My husband, Jim, used to tease me when I was a credit manager for the company I worked for and had to approve orders. He said that because of my name, customers would think I was Irish and wouldn't be too strict, but actually I'm of German descent. 

Jim, and our son, Jimmy, always went to the Saint Patrick's Day Parade in New York City. I usually joined them, but one year I didn't go. When they returned, Jimmy told me that he had been in a rumble. A fight had broken out in the audience, and Jim and Jimmy climbed up on a rock to get away from it. Jim had chosen a ritzy neighborhood to park in, but despite that, his battery was stolen. Jim was grateful to the thieves because they had been careful not to damage the wiring.

Ever since my husband died, songs like "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling,” for example, when played by the Callicoon Center Band, make me cry instead of smile.