Many of my relatives came from Ireland between 1850 and 1870. My Great-great-grandmother died on the passage, leaving her husband with an infant, my Great-grandfather. Everything she had with her was thrown overboard out of fear of contagion. There were others, some stories I know, most of their histories have been lost.
But for all of them, when they got here, they moved up into New England, worked on railroads and in the mills, one worked on a dairy farm. I don’t see St. Patrick’s Day as a reason to drink green beer. I see it as a day to look back, to remember what it cost them to come here, knowing when they left home they would never return.