By: Alyssa Matheson
St Patrick’s Day is always a big party at my house. Not only has some of my family probably come from Ireland at some point, but it is also my dad’s birthday. That morning I woke up to the sound of birds peacefully chirping outside my window, and also the blaring trill of beeps sent from my mom to wake me up in time for work. From the moment the first kid arrived at the tutoring centre for camp, there was nearly incessant chatter directed at me ranging from a high-pitch recounting of a story I had already heard the past three days, to an array of voices asking the same question within thirty seconds of each other. The peace that came when the children started to watch their movie was as short-lived as can only be expected when the students found hard-hitting questions, and completely relevant comments. I don’t blame the kids, if I had to know if a real hamster’s eyes could be that big or comment on just how funny it was that Adam Sandler got pushed into a pool, I would totally interrupt a movie and disturb the peace of my teacher who was just trying to check her Twitter feed in the few moments where she wasn’t completely responsible for the actions and productivity of kindergarteners.
On the ride home my mother regaled me with our plans for the evening to a background chorus of rattles and creaks from our van which has come from years of being driven through our construction-riddled town. We we greeted when we arrived by a rousing Irish song (the likes of which became the soundtrack of our entire evening) and I responded in kind, singing lyrics that describe the flora and fauna found in a bog.
That night, after a traditional Irish dinner complete with boiled vegetables, the true party began. It was filled with dancing, and giggling about missteps, and discussions ranging from T.V. shows (mainly Friday Night Lights – a show that can’t lose in my opinion,) to March Break activities, covering a range of topics with a balanced level of depth achieved through years of friendship. The comfortable conversation was far from the only sound filling the house, the quietly squeaking shoes from an abandoned March Madness game accompanied the singing of Irish songs, which eventually devolved into various genres of music which at one point prompted a cry of “This is the Arctic Monkeys you dummies!”
The true silence after our guests left was a welcome respite from the normal cacophony of my days, which only lasted until the birds’ songs and alarm’s harsh trill shattered it once again.