Lá Fhéile Pádraig sona daoibh.

Seventy-one degrees in Scottsbluff in March and the Jameson is on the desk and the windows are open and somewhere east of here the ground is still black from the fires. Nebraska doing what Nebraska does, which is everything at once and none of it gently.

Patrick was Romano-British. Came to Ireland as a slave. Escaped. Came back by choice and learned to speak the language of the people he came to. That's the story. Not the parades. Not the green beer. Not the plastic shamrocks made in China.

The real story is a man who crossed water twice, once in chains and once free, and decided the second crossing was worth making because the place and the people and the language of it had gotten into him and wouldn't let go.

Seventy-one degrees and the windows are open and I'll take it.

Sláinte mhaith.