Patie

Patie
Location
Swansea, South Carolina, USA
Birthday
September 01
Title
CEO
Bio
Retired academic as well as a Renassiance woman constantly reinventing herself . I have been fortunate to taste many of life's delights as a health care professional, radio producer/on air talent, foreign policy analyst, now in twilight of my life organic gardner and exhibitor of pure bred dogs keep me busy.

MY RECENT POSTS

FEBRUARY 26, 2010 12:42PM

For an Irish Fiddler

Rate: 8 Flag

For An Irish Fiddler 

irishfiddler059 

I've only lived in this house 3 years soon but it seems I can only turn relinquish pieces of my identity a chip at a time. I ran across this the other day and thought I'd share it.

 

 

Author tags:

family, daughter, dad, poetry

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It is quite something to look at our parents as young people. A bit incredible tho one can see from this photo how he could woo my mom...a rascal, rapscallion, risk taker and a few not too nice things that I will leave...right now I just look at him as a young man and think: Wow, I'll bet you were fun!
Kathy and Bonnie: Thanks very much. My pleasure.
'Tis a find and fitting tribute, lass, and you do the old man proud.
The beginning of that poem is one of the best things I have read. Love you Patie.
Spud's right that the beginning is arresting and vivid. But I love the music of the end: "The mutual music of our maturity." Very nice, Patie.
Spud's right that the beginning is arresting and vivid. But I love the music of the end: "The mutual music of our maturity." Very nice, Patie.
Tom: Aye he thought me writing poetry was the best thing...and damned the world anyhow that it paid squat! lol
Spudman (((virtual hug))) How every sweet and kind of you.
At Home Pilgrim: I know it's special when you say it twice! I come from a family of musicians so no wonder he thought poetry proper and the best.
Thanks to all of you for your kind words. I didn't get to know him until I was middle-aged (okay 40 something:) and then because my daughters kept asking about thier 'unknown grandfather'. He and they fell immediately in love with one another. He knew more bloody finger and knock knock jokes than any second grader. He died, fortunately, before they outgrew him:)
loved this, being the son of an Irish immigrant (with a name like barry brian doyle, what else could I be) this hits home. what a fierce and lovely poem.

Maith thú, sláinte chugat a chroí.
Barry: Aye! About as Irish as one can get with that name!
Kathy: always a pleasure to see you drop by.
Beautiful poem and so true.