Fiddling around town

Yesterday was St. Pat's Day and that should not be taken lightly. Maybe more lightly than, say, if we lived Chicago, but then we don't have the graft and the long string of Daleys. Like any fiddler that plays Irish tunes, it only seemed fitting to go where there was beer and all ilk of Irish patriots, form Hispanics, Polish and the usual selection of the faintly Irish.



So it was off to Clancy's pub to play for beer and eats. Prior to leaving, we received a word gift from another fiddler, maybe as a way of taking notice of our position in life, that would be the position of itinerant musician. I thought we were cool, if not essential, and maybe without peers.

Rick, the fiddler from New Hope, made direct mention of the Day of Humiliation---a gloomy holiday instituted by one Oliver Cromwell. He makes note of an act of Parliament that says, "If any person or persons, commonly called fiddlers or minstrels, shall be taken playing, fiddling, or making music, in any inn, alehouse or tavern, every such person or persons shall be judged rouges, vagabonds and sturdy beggars and punished as such."




Dude! That does not play well for me and my types. But being of sound mind, my whistle playing wife, that would be Miss Ann, and I along with Tony, Jim and Paul headed for the establishment knowing we were mire rouges and sturdy beggars subject to the laws of the Queen.

While there among our people (recall vagabonds, beggars) we played in great volume, but I suspect with little quality due to the noise and confusion created by the participants of the folly known as St. Pat's day. At one time, I noticed I could not hear the Banjo that was, for all purposes, up against my ear. That is not a good sign because usually a banjo, which is akin to a cannon of war, usually has to be covered with a four point Hudson Bay blanket to make it manageable in a large kitchen.

However the comradery of our band made the day of local music enjoyable, not to mention the throngs that tapped their feet and even applauded. The evening was ended when our guitar player was interrupted by a large cardboard Guinness sign that fell on him while playing "Over the Waterfall". In a look of amusement, we decided that we should embrace another Harp's Lager, a plate of corned beef and consider ourselves well established in the realm of rouges, the unwashed masses and itinerant drifters. Up the Queen!