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breakfast shamrocks
I reach for the clattering noise in the dark, and push the button in the back of the clock to make it stop.
Don't even look for the thing in the dark. I know what it says.
Five o'clock.
Which seems awfully early when you didn't crawl into bed until after midnight.
It's lekking season. I am sorely tempted to punt off the grouse counts this morning, and just go back to sleep. It's Saint Patrick's Day, after all. Not an official holiday, or day of rest, but it should be.
And that thought reminds me. I have to get up early. Now. Because it's Saint Patrick's Day.
And sometime through my rushed morning routine, I head downstairs, and open the box sitting on the chair. Right where I left it last night.
And not so carefully remove all the bubble wrap, tape and paper wrap from the object inside.
A plate.
A small, six and a half inch ceramic plate. Plain white, patterned after a woven basket, with green shamrocks around the border.
Hand painted shamrocks. Painted into the glaze by some artisan.
At least sixty years ago. And no more than eighty years ago.
I know this by the black mark stamped into bottom of the plate. Tells me, and anyone else who worries about such things, that this plate was made between 1926 and 1946.
In Ireland.
The neat thing about this plate, other than its age and origin, is its defect.
I find it again, there along the edge. A smudge of green outside the shamrock leaf. Either the green bled into the white glaze or, as the wife suspects, the glazer accidently let some green fall on the white, and carefully wiped most of it off.
Either way, that green ain't supposed to be there. And under this company's harsh rules of quality control, this plate should have been smashed and broken in the factory.
And it wasn't.
So I was surprised when I won this antique so cheaply in the auction. Apparently every other collector wants "perfect" pieces.
Well, they can have them. It is the flaws that make such things unique. So wondrous.
And I mean that word "wondrous" literally. Because the presence of the flaw makes me wonder... why did this plate pass inspection?
Sometime between 1926, and 1946.
Was this little plate made after 1929, after the crash of the stock market? During the Depression, when no one wasted anything? When company standards would slide just a little to keep the cash flow moving?
How much would a plate like this generate in those days? Pennies instead of pounds?
Or was it made during the Second World War? Yes, Ireland was officially neutral in that war, but we can't pretend it didn't affect them. Were there quotas to meet? Contracts to complete? Would the buyers not really care about esthetics when the world was at war?
Who was this man, or woman (or child?) who decided this was good enough? And why?
Wondrous, indeed.
So, I take the small plate, and carry it up into the kitchen, where it getsa good washing. Along with a much more modern plate, only millimeters larger, of white with brown trim.
This newer plate spends most of its time sitting on the kitchen counter. Used by the wife for waffles every morning, sandwiches every day that she comes home for lunch, and often for desserts or snacks at night.
With such frequent use, it does not go into the dish strainer to dry. Nor into the cabinet with the similar dishes, all trimmed in green and peach. Instead, it has a permanent place on the counter, on top of the jar of creamy peanut butter, next to the cannisters.
Except today.
Today, in honour of Saint Patrick, and everything Irish, I dry the brown plate and rack it in the cabinet next to its green-and-peach brethren.
And place the old shamrock plate in its place on the counter.
A surprise gift for the wife.
An Irish way to start the day.
Which, unfortunately, I will not be around to witness. There's still grouse out there strutting, and well before sunrise, and before the wife's alarm, the heeler sisters and I are loaded up and on our way.
When the wife discovers her morning surprise, we're many miles away, cruising the interstate at 74.2.