By Peggy Carroll
I come from a large Irish family that stretched from the coal mines of Pennsylvania to the rubber factories of Passaic. My father was one of five, my mother the middle of a family of nine. I have more than 20 first cousins and Lord knows how many of second-, third- and whatever.
It is a family of McCormicks, Wades, Haughneys, Farrells and Hartnetts. And I went to an Irish Catholic parochial school in Passaic, then a city of ethnic parishes, with kids named Tiernan, Keating, Keely, Dwyer, O’Brien and Kelly.
But we were not, as my snippy aunt Florence once explained, “professional Irish.”
Our “Irish” songs were the ones they sang at bars in America. Nobody sang sad songs about carrying Paddy home on his shield. And while we knew a version of the jig, it was Passaic County style.
I never saw step-dancing; I was a ballet kid. And only a few of our clan ever enrolled in any organization that carried the words Hibernia or Irish in their names.
For the most part, St Patrick’s Day was celebrated by wearing something green and perhaps a shamrock pin.
I had never even watched the New York parade…. until, that is, my freshman year at what we then called St. Elizabeth’s College (SEC) which has now switched the nouns in its name about.
It was a Catholic women’s college in the 1950s and I was there only three weeks when I called my parents in tears, complaining that I did not intend to enter the convent.
There were definite Rules (with a capital R.) You did not leave campus without signing out; you asked permission from the house mother to go home on weekends.
There was a line-up at her office door every Thursday night. You had to be on campus by 7 p.m. and in your room (after saying rosary in the hall) at 8:15. And lights out was at 11 p.m. – promptly
It was in loco parentis, big time. .
If you were a boarder, you wore proper attire when you went home on the D L & W –also known as the Delay, Longer and Wait. That meant a hat, white gloves, stockings and black pumps.
And when you went to an important school-sponsored event, you wore cap and gown – required for all students.
And when there was an important event, attendance was not voluntary. It was ordered.
Marching in the St. Patrick’s Day parade was considered a very important event. So we dutifully (this was before Women’s Lib, remember) lined up. And dutifully, we wore our caps and gowns. Over our winter coats.
We looked, I believe, like a contingent from another Catholic college: The backfield of Notre Dame.
The Sisters of Charity who run the college, I am sure, considered the parade a Catholic event. After all, Patrick is a Saint, isn’t he?
But they had seen a thing or two from behind their veils and they had seen a St. Pat’s Day parade or two.
So there were RULES.
We got on the bus, drove into New York. The bus drove us to the parade starting line. And we marched up the avenue and — right back onto the bus.
The overriding rule was that we were not to stray, like the poor little lambs of Yale, away from the line of march. We were not to respond too cheerfully to the spectators and we definitely were not to forget making sure that we were back on the bus immediately.
I have been told, though the story may be apocryphal, that the reason for the regulated march was that at a previous parade, a student had wandered away to the watering holes of Third Avenue — and passed out in a very unladylike, and very un-convent school like way.
And unfortunately, she carried no ID. Not a license, not a credit card (who had credit cards then?) No address book. But she was wearing a St. E’s jacket.
So, the story goes, they called the school to come and get her.
Whatever the truth of the tale (and the Irish, you know, don’t let truth stand in the way of a good story), it did not happen again.
I marched with college classmates again the following year – this time in Newark. It started to snow at the starting gun and rapidly blew into a blizzard. We slogged along, in our caps and gowns. (The caps were never again the same.)
I remember only three things about that parade.
- I pitied the poor twirlers, with their short dresses, whose legs were turning scarlet. Bulky as we looked, we at least had coats under the flimsy gowns.
- My then fiancé, who drove me to the parade, took refuge in a nice warm bar and did not even watch our travail. It almost never became a marriage.
- We got home, but never got back to to the college for three days. The DL&W trains were very much delaying and lingering and waiting.
I have not been in a parade since. My son marches in Morristown every year with the Friendly Sons and various grandchildren have marched with their youth groups. And I have attended many.
But I have fallen back to observing the saint’s day with the small rituals I grew up with. I wear a bit of green, perhaps play the Irish Rovers. And oh yes, I buy some soda bread.
Corned beef and cabbage? Yuck.
Keep an eye out for Peggy Carroll at Saturday’s Morris County St. Patrick’s Parade…on the sidelines.
