My Irish 'luck'

''STAND STILL, can't you!" snapped my mother, pinning an Erin Go Bragh button adorned with clay pipe and green ribbon to my school shirt. ''It's St. Patrick's Day! And look, shamrock," she cooed, securing a generous bunch behind the button. ''There, now," she said, stepping back to admire her handiwork. ''A lucky Irish lad, you are."

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Yes, lucky me. Lucky me to be going to school decked out in a girly corsage so the class bullies could blacken my two eyes with potato fists. Lucky me never to miss Mass during the 40 bone-chilled mornings of Lent. Lucky me to have made the Nine First Fridays nine times over, thus guaranteeing a last confession at my deathbed, even if I die in Togo.

Let's not forget our summer vacation visits to St. Anne de Beaupre Cathedral in Canada, when every other kid in the neighborhood was off to Lake George or Cape Cod. Or being drenched with a ''sprinkling" of Mom's holy water every time we left the house. Did I fail to mention the nightly rosary when, kneeling on knobbly knees, our dad would recite the Hails and his chorus of eight Holys as neighbors gawked in from the front windows, wondering what strange tribal practice was afoot.

Oh, yes, being Irish was a lucky thing, like having tons of homework on Trick or Treat Night.

At school that morning, I slouched over my desk, trying desperately to hide my dainty spray of clover.

''Sit up straight, Master O'Hara," scolded my fifth-grade teacher, Sister Theresa Gabriel. Her stern command straightened my spine quicker than a swift boot up the behind, whereupon she caught sight of my flowery bouquet.

''What is that greenery you're wearing?" she asked, her voice softening.

''Shamrock, Sister," I reddened.

''My gracious, shamrock!" she swooned. ''Where ever did you get it, tell me?" She bent over my desk with her hands clasped over white bodice.

''My grandmother in Ireland sent it to my mom in a letter," I said, turning all hot and itchy.

''Isn't it lovely," she exclaimed, fingering its tiny leaves. ''Class, do you know St. Patrick converted three-fourths of the Pagan Irish by using the shamrock's three petals to explain the Blessed Trinity. Now Kevin, walk down each aisle so your classmates can have a look. Imagine, genuine shamrock from the Emerald Isle!"

I would have rather run the gauntlet of Iroquois that clubbed Father Isaac Jogues at the Shrine of North American Martyrs in Auriesville, N.Y. -- another of our vacation hotspots -- than to walk the aisles. Boys called me St. Kevin of the Sissies, and girls smirkingly asked if I was going to be a Maryknoll missionary when I grew up.   Continued...