The snow turned into rain - -

Today is a nothing day, and on nothing days I think about everything. I woke up feeling ominous, quickly remembering that I'd been up all night wincing at under-medicated Scout and Jem. Downstairs the flag slapped hard against the garage door and windstorm sticks scratched hauntingly across my windows. I woke up knowing exactly where I was.

Yesterday was St. Patrick's Day, and while my family uses any excuse to have a party (the time my uncle cleaned the attic, or the day my cousin lost her first tooth), the thick-blooded Irish Martins hold a special twinkle in their eyes for this day. Because it happened to fall on a work day and because my uncles are still recovering from their 5-day Big East tourney stakeout, the festivities were small and the phone calls were numerous. "Happy Hour is from now until later!" Aunt Barb arrived at approximately 4 unscrewing a personal wine bottle as she walked into the kitchen. I ruined 2 beers trying to dye one a perfect shade of green for my mother, and as is tradition, was chastised for alcohol abuse. The same lecture passed down from Nanny McDonald is given whenever someone spills any amount of alcohol, and everyone in knowing unison calls out, "You better lick that up!" We sat around the kitchen table, a place my grandmother used to hold her court, and gossiped about the family and how cousin Laurie is a River Rat herself.

Two hours into Happy Hour:
I let my Aunt's face warp through the bottom of my fourth glass as she warbles on and on about the funniest nothing at alls. My lips are tart with the stinging lime juice my mother rimmed the glass with. The conversation bumps from Cousin to baseball to that time we hit a rock at the River to the sweater she bought last week that's just sorta pilly. No one ever completes a thought because we all interrupt each other by simply talking louder than the speaker at hand. The decibel level gets very high in no time. Every now and then a piece of a family secret will be hinted at and my curious ears perk up. But I know what kind of nights all the good secrets will come out on. I recall lying in the shadows of our front porches in the middle of a summer sweat, listening to my aunt and father move from family gossip to murky legends. These were my bedtime stories for countless midnights as I'd sit hidden from the kitchen table's sight and jot the secrets in my notebooks. When I read them now, I realize I must have fallen asleep from time to time because the accounts don't exactly line up. But that is how stories become legends afterall.

My grandmother gets mentioned and my aunt stands as if to toast. An old family friend had contacted her last week just to say how much she missed 'Mrs. Martin' and how she frequently thought of the long summer hours spent around her kitchen table. My parents each share similar stories of conversations. We dote on how special my grandmother was, always using the same line, "She was quite the lady, wasn't she?" I watch all the grown ups eyes closely for a teary signal, but there are none and I am grateful. The laughter picks up again with a comparison story to my "Number 2" title my Gramma Garro gave me this past weekend. We all pitch in recollections to tell the tale of how the day Gramma Martin came home from brain surgery she sat right down in her spot at the table and spoke of her surgeon, "Well, he reminds me of Billy; nice young man, not very good-looking." We laughed again at the way my Uncle Bill had tossed up his hands and been harrassed for weeks after that. The laughter sounded exactly the same to me as it had then.

Some friendly quotes from St. Patty's Day Happy Hour(s):
"Yeah, but if he lobes Jac-kay..."
"Bah! I'd take the money"

"Deb's been sentimental the past couple times though."
"Oh Deb's a pain right in the balls!"

"I'm a mother of 3 boys. We just say, 'Wrap it'."
"And if you need to wrap it...there's some in my drawer."

"I mean honestly, who could be uncomfortable around our family?"
Dad and I both raise our hands immediately. Everyone laughs but Roxy Jo.
She makes a face at me, "Well." she huffs, "Your hair looks funny."


I sit outside enwrapped in the smells of another spring and record all this, wondering if it'll ever make it into a published book and hoping someday someone will just steal my journals from me and read them against my vocal will. The upstate air in cold. A familiar truck goes by on the main road; he's had that truck since we moved here. I think of the only familiar vehicle I see driving around on the Island and how it's black and loud. I take it more as a warning than a balcony call these days. I had intended to work on choreography more today but my energy is in my head rather than my legs. Plus the obvious friendship between Jac Vanek, Nick Santino, and Demi Lovato has stricken me a tad with unproductive jealousy. And so I sit here on this porch with those mischievous eyes and update my Twitter, forming plans of my own to be the next family legend.




...Ricky.
"Same Old Lang Syne" by: Dan Fogelberg