In my neighborhood in the northeast Bronx, St. Patrick’s Day meant corned beef and cabbage for dinner, no matter what your ethnicity. Afterward, neighbors would gather to celebrate the patron saint of the Archdiocese of New York with Irish coffee and buttered wedges of Irish soda bread. Those of us with no Irish blood might not don the ubiquitous “Kiss Me, I’m Irish” button, but we celebrated the day just as enthusiastically.
It was a cultural celebration rather than a religious one. At Holy Rosary School back in the 1960s, the arrival of March would find each grade in the midst of rehearsals for the St. Patrick’s Day plays. The lower grades might put on short skits related to St. Patrick or Ireland, but the upper grades collaborated on full-length musicals such as My Fair Lady or The King and I. Freed from the daily drudgery of classwork to memorize lines, stand still for costume fittings, practice singing the musical score, and take part in rehearsals, we felt a new excitement about school. The approach of St. Patrick’s Day also meant that spring was near, and summer vacation not far behind. Spirits started to rise, life in general felt happier.
During my high school years in the 1970s, St. Patrick’s Day meant marching up Fifth Avenue in the annual parade.
For this special occasion the student body of my all-girls school wore the dress uniform—a blue and white pleated skirt, white shirt, and white woolen blazer, a step up from the solid blue-gray skirt and jacket for every day. One year, those of us designated to carry the school banner at the head of our unit later learned from excited family, friends, and neighbors that the television camera caught clear sight of us.
Another year, the cheerleading team marched as a group. Our school windbreakers provided the extra layer we needed over our short-sleeve, short-skirt cheerleading outfits, and skin-toned tights covered our legs, but the brisk walk and the strengthening sun kept us warm enough despite the wind and 45- to 50-degree temperatures. We marched with hands holding pom-poms on hips, but when we approached the reviewing stand (“Eyes left!”) and then St. Patrick’s Cathedral (“Eyes right!”), where Cardinal Cooke stood watching, we went into a brief, pom-pom tossing routine.
A hired bus drove us into Manhattan in the morning, dropping us off on East 44th Street near its intersection with Fifth Avenue. There we waited until the parade stepped off at noon, joining the line of march when the organizers called us into position. With the near-springtime sun high overhead, we marched to cheers and drunken jeers, surrounded by the whine of bagpipes and the wind-driven scent of pretzels steaming at street-corner stands, until the sun slanted sharply from the west and we turned right onto East 82nd Street.
The buildings cast long deep shadows up there, where the crowd was sparse and the surroundings subdued, so unlike the crazed, party-time atmosphere further south. We found our bus waiting, doors wide open, and clambered aboard. Starving and thoroughly worn out, we flopped into the comfortable seats for the ride back to the Bronx and to Jahn’s, a popular eatery and ice cream shop on Fordham Road.
In later years, riding the Number 5 Lexington Avenue Express into Grand Central Terminal revealed more quirks of this particular day in New York City. Neon-green oases had sprung up overnight all over the main concourse—flower carts crammed with buckets and buckets of bright green carnations. Commuters wore the green carnations in their lapels or carried them in bundles. Even the stodgiest, most serious among them (whom you had sized up by sight from the daily commute) accessorized their business attire with green plastic bowler hats, bright green ties, and those enormous “I’m Irish” buttons. Others carried green balloons and green-frosted cupcakes and plush leprechauns on a stick.
Out on the street spirits were high, as were many of the revelers who came into the city to celebrate the day by glancing at the parade, then hitting the pubs.
From his post on the steps of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Cardinal Cooke, Archbishop of New York from 1968 to 1983, caught an eyeful. Troubled enough by the sight of inebriated adults, he was even more disturbed by the obnoxious behavior of masses of drunken teens. This prompted him to start speaking out before the big day, reminding New Yorkers that St. Patrick’s Day is a feast day that honors a saint, not a raucous spring festival like Mardi Gras. He urged New Yorkers to appreciate the religious meaning of the day while celebrating its cultural richness.
Happy St. Patrick’s Day!
Mrs. O’Brien’s Irish Soda Bread
(from Anna O’Brien of Ireland and the Bronx)
4 cups flour
4 tsp baking powder
½ tsp salt
Pinch baking soda
½ cup (1 stick) butter, softened
¾ cup sugar
¾ cup raisins
1 Tbsp caraway seeds
2 eggs
1½ cups milk
Preheat oven to 350º. Grease and flour one 9″ round cake pan.
Sift together flour, baking powder, salt, and baking soda.
Add butter, blending in with fingertips.
Stir in sugar, raisins, and caraway seeds.
Beat eggs and milk together. Add to dry mixture.
Mix with a fork until completely moist.
Press mixture into prepared pan.
Bake for 1½ hours.
© Barbara Cole 2021. All Rights Reserved.
Ah Jahn’s! That brings back “sweet” memories!