First, a disclaimer seems to be in order. The reason I’m writing today is because someone said “Oh, Mark (or Michelyn or Ida)! Look – MB really has three names. She must be Irish. Let’s ask her!”  True enough there – but really only about 80%.Disclaimer #2: My family doesn’t celebrate holidays and saints’ days the way most folk do. Just a heads up.

 

 

 

 Things got out of hand in Hoboken

March, amidst cold rains, errant snow storms, tsunamis, earthquakes and, yes, floods and distasters, brings one day of celebration – St. Patrick’s Day. A day when EVERYone claims Irish ancestry (though few, if pushed, can prove it), streets are painted green, rivers are dyed green (Please, check the origin of your fish for the next six months!), and green beer is the beverage du jour. Honey, it’s all about the wearin’ of the green, though my mum would hasten to correct you and say it’s about the wearing of the black.  (You were warned about this.) It’s about the martyrs, the deportees to Australia, the Six Counties still under the Crown, the cousin who died “on the blanket” (in like a lion out like a lamb).

 

    Collage:Who are they?    

The Irish are a strange people – opinionated, pig-headed, saints and sinners, story-telling, human references out to your 4^th cousin, twice removed. The last is both handy and heart-breaking in a city of 80, 000. It’s said that our wars are merry and our songs are sad. We belong to the earth that betrays, the seas that bewitch and steal, and we are, deep down, believers in the old ways of things.

Bless St. Patrick for trying, but with all this cheap green sateen and large glitter glasses assaulting you, what does green smell like? Can we look to the Sidhe for guidance? Perhaps. And maybe you’ll find an olfactory pot of gold of your own.

 

 

Geoffrey Beene Grey Flannel – It’s finding those first wood violets along the path. That sudden realization that winter may finally be past. There’s a bright note from the lemon that says the days are getting longer and keeps the violet / oakmoss combo from becoming too stormy grey and funereal. There is a light soapiness that appears several hours out, but even it melds into the whole. Besides everyone knows that the wee folk are very clean creatures.  Top Notes – Violet, Lemon, Orange. Mid-Notes – Oakmoss. Base Note – Sandalwood. (Editor's Note: Fred Astaire wasn’t Irish but you could have fooled me with that brogue in Finian’s Rainbow)

 

 

 Balmain Vent Vert – If Ireland is 50 shades of green, the Tourist Bureau should look into sniff strips because the 1990 rework of Vent Vert manages to capture every shade invisible to the naked eye. Yes. It’s a huge, unforgiving burst of galbanum and citrus – sun glinting off the river and making the fairy webs sparkle like diamonds in the morning dew. Afterwards – a treat of a massive fresh picked spring bouquet of roses, lily of the valley, and hyacinth all offered up on an altar of oakmoss, iris, cedar, and sandalwood. Do NOT fear the woods in this – this keeps its crushed grass and leafiness throughout. Top Notes – Lemon, Bergamot, Lime, Neroli, Basil, Galbanum, Marigold, Mid-Notes –  Ylang ylang, Rose, Hyacinth, Lily of the valley, Spices. Base-Notes –  Oakmoss, Sandalwood, Cedarwood, Iris.

Do NOT fear the woods in this – this keeps its crushed grass and leafiness throughout. Top Notes – Lemon, Bergamot, Lime, Neroli, Basil, Galbanum, Marigold, Mid-Notes –  Ylang ylang, Rose, Hyacinth, Lily of the valley, Spices. Base-Notes –  Oakmoss, Sandalwood, Cedarwood, Iris.

Chanel No. 19 – The galbanum here is a bit sharper than in VV and the floral heart more prominent and a rather formal “arrangement” in the front parlor. The leather note would be the envy of any self respecting leprauchaun, picky as they are about the quality of their product, but there is sometimes a slightly jarring metallic note. It may just be me, but I wouldn’t wear it around the wee folk. Top Notes – Galbum, Bergamot, Neroli, Hyacinth. Mid-Notes- Rose, Jasmine, Narcissus, Ylang-ylang, Muguet. Base Notes – Sandalwood, Oakmoss, Leather, Cedarwood.

 

 

 

  

Green Irish Tweed – The terms used are “timeless, “classic”, and “well bred”. GIT is all those things. A seemingly simple recipe that starts with a burst of lemon and verbena that leads you to the quiet of violet leaves. There is a vague rootiness of iris that eventually winds its way to a base of mildly sweet sandalwood and ambergris. A green scent that somehow becomes more a fougere before settling into a rather comfortable skin scent. Top Notes – Lemon, Verbena. Mid-Notes – Iris, Violet Leaves. Base Notes – Mysore Sandalwood, Ambergris.

 

 

 Photo courtesy of Illuminated Perfumes and Greg Spillenka

“Come away, O human child!

To the waters and the wild

With a faery, hand in hand,

For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.”

    


James Joyce 

       

So…I’m off to a cuppa with mum and hoping for some good soda bread and an evening of a young cousin quoting Joyce and Yeats on Facebook whilst listening to chanties and ballads of lost loves. And since the Irish never leave without a benediction:

 

 “When I return again
May our foes have turned to friends
And may peace and joy be with you until then.” 

 –Mary Beth Devine, Contributor

 

 Editor's Note: the sidhe or the leprechauns have been playing with the post all day. Apologies to our readers. There be playful  magic in the air     

           EEdEditor's Note: the sidhe or the leprechauns have been playing with the post all day. Apologies to our readers. There be playful  magic in the air    

 

For our draw: .25 oz of Roxana Villa's Greenwitch to the winner who can name the most people featured in the collage featured above.         …Please post your favorite Green SOTD  (from our archives) For our draw: .25 oz of Roxana Villa's Greenwitch to the winner who can name the most people featured in the collage featured above 

 

    "I've put in so many enigmas and puzzles that it will keep the professors busy for centuries arguing over what I meant, and that's the only way of insuring one's immortality.”- James Joyce