My retiree neighbor Red may not be a teetotaler but otherwise I doubt "the sauce" furnishes much fluidity in his life. I was telling him post 3-17 of visiting the Irish themed shop, to which a long ago entry here was devoted, from which I have purchased actual Irish St. Patrick's Day cards. This year I got there with two days to spare; a dad and his young daughter were looking in the candy section and, oddly, picking out American brands as opposed to the Irish ones which help define the shop.

And while there were wedding and get well cards, no St. Patrick's. The clerk told me the demand had subsided and there were none. The ones I enjoyed had historic and, not in a way to offend some of the secular folks I treated, religious narratives. The leprechauns and drinking just don't cut it here, so this year no one received from me.

Red mentioned an ancient bar he had seen but never entered, the Irish Mist. Had I ever been in there? It was across Roscoe from the long gone 1960's "Yummy's Snack Bar", a malt and burger joint with an enclosure out front which featured two moribund alligators by their tiny pond. Like much of Panorama City society they moved maybe a few inches over the years.

The Mist was down the road from my old parish and I told Red I'd never been in it. Aside from brew pubs a regular bar doesn't appeal to me, and indeed this was one of those establishments with the "I" word there basically to add revenue, certainly in mid-March. And in keeping with the word "establishment" I associated the place with many parish dads, not my own or many others, bellying up to get away from wives and plot ways to really force some sons to the barber chair.

After the Mass and burial service for Mom many of us were at a brother's house reminiscing and two of my brethren were talking about so many things they witnessed as late teens working in gas stations in that area. Closing up, they would observe folks coming out of the Mist. They would identify one often as a parish parent; "Isn't that so-and-so?" they would wonder.

Alcohol seemed to make folks drop their keys, but another so-and-so of the opposite gender would relieve a set from the asphalt---and dropper and retriever alike kept going.

Oh.

Many things revived, examined, and we think buried. Given what keys cost in this high tech age, the tradition has gone high tech indeed.