This year, there will be no celebrating St. Paddy’s Day in the local pub. The pubs, like the restaurants, are closed for celebrations, and, for the first time in history since the 13^th century, kissing of the Blarney Stone has been postponed until further notice.

Who would have imagined that we’d be in this place at this point in time.

Still, memories and people can always be celebrated and St. Paddy's Day is a perfect time to celebrate my sainted dad, Eddie Clifford, who had the magic of Ireland and leprechauns in his heart.

I never met my father’s father. He hailed from County Cork, Ireland, but was murdered here in the U.S. when my dad was just seven years old. They found his body floating in the Hudson River.

I didn’t learn about his death until I was an adult. I chastised my father for never telling me about his father and he, the typical Irishman, replied, “You never asked.”

I imagine my father’s love for all things Irish, and his delightful gift of storytelling, came from his father, who worked in a cemetery and dug graves. Imagine the stories he must have told!

It’s not surprising my dad could enchant a table full of guests with stories of his dad bringing home wagons of wood, most likely from old caskets, for the wood stove and my grandmother throwing him and the wood out the door. 

She’d rather be cold than bring the devil down on the house by burning wood from some poor soul’s casket, she would say, and backed it up with a well-tossed shoe.

My father spent a lifetime saving money to visit his father’s Ireland, and when he did visit he came back elated, except for one thing. A roll of film from Blarney Castle had been lost because of the shenanigans of a leprechaun he had the unexpected pleasure of meeting.

As the story goes, dad and my uncle, Donald, went to dinner, complete with Irish music and dancing, in Blarney Castle. At some point he decided to step outside for some air. There, at the bottom of the castle steps, was an unusually small man with an equally unusual appearance.

My dad struck up a conversation with the visitor, who graciously offered my dad a pipe. Not being a smoker, my dad turned him down but asked if he could take his photo instead.  They were having a grand ol’ time, each with their own unique gift of gab, and he wanted a keepsake of their time together.

The wizened man smiled, so my dad snapped his picture. When he lowered the camera, the little man was gone. But there, on the steps, was a carved walking stick, a shillelagh. My dad brought it home with him.

Back in the states, when my dad took the role of film to be developed it was blank. There would be no pictures of Blarney Castle for his photo album so he would have to rely on memory to share his stories – which he managed to do quite well.

When my dad died, I inherited the shillelagh.

Today I will be making our corned beef and cabbage dinner. I imagine dad sitting in the living room recliner, appreciating the aroma while enjoying a cup of coffee, followed by “just a half cup” so as not to spoil dinner.

He would be carefully perusing the daily paper or enjoying the latest in British comedies, a twinkle in his eye and his shillelagh resting in the corner of the room. The local pubs may be closed this year, but somewhere a wizened old man is puffing on his pipe and smiling.

Loved ones are always with us. They deserve to be remembered and celebrated. If you can’t raise a pint at the pub, raise a half cup of coffee at the family table and tell their stories.

Miss you dad. I hope you and Uncle Donald are celebrating today with the angels.

Mary Clifford Morrell is the author of "Things My Father Taught Me About Love," and "Let Go and Live: Reclaiming your life by releasing your emotional clutter," both available as ebooks on Amazon.com.