March madness: She’s irked by lack of St. Pat’s Day spirit and extreme spring breaks

Now that March is almost behind us, I have two issues to bring up about the month. I’m going to start with St. Patrick’s Day. If you’re wondering who could possibly have an issue with St. Patrick’s Day, that would be me. So just hear me out.

I feel like I can address this because I’ve been told I’m “mostly” Irish on my mother’s side. There is no evidence of this except family lore, robust with a lot of fables. In other words, fictional tales that have been woven and passed on as fact.

Yes, I know I could take a DNA test to find out the truth — but where’s the fun in that? I’d rather hold on to the fairy tale that at some point in the 14th century, my family was Irish royalty.

Other fun fables I’ve been told are that we had a family member on the Mayflower, and that my father’s side of the family hailed from the Cherokee tribe. Again, there is absolutely zero proof of any of this, unless you count as “proof” the passing of tales told by inebriated kin at family reunions.

Sorry for that faux family tree detour. Now, back to St. Patrick’s Day and my beef, which is the varied level of participation in the day. Depending on where you live, it can range from a big celebration to simply a reason to wear green. I feel like we should all lean into the day more.

When I lived in Boston as a child, even the water in the toilets would be green on St. Patrick’s Day. In school we would make leprechaun homes out of boxes of Lucky Charms cereal.

One year I wallpapered the “home” with all the “magical” marshmallows from the cereal. I’m not bragging when I tell you it was quite the tour de force in leprechaun home design.

My second beef about March is spring breaks. I’m all in on having school spring breaks, but I hated the pressure as a parent to provide a grand vacation. I’m wondering if this is a Midwest thing.

When my family lived on the West Coast, almost no one left town for spring break — though that could be because everybody just drove 30 minutes and hit the ski slopes all week. Even in Texas it seemed as if most people stayed home, or at least remained in the state to go to the beach, which is what I did as a teenager.

In 1979, at the age of 17, I jumped in my mother’s Oldsmobile Cutlass with three of my high school girlfriends. We drove 500 miles to South Padre Island (armed with a Rand McNally Road Atlas) and spent a week by ourselves in a condo at the beach.

We only talked to one parent, one time, when upon arrival I called my mom “collect” to let her know we made it to Padre. Then she called all the other parents.

Can you imagine letting your 17-year-daughter do that today? And with no cell phone? It’s as if you’re sending your child out to star in a Dateline episode.

I get chills just thinking about it, but at the time it was well-mannered, rule-following fun. Of course, it probably helped that three out of the four girls went on to attend Ivy League colleges. I’ll let you guess the teen who did not.

Actually, the fact that I just had two beefs with March is quite the compliment. Now April is usually all drama. But I’ll save those stories for later.

Reach Sherry Kuehl at snarkyinthesuburbs@gmail.com, on Facebook at Snarky in the Suburbs @snarkynsuburbs, on Instagram @snarky.in.the.suburbs, and snarkyinthesuburbs.com.

This story was originally published March 26, 2025 at 5:00 AM.