Born on St. Patrick’s Day, my cousin Benny was cursed, he became socially awkward, and it wasn’t his fault.
Every March 17th, momma made us attend the dreaded birthday celebration in his honor.
My Aunt Trina would place green Irish caps on our heads as soon as we walked through the door. Shamrocks hung from the ceiling, small black plastic pots of foil covered, off brand chocolates were given as party favors. The cake, a hideous rainbow color had sparkling flakes of sugary gold on each end of the multi-colored promise.
The worst part of it all was the annual game of Place the Leprechaun at his doorstep. A tradition started on Benny’s third birthday. He was now eleven.
The partygoers received a tiny leprechaun sticker, were blindfolded with a green bandana, and spun around three times by an adult tightly gripping their shoulders. I’ll never forget Aunt Trina waving her hands in front of every child’s face to make sure they couldn’t see.
We foolishly rubbed our hands over the jumbo plastic scene taped to the wall. The picture was of a lonely cottage placed neatly in a forest with a giant rainbow covering the sky. I never got my leprechaun anywhere near the front door. Johnny Crews won every year, momma said it was because he had no morals, was raised wrong and could see through the blindfold.
The crowd diminished as years passed as did Benny’s smile. The shamrock shenanigans ended when Aunt Trina drank a little too much of that green colored beer, fell face forward into the punch bowl and ripped the contest from the wall. She cried in hysterics.
Benny cheered, finally released from the grips of Saint Patrick. “Maybe now we can try Pin the Tail on the Donkey!”
Benny’s reputation NEVER improved.
Leesa Writes 