It's All About the Green

If you’re not from this area, you might be surprised to learn that Savannah has the nation’s second largest St. Patrick’s Day celebration, after New York City. I mean, I was certainly surprised to find that out when I got here in 2021. The reasons for the size and scope of the celebrations remain a little unclear to me, but I suspect it’s got less to do with the early presence of Irish settlers in this area and more to do with the fact that Savannahans just like an excuse to eat a lot, and to drink a lot more than they eat.

The festivities start the week before and continue to ramp up until Parade Day, when the entire downtown historic district turns into a big block party. People start claiming spots along the parade route at dawn, and families set up big open-air awnings in the city squares, so that eventually every square inch along the route and much of the public space for blocks on either side is taken up by the half million people who show up to the city.

Photo by Will Peebles for the Savannah Morning News

We began the day at a friend’s house party, already in full rage by the time we showed up at 11:30am. In this case, “full rage” meant all of the kids there were on their third, or even fourth, juice box. The adults were sipping on screwdrivers and Bloody Marys, pacing themselves for the day. We watched some of the parade from their balcony, cheering for the marching bands and military units in sloppy formation and a few waving judges sitting atop the back seats of Mustang convertibles. The governor drove by and I was forced to consider that our Republican executive is popular and, as far as I can tell, doing a good job apart from the social issue bullshit. I didn’t cheer him but nor did I flip him the bird, and he drove by without incident from me.

After a while, we decided to walk around the city streets, packed with people of every color wearing only one color. Everybody is Irish on St. Patrick’s Day in Savannah, except for me, in my grey t-shirt and taupe hoodie because it would never even occur to me wear green on St. Patrick’s Day because I am truly no fun.

I think we lasted about twenty or twenty-five minutes before we (I) had to get away from the crowds, and we found refuge in Savannah Coffee Roasters, one of the city’s fine coffee shops, where we celebrated the day in the traditional manner: my wife got a Caprese sandwich and I got a slice of spanakopita (which is a Greek spinach pie, and spinach is green so…)

Top o’ the mornin’ to ya!

One of the odder things we noticed throughout the day is that a number of pick-ups parked along the city streets had Port-O-Pottys strapped to their beds. It took us a while to understand that people bring personal rental toilets to the parade so they have a place to go throughout the day. Is that not the hillbilliest/most brilliant thing ever?

Considering how much alcohol is involved, the day is usually peaceful. I only saw one arrest, and it was the friendliest arrest I think I’ve ever witnessed. Some big ol’ boy in a green striped shirt who kind of looked like the golfer Jon Daly got hisself arrested for reasons I couldn’t discern, but he was pretty casually chatting with the state trooper who cuffed him. A woman I took to be his wife leaned against the trooper’s car, texting. After a while, they put him in the car and took him away, and the wife went back to her party. Lest you think that’s just the way white boys treat each other in the South, the state trooper on the arresting side of things was a (VERY tall) Black dude.

My favorite thing about the celebrations is that they pretty much end by dusk. Or, at least they do in my part of town, which is a little south of the main touristy area. I’m sure the bars down on River St. remain rowdy through the night, but in the more genteel neighborhood in which I have my manse, all of the interlopers cleared out by the time the sun had set.

Today, on St. Pat’s actual feast day, the city is quiet. Perfect spring weather. The church bells from the cathedral a few blocks over just rang a few minutes ago, calling the parishioners to prayer.  Martha baked a fresh loaf of Irish soda bread, which is cooling on the kitchen counter. She’s 3/8^th Irish, so she does take the day to enjoy a little mother’s milk; there’s eight cans of Guinness in the fridge.

Having lived here now for a few years, I feel like I’m finally starting to understand the Southern vibe. My ideas about this place before moving here were not wrong exactly but I didn’t have any appreciation for the region’s nuance. There are ghosts here, lots of them, and it causes people to be a touch more reflective than many of their northern brethren. And, yes, they’re slower. Not because they’re any dumber but because living in this heat teaches people to take their time. As for the famous Southern friendliness, that’s a real thing, too, at least to your face. And when it comes to partying, they don’t mess around.