One night he was after playing a tune called “High Level” (Now . . .if I was sworn I can’t remember if it was a jig or a reel). Anyhow, one of the boyos says to him, “Do you know that your daughter is abroad in the haggard with Jimmy Doyle?” “I don’t” says John “But if you whistle a few bars of it I’ll have a go at it”.
Dancing wasn’t the only thing that went on in such houses. If John Osborne was alive today he would be described as eccentric. Well . . . I suppose he wouldn’t . . he was a poor man and you have to be well off to merit the euphemism “eccentric”. Anyway, he was a bit odd but could have some very practical, if unorthodox solutions to certain situations. I’ll give you an example. One night a visiting dancer; a fine young fellow who had the “book-learnin” was going the next day for an interview with a view to joining the Garda Siochana. Opinions were divided as to whether he was of the required height. Until a horse dealer, a relation of my own, stated with some authority,
“That man is not the full eighteen hands high”.
Paddy Toomey a stone cutter who only lived one field away went home and returned with a six-foot rule. And sure enough the prospective Guardian-of-the-peace proved to be half an inch short of the required height. What was to be done?. This was before the era of “brown envelopes” and anyway times were poor. John Osborne hit on a plan. When the dancer’s back was turned he dropped his flute and with the maximum alacrity picked up an ash-plant. Almost before the pause in the music was noticed he gave the young man a belt of the stick on top of the head. “A fellandy” it was called up our way. The man in question had a good thick head o’ hair and the resulting bump brought him up to the required height.
He made a good Guard but ever after, in our area anyway, he was known as “lumpy head”. There were some colourful nicknames around our place, One young male patron of Osborne’s was known as “you’ll have yer ups an’ downs”. You are going to ask me how anyone could end up with such a cumbersome handle. Well . . . I’ll tell you. It was inherited- like a Peerage. His father, as a young man had met a girl at a house-dance, a few miles away. Her parents were dead and she had returned from the US of A and, of course, had a few Dollars. And she was an only child, into the bargain and had inherited a good few acres. Me man played his cards well and told her a few stories that wouldn’t exactly run parallel with the truth. Anyway, to make a long story short, the relationship blossomed and they got married. He was a steady enough lad . . . he had a few head o’ cattle . . . five or six. But . . . he had five brothers and each of them had a good few cattle. . . which he borrowed for the occasion. ( In modern Banking parlance such a move would be described as,” an artificial boost”.) The new bride must have thought she was back in the land of extensive ranches when the herd was installed on her little farm. There were Shorthorns, Friesians, Whiteheads and a couple of Aberdeen Anguses. Needless to say, for the first few mornings after the wedding the young couple didn’t get up too early. But one morning when the new bride arose from the marriage bed she noticed a reduction in the herd. One of her brothers-in-law, under cover of darkness, had repossessed what was rightfully his. When she pointed out the loss to her spouse his only comment was “you’ll have your ups an’ downs”. “You’ll have yer ups an’ downs”
Every other night a similar raid would take place as each brother took back his livestock and every time the moryah “innocent” husband would say “you’ll have yer ups an’ downs”
But I’m rambling. nowadays I think they call it digressing. I mentioned earlier about the practice of dipping the wooden flute in water. Well, whether for flute-immersion or not a galvanized bucket of water was a permanent feature on the stone bench outside Osborne’s door. And one June night when the boys and girls (a term used to describe those unmarried, and under 70) having made it, relatively unscathed through the Rock Park, were knocking sparks from the floor. They were glad of the opportunity, amid the jigs and the reels (and God only knows what other energy-sapping activities) to exit occasionally for a refreshing draught from the Parnassian bucket.
At day-break, while preparing to depart, the exhausted assembly was informed by a youth (who was looked on locally as “a sort of a cod”) of how he had suffered during the night with a stone-bruise on his big toe. The pain, he said, would have been unbearable but for the fact that; “ I used to go out now an’ agin an’ dip it in the bucket o’ water”.
A DONEGAL CHRISTMAS
Liam McCauley
Every Christmas is a special time for many different reasons. In recent years, I have had the benefit of learning from those who lived in other countries how the story of Christmas can differ slightly, what way the festivities are celebrated can vary and how even the dates of importance can be substantially different. Nevertheless the one thing which all have in common is the family and children, around which it all revolves.
For many of us in Ireland an ideal Christmas is a white one, not a common event in Ireland with our mild climate which seldom stretches to snow, especially when you might be tempted to wish for it. So although snow was unlikely, as children growing up in south Donegal in the 1960’s we knew hope was important and it became part of our other expectations and preparations in the lead up to the big day.
One of the differences we had was that in a time where the pace of life was a little slower, Santy’s journey could be carried out in the blink of an eye, but such was the number of houses he had to visit that he still did not manage to get to part of south Donegal until nearly the end of morning Mass on Christmas Day. So no matter how much we would like to we were not likely to ever be in place to actually see this fascinating character.
Preparations were all important, letters were written and rewritten, as other tasks were completed to ensure the qualifying good behaviour was obvious and unquestionable.
Getting the chimney cleaned was a crucial job otherwise he would get his famous red suit soiled and blackened on the turf soot. A chimney brush was fashioned from a blackthorn bush and with a rope tied to either end, one man standing on top of the thatched roof, the other beside the fireplace, as the “brush” was pulled up and down, each, doing their best to create as little mess as possible.
All this in the hope that the boys would get the cowboy gear they wanted, the girls all the dolls and the all important compendium of games which would last through every rainy Sunday for the rest the year and all this would be waiting for us when we got home.
One particularly special Christmas morning when I was about 6 or 7 is particularly memorable, for as soon as we awoke, we realised from the brightness outside that it had snowed overnight. There was perfect snow everywhere, at least 5 or 6 inches of it, on the fields, every hedge, every branch of every tree had its own picture postcard share to display. Were we allowed out to play in it? Not a bit, it was Christmas morning and we were quickly reminded about putting on our best clothes and boots or shoes for Mass which would start only too quickly. There would be plenty of time for play later.
Besides, the house also had to be vacated for our important visitor as well. Our chapel was a quick half mile walk away and in no time at all, other families making the same journey were filtering along the road towards our house. Before long, about 9 or 10 children were speculating about what kind of car, truck, cowboy gear, doll or pram might await us later, eyes wide with the thought of eventually getting to play in the virgin crunchy snow.
We began making our way, excitement barely under control, above us our breath steamed in the crisp air, behind us the occasional adult hurrying to catch up after doing last minute things, around us, the other adults doing their best to ensure we did not get too carried away, throwing snowballs and so on. Suddenly, the entire world stopped, there along the road in front of us, carved into the clean canvas of snow, were an undisputable set of tracks of a small twin hoofed animal.
Now, we had never seen a reindeer other than in storybooks but we all knew that on that particular morning there was only one animal that could possibly,
have made those tracks. Without saying a word, every child in that group looked at each other, reading each other’s minds, as we all realised the same thing, there right in front of us for the entire world to see were the footprints of Santy’s reindeer, a wonder that children everywhere longed to see but the story was, never got to see, no more than the great man himself.
Whatever control we had been under up to that point, disappeared in a flash, as all began jumping, shouting and roaring about our wonderful, joyous and unexpected find. In the middle of trying to restore some order, one practical farmer, forgetting that he was once a child himself, pointed out that it was probably just a sheep or calf that had gotten out from where it should be. However as we quickly glanced around the familiar fields with names like Crockasturry and Lugnaminna, of all mornings there was not a single animal of any description to be seen.
In the split second it took for us to check all this, then once again, looking at each other, we could see in each other’s faces that it didn’t matter if the grown up’s believed us or not because WE KNEW. Yes we knew what those tracks were with that unshakeable faith and hope of children.
That was a very special Christmas for many different reasons; I now understand that with more modern technology Santy can now reach south Donegal much earlier, even during the early hours of Christmas day.
Whether we have lost or gained something in that is for others to decide, but many of the people whose faces are still so fresh in my memory of that day, have themselves passed on, leaving those of us who are still growing up, to help create new Christmas memories through stories or deeds, for those in the earlier stages of growing up. To misquote the words of another “Memories and differences can come and go but Christmas remains the same”.
ALIEN INTERVENTION
Thomas Carroll
The year is 2090. It’s now ten years since the friendly aliens known as Zendonians arrived on planet earth. In that period of time humans have acquired a vast amount of knowledge from these beings. Thanks to the Zendonian’s space-age technology we now have computer chips which grow inside our brains enabling us to reason at a phenomenal speed. The average human can now calculate complex mathematical equations in a matter of seconds. Our intelligence has become superhuman.
Alien technology means we no longer eat food three times a day. A vito-nutro tablet provides all our daily requirements. There is one disadvantage – we must drink a minimum of ten gallons of water per day. This is necessary to flush out our supercharged bodies and brains.
The Zendonians willingly offered a longer life span of one hundred years to anyone who wanted this opportunity. About twenty per cent of humans accepted. This offer was conditional – humans receiving this gift would have to travel to the alien planet of Zenda which was twelve billion light years away in the galaxy of Genesis X. Here they would live out the extra one hundred years of their lives.
Back on earth the Zendonians have eliminated poverty, food shortage and mankind’s obsession with war. All this has meant the prospect of an improved future is now a reality for third world countries. Next the Zendonians are going to tackle crime, violence and greed. If these three unbalances are successfully removed, our society will be almost perfect. Imagine being able to walk the streets without the fear of violence. The wealthy classes assisting the less well-off to maintain a decent standard of living; which will in turn remove the cycle of poverty and crime.
Alien intervention has enabled mankind to create a fantastic new world; thus ensuring that our descendents will inherit a society of joy and goodness.
THE HANGOVER
Mattie Lennon
Here’s a story told to me by a cousin, in Ballinastockan, who wouldn’t know how to tell a lie. It’s about a local man who was nicknamed “the Mouse” and here are the cousin’s exact words,
“The Mouse was a great man to knock down drink. But to my mind the time that his alcoholic acumen came into its own was on one Tuesday morning . . it was after a Bank holiday weekend and he was badly in need of a hair of the dog. (As far as I cam remember that was the morning he said to his own dog, “bite me if you like but don’t bark”) On the morning in question his total finances amounted to one solitary English truppeny bit. Do you remember them? Anyway the English truppeny bit was brass and twelve sided. There’s a word for that. An oul schoolmaster told me once. It’s Dod . . dod . . . me oul head is goin.Dodecagonal. Dodecagonal . Where was I? Oh yes. The mouse an’ the truepenny bit. Now, even though things were cheap at the time it would take five shillings, or a half a crown at the very least to make any impression on a hangover. So what could a man do with a truepenny bit? I couldn’t do anything with it. An’ I bet you couldn’t do much with it either. But the mouse had a plan. The price of a clay pipe, at the time, was truppence. So . . he went to Burke’s shop, in Lacken, an’ he purchased a new clay pipe.
Head splittin’ . . . mouth like the inside of a septic tank and the nerves in bits . . and now . you are going to ask me what good a clay pipe . . even a new one . .would be to alleviate such a condition. Well . . .at the time it was believed that a clay pipe had to be seasoned. The favoured method was to fill the pipe-bowl with whiskey . . . something that even the most parsimonious publican couldn’t very well refuse to supply.
Armed with his new pipe, the mouse headed for Blessing-ton and into Hennessy’s where he asked the barman to fill his purchase with the necessary amber liquid which he promptly sucked out through the stem. He visited Miley’s, Powers and Dowlings with the same request. And then he crossed the street to Mullally’s and the Gunch Byrnes. He got a bonus in the Gunche’s . . he managed to get a fill in the bar and the lounge. You with the mathematical turn of mind will know that the bowl of a clay pipe would hold approximately 8 ml and if you were paying attention you’d know that he got it filled seven times which would amount to a sum total of 56 millilitres of whiskey. I won’t bore you with the exact conversion to imperial measure; you went to school as long as I did but . . the total alcohol involved amounted to slightly more than a small one. Hardly enough to make inroads into a severe, seasonal, hangover. But it was a start. . and . . as luck would have it the Mouse got a lift to Naas where . . at the time there were thirty seven pubs.”
TIN WHISTLE
Ronnie Hickey
AN ONLY CHILD
Mattie Lennon
Ihaven’t ever been described as the black sheep of the family.....and that’s simply because I am an only child. Do my traits, foibles and way of living reflect the fact that I was reared as an only child? In the late nineteenth century Alfred Adler, the founder of Individual Psychology, indicated the importance of a child’s position in the “family constellation”. According to present day experts here are some common personality traits of “only children”:
Confident: Only children are usually not afraid to make decisions and are comfortable with their opinions.
Pays Attention to Detail: They like things to be organized and are often on time.
Good in School: Onlies tend to read a lot and have a good memory for facts and figures.
IT’S MINE!: Only children might have difficulty sharing or going second because they have always been first in line for everything.
Overly Critical: While being a perfectionist is not such a bad thing, you may have a tendency to take this to extremes and be really critical of yourself and others. If you’re an “only,” these feelings may be familiar:
“I didn’t do as well as I should have.” “Sometimes I feel lonely.” “I would be much happier with a brother or sister.” “I’m not getting enough attention.” Even though, as an only child, you probably spend a lot of time talking with your parents; do you make sure you express yourself to them about any long-term feelings that get you down?
Professor Floy Pepper of Portland, Oregon, said “ The only child has a decidedly difficult start in life as he spends his entire childhood among persons who are more proficient. He may try to develop skills and areas that will gain appro
val of the adult world or he may solicit their sympathy by being shy, timed or helpless”.
The Professor goes on to say that the only child is usually pampered -and if a boy has a mother complex who feels that his father is his rival.
He enjoys his position as a centre of interest and is, usually, interested only in himself. He sometimes has a feeling of insecurity due to the anxiety of his parents. Since the only child, for the most part, is not taught to gain things by his own effort, merely to want something is to have it. If his requests are not granted, he may feel unfairly treated and refuse to cooperate.
Some time ago I came up with the mad notion of forming an International Association of Singletons. My idea fell flat on its face. Only three or four only children showed any interest. Most of them seem to want to get on with their lives. I did however get a lot of views from “onlies” worldwide who had varied views (most of them positive) on their birth order.
Hai Rud in France said:”...I feel almost privileged to be without any brothers and sisters...when I was eight or nine years old I remember an elderly neighbour patting me on the head and telling me not to worry-my mother would provide me with some company soon! My reaction was one of complete indifference to the possibility: I felt neither relieved nor jealous at the prospect, there was a complete blank in my mind”.
And the effect in later life?. “I dislike large groups of people, even friends, when you have to talk loudly to be heard. As an only child, when you say something your parents listen to you and devote their attention to you. There is not therefore the competition to be heard or taken notice of. I see the result of this today in that I will not “fight” to the front of a conversation...My partner is also an only child. What is interesting is that neither of us will have a full scale fight over anything- we both tend to retreat rather than battle it out, simply because we never had to fight with a brother or sister...”
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