Each year for the past 40 years the Irish Fair of Minnesota has been bringing a bit of Ireland to the Minneapolis/St. Paul area. Specifically, since 2001, to Harriet Island Regional Park on the banks of the Mississippi River in downtown St. Paul.

It’s Irish everything for about three days each August…music, food, drink, a variety of games and activities, and vendors selling their wares. It also offers some prime people watching for those that enjoy such. As aficionados of Irish music, libation, and people watching, myself, and my good friend Paul, ventured east a few weeks ago to soak in some of the festivities.

“Soak” we did, as very Ireland like weather settled in on the fair for a bit Saturday evening. Everyone took the mild hurricane in stride, as reasonable people do, especially when reason has moved them to huddle under a circus tent serving up flights of Irish whiskey and beer. A roof held aloft by Irish song and drink is fairly weatherproof.

The rain came down and ratcheted up the people watching festivities a notch or two, as one could observe different folks accepting the dampness in different ways. Some, as I mentioned, huddled under tents, some of the prepared type strode about under umbrellas with an air of superiority about them, and of course some just strode about, as if they were preparing to compete in a wet kilt contest.

I was sitting between Paul and a chatty lady that popped open an umbrella as the rain began to fall. She leaned the umbrella my way and said “sorry” to Paul, “the umbrella’s not big enough for three”.

Paul and I have been friends for over 20-years, and in social situations like this we tend to lean more towards the “every man for themselves” credo, rather than “never leave a man behind”, so I wasn’t real surprised when Paul shrugged and dashed off to stand somewhat out of the rain under the partial roof of the main stage completely removed from story time with a stranger. So it goes.

“Sorry” may have been the first word she said, but it was hardly the last. I sat politely nodding to her steady stream of words, as a steady stream of rain rolled down the umbrella soaking the half of me that wasn’t allotted shelter. I can’t recall much of what she said, partly because she said so much of it, and partly because I was contemplating whether being half wet with the mayor of “Chattyville” was better than being completely soaked in silence.

The answer was obvious to me, but it seemed rude to kick the kindness of a stranger to the curb, so I sat and let her talk at one ear as rain water quietly cascaded down the other.

Once the rain let up a bit, the dry half of me felt sorry for the damp half and bought a shiny new Irish sweater to ward off the evening chill and to prevent the possibility of my shivering attracting the attention of any good Samaritans with blanket space and a docket full of well-rehearsed stories.

The highlight of the Irish Fair for me was when The High Kings finished their performance by singing “The Parting Glass”. A mass of us stood together in front of the stage, arms around the shoulders of the next, swaying and singing along. A beautifully simple song prompting the voices of strangers to unify in the rain and tilt their gaze skyward in unmitigated joy and just be for a bit.

Sláinte.