Nineteen months ago I kissed the Blarney Stone, lunched on Irish Stew under a thatched-roof pub near a Famine Cemetery and learned the truth about shamrocks. The wee part of me that's Irish felt a tug of allegiance to the Emerald Isle even before our bucket-list tour.
As I do on most St. Patrick's Days in America, I wear green, sometimes even a button that says "Kiss me, I'm Irish". . .
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