“Oh, My name is Macnamara, I’m the leader of the Band
And though we’re few in number, we’re the finest in the land.”

What a ham! There I stood in front of a packed house, dressed entirely in green, singing to lift the rafters. Behind me toiled a chorus line of second graders worrying through a couple of dance steps that they repeated over and over. A seven-year-old basking in the limelight, soaking in the pure sensation. I may not have been born for the stage, but this St. Patrick’s Day performance proved beyond doubt that the attraction was certainly there.

As a kid, I liked to sing. I didn’t pay too much attention to words; I even felt pretty free with melody. I think I learned this from my Mother. I remember my Mom singing to me when I was quite small. She sang, “Mares eat oats and does eat oats and little lambs eat ivy.” I’m sure many mothers sang those same words to their children, but my mother followed that line with “A kiddily doddily do to you.” She sang this with just as much conviction as she did the first line, and it wasn’t until I reached adulthood that I realized the line should have been “A kid’ll eat Ivy too, wouldn’t you?” Even today, I think I like my mother’s line better. It may mean nothing, but it makes me feel good. And like my mother, I didn’t let correctness get in the way of my singing. I did so like to sing, so I sang.

In the Roman Catholic parochial school that I attended, I joined the chorus, which was simply called “vocal.” We practiced during lunch recess, which would have been a pretty big sacrifice, except for my enjoyment of singing. I don’t know objectively if I sang well, but I thought that I did. I believe that I sang on pitch, that I learned songs quickly, and I’m sure I sang loudly. We had many opportunities to sing — for holy days, for processions, for almost any special service. We sang.

St. Patrick’s Day, though, was something particularly special – an occasion for music, for celebrating, for going a little crazy. For some reason, the people of Savannah, Georgia, where I lived, embraced St. Patrick’s Day as if St. Patrick were some sort of local deity and as if green were his sacred color. On that day otherwise dignified people would don ridiculous green clothes, covered with shamrocks, and topped with little, green leprechaun hats. When desiring refreshment, these same city fathers would imbibe green beer and stroll by the Johnson Square fountain that had, of course, been dyed green. On one memorable St. Patrick’s Day, creative citizens even attempted to dye the Savannah River green. The Savannah River, a commercial maritime thoroughfare, is no small body of water, and any attempt to modify its murky appearance was certainly doomed. But the attempt to do so was perfectly in keeping with Savannah’s love affair with St. Patrick’s Day.

And since many Catholics in Savannah traced their ancestry back to the Emerald Isle, our school went more than a little crazy over the holiday. All the children from fourth grade up marched in the annual St. Patrick’s Day Parade. In the true spirit of the day, about half the people in the city marched in the parade while the other half watched. Our parochial school even had a drum and bugle corps leading the way. The music was nothing to write home about, a few military tunes interspersed with long stretches of “street beat.” But with a number of the patrons a little tipsy from green beer, it sounded all right.

On St. Patrick’s eve, our school put on a show, and the year I turned seven, I was to be the star. I don’t know why I was chosen to be Macnamara at the St. Patrick’s Day recital, but there it was. I never had any formal lessons. I never even thought much about singing. But I sang with enthusiasm and from my heart, simply because it was fun. Evidently, that was enough. My mother decked me out all in green — green pants, a dyed pale-green shirt, a green tie, a green shamrock, green suspenders, and a green hat. Although I enjoyed singing, I didn’t like wearing any prescribed outfit. Immediately after dressing for school, for instance, my shirt would be out, my socks rolled down, my belt unbuckled. But for this occasion, perhaps through the intervention of St. Patrick, I managed to stay reasonably well attired until time to perform.

My performance coliseum was the basement of the church — a little dark, somewhat cool, and smelling of concrete, but imposing enough for a seven-year-old. I remember the crowd as standing room only, but what I remember most was that my family was there. I don’t recall being nervous because when the music started I knew what to do. I stood as tall as I could, took a deep breath, and sang loudly, ending with the following:

“A tribute to Old Ireland is Macnamara’s Band
Da da da da da da da da” (Red Latham, Wamp Carlson and Guy Bonham)

I repeated the last line several times while my classmates in the chorus line followed behind me. When I reached the last note of the song, I wheeled around with my finger in the air, went down on one knee, and pointed to my back-ups. Curtains. Wild applause.

The rest is something of a blur. I remember everyone making a fuss over me and congratulating me. I didn’t particularly know what the fuss was about. Someone had asked me to sing, and generally I didn’t need to be asked twice. That night when I got home, it felt good to shed my restrictive green covering. Although I never wore those clothes again, they stayed in my chest of drawers for many years. From time to time, I would catch a glimpse of a green suspender lounging at the bottom of a drawer bringing a smile once more to my face.

Much later, people would still remind me of my performance. And the memory always felt good. Over the decades since that recital, I’ve had numerous opportunities to perform before some pretty large audiences — at festivals, in hotels, in auditoriums, even in a civic center. I still enjoy performing, but I’m not sure I have ever commanded the stage any more completely than I did as a child on St. Patrick’s Day in Savannah. Seven years old might be a little young to peak, but still I’ll take it. After all, we all wore green, but there was only one Macnamara, and on that night maybe I truly was the finest in the land. – Bob Tatum

Come see Sound Traveler tonight at the King Center in Melbourne, and see us tomorrow at Applebee’s on Merritt Island. Yep, we will be carrying on our St. Patrick’s Day tradition.

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5 Comments to “SongTravelin’: 01.16.11 — When We All Wore Green!”

• March 16, 2011 at 8:31 am
  Laurence says:

  I always thought that was a silly song, but I’m glad you enjoyed it so much. What I’ve heard about Savannah on St. Patrick’s Day is that it is a big drinking party.
• March 16, 2011 at 9:19 am
  Kay says:

  I can picture you doing this… the beard kind of kills the seven year old image, though.
• March 16, 2011 at 9:43 am
  Bob says:

  I was shaving in the sixth grade, but at seven I was a cherub-faced fellow.
• March 18, 2011 at 6:48 pm
  Your Sis, Terry says:

  What a memory. I think I remember you sharing that once before but loved reliving it with you. St Patrick’s Day is very special to me also. You never lacked enthusiasm – what a gift What a joy! Has Patty had the chance to go to the parade? Patty – maybe spring break will come early next year!
• April 12, 2011 at 7:24 am
  Greg says:

  Hmm it looks like your site ate my first comment (it was extremely long) so I guess I’ll just sum it up what I submitted and say, I’m thoroughly enjoying your blog. I as well am an aspiring blog blogger but I’m still new to the whole thing. Do you have any points for newbie blog writers? I’d definitely appreciate it.