A person doesn’t have to be Irish to love St. Patrick’s Day. As a kid I always thought March 17th was a fun little holiday. I still remember carefully choosing what I would wear to school on that day withhopes of avoiding getting pinched. It added to the fun if the green was hidden just enough to make others think it wasn’t there, only to be revealed just in time to stop an incoming pinch. But that didn’talways work. It seems that I got a few pinches from the bigger kids even if I had green on somewhere. They said the rule was that green had to be worn in plain sight. I probably gave my share of uncalled for pinches, as well.

Later on, somebody told my sisters and me that if a person wore red instead of green on St. Patrick’s Day, then we’d get kissed. I don’t know who was supposed to do the kissing, but apparently they didn’tget the memo. I put this idea to the test a few times, but my experiences did not indicate any correlation between wearing red and a kiss.

Back then, one thing that did correlate with St. Patrick’s Day for my family was the planting of potatoes. My parents were among those who were pretty well set on getting the seed potatoes in the ground on or very near St. Patrick’s Day. Because of the over-sized garden we grew each year, potato planting was serious business, with each person in the family having a contributing role. I learned early on how to cut the seed potatoes in pieces with each having at least three good “eyes.” After the long rows were prepared, one of us sprinkled fertilizer down the trench and another drug a chain behind to mix the granules into the soil. Next someone dropped the potato pieces from a bucket, followed by another whose job it was to see that the pieces were positioned with the “eyes” facing the sky and spaced an equal distance from each other. Finally, covering the many rows of newly-planted potatoes with the rocky soil was a step we all had a hand in. It seems to me that the whole process took about half a day. Apparently, the luck of the Irish was with us, or my parents just knew what they were doing, since we always had a good crop of potatoes to store in the cellar for the winter.

In recent years, Earl and I haven’t been that lucky, and after a few less than stellar attempts at getting our garden started early, we now wait a little later to get seed potatoes in the ground.

But still, St. Patrick’s Day always makes me think back to those “potato-planting days” when I was growing up. And, the recent talk of Saturday school also jars those same memories. The year I was in the fourth grade we missed so much school due to inclement weather that we were scheduled for a make up day on a Saturday in March. That is the only time I recall (until this year) being at a school scheduled to attend class on Saturday.

As it happened, that particular Saturday back in the late ‘60s fell upon “potato planting day,” so I’m thinking it was probably also St. Patrick’s Day. Needless to say, my siblings and I spent a good portion of the day in the garden rather than at school, leaving us no time to be concerned about pinching anyone or getting pinched.

Annette Rowe is a freelance writer from rural Gentry and a speech-language pathologist at Siloam Springs High School. She may be reached by email at awalkinthepark50 @ yahoo.com.

Opinion, Pages 6 on 03/16/2011