"St. Patrick's Day at Bean & Birch" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
☘️
“May your troubles be less,
and your blessings be more,
and nothing but happiness
come through your door.”
The cold after the blizzard had a particular kind of honesty to it.
It was sharp, bright, and impossibly clear—the kind of morning where the sky over Stillwater Gleam looked scrubbed clean, and every pine needle held a glint of light like a tiny promise. The village of Lone Pine shimmered under a crust of snow that had frozen hard in the night.
Inside Bean & Birch, however, it was another world entirely.
Warmth. Laughter. And…green.
“Too much?” Maren asked, stepping back to admire the room.
Lucy tilted her head. “There is no such thing as too much green on St. Patrick’s Day.”
Garlands of shamrocks draped across the windows. A small chalkboard read:
☘️ Today’s Special: Irish Cream Coffee & Shamrock Scones ☘️
And in the corner, Toby—who was, as he liked to remind everyone, actually Irish—was attempting to tune a fiddle that had not been tuned since approximately 1987.
“It’s not out of tune,” Toby insisted. “It’s…historically expressive.”
From near the hearth, Martha laughed. “That fiddle sounds like it survived the famine.”
Ethan stood near the window, a mug in hand, Bear seated proudly beside him like a furry sentinel. Isabel, tucked into his jacket, watched everything with bright, curious eyes, while Ragnhilde perched above on a beam, offering the occasional approving tock.
The door burst open in a swirl of cold air and snow dust.
Liam and Mabel.
“Well,” Liam grinned, stamping his boots, “looks like we walked into Ireland.”
“You wish,” Toby shot back. “This is the Northwoods interpretation.”
Mabel made her rounds immediately, accepting greetings as if they were her due, while Sam, Erica, Tom, and the rest of the morning crowd filled the tables with laughter and steaming mugs.
And then--
The door creaked open once more.
A small dog—no one was quite sure whose—trotted in.
He was scruffy. Slightly damp. And perched over one eye, at a distinctly rakish angle, was a green hat that had clearly seen better days.
“Well now,” Lucy whispered. “Would you look at that.”
The dog marched straight through the café like he owned it.
Not toward the kitchen. Not toward the treats.
But toward Toby.
He stopped. Sat. And with great ceremony…dropped the hat at Toby’s feet.
The room fell quiet.
Toby blinked.
“Is this…is this a challenge?” he asked.
From above, Ragnhilde let out a sharp, delighted tock.
“Try it on,” Maren said.
“Oh, I will,” Toby replied, lifting the hat. “But let it be known—this is not just any hat. This is clearly a relic. Possibly enchanted.”
“Possibly damp,” Sam added.
Toby placed it on his head.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then--
He drew the bow across the fiddle.
And this time…
It sang.
Not perfectly. Not professionally.
But lively. Bright. Full of something that made the air itself feel like it was smiling.
Lucy clapped her hands. “There it is!”
Martha stood. “Now that’s a St. Patrick’s Day!”
The room erupted.
Mugs were raised. Feet tapped. Laughter spilled out into the cold morning air like warmth refusing to be contained.
The little dog, his mission complete, wandered over to Bear, who regarded him with solemn approval. Somewhere along the way, a doggy treat appeared—no one admitted to it, but Toby looked suspicious.
And for that one shimmering morning in Lone Pine…
Every heart in Bean & Birch felt just a little like a four-leaf clover--
Rare. Lucky. And exactly where it belonged.
* * * * * * * * * *
The world outside my window this morning is bright in that quiet, crystalline way that only follows a storm.
Cold. Clear. Honest.
The kind of cold that doesn’t bite so much as awaken.
And yet—March whispers its contradiction. The forecast promises mid-60s by the weekend. A gentle reminder that winter, no matter how stubborn, does not have the final word.
I take a sip of coffee.
The mug is warm in my hands, familiar in a way that goes beyond touch. On its surface is the image of the dog I grew up with…her eyes frozen in time, yet somehow still alive in memory.
And just like that, I am there again.
Running through a yard. Calling her name. Feeling that simple, uncomplicated joy that only a childhood companion can bring.
The stereo plays Clair de lune by Suite bergamasque—those soft, drifting notes that seem less like music and more like memory itself.
I sit in it.
I savor it.
I let the moment be enough.
And then those two Irish sayings come to mind…
“Always remember that hindsight is the best insight to foresight.”
There is a quiet wisdom there.
Our lives—every joy, every mistake, every love, every loss—become the lanterns we carry forward. What we have lived teaches us how to live. Not perfectly…never perfectly…but more gently, more wisely, more fully.
And perhaps that is all foresight truly is--
The courage to trust what we have already learned.
And then…
“A good friend is like a four-leaf clover—hard to find and lucky to have.”
This one settles even deeper.
Because it is not just about friends.
It is about moments.
About mornings like this.
About a cup of coffee. A remembered dog. A piece of music. A shared story. A room full of laughter at Bean & Birch.
These are the four-leaf clovers of our lives.
Rare not because they are scarce--
But because we do not always pause long enough to see them.
This morning, I see them.
I feel them.
I give thanks for them.
Outside, the cold still holds the land in its quiet grip.
Inside, warmth gathers—in memory, in music, in story.
I rise to refill my mug.
And as I do, I carry with me this simple knowing--
That luck is not something we wait for.
It is something we notice.
It is something we remember.
It is something we choose to see.
~Wylddane
“May your troubles be less,
and your blessings be more,
and nothing but happiness
come through your door.”
The cold after the blizzard had a particular kind of honesty to it.
It was sharp, bright, and impossibly clear—the kind of morning where the sky over Stillwater Gleam looked scrubbed clean, and every pine needle held a glint of light like a tiny promise. The village of Lone Pine shimmered under a crust of snow that had frozen hard in the night.
Inside Bean & Birch, however, it was another world entirely.
Warmth. Laughter. And…green.
“Too much?” Maren asked, stepping back to admire the room.
Lucy tilted her head. “There is no such thing as too much green on St. Patrick’s Day.”
Garlands of shamrocks draped across the windows. A small chalkboard read:
☘️ Today’s Special: Irish Cream Coffee & Shamrock Scones ☘️
And in the corner, Toby—who was, as he liked to remind everyone, actually Irish—was attempting to tune a fiddle that had not been tuned since approximately 1987.
“It’s not out of tune,” Toby insisted. “It’s…historically expressive.”
From near the hearth, Martha laughed. “That fiddle sounds like it survived the famine.”
Ethan stood near the window, a mug in hand, Bear seated proudly beside him like a furry sentinel. Isabel, tucked into his jacket, watched everything with bright, curious eyes, while Ragnhilde perched above on a beam, offering the occasional approving tock.
The door burst open in a swirl of cold air and snow dust.
Liam and Mabel.
“Well,” Liam grinned, stamping his boots, “looks like we walked into Ireland.”
“You wish,” Toby shot back. “This is the Northwoods interpretation.”
Mabel made her rounds immediately, accepting greetings as if they were her due, while Sam, Erica, Tom, and the rest of the morning crowd filled the tables with laughter and steaming mugs.
And then--
The door creaked open once more.
A small dog—no one was quite sure whose—trotted in.
He was scruffy. Slightly damp. And perched over one eye, at a distinctly rakish angle, was a green hat that had clearly seen better days.
“Well now,” Lucy whispered. “Would you look at that.”
The dog marched straight through the café like he owned it.
Not toward the kitchen. Not toward the treats.
But toward Toby.
He stopped. Sat. And with great ceremony…dropped the hat at Toby’s feet.
The room fell quiet.
Toby blinked.
“Is this…is this a challenge?” he asked.
From above, Ragnhilde let out a sharp, delighted tock.
“Try it on,” Maren said.
“Oh, I will,” Toby replied, lifting the hat. “But let it be known—this is not just any hat. This is clearly a relic. Possibly enchanted.”
“Possibly damp,” Sam added.
Toby placed it on his head.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then--
He drew the bow across the fiddle.
And this time…
It sang.
Not perfectly. Not professionally.
But lively. Bright. Full of something that made the air itself feel like it was smiling.
Lucy clapped her hands. “There it is!”
Martha stood. “Now that’s a St. Patrick’s Day!”
The room erupted.
Mugs were raised. Feet tapped. Laughter spilled out into the cold morning air like warmth refusing to be contained.
The little dog, his mission complete, wandered over to Bear, who regarded him with solemn approval. Somewhere along the way, a doggy treat appeared—no one admitted to it, but Toby looked suspicious.
And for that one shimmering morning in Lone Pine…
Every heart in Bean & Birch felt just a little like a four-leaf clover--
Rare. Lucky. And exactly where it belonged.
* * * * * * * * * *
The world outside my window this morning is bright in that quiet, crystalline way that only follows a storm.
Cold. Clear. Honest.
The kind of cold that doesn’t bite so much as awaken.
And yet—March whispers its contradiction. The forecast promises mid-60s by the weekend. A gentle reminder that winter, no matter how stubborn, does not have the final word.
I take a sip of coffee.
The mug is warm in my hands, familiar in a way that goes beyond touch. On its surface is the image of the dog I grew up with…her eyes frozen in time, yet somehow still alive in memory.
And just like that, I am there again.
Running through a yard. Calling her name. Feeling that simple, uncomplicated joy that only a childhood companion can bring.
The stereo plays Clair de lune by Suite bergamasque—those soft, drifting notes that seem less like music and more like memory itself.
I sit in it.
I savor it.
I let the moment be enough.
And then those two Irish sayings come to mind…
“Always remember that hindsight is the best insight to foresight.”
There is a quiet wisdom there.
Our lives—every joy, every mistake, every love, every loss—become the lanterns we carry forward. What we have lived teaches us how to live. Not perfectly…never perfectly…but more gently, more wisely, more fully.
And perhaps that is all foresight truly is--
The courage to trust what we have already learned.
And then…
“A good friend is like a four-leaf clover—hard to find and lucky to have.”
This one settles even deeper.
Because it is not just about friends.
It is about moments.
About mornings like this.
About a cup of coffee. A remembered dog. A piece of music. A shared story. A room full of laughter at Bean & Birch.
These are the four-leaf clovers of our lives.
Rare not because they are scarce--
But because we do not always pause long enough to see them.
This morning, I see them.
I feel them.
I give thanks for them.
Outside, the cold still holds the land in its quiet grip.
Inside, warmth gathers—in memory, in music, in story.
I rise to refill my mug.
And as I do, I carry with me this simple knowing--
That luck is not something we wait for.
It is something we notice.
It is something we remember.
It is something we choose to see.
~Wylddane
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