by Alice Taylor
She loved children and could see no wrong in them. If any one of us was in a sulk and my mother was trying to straighten us out, Mrs Casey would say, “Don’t cross them.” That was her full philosophy where small children were concerned and we still quote it. Mrs Casey was a great believer in the natural order of things and breast-fed all her children whenever and wherever the necessity arose.
She had great faith in marriage as a builder of character. If any selfish young woman who always had to have her own way was getting married, Mrs Casey would smile wisely and say, “The baba will straighten her out.”
Or if the head of the family was very troublesome and aggressive, she would remark, sagely, “His own will level him; it always takes your own to level you. The same bad blood is in the veins, you know.”
The dead she attended with loving reverence and a thoughtfulness all her own. When Mike, an old neighbour, died suddenly Mrs Casey did the needful. This old friend had always worn a hat and when he was laid in the coffin Mrs Casey told my mother, “He looked so cold and not himself without his hat on. So I looked around and there was none of his own to be seen, but on the sideboard beside me was a small black hat. I put it on him and pulled it down over his ears and he did look better and more like himself, so we closed the coffin on Mike with the hat on.”
As the hearse was moving out of the yard his sister came looking for her hat. Mrs Casey recalled afterwards: “I knew then that he’d be back. He had the hat and he’d come back for her.” Strangely, the sister died within the week.
Mrs Casey worked hard all her life both indoors and outdoors and knew few luxuries. Every year she fattened two pigs in a Baby Ford car parked in the garden of her cottage. They announced their hunger pangs by putting their heads out of the windows and squealing to be fed. When they were the right weight she had them killed and salted and put into two timber barrels at the bottom of the kitchen. She loved her food and could eat large amounts of fat meat but never suffer indigestion. Early in their married life her husband made the mistake of praising his mother’s cooking. As she told my father, “I took it from him for a while, but then one day I stood back and gave him a swipe of the ciotóg.”
She was left handed, and always referred to her left hand as “the ciotóg”, almost as if it belonged to someone else. Any problem which she failed to settle amicably brought the ciotóg into action.
Her husband was a dapper little man with a neat black moustache and she always referred to him as “My Jack”, or “My little man”. He loved his porter but was drunk after two pints. At a time when women seldom frequented pubs, Mrs Casey always stood at the counter with the men to have her pint. Similarly, at the Stations the men usually had breakfast with the priests while the women ate elsewhere, but Mrs Casey never failed to seat herself at the priests’ table and often brought them to task about any matter in the parish which she felt was not in order.
Every year she planted fourteen drills of potatoes in one of our fields and she dug them out with a spade, while Jack followed on, picking them into a bucket. It was a very long field, with a rise at the top, and sometimes she would be gone over the rise and out of Jack’s sight. If my father came on them, she would look back and say, “He’s failing, my little man is failing.”
Then, further back, Jack would say to my father: “I have to let her forge ahead, you know. She’d think that she was failing if she couldn’t keep ahead of me.”
They had each other’s measure and were very happy together.
Mrs Casey picked potatoes, cut turf, thinned turnips and bound the corn. Cutting the corn took place in early autumn when my father, with two horses tackled to the mowing machine, usually started the work on a mellow September day. One of us children, sitting on one seat, guided the horse while my father, on a lower seat, would create the swards suitable for the sheaves. All around the field the workers would bind up the corn into sheaves. Mrs Casey worked across the bottom of the field and always had the way cleared before the horses. The cutting started at the outside, working all around the field and gradually, as the day wore on, the swaying corn turned into golden sheaves which were then stood in stooks before night fell. Mrs Casey worked hard all day, her small sturdy figure dressed in flowing black moving back and forth. Sometimes her hearty laugh pealed across the field as she enjoyed a good-humoured exchange with a neighbour. She understood her neighbours and if she did not like them she never pretended otherwise, but with those she loved her great heart knew no boundaries and she brought colour and richness into their lives. She had a wealth of character and though the winds of change blew around her they never carried her with them. She was a strong woman and her philosophy of life was all her own.
Earth Woman
She was as real
As the dark brown
Bank of tiered turf
With the promise
Of warmer days.
She was as solid
As a great oak,
Unbending with
The winds that blow.
She was as strong
As the hard rocks
That weather the
Crushing waves.
Her core had
The luxuriant glow
Of the black, rich,
Sensuous soil.
Tea in the Meadow
WHEN THE SUMMER had proved its intention of staying with us, cutting the hay began. With his meadows ripened to a honey coloured hue by the sun, my father went to the haggard and, taking his old mowing machine firmly by its long shaft, he eased it slowly from under the overhanging trees where it had sheltered throughout the long winter.
A simple, solid machine with two small wheels and drawn by a pair of horses, it had a raised seat for the driver at the back. On one side was a cutting knife which lay flat on the ground when in use and was raised up for the journey back and forth from the meadow. Inside this knife was a long blade with diamond-shaped edges called sections. At first my father oiled and greased the entire machine, which had seized up during the winter; then he sat astride the shaft of the mower and laid the long blade across his knee. There was a skill in edging the blades in which he took a particular pride. He had a long edging stone with a timber handle, which he kept on top of a high press in the kitchen. This was taken down and inspected and when found to be in perfect condition was the cause of great satisfaction. What could possibly have gone wrong with it is difficult to imagine, but I suppose he had discovered over the years that very few of his tools were safe from his energetic brood. Now, sitting in the warm, sheltered haggard, beginning at one end of the blade and taking it section by section, he edged along with a balanced rhythm, occasionally dipping his stone in a rusty gallon of water which stood on the ground beside him. Gradually the rusty, archaic blade assumed a new life, its teeth gleaming with a razor sharpness, and along its base lay a ridge of brown and grey froth like the moustache of a monster man. I sometimes sat on the ground and watched this deadly weapon come to life, in awe of its power, for my father gave us strict instructions regarding the dangers of farm machinery and the use of his gun, and his commands were obeyed unquestioningly.
The following day, cutting the hay did not commence until the sun was high in the sky and the gently swaying hay was well dry of the morning dew. Paddy and James were rounded up, eager for work as they were after a long rest since the spring ploughing. That had been heavy, cold work and they had come home at night with their hooves covered in mud, but the hayfield promised to be soft and pleasant underfoot, with ample juicy mouthfuls available to satisfy any pangs of hunger.
The two horses were tackled to the mowing machine and, arriving in the meadow, they cut the first sward along by the ditches and continued all day around the field, their rounds becoming gradually shorter. My father always watched out for birds’ nests hidden in the hay, and the one most likely to be found was the pheasant family. If the birds rose from the hay he would halt the horses and walking into the high grass he would gently lift up the nest a
nd carry it to the mossy ditch. Some nests, however, did not transport very well and once he brought home a few pheasant eggs to be put under a hatching hen. They hatched out along with her chickens but they were much smaller and far more active. When they grew bigger they were carried to the fort where several families of pheasants lived, and there they returned to their own lifestyle.
The blade of the mowing machine gave off a plaintive whine which carried across the valley and told of busy times. And so, hour after hour, my father and his horses worked in companionable silence while all around them lay the moist swards of newly mown hay. Coming into the meadow in the late afternoon, bearing a jug of tea and home-made brown bread, I was enfolded in a wild, sweet essence that was moist and sensuous, stimulating some deep-rooted feelings in my inner being.
Now my father sat in a shady corner under a tree and drank his tea straight from the jug, while the horses also relaxed and sampled some freshly cut hay, flicking their long tails to keep the flies at bay. I explored the newly exposed ditches around by the headland, as we called the outer edge of the field after the first sward was cut. In some of the meadows a stream ran along by the ditch and here floated all kinds of interesting insects sheltering under the overgrown grass and ferns. Here too, earlier in the year, frogs’ croak was to be found, a jelly-like substance encasing an abundance of black dots trailing little floating legs, the baby frogs in neonatal condition. Those tiny tadpoles, who had squirmed out of that quivering quagmire, were now grown into frogs of all shapes and colours: there were yellow, green and sometimes black frogs to be found jumping along the moist ditches of the meadows.
The rabbit families lived on the other side of the meadow where conditions were drier. The whine of the mowing machine and all the unexpected activity in their quiet corner had sent them scurrying underground, but now, while there was a temporary lull, they ventured out to see what was going on. They stood transfixed in amazement to find their familiar scene totally changed; gone was the high sheltering grass, and now the entire meadow lay exposed before them. But then, seeing the horses and humans, they turned tail and disappeared, to return, no doubt, when all was finally quiet and their domain was no longer disturbed by human intruders.
One of the meadows had a complete hedge of wild honeysuckle or woodbine, as we knew it, and this sent out a soft, wild, heady perfume that mingled with the smell of new mown hay. You had to stand still and close your eyes to fully absorb this feast of fragrances.
When my father resumed cutting I usually stayed on, wandering around, exploring mossy ditches and picking wild flowers, until finally the last sward fell and the day’s work was over. The long knife raised, the horses felt the sudden easing of their straining chains and set off briskly towards the gap that led to home. Here was a stream of spring water where they drank, spattering spray with their quivering nostrils. Back in the haggard they were relieved of the burden of the mowing machine and tackling; then they trotted off to the freedom of the green fields with only the dark patches where they had sweated beneath their tackling to show that they had spent a hot day working in the meadow. Often times they lay down on the cool grass and rolled over on their backs, with legs cycling in the air. Then, righting themselves, they jumped up and galloped around the field, exulting in their freedom from restraining ropes and chains.
The next step in the cycle of haymaking depended on the weather and if it was less than perfect a process known as turning the hay had to be endured. This was sometimes done by hand with a hay pike: the sward of hay which was now dry on the top side had to be turned over and its damp underside exposed to the sun. It was a slow, monotonous process which could raise blisters on little hands unaccustomed to gripping pike handles for long, but the monotony was relieved by the companionship of many people working together. Oftentimes this job was done by a machine, aptly named the sward turner, and why it could not always be used I found hard to understand, but maybe on some occasions manpower was more plentiful than horsepower. The sward turner was a strange looking machine on two extremely large iron wheels with two timber shafts to the front, and to the rear two giant iron spiders that sped around tossing the hay in all directions, exposing it to the sun and air. It was drawn by one horse and the driver sat on an iron seat perched high over the twirling spiders.
When the hay was sufficiently dry it was raked into rows with the wheel raker, a machine similar in design to the sward turner which pulled a giant iron rake behind it. This gathered up the hay and then the driver pulled a lever which raised the rake, leaving the hay in a tidy row; down banged the rake again and the next row was collected. The aim was to have each row of hay parallel to the previous one and this required split-second timing and good horse control. That was the ideal, and when it was not achieved the driver of the wheel raker would be subjected to much derogatory comment from his or her fellow workers.
And so at last we arrived at the actual point of haymaking. The interval between cutting and haymaking could vary from two days to two weeks, depending on the weather, but the shorter the interval the better the hay. Hay, fast-dried in the hot sun, with all traces of green and moisture evaporated, was far superior to a dark brown version that had soaked up rain and had to be shaken out to be re-dried. Haymaking and wet weather made bad working companions and turned a pleasant experience into a long-drawn-out hardship. However, when the sun shone all these difficulties were quickly forgotten. When the swards were ready for saving, the meadow was full of blond, crinkling hay. The smell of the hay had changed, becoming more aromatic and varied as it matured, and on the day of the cutting the meadow was perfumed with a wild, sweet fragrance that filled your nostrils with the essence of summer.
A day in the meadow was sunshine and sweat, hard work and happiness. Hayseeds and innumerable forms of insect life found their way into your hair and clung to your damp back. We were usually barefoot, so we picked up numerous thorns, but this annoyance was relieved by the soft feel of mossy patches beneath our feet and we developed a second sense about where it was safe to tread. Luckily, some of our meadows lay by the river, and oh! the joy on a hot day to plunge into the icy water and rid yourself of all this sticky irritation.
A contraption called a tumbling paddy was used to collect the rows of hay into big heaps. Made entirely of timber it was like a giant comb with two handles at the back; when it was full to overflowing with hay the handle was thrown forward so that the comb tumbled over and all the hay fell out. This was then used as the base for the cocks of hay, or wyndes as we called them. When the butt had been made somebody stood on it and packed the hay down, while the tumbling paddy collected more hay which was piked on to the wynde until gradually it grew tall and pointed.
Standing on the wyndes was a job for somebody light and agile. Pikes of hay were thrown up at you and had to be pulled in under your feet and danced on to firm this wavering creation. Sometimes the hay would hide an odd scratching briar or a soft yellow frog to stimulate an unplanned high jump. Things going to plan, however, you slid down the side of the wynde when it had reached its peak, then it was pared of loose hay at the base and finally tied down. A piece of hay with its ends firmly embedded in the base of the wynde was wound around the hay twine and knotted with it. The ball of twine was then thrown across the wynde and tied at the other side in the same way, and this process was repeated crossways.
And so it continued all day, wynde after wynde, while we got hotter and thirstier as the heat beat down on us. Then somebody would call in a voice full of elation: “The tea is coming.”
My mother usually brought the tea in a white enamel bucket and maybe a gallon-sized sweet tin as well. We made ourselves comfortable on various heaps of hay and passed around cups of tea with slices of home-made brown bread. We watched my mother’s basket eagerly and usually she came up trumps with a big juicy apple cake. It is said that hunger is a good sauce, and hunger and thirst certainly made the tea in the meadow a feast with a special flavour, like manna in the desert. The aroma of
the sweet-smelling hay blended with the tea, funny stories and riddles made for great laughter and fun, and the whole occasion took on the atmosphere of a gay picnic.
Tea over, we got back to work, but there was new pep in our step and gradually the wyndes rose like mini-pyramids around us. Towards evening, as the shadows lengthened across the field, we gathered up our rakes and pikes, and together with the horses made our weary way homewards. Sometimes, though, one of the more energetic members of the family would shout: “Race you home!” and we would all take off, weariness forgotten in the challenge to be the first one home.
My father remained on to rake down the wyndes and tie them firmly with binder twine. I often saw him in the dusk of the evening standing by the gap of a field counting the cocks of hay, the satisfaction of a job well done all around him.
After the work in the meadow was finished the hay was drawn into the barn. We all enjoyed drawing in the hay; there was about it an air of achievement, a fulfilment of the basic need of man to fill the barns and prepare for winter. Next to his family’s needs the welfare of his stock was closest to the heart of the farmer and it was every farmer’s dread not to have enough to feed his animals in the harsh days of winter. My father had taken on the farm when he was sixteen years old, after the death of my grandfather, and his first winter had come long and harsh and left him with too little hay for the animals. It was a cruel experience for one so young and he never forgot it: at the end of every winter now our barn had a spare block of hay, a monument to my father’s hard-earned lesson.
The hay was drawn home in the horse and float – a big sheet of solid timber with two iron wheels and two shafts in front. In the meadow it was tilted up in front so that the back edge lay along the base of the wynde of hay. Then the thick float ropes that were wound around an iron roller at the front of the float were unwound and tied behind the wyndes. The roller was turned, winding up the rope and bringing the cock of hay up along the float. The horse then drew home his load with the driver sitting on the setlock or on top of the wynde, while the children sat along the back of the float, their feet trailing along the fields. Drives in the float were part of their summer entertainment on the farm.
