On Death and Drinking

You know how it is with the Irish; everything goes back to death.

I mean, honestly, how many of those drunken revelers in Shockoe Bottom even know that St. Patrick's Day is a commemoration of the death of St. Patrick?

But seeing as how I'm half O'Donnell and my great-grandparents were Irish who came to this country on a boat, I have a soft spot for the holiday.

Not in the "wear green and drink until you puke" way, but more as a way to acknowledge my heritage.

That led me to Shockoe Hill Cemetery on a day that could be considered gray and soggy or perfectly Irish.

Placed around the cemetery were small Irish flags denoting the Irish born, of which there were quite a few.

Today was the dedication of a gravestone for the victims of the Confederate States Laboratory disaster of March 1863 that killed 47 mostly young women and girls.

The factory was on Brown's Island and employed girls and women during the war's manpower shortage, not just because men were busy fighting but because their small hands were ideal for the work of making ammunition.

Fourteen of the victims were buried at Shockoe Hill Cemetery in unmarked graves, including four buried next to each other.

It was at the spot where the four were interred that the marker had been placed and today's dedication ceremony finally gave them a headstone.

A bouquet of pink roses and carnation was placed at the site.

The sad business over, the group then moved from under the canopy over to the keeper's house (mercifully heated) afterwards for some revelry.

Once I got inside, a man approached me and introduced himself.

He was the head of the Pickett chapter of the Military Order of the Stars and Bars, one of the groups involved in having the grave marker made and placed.

Nearby on the floor were some damaged headstones and he gestured to them, telling me apropos of nothing about how they get repaired.

Seems there's a pool cleaner ("You can get it at Lowe's or Home Depot," he informed me in case I had any dirty tombstones) that returns them to rights without damaging the stone.

"The you use marble chips and put 'em in the hole and place the grave marker on top. It'll never shift or fall over again because marble doesn't absorb water," he told me.

Well, this was educational.

By then the food was set up and everyone pounced.

There was beef stew and corned beef and cabbage, both evocative of the Irish and both well suited for this cold day.

Since I'd had corned beef yesterday at my Mom's party, today I went with a big bowl of steaming beef stew.

I took it back into the keeper's house and settled myself in a blue leather wingback chair to enjoy.

Singer Susan Greenbaum serenaded us while we ate, starting with "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling."

Now that I was inside, warm and chowing down, my half-Irish eyes were doing just that.

Susan apologized for not having on green, although she gestured toward her green jacket, hanging nearby.

A woman behind me called out to her that green is only for Irish Catholics and that the Irish Protestants wore orange.

"Well, I'm Jewish and it's cold and rainy, so I wore long underwear so my Mom wouldn't get mad at me," Susan laughed.

"This is good weather for Ireland," another person said to laughter.

A man walked in the back and said, "I've been outside. Have you done "Danny Boy" yet?"

"I'm doing it right now but it's hard to get through it without crying," Susan said.

She did seem to tear up a bit and afterwards, acknowledged, "I don't care what your ethnicity or religion or lack of is, that's a moving song. It's mushy and the older you get, the mushier you get."

I wasn't going to disagree with her about that.

She continued on a more chipper note, doing some James Taylor, some Corrine Bailey Rae and some K.T. Tunstall for the group.

Afterwards, I wandered the cemetery for a bit, stopping at as many of the graves with Irish flags as I could before the dampness sent me back to my car.

Out of the blue, I had a memory from childhood of a plaque in my grandparents' house.

May you be in heaven a half hour before the devil knows you're dead.

Since I have no idea where my great-grandparents are buried, spending the day at the cemetery seemed like the most fitting way to acknowledge my roots on St. Patrick's Day.

I only hope they couldn't see that I wasn't wearing green.