Polish kid's eyes were also smiling on St. Pat's day

It seemed even stranger when I thought it might be more convincing if I started printing my last name as O’Kozlowski for that week of March.

(My handwriting was so bad that my fourth-grade teacher Miss Frumpwaggle didn’t even notice the difference.)

Actually, I didn’t realize my ethnic background until we learned about fractions in third grade. In addition to being half Polish, I learned I was one-quarter each Irish and Slovak.

Easter will occasionally fall in March, but usually the only big holiday in the month is St. Patrick’s Day. My new-found claim to be 25 percent Irish entitled me to celebrate it.

Fortunately for me, I already had some training – for a kid – in appreciating what amounts to Irish culture.

I was a big fan of the leprechaun in the Lucky Charms™ cereal commercial. Any cereal frosted with sugar immediately got my attention. Throw marshmallows of different colors and Irish designs and you really had a fan.

Unfortunately, Mother drew the line at my two brothers and me eating a sugar cereal that also contained marshmallows. We got into too much trouble the way it was without starting the day with a double-dose of sugar.

However, that didn’t stop me from trying to imitate the words of the Lucky Charms leprechaun with the worst Irish accent ever to say, “They’re magically delicious.”

I still maintained my enthusiasm for my newfound Irish holiday despite the fact that I eventually discovered there was no truth to the rumor that you if you caught a leprechaun, he’d take you to his pot of gold.

One day in the school hallway, I saw a small person dressed in green. I tackled him, but it turned out to be a first-grader who knew judo.

He didn’t take me to a pot of gold, but he did take me to the school nurse.

Another reason St. Patrick’s Day remained something to celebrate is that I heard that the shillelagh, thick walking stick/club was popular in Ireland.

I was disappointed that the F.W. Woolworth’s Store in town didn’t carry even one shillelagh, let alone a selection of the clubs.

It was probably all for the best, though. If I had brought a shillelagh to Miss Frumpwaggle’s class, she’d have been tempted to commandeer it and use it on me.

I had youth and fear on my side, but I’d seen Miss Frumpwaggle race out the door at the dismissal bell and I’m not sure I could’ve outrun her.

There was also the allure of Irish music. I was hooked the first time I heard the opening line to “MacNamara’s Band,”

“Oh, me name is MacNamara, I’m the leader of the band.” I knew plenty of old-timers who still spoke like that.

They don’t write lyrics anymore like, “Henessee Tennessee tootles the flute.” I’ll admit, I always lost my place midway through “O’Brians, O’Ryans, O’Sheehans and Meehans.” However, the same thing always happened when I sang “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” so I was used to that.

“Who Threw the Overalls in Mrs. Murphy’s Chowder” is not exactly a St. Paddy’s Day song, but as a mischief maker I could appreciate the effort.

It’s not that I would attempt something deliberately like that. The closest I came is when I was opening a can near the stove and Mother exclaimed, “Who threw the applesauce in my spaghetti sauce.”

It was an accident. If that’s not true, then my name isn’t Walter St. Patrick O’Kozlowski.