My mother loved St. Patrick’s Day.
Not in a casual, “Oh look, it’s March 17th” kind of way—but in the full-on, all-in, proudly Irish way. The kind of love that showed up in the details. Green everywhere. Clothes, jewelry, maybe even a little extra sparkle just for the occasion. If it could be green, she wore it. And she wore it well.
A green sweater. A shamrock pin. Earrings that caught the light when she moved her head just right. Sometimes even green beads layered over whatever outfit she had decided was festive enough for the day. It wasn’t over the top—it was joyful. It was intentional.
She loved being Irish. Not just the ancestry part of it, but the spirit of it. The storytelling, the humor, the pride, the sense that being Irish meant you were allowed to celebrate life a little louder than usual.
To her, it wasn’t just heritage—it was identity.
And St. Patrick’s Day was the one day of the year where the whole world seemed to join in on that celebration. For one day, everyone wore green, everyone talked about being “a little Irish,” and everyone seemed just a little bit lighter.
My mom leaned into that joy every single year.
The Shamrock Shake Tradition
Every year, without fail, she wanted a McDonald’s Shamrock Shake.
It didn’t matter if there was snow on the ground. It didn’t matter if the wind coming off the lake could freeze your eyelashes. March in the Midwest is unpredictable at best, but none of that mattered.
If Shamrock Shakes were available, she was getting one.
And she didn’t sip it politely either.
She drank that thing like it was the highlight of the entire day. Through the straw, with that unmistakable slurp-slurp sound when it got down near the bottom of the cup.
Some people might have tried to be subtle about it.
Not my mom.
She slurped every last drop with zero embarrassment and complete delight, like someone who understood that small joys are meant to be fully enjoyed.
Even now, that sound still makes me smile.
Our Own Kind of Celebration
We never did the traditional corned beef and cabbage dinner. That just wasn’t our family’s thing.
Instead, we made our own traditions.
Sometimes we’d stop by Jewel-Osco and pick up cupcakes piled high with thick, bright green frosting. The kind that turned your tongue green for hours afterward and left a little trail of powdered sugar wherever you set the box down.
Other years, Mom would make one of her famous Jello cakes.
If you grew up in the Midwest, you know the kind. A fluffy cake with lime Jello worked into it so the whole thing turned a vibrant, unmistakable shade of green. Sometimes topped with whipped topping. Sometimes with a little extra flair depending on what she had in the kitchen.
It wasn’t fancy.
It wasn’t Instagram-worthy.
But it was perfect.
Because it was ours.
The Movie That Made It Official
And then, like clockwork, we’d watch The Quiet Man.
Every single year.
It didn’t matter how many times we had already seen it. The movie was part of the day. Not optional. Not negotiable.
It was simply what we did.
We’d sit down together, plates or cupcakes in hand, Shamrock Shake cups somewhere nearby, and settle in like we were about to watch it for the very first time—even though we could practically quote parts of it.
There’s something about traditions like that. The repetition doesn’t make them boring. It makes them comforting. Familiar. Like returning to a place in your memory that always looks the same.
Watching that movie together became one of those anchors in time. The kind of moment that quietly says, this is what today means.
And now, years later, those scenes still feel tied to St. Patrick’s Day in my mind.
The Quiet Joy of Simple Traditions
Looking back, none of what we did was elaborate.
There were no giant parties. No elaborate Irish feasts. No decorations covering the entire house.
Just green clothes. A milkshake. A cake. A movie.
But that’s the funny thing about traditions. They don’t have to be grand to matter. In fact, the simplest ones often stick the longest.
Because they’re not really about the things themselves.
They’re about the feeling.
The sense that this day means something. That this moment belongs to your family in a small, quiet way.
My mom understood that instinctively.
She didn’t overthink it. She just celebrated.
When Traditions Change
Since she’s been gone, St. Patrick’s Day feels different.
Quieter.
The day still arrives, of course. The stores still fill with green decorations. Restaurants still advertise Irish-themed specials. People still show up in shamrock shirts and novelty hats.
But the center of it—the person who made it feel personal—is no longer sitting across the room.
And yet, the day doesn’t feel empty.
It feels reflective.
When I see green everywhere—shirts, shamrocks, decorations—I think of her immediately. I think about how much joy she found in something so simple.
And I realize something she taught me without ever sitting me down to explain it.
Celebrating who you are matters.
Honoring your heritage matters.
And joy doesn’t have to be complicated to be meaningful.
The Kind of Memory That Glows
Grief is strange that way. Some memories hurt when they surface. They carry the weight of what’s missing.
But others feel different.
They feel warm.
Her love for St. Patrick’s Day is one of those memories for me.
When I think about it now, it doesn’t come with sadness first. It comes with a smile. A little laugh. The echo of that Shamrock Shake straw hitting the bottom of the cup.
It feels familiar.
Almost like a gentle tap on the shoulder from heaven saying,
Hey… remember this?
And I always do.
Carrying the Tradition Forward
So I’ll wear green.
Maybe I’ll grab a McDonald’s Shamrock Shake.
Maybe I’ll even slurp it through the straw the way she did, without worrying whether it’s polite or not.
Because she would have loved that.
And because remembering her this way feels like a gift instead of a loss.
Some memories ache.
But some memories—like this one—don’t ache at all.
They glow. 💚
