ST. PATRICK’S DAY PUBLIC THE SNAKES AND THE SEDIMENT By Michael P Lennon,

ST. PATRICK’S DAY PUBLIC RECORD NOTICE: THE SNAKES AND THE SEDIMENT

17 March 2016

THE SNAKES AND THE SEDIMENT

St. Patrick’s Day arrives every year with the same green fog: shamrocks in shop windows, plastic hats, and a chorus of cheerful nonsense about snakes fleeing the island. Fine tradition, harmless fun. But if we’re speaking plainly—as the Irish have always done best—Patrick did not actually clear Ireland of reptiles. The snakes were symbolic. They were habits, systems, and ideas that had worn ruts into the ground long before anyone picked up a crozier.

In other words, the snakes were people’s behaviour.

That is the useful bit of the story.

Because Ireland has always been good at ceremony, but less certain when it comes to deciding what to do after the parade. The country can march with purpose on a wet March morning, yet still spend the next six months arguing whether the national stew should be eaten with a fork or a spoon. It sounds trivial, but it illustrates a deeper national habit: endless discussion where a clear decision might do the job quicker.

History records this pattern more than once.

Take 1916. The St. Patrick’s Day parades that year were not merely festive processions. They were logistical rehearsals. The Irish Volunteers marched through Dublin and other towns carrying rifles that looked old and uniforms that looked even older. British officials, observing from a comfortable distance, assumed they were watching enthusiastic amateurs playing soldier.

They were not.

They were watching preparation.

Only a small group of leaders understood the full plan for the Easter Rising the following month. The rest marched, trained, and tested their nerve in public view. The authorities mistook resolve for theatre. History shows that misreading a crowd can become expensive.

And here we are again, a century later, still surrounded by parades and commentary. The names change—politicians, commentators, analysts, and the occasional well-tailored snob who treats the press like a chessboard—but the pattern feels familiar.

Noise first. Clarity later.

Let the record note something simple on this St. Patrick’s Day: ceremony is not the same thing as leadership. A parade does not steer the ship; it merely proves that the crew can march in roughly the same direction.

Which brings us to a polite acknowledgement.

The President—any president worth the title—holds a symbolic role that matters precisely because it stands above the noise. The office exists to steady the conversation when public debate drifts into theatre. It is appropriate, therefore, to record thanks for that role: a quiet anchor while the rest of the harbour argues about tides.

Now, a word to those who enjoy stirring the pot.

The media class—especially the clever operators who feed them crumbs while pretending to despise them—should remember an old coastal rule. Sailors in Ireland learn it early: watch the rocks.

Rocks do not care about speeches.

They do not care about oil prices, polling numbers, or how large the decorative pile of shamrocks appears on television. Rocks are patient things. They sit exactly where they always sat, waiting for someone steering by ego instead of compass.

And when a vessel meets a rock, the argument about forks and spoons suddenly feels irrelevant.

This is why public records matter. They act like sediment at the bottom of a river. Over time, the mud settles, the water clears, and the shape of the riverbed becomes visible. Facts accumulate. Memory hardens. Eventually, the current reveals what was always there.

That is the real lesson of St. Patrick and his famous snakes.

You do not chase them forever. You expose them to daylight. Once the ground shifts beneath them, they leave on their own.

So let the parade proceed. Let the pipes play, the flags wave, and the tourists photograph every passing shamrock. Tradition deserves its moment.

But once the music fades, Ireland—like every nation—still has to decide how it eats its stew.

Fork or spoon.

Preferably before the rocks arrive.

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