I am not Irish. And, I don't believe in luck. In fact, I am often the one responding to a comment about luck by explaining that it's for a million other reasons why something happened. Maybe it's also why I have a complex relationship with Kabbalah. Anyway, I have a shamrock plant. I know. Mysteriously, it is the only plant I can take care of and it seems to thrive regardless of where we live and what I do or don't do, like water it. I believe this because it is a special shamrock plant. Legend has it that crazy Aunt Sally, on my father's side (and trust me, I know crazy and she was capital C crazy), smuggled this back from a trip to Ireland in the 60s. I'm willing to bet that's not all she smuggled back across international waters. Anyway, she brought this plant back home to New Jersey and nourished it. And when it got too big she gave everyone in her family clippings. She brought some to my grandmother, her sister, in Connecticut. She took some to California to their other sister. And, their 4th sister in Florida got some, too. I have fond childhood memories of my grandfather showing me how the leaves closed up at night and opened again in the morning sun. Eventually, my mother took a clipping and grew it in the kitchen of my childhood home. And, when it got unruly she would clip it back and repot the clippings until she had pots and pots of it growing. Then, when my brother and I grew up, she gave us each a potted plant. Passing on the tradition, I guess. And now it sits on my kitchen counter, thriving as it always has. I often ignore it and only remember to water it when I can see that the dirt is cracked and dry. And sometimes I'll clip (or rip) out the dry leaves. But again, it has to have been brought to my attention to do that. So, I suppose it is apropos that on St. Patrick's Day I play a little tribute to my plant, that started out in Ireland, made it's way to New Jersey and, in addition to sitting in houses all over the country, also sits in mine.
