a shroud she had woven herself.

There was almost a fight over his body between the good people of Dunum and the good people of Armagh, the remains of the Saint being precious to each. But bloodshed was avoided, praise be, and Patrick was deposited in a richly-ornamented tomb.

In time, the body of St. Brigid was laid near him, as were the remains of St. Colum Cill�.

Also in time, Rome fell. The Vikings arrived and pillaged while Patrick slept.

In the sixteenth century a group called the Anti-Archeologists became incensed at the lavishness nature of the reliquaries containing the relics of the Saints. For a more practical purpose, they melted them down into the ordinary coin of the realm and spent some of it on decent ale. They missed the silver case in which the right hand of St. Patrick was kept.

It is known to be in very safe keeping, but I am not at liberty to disclose its whereabouts. Also surviving the centuries is the hand bell he used to summon his congregation, and a tooth.

When the Famine came, fourteen centuries after Patrick’s ministry was done, my people followed the snakes overseas.

You will excuse me. I need to get going this morning. The bars are opening soon in his honor.

Copyright 2004 Vic Socotra