by Alice Taylor
The following morning, Hazel and I were manning the corner when a miserable-looking man approached us and I murmured under my breath to Hazel, “Nothing doing there anyway.” But Hazel, the eternal optimist, approached him and in her lilting accent softly introduced the subject—“Would you like to buy a ticket?”—and much to my amazement his hand slowly made its way into a deep inside pocket where a note detached itself from a wad of its companions; having told Hazel that she was a grand girl, he went on his way, and I learned the lesson that you can never predict a buyer!
As well as races, we attended shows, horse fairs and shopping centres. We covered the Prize Cattle Show in the Green Glens in Millstreet where Noel C. Duggan gave us a prime location and bought our first two tickets. It was a great experience to view those perfectly groomed highly bred cattle that are the models of the bovine world. One normally associates the Green Glens with beautiful horses but there we saw that a well-groomed cow is as elegant as any top-class hunter. Politicians came there to strut their stuff because this is the crème de la crème of the dairying industry.
We had a great day at Skibbereen Show and there we had the additional advantage that our parish priest, Fr John, had come to us from Skibbereen. It soon became obvious that he had left good memories behind him in the town as the people were delighted to welcome him back and were generous in their support. It was a lovely sunny day and our site under the shelter of an overhanging hedge had a good view of the entire field.
A cattle show must surely be one of the most deeply satisfying and entertaining ways to spend a day in rural Ireland; its title is actually misleading because it encompasses a flower show, art and crafts display, farm-produce competition and a display of the best farm animals, as well as all the up-to-date farm machinery. People wander around and look at all that is on view and in the process meet the neighbours and old friends whom they may not have seen since the last show. In previous years, every fair-sized town had a cattle show which was referred to simply as “the show”, but with the decline in agriculture they have dwindled and with them one of the most welcome social aspects of rural Ireland.
On one of our many outings, we visited a horse fair which necessitated a drive of many miles. On arrival, we experienced quite a culture shock. Horses trotted up and down the street, rearing up in protest at approaching traffic. It was like a scene from the Wild West, and if some of the horses were wild, they were no more so than the people who traversed the town. Tanned, tough-looking men in black vests, with tattoos in all visible areas, led prancing ponies and piebald horses up and down the town, accompanied by women in knee-high white plastic boots, wearing skirts up as far as possible and overflowing tops down as far as possible and brassy blonde hair piled high. They formed a volcanic collection, and it was no surprise to see police on horseback patrolling the streets. You felt that a confrontation could erupt at a moment’s notice, and not necessarily with the police.
The fact that we were there selling tickets for church restoration brought amazed looks to many faces, and as the day progressed we could understand their amazement. When we went for a meal, we had to pay at the door before entering the premises, which told a lot about the owner’s opinion of the clientele. Three of us joined a bleary-eyed drunk who was already sprawled across the table and, in the process of gathering himself together to make room for us, must have made out through a drunken haze the outline of one man and two women.
“How come,” he challenged Fr John in a slurred voice, “you have two women and I can’t even get one. Is one the wife and if ’tis, can I have the other one?”
I happened to be the other one, and after I had assured him that I was available and willing to be his he rolled over and dozed off and we had our questionable lunch to the background music of his occasional snore. The takings that day were not great but we had seen a slice of Irish life that had come as a big surprise to me.
All our outings were different and some days people were generous and the selling was easy and other days it was tough going and we came home exhausted. But we met a varied selection of people. One pot-bellied balding man well past his sell-by date wanted our car to do more than just transport him around. He wanted to know if it was a “babe magnet”. I did not have the heart to tell him that if that was his line of appeal, he should probably be looking at a Jaguar. One woman took it upon herself to tell us that we had no shame in us to be dragging a car around the country selling tickets. But I was glad to have done it and one thing that I discovered while selling tickets was that a sense of humour was a vital necessity. During the entire proceedings Gabriel was our financial controller who kept track of tickets and returns and before each outing provided change and balanced the books when we returned.
The raffle brought in the princely sum of €98,000, so with a total like that we felt it had been worth our while to have dragged ourselves around the country asking all conditions of men and women “Will you buy a ticket?”
CHAPTER 8
Through the Eyes of a Child
It was the week before Christmas and like most of the country I was up to my oxters in baking, writing cards and buying presents. On that particular day, I was whipping trays of mince pies in and out of the oven. A small dark head came around the kitchen door and Dan asked: “Alice, will you take me to do my Christmas shopping tomorrow?”
“I will of, course,” I told him with delight. It was a long time since I had taken a six-year-old Christmas shopping.
Dan was the youngest of three boys, and his brothers were teenagers. They lived on a farm outside the village, and this would be his very first solo shopping trip. Taking me along was almost as good as going on his own because I knew that my role was to be that of a silent, agreeable observer.
“I’ll come in after school tomorrow evening,” he said.
“That will be grand,” I told him.
“And I’ll have my own money,” he informed me firmly before closing the door. I was being told that no interference, financial or otherwise, was expected or acceptable. At six, he might not have the right words to let me know what he wanted but he had other ways of getting his message across.
Next evening, he shot in the side door on his way home from school, flung his school bag into a corner and demanded, “Are you ready?”
“What about eating something, Dan?” I ventured.
“Afterwards,” I was told.
We set out for nearby Bandon. Dan sat upright in his seat with a look of intense concentration on his face as he worked out the plan of his shopping campaign.
“I must get presents for Mam, Dad, Bill, Henry and maybe Róisín.” Róisín was a baby cousin who spent a lot of time in his house and whom he loved dearly.
I thought that I had better ask the burning question although, having consulted his mother, I already knew the answer. But it was best for our negotiations that Dan have all his cards on my table.
“How much money have you got to spend, Dan?” I inquired.
“Twenty euro,” he told me, patting his pocket. “And it’s all my own and I’m only spending my own money.”
Sound man, I thought! Spending only the money in your pocket was not the national average at Christmas. But five presents out of €20 was going to put us to the pin of our collar. Tread cautiously now, Alice, I told myself. This little lad’s feelings and pride cannot be dented on this shopping trip. But his next comment set alarm bells ringing.
“Alice, I think that Mam would like a dishwasher.”
“Do you think so, Dan?” I gasped in consternation.
“Well, maybe,” he added, and I breathed a sigh of relief that he was not totally hell-bent on a dishwasher.
As we were walking up the main street of Bandon, I ventured: “Where do you want to do your shopping?”
“The new shopping centre,” he told me. “They have a big electrical shop there that sells dishwashers.”
“Is that right?” I said weakly as my blood pressure rose. I was not off the hoo
k.
“It’s going to be a big surprise for Mam,” he told me.
My mind went into overdrive trying to figure out how I was going to get out of this predicament. But no solution came readily to mind. Taking a six-year-old shopping had its hidden hazards. Dan forged ahead of me, his stride full of purposeful intent. There seemed to be no way to divert the impending disappointment. He was so overflowing with enthusiasm for his proposed purchase that it seemed cruel to drown his delight in a flood of reality. He was a firm believer in Santa, and in his heart he was now being Santa to his mother. How could I shatter his wonderful world and tell him that he could not buy a dishwasher for €20? He was charging full steam ahead towards a crash landing. How could I soften it?
Then suddenly the theory that worries are sometimes overcome by events became a reality before my very eyes. Dan slapped on his brakes and I almost fell over him. He came to a standstill in front of the pound-shop window. There in scarlet splendour stood an enormous jovial Santa. His portly presence filled the whole window. I was never in my life so glad to see him. His arms were outstretched in welcome and I almost fell into them. This would test his pulling power! Could he obliterate a dishwasher? Dan was intrigued. His eyes filled with wonder. I watched breathlessly. Santa did the trick! The dishwasher did not stand a chance.
“Do you think that we should try in here first?” he asked breathlessly.
“Well, we could try anyway,” I assured him, not wanting to sound too enthusiastic, and praying that the power of the pound shop would swing things. He briskly pushed open the door and silently surveyed the shop. It was a child’s paradise packed with Christmas wonder. But Dan was not going to rush into anything. He walked very slowly around the packed shelves, paying intense attention to every item at his eye level and kneeling down to inspect the lower shelves. Then he came to a full stop in front of a little tableau of a farm scene. He studied it intently. There was no comment. Then he resumed his journey and I followed wordlessly, holding my breath.
As I passed the little farm, I glanced down but I kept walking because I did not want to appear over-eager. The price tag was a15. Perfect! But how was this going to work out? We were still only at the contemplation stage. Dan came silently around again and examined a little tool-set. Then he continued. On passing, I glanced down at the tool-set. Five euro. So far so good. He slowed down again as he approached the farm. Then he came to a stand-still. He stood there for a long time and studied the tableau and I studied Dan. There was deep concentration and financial analysis going on in his mind and he frowned at the intensity of the decision-making process. Eventually he began to lay out his budget strategy. No minister for finance ever took his portfolio more seriously.
“Have I enough money for this?” he asked thoughtfully. I was so grateful that we were not looking at a dishwasher.
“You have,” I told him.
The deep concentration continued, with his hands buried deep in his pockets. Finally he drew one hand out and placed an index finger on the hens.
“Mam would like them,” he pronounced.
“She would,” I agreed.
He then moved his finger to the horse.
“Dad would like him,” he decided.
“He would,” I agreed.
He then moved a finger to the tractor.
“Bill and Henry would like that,” he continued.
“They would,” I agreed.
He then moved his finger to the dog.
“And Róisín would love him,” he finished decidedly.
“She would indeed,” I agreed with relief.
Then he looked up at me with a triumphant look on his face and two eyes overflowing with delight.
“That will make them all happy,” he declared.
“It sure will,” I agreed, though they could never be as happy as I was. But Dan was not finished yet. He retraced his footsteps back to the little tool-set and examined it carefully.
“Have I enough for this?” he queried.
“You have,” I assured him.
“Dad and I could work with it,” he decided. His father did wood-turning and Dan loved the workshop.
“Now Dad and I will be happy together,” he told me.
This minister for finance would leave the opposition speechless!
He carefully picked up his farm set and took it to the checkout and then went back for his tool-set. I maintained my role as a silent observer. He viewed the girl at the checkout.
“Will you wrap my Christmas presents?” he asked her solemnly.
“Of course,” she said, smiling, and asked, “Would you like a Santa card?”
There was no need for words as his glowing smile gave the answer. His smile lit up her Christmas spirit and she did a beautiful job on his two presents.
As we left the shop, he whispered to me: “Wasn’t she very nice; isn’t it nice to be nice?”
Maybe he was not government material after all. We stood and admired the huge red man in the window.
“Isn’t Santa magic?” he said with a sigh.
“He is indeed,” I agreed wholeheartedly.
After all, he had just turned a dishwasher into a farm.
CHAPTER 9
Innishannon Creates It
Within each of us lies a dormant pool of creativity and, when the waters of this well begin to flow, the result can be deep inner fulfilment. Artists, wood-turners, knitters, bakers, embroiderers, and lace-makers are part of this network, as is anyone who creates with their hands and imaginations. They wake up in the morning with minds excited at the prospect of a picture to be painted or a carving to be finished or a tapestry to be completed. Creativity fills them with satisfaction and brings beauty into their lives and the lives of those around them. Such people are to be found in every parish. How many had we in our parish? There was only one way to find out and that was to provide a showcase for their creations. That showcase would be “Innishannon Creates It”.
Such a display of quality hand-made goods could not happen overnight. It takes time to create beautiful things, and so in January we laid out our idea to the parish via the church newsletters and local media. Each donated item would be sold at its full value for the church fund. We went to great pains to assure people that their creations would not be undervalued and sold cheaply to bargain-hunters. Hours of loving dedication resulting in beautiful articles deserved to be appreciated and the articles sold for their true value. This was going to be a display of superb quality meriting discerning customers.
There was a hugely positive reaction to the idea from the parishioners; the whole concept caught people’s imagination and they got to work. They had the best part of a year for their projects as the following Christmas was targeted as the date when we would actually hold “Innishannon Creates It”. During the year we heard tell of patchwork quilts, christening robes, lace cloths, hand-knitted jumpers, paintings and tapestries in the making. We held our breath, hoping that we would have quantity as well as quality, but only time would tell. That was the excitement of doing something for the first time: there was no blueprint, so you could have a runaway success or a complete flop on your hands. Throughout the year we promoted a slow build-up of interest, stimulating the creators and alerting potential purchasers.
During the summer months we collected rose petals from the local gardens and laid them out to dry in the warm sun. When finally dry, they were feathery light with a wonderful array of colour and a heavenly smell. They needed to be well presented and luckily Paddy, who lives outside the village and is always ready to help, had taken up wood-turning and gave us dozens of wooden bowls which we filled with the gorgeous-smelling rose petals. Another parishioner, Claire, had a niece in Chicago whose business was top-quality labelling, and she sent us a roll of specially printed lush gold labels. Bowls of “Innishannon Pot Pourri” would make great Christmas gifts, especially for parish people overseas.
Candles are synonymous with Christmas, so we decided to make pure beeswax c
andles. Con’s beeswax had been carefully stored away and nothing would have pleased him better than to have it used in candles to raise funds for the church that he had loved. So when his brother, Fr Denis, came on holiday, we spent days making candles and our kitchen turned into a candle-making factory. At first, progress was very slow because we lacked Con’s know-how and advice, but I remembered some of the details and we purchased a book on candle-making which we consulted as we went along.
We put a heavy saucepan on the Aga and into it went a large dome of yellow wax and the right measure of stearin powder. Ours was seasoned wax with a touch of velvet and rich honey smell. Slowly liquid wax began to ooze from the base of the dome and gently with a wooden spoon we moved the wax around and gradually the dome got smaller and smaller until it had turned into a pot of liquid amber. We kept stirring until the wax was bubbling hot. Then we put a taper into a candle mould and eased it through the hole at the bottom and sealed it with the special sealer, being careful to steady the taper in the centre using a little bit of wood across the top to keep it in place. The next step was to pour some of the boiling wax carefully into the mould, making sure to keep the wick in the centre. When the mould was almost full, we let the hot wax rest, air bubbles escaped and a little sag formed; we filled this to give an even base to the candle.
At first we did as the book instructed and stood the candle mould in cold water to cool but we discovered that the fridge worked just as well and this made things easier. When the wax had cooled and the candle was set in the mould, we had great difficulty in ejecting it until we discovered the simple trick of putting the mould into the deep freeze for a few minutes and then rolling it between our warm hands until we heard a sharp crack as the wax contracted from the mould. Then the candle came out smooth and creamy. It smelt of pure honey and felt like warm satin. Pure wax candles burn very slowly and give out a rich honey aroma—these were the perfect Christmas candles. Here Paddy weighed in with sturdy wooden candlesticks around which we tied a red ribbon and Claire’s golden labels reading: “Pure beeswax Innishannon candles”.
