Still on the mend, but slowly feeling better. I wanted to do something today for my Dad for St. Patrick’s Day. In 1956 he left Ireland with all the big dreams that young men have. Heading to Canada in the bottom of a ship, taking a chance on a better life. My Mom followed about three months later. He was just short of his twenty-fourth birthday, my Mom was only nineteen. I can’t imagine the courage it took to leave home and family, to leave everything they knew, and jump head first into the vast unknown. Then just four years later to do it yet again and move to Chicago. Another new country, starting over, except that this time they did it with two children and a third on the way. Amazing. Happy St. Patrick’s Day Dad.
My brain is still foggy from my head cold, and this relentless fever, my perspective is again my own private torment, but it’s St. Patrick’s Day, so this one’s for Dad. He grew up above his grandmother’s fruit and vegetable store on Dominick Street in Dublin. I saw it once many, many years ago. I don’t remember much so most of this is imagined, with the inspiration coming from a watercolor book on Ireland. Finally, to end this post a little tale to amuse one and all. The little tree wasn’t in my original sketch. There was a man on a bench. (Before I continue remember that I am delusional with a low-grade fever.) When I was just about finished I realized that he was so out of scale, so out of perspective, that he looked like one of the “wee” folk, you know a leprechaun. I turned him into a bush. Artistic improvisation at its best.