Warning: Best read with tongue in cheek.
An Amazing Leprechaun Story 
Some of you may remember that two years ago, I made a trip to Ireland. It was the fulfillment of a lifetime dream. Ireland is a mystical country and, when the mist lies low on the hills and the shamrocks lift their heads along the roadways, it’s easy to believe that it is as magical as legends says.
I took a warm, heavy sweater with me when I boarded the plane to Ireland and when I got back home, I hung that sweater in my closet and, basically, forgot it was there—until yesterday.
Yesterday was a chilly day and I dug out the sweater and slipped it on before heading to the mailbox. The sweater reminded me of the Emerald Isle and I sighed, remembering that as I left, I had wished I could bring a piece of Ireland back home with me.
For some reason, the sweater felt heavy, much heavier than I remembered. Had I put a package in the pocket and forgotten it was there?
I ran my hand into the sweater’s pocket and that’s when the trouble started.
“Ow! Quit poundin’ me head!” shouted a tiny but decidedly grumpy voice.
You should have seen me shed that sweater. I dropped it on the floor and jumped back about two feet.
First, a fine green mist puffed out of the pocket, sort of like the dust from an oak ball when it is stepped on. Then, a pointed cap emerged, followed by a tiny fellow, red hair sticking out below the cap, wearing a vest and leggings.
Being unable to speak, I put my hand over my pounding heart and tried to catch my breath. The leprechaun, for I knew it couldn’t be anything else, had no problem at all with his speech.
“And why are you standin’ there gawking? You wished for me, here I am. It sure took you long enough to let me out,” he grumped, his blue eyes looking daggers.
Since this had to be a dream and I was bound to wake up soon, I decided I might as well humor this unexpected visitor.
“You’ve been in that sweater for two whole years?” I asked, fanning my face with my hand. “How’d you get there and why didn’t I know you were hitching a ride to the states?”
Oh, my goodness! His face flushed with fury, he stamped his small-scale foot and he shouted, “As if I had anything to say about it, you, you..pesky American!”
Well, I’m pretty easy going, but even I objected to being called pesky.
“You, sir, are a stowaway. I didn’t invite you here.”
With a visible effort, the diminutive man crossed his arms, and began pacing in a circle, his eyebrows drawn together in a frown.
“Did you or did you not climb to the top of Blarney Castle?” he asked.
“Yes, certainly I did,” I said, “but I sure didn’t see anything like a sawed off little man waiting to spring into my pocket.”
I shouldn’t have called him sawed off. He jumped up and down, hands clenched at his side, and a cloud of green dust rose from under his pointed shoes.
“You leaned over backward and kissed that bloomin’ Blarney stone, didn’t you?”
I couldn’t help it. I was intimidated by a twelve-inch Irish legend.
I gulped. “Yes, I did that.”
“And, you nearly slipped and fell headlong into that dismal, dank abyss into which many a fine Irish man has had the misfortune to plunge, didn’t you?”
I nodded, quaking beneath that small but malevolent stare.
“And then, at the last possible moment, your hand caught on something hard and round and you pushed yourself up,” he continued.
“Look,” I said, “all of that is true, but my original question was how did you get here?”
In a tone as chilly as the waters of the River Shannon, he said, “That was me head that saved you. The rocks of Blarney Castle are my home and I was unlucky enough to stick me head out of the window at the exact moment you slipped. That wasn’t a round stone you grabbed hold of; it was me head. When you stood up, you brought me up with you and I, quick as a flash, made myself invisible and slid into your pocket.”
“Well, thank you, but why didn’t you hop out of my pocket? Why have you been hiding for two years?”
“Your hand is what landed on me head two years ago and I couldn’t get out of that plague-taked pocket until your hand landed on me head again. Leprechaun rules. Now, send me back home! I don’t like it here.”
I sat down on the floor because my legs wouldn’t hold me up any more. I was eye-level with my uninvited guest.
“I’d be glad to, but I’ll have to buy you a plane ticket and I’m not sure what the airline would say about transporting a…” I couldn’t help it. I had to giggle at the thought…”a leprechaun.”
“Oh, give me patience,” he implored, glaring at the ceiling. “You don’t have to do anything except wish me back home.”
“That’s it?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Wait, wait!” Old stories were coming back to me, now that the shock of a leprechaun in my pocket was wearing off, “Don’t you have a pot of gold somewhere and aren’t you supposed to give it to me?”
The green mist swirled again and I was sure I heard the sound of bagpipes. “Forget it,” he growled.
“Okay,” I agreed, thoroughly chastised. “I wish…”
“No, no, wait! You’ve got to put your hand on me head again.” He scooted up beside me.
I sighed, reached out, and placed my fingers atop his green cap.
“I wish this tiny, irate gentleman from the Castle Blarney was safely ensconced in his rocky home once more.”
Just like that, in a puff of green, he disappeared. Gone. Vanished. The only thing he left behind was his vest. I guess he must have slipped out of it.
Impossible, you’re saying? You don’t believe a word of it, you scoff? I present here a picture of his vest to prove what I’ve said is the truth. Remember, anything can happen on St. Patrick’s Day or the day before. And, I sort of miss that miniscule, tempermental leprechaun.
If you’d like to read a past blog post about leprechauns, click here: http://www.blanchedaymanos.com/wp-admin/post.php?post=6054&action=edit
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