Of Snookettes, Salty Language and St. Paddy's

Another year, anther successful trip into South Boston for the St. Patrick’s Day parade.  This has become an annual event for my family.  We are fortunate that our friend, , KO, lives right on the parade route, just one block from Andrew station.  Each year she throws an enormous chunk of corned beef into a pot and opens her home to those friends and family brave enough to head into Boston during the height of what one Irish friend calls “Irish Christmas”.

First and foremost, we trek into town for the chance to reconnect with people we haven’t seen in a year. Between work, kids and life in general, it’s hard for all of us to find time to get together.  But no matter how busy we are, we always try to make time for KO’s St. Paddy’s Day party.

Getting there, however, is an adventure in itself.  I’m sure there are some foolish…uh…I mean hardy souls who think it’s ok to drive into South Boston on parade day.  Personally, I’ve never been that bold.  Each year we opt to leave the car in Braintree and ride the T into the city.  This is great because our car is parked safely in the lot and we need only walk a short distance from the train station to KO’s house.

The downside, however, is that five million other people have the same great idea.  This year the weather was sunny and warm, which meant that a record number of revelers were headed into town.  For the first time ever, we had to wait on line to get into the train station, then wait on another line to load up our Charlie card before boarding the train.  Swarming throughout the station were other families, couples and about a thousand girls with flat-ironed hair dressed in too-tight skirts, t-shirts with questionable sayings and large aviator sunglasses.  “Look”, said my husband nodding in their direction, “Boston Snookies!”

On the train ride in, we sat across from three Snookettes dressed in matching t-shirts similar to the shirts worn by the Dr. Seuss characters Thing 1 and Thing 2.  These shirts, however, were green and had shamrocks that said, “Drunk 1”, Drunk 2” and “Drunk 3”.   One of the girls had also had a baseball cap which read “I’m here to get drunk and …” (I won’t finish that sentence, but you can use your imagination). Her mom must be so proud.  She and her cohorts met up with some male friends and they passed around a large bottle of what appeared to be root beer for the entire ride.  At one point one of the male companions pulled a large bottle of raspberry vodka out of his backpack and took a long pull.  My son was horrified.  I had to agree: I mean really, who mixes raspberry vodka with root beer?

I’m sure some parents out there are thinking I’m irresponsible for exposing my children to this drunken behavior but I like to think of it as reinforcing the lessons they learned in D.A.R.E. class.   Pay attention kids!  People who drink on subway trains end up with bad tattoos and body piercings.   In a few years these same young men and women will be immortalized by the “People of Wal-Mart” website.

We exit the train station into bright sunlight and a sea of green-clothed bodies.  Fighting our way upstream, we arrive at KO’s house, greeted by the smell of boiled dinner and the sounds of U2.  Old friends are reunited and with the exception of a few pounds or a few gray hairs, we look pretty much the same as a year ago. 

The parade begins and the usual Irish staples are present:  Elvis, Darth Vader, Captain Jack Sparrow and, of course, The Ghostbusters.  You wouldn’t know it was a St. Patrick’s Day parade if not for the intermittent wheeze of bagpipes.   The red-faced politicians come through, sweating in the heat and slapping high-fives to the crowds.  We cheer loudly for the veterans, shouting our thanks while they salute us.  I jump out of my skin no less than five times as honor guards fire their guns, much to my sons’ delight.

During the course of the parade at least one perfect stranger asks to use my friend’s bathroom (seriously?) and a young man approaches me with a fistful of dollars asking if we have any beer to sell.  Sorry dude, it’s a party, not a packie.

As the parade peters out, we thank KO for her hospitality, hop on the train and head home.  There’s only a smattering of what my son calls ‘salty language”, and the most exciting part of the ride is a young man who may or may not be intoxicated, holding onto two hanger straps and spinning somersaults in the middle of the train. 

Each year we consider heading to the Scituate parade instead, which would cut down our travel time considerably.  But I’m pretty sure we’ll return to Southie next year; without Snookettes, drunk teenagers, Darth Vader and, most of all, our good friends, it just wouldn’t be St. Patrick’s Day.