Imbolc Bloodroot Moon
St. Patrick’s day at Pappy’s Bar. We went, stopping by for a brunch at Pappy’s, to get dogfood. In Pappy’s the bartender had shamrock suspenders, a leprechaun hat with shamrocks and sunglasses, on top of the hat, clear with green lights blinking within the frame. A waitress, a superannuated sort, had a tiny yellow hat with a green flower and a green t-shirt tuxedo, pressed out far enough in front to provide a handy cushion if she should tip over.
At the end of the bar sat two young women, mid-twenties, sunglasses, eating eggs and sausage while tossing back Bloody Marys. Next to us sat a younger couple, maybe early fifties, thin and fit looking. She had on a Honolulu Harley-Davidson tee-shirt and a sad look, not sad today, necessarily, but a look that said life didn’t hold much sparkle for her. He smiled, took a napkin and cleaned up the water after the bartender had wiped down the bar. “It was wet,” he said.
Kate ordered the senior special and I got cornbeef hash and eggs in honor of the traditional St. Patrick’s day meal.
We took the last seats in the bar and there was quite a line waiting to eat in the restaurant portion. This was at noon on Sunday. A few folks had green tinted liquor drinks in highball glasses, but I saw no green beer.
The sign read March 17, 1992. We check I.D. I was 45 in 1992.
