Just up the road from our house in Banagher, there was a Crossroads that was an important presence in our lives. It was the convergence, first of all, of the Birr Road, our main connection to points east, most particularly, Dublin, but also the eponymous Birr, and its famous Castle. Angling off from the Birr Road, in a slightly Northeast direction, was the Middle Road, which, a mile or so out of town, became the Bog Road, and was, at that point in time, for its entire length, unpaved. Next up running North and just West, was the Back Road, or was called thus by everyone in town; the chief benefits of the Back Road seemed to be: an easy way of reaching the Sportsfield and also, a connection to the village of Cloghan, though God only knew why anyone would want to do that. On one side of the square formed by this confluence was the Banagher Church of Ireland. St. Paul’s church, and on the other side, across from the church, sat The Pump, which, it is safe to say, supplied the water needs of everyone within a mile, outside the town, of the pump. The first chore of the day for me and my sister was to take a bucket to the pump, fill it with water, and then carry it home using a broom handle between us. On Sundays, the crossroads was important chiefly for one reason; it was the site of a Toss Pit, a circle four to five yards in diameter that was a harmless gambling institution and was in fact by and large a social tradition. The Toss Pit has been out of operation for decades, now, but, for a time there, you
A critical tool at the Toss Pit, and one that those who had nothing better to do could spend their time whittling into a thing of beauty was the Tosser. Now, those who didn’t have the time to waste on such trifling simply took their pocket comb out, possibly wrapping some paper tightly around its center to prevent embarrassing slippage mid-toss, and waited patiently for the sacred pennies to come around to them.
At that point in our history, the Tiger had not yet arrived on our shores with the much more simple Euro monetary system; we were still wrestling with the Pound Sterling, which could be broken down into an amazing number of coin combinations. Each Pound was comprised of Twenty Shillings, a Shilling also being referred to as a “Bob;” each Shilling had twelve Pennies, or Pence, each Penny having within it two Half Pennies, or ”haypennies” and four very tiny quarter pennies, or Farthings; Shillings could be on the other hand broken into two sixpenny pieces; tiny, like a Dime, they were referred to as “Tanners;” the Tanner could also be broken in half, to two Three Pence coins, which were always referred to as “Thruppeny Bits,” which were the only coins in the lot that were not circular, but hexagonal. There were also the “big money” coins, such as the Crown, which was Five Shillings, but so rare that it might as well have not existed and the much more familiar “Half Crown,” worth two and six, or two shillings and sixpence. There were Pound Notes, which were equaled by two Ten Shilling Notes.
So, Sunday, mid-day, the toss-pit was formed, and I would stand with my brothers, and if things went well, I would be given a few “coppers,” slang for pennies, and then the possibility arose that I could begin to make side bets with other young lads lucky enough to be enriched by their father or brothers. Any repetitive gathering of men, especially one formed for any kind of gambling, is bound to develop some hard and fast rules and the Sunday toss-pit in Banagher was no different. I’ve already mentioned the Tosser, used to flip the coins into the air, whose form was not important, as long as it got the job done. If it was your turn to toss the coins, only two things were required of you: the first one was to toss both coins so that they rose and fell together, and second was to build into the toss the turn in air at a certain, understood point above your head. This toss was so important that it deserved a special name of its own. This name was “the Berl” and the tosser, whatever you were using to send them airborne, was called “the berler.” The berl was so important to the process that the men standing in the circle, if they approved of the form, would call out things like, “Lovely Berl, Christy,” which would encourage follow-up exclamations, like, “Good man,” or “Good berl.” My brother Tommy was a great berler, and he would always be pushed forward by his friends, even giving their money to increase his bet, as if getting aboard a “sure thing.” I can’t remember how often those bets paid off, but I can clearly remember his form. Tommy was left-handed, in Irish, a (ciotogach, or kitt-oeg) and his berl was immediately identifiable; when the two pennies rose into the air, the calls rang out, as if he had done it against all odds. All eyes were on the berler, and the left-handed toss, when it began, looked like it couldn’t possibly succeed, but when the coins began the “berl” or curve in mid air, it was a thing of beauty. Meanwhile, on the circle, people were making bets and side-bets, all of which, to the casual observer, were always interesting and quite often baffling: “Heads a bob;” would mean that a shilling was bet on two Heads turning up. The opposite of a Head would be a Harp. “Head n a Harp, a bob.” “Head n a Harp, sixpence hapenny.” “Harps a tanner.” Nobody got rich; nobody went broke; everybody had a grand time.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Friday, July 9, 2010
A History of Media in the Midlands
By Brendan Loonam
The first time I heard music from an electronic source, it was at The Pictures; great, swirling curls of orchestral drama accompanying one of His or Her Majesty’s ships as it was being tossed about by the temperamental waters of the Spanish Main. Or, possibly, it was the deep, heaving strings complementing Audie Murphy as he crept stealthily up the hill that hid Cochise and his warriors from view. One grew to expect music that stirred the satisfied soul, craned the neck and at the very least, left one sitting up upon one’s foot.
The only thing we had beyond that, in that it supplied music from a spring that wasn’t human, was the gramophone in the corner of Maloney’s kitchen, a heavy, ponderous-looking machine, that appeared likely to be anything but a producer of music. The playing arm, when it was swung out over the record, looked like it might be a winch, being used to unload a cargo ship, rather than a needle, freeing the sweet sounds of Mendelsohn from that hybrid, metallic disk that weighed a good pound and one half. And how was this musical marvel powered? Sticking out of the side of the gramophone was a suitably heavy handle which was used to crank up enough friction to play a disk at least half-way through, at which point, the person closest to it would quickly crank it up again and get it through to the finish. I marveled at the music whenever I happened to be there to enjoy it and one thing it was truly responsible for was to make me truly grateful and properly filled with awe when we were finally lucky enough to get a machine in our house that could produce its own music and more.
But, before we could even think about the kind of technology that could furnish us with music in our repose, we would have to provide that great precursor of such a tool, which most of the western hemisphere had been enjoying for half a century, but we on the Birr Road held onto the nineteenth century until it absolutely had to be released.
Everyone on our road was treated to the joys of the Electric Light within a three-week period and when ours was finalized, it was hung from the ceiling over the kitchen table, near the back door. The work was done by a pair of men from the CIE and finished off by the one man, who screwed a ceramic fixture into the ceiling and ran a tightly twisted set of wires from it across the ceiling and down the wall, where they were affixed to a switch which was also screwed onto the wall.
As I reflect upon it now, I don’t think any of us ever referred to it as anything other than the “electric light switch” and the bulb which it ignited was always called “the electric light.” It was all so new, then.
My sister, Anne, three years my senior, and I sat at the kitchen table that evening while my mother prepared a treat of potato cakes which she cooked on the griddle that had been placed atop the fire in our fireplace. We were positively basking in the light that illuminated the room around us and we couldn’t wait until our two older brothers arrived home from work and stacked their bicycles against the wall outside the back door. When they rode through the back gate, we could hear them braking on the gravel-covered backyard and we looked at each other excitedly, anticipating how they would feel when they walked into our wonderfully modern kitchen. Mammy was caught up in the excitement, also, and she hurried to get the plate of potato cakes onto the table before the boys entered.
Tommy was the first to come in, and he smiled, nodding his head and turning to wait for Peter, preferring to let him express the wonder they were being confronted with. Peter was also momentarily at a loss for words, finally uttering a joke:
“Be the holy sayman1,” which had the effect of letting us know they were impressed, while saving them from becoming mawkish. They walked to the opposite end of the kitchen, only a few steps, and drank in how the light had permeated the entire room. To emphasize how the electric light had taken over, Tommy lifted the paraffin lamp, sitting idle on the window sill, showed it to us and, shrugging, replaced it on the window.
They joined us at the table and we slathered the potato cakes with butter. We looked at each other as we ate them under our brilliant new electric light and we agreed that no potentate was as well off as we were.
Peter and Tommy were given the money that evening for the final payment for the new wireless, and when the tea was drunk and savored, they went off downtown to pick it up. We learned, later, that anyone who was around the shop stopped to take a look at what we were getting, as nearly everyone in the town would be going through the same process. Liam Hertnan put the radio into its delivery carton and taped the lid and the boys were off on their way to Paradise.
The radio, which was universally referred to as “The Wireless,” was plugged into the outlet that held our electric light and set upon a cupboard that was about five feet high and positioned against the back wall. This turned out to be an ideal height for manipulating the radio dials while looking directly at the wireless. We felt we had more than enough choices for our entertainment; in fact, we thought there weren’t enough hours in the day to explore them all: B.B.C., R.T.E. Radio Luxemburg, Armed Forces Network; there was no end to it!
Every evening, during supper, we listened to The Archers, an English family who were landed gentry and always had to deal with intrigues involving stablemen, vicars and Protestant ministers; it was all very other-worldly. Before the Archers came on, I was able to explore other worlds guided by Dan Dare, his assistant, Miss Peabody and his overweight, but loyal, slightly goofy underling, Digby. Dan Dare was an officer in service to The Planetary Federation and was in constant conflict with a green, saucer-flying, absolutely untrustworthy creature named Mekon, who spoke with a buzzing resonance that served only to make him more distasteful.
On Saturday evenings, Peter and Tommy’s friends would gather at our house before going to dances, or whatever else was going on, to make their “Windsor” knots on their ties and comb their “quiffs” using our mother’s pomade. While all this was going on, those “in the know” would be mining A.F.N.or Radio Luxemburg for the latest songs by Johnny Ray, Frankie Laine, Ruby Murray or whoever was topping the charts at the time.
At other times, during “family hours,” Radio Telefis Eireann would be the goal, and the entertainment would be provided by shows such as “Take The Floor With Dinjo,” which had a tag-line that became part of our everyday language:
“Oh, def’ny, Dinjo, def’ny,” as in: “Did you say your prayers today, Paddy?” “Oh, def’ny, Dinjo, def’ny.”
In the early afternoon on Sundays, particularly if there was an important hurling or football match scheduled, we would be joined by close friends who did not have their own wireless, but had to hear the athletic feats of such as Christy Ring and the rest of the Cork hurlers as described by the magnificently eloquent Miceal O’Hehir. After hearing a match called by O’Hehir, you were left with the distinct impression that you had watched it rather than simply heard it, so vivid was his play-by-play announcing.
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A History of Media in the Midlands
By Brendan Loonam
The first time I heard music from an electronic source, it was at The Pictures; great, swirling curls of orchestral drama accompanying one of His or Her Majesty’s ships as it was being tossed about by the temperamental waters of the Spanish Main. Or, possibly, it was the deep, heaving strings complementing Audie Murphy as he crept stealthily up the hill that hid Cochise and his warriors from view. One grew to expect music that stirred the satisfied soul, craned the neck and at the very least, left one sitting up upon one’s foot.
The only thing we had beyond that, in that it supplied music from a spring that wasn’t human, was the gramophone in the corner of Maloney’s kitchen, a heavy, ponderous-looking machine, that appeared likely to be anything but a producer of music. The playing arm, when it was swung out over the record, looked like it might be a winch, being used to unload a cargo ship, rather than a needle, freeing the sweet sounds of Mendelsohn from that hybrid, metallic disk that weighed a good pound and one half. And how was this musical marvel powered? Sticking out of the side of the gramophone was a suitably heavy handle which was used to crank up enough friction to play a disk at least half-way through, at which point, the person closest to it would quickly crank it up again and get it through to the finish. I marveled at the music whenever I happened to be there to enjoy it and one thing it was truly responsible for was to make me truly grateful and properly filled with awe when we were finally lucky enough to get a machine in our house that could produce its own music and more.
But, before we could even think about the kind of technology that could furnish us with music in our repose, we would have to provide that great precursor of such a tool, which most of the western hemisphere had been enjoying for half a century, but we on the Birr Road held onto the nineteenth century until it absolutely had to be released.
Everyone on our road was treated to the joys of the Electric Light within a three-week period and when ours was finalized, it was hung from the ceiling over the kitchen table, near the back door. The work was done by a pair of men from the CIE and finished off by the one man, who screwed a ceramic fixture into the ceiling and ran a tightly twisted set of wires from it across the ceiling and down the wall, where they were affixed to a switch which was also screwed onto the wall.
As I reflect upon it now, I don’t think any of us ever referred to it as anything other than the “electric light switch” and the bulb which it ignited was always called “the electric light.” It was all so new, then.
My sister, Anne, three years my senior, and I sat at the kitchen table that evening while my mother prepared a treat of potato cakes which she cooked on the griddle that had been placed atop the fire in our fireplace. We were positively basking in the light that illuminated the room around us and we couldn’t wait until our two older brothers arrived home from work and stacked their bicycles against the wall outside the back door. When they rode through the back gate, we could hear them braking on the gravel-covered backyard and we looked at each other excitedly, anticipating how they would feel when they walked into our wonderfully modern kitchen. Mammy was caught up in the excitement, also, and she hurried to get the plate of potato cakes onto the table before the boys entered.
Tommy was the first to come in, and he smiled, nodding his head and turning to wait for Peter, preferring to let him express the wonder they were being confronted with. Peter was also momentarily at a loss for words, finally uttering a joke:
“Be the holy sayman1,” which had the effect of letting us know they were impressed, while saving them from becoming mawkish. They walked to the opposite end of the kitchen, only a few steps, and drank in how the light had permeated the entire room. To emphasize how the electric light had taken over, Tommy lifted the paraffin lamp, sitting idle on the window sill, showed it to us and, shrugging, replaced it on the window.
They joined us at the table and we slathered the potato cakes with butter. We looked at each other as we ate them under our brilliant new electric light and we agreed that no potentate was as well off as we were.
Peter and Tommy were given the money that evening for the final payment for the new wireless, and when the tea was drunk and savored, they went off downtown to pick it up. We learned, later, that anyone who was around the shop stopped to take a look at what we were getting, as nearly everyone in the town would be going through the same process. Liam Hertnan put the radio into its delivery carton and taped the lid and the boys were off on their way to Paradise.
The radio, which was universally referred to as “The Wireless,” was plugged into the outlet that held our electric light and set upon a cupboard that was about five feet high and positioned against the back wall. This turned out to be an ideal height for manipulating the radio dials while looking directly at the wireless. We felt we had more than enough choices for our entertainment; in fact, we thought there weren’t enough hours in the day to explore them all: B.B.C., R.T.E. Radio Luxemburg, Armed Forces Network; there was no end to it!
Every evening, during supper, we listened to The Archers, an English family who were landed gentry and always had to deal with intrigues involving stablemen, vicars and Protestant ministers; it was all very other-worldly. Before the Archers came on, I was able to explore other worlds guided by Dan Dare, his assistant, Miss Peabody and his overweight, but loyal, slightly goofy underling, Digby. Dan Dare was an officer in service to The Planetary Federation and was in constant conflict with a green, saucer-flying, absolutely untrustworthy creature named Mekon, who spoke with a buzzing resonance that served only to make him more distasteful.
On Saturday evenings, Peter and Tommy’s friends would gather at our house before going to dances, or whatever else was going on, to make their “Windsor” knots on their ties and comb their “quiffs” using our mother’s pomade. While all this was going on, those “in the know” would be mining A.F.N.or Radio Luxemburg for the latest songs by Johnny Ray, Frankie Laine, Ruby Murray or whoever was topping the charts at the time.
At other times, during “family hours,” Radio Telefis Eireann would be the goal, and the entertainment would be provided by shows such as “Take The Floor With Dinjo,” which had a tag-line that became part of our everyday language:
“Oh, def’ny, Dinjo, def’ny,” as in: “Did you say your prayers today, Paddy?” “Oh, def’ny, Dinjo, def’ny.”
In the early afternoon on Sundays, particularly if there was an important hurling or football match scheduled, we would be joined by close friends who did not have their own wireless, but had to hear the athletic feats of such as Christy Ring and the rest of the Cork hurlers as described by the magnificently eloquent Miceal O’Hehir. After hearing a match called by O’Hehir, you were left with the distinct impression that you had watched it rather than simply heard it, so vivid was his play-by-play announcing.
Posted by Banagheroffaly at 7:37 PM 1 comments
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Night Flight by Brendan Loonam
My Grandmother was called “Moddy” by her children and also by friends and neighbors in their rural Irish Midlands community. The name seems to have been derivative of “Daddy” and fulfilled any familial requirements, while at the same time it was abstract enough for use by outsiders. This had the effect of helping all her acquaintances, apart from her grandchildren, who called her Granny, refer to her as if she were family, an endearing quality. My Grandfather was called “Daddy” by his children, my mother and aunts and uncles, but his grandchildren always referred to him as “Grandfather,” a rather aloof-sounding title, even though he was a most charming and gentle man. Between their house and ours, there was close to ten miles of bad road, and whenever we visited them we always had a feeling of great accomplishment upon our safe arrival at our destination. In recollecting the seemingly innumerable times we did visit that house, I can’t remember ever having done so in a rainfall, although such is a statistical improbability.
Grandfather kept an extra walking-stick, a lightweight blackthorn, outside the front door, and, as soon as we arrived for a visit, I would take it in hand, as my brothers had before me, and, with his pipe in one hand and his own stick in the other, he’d say to me, “We’ll walk the land.” I can still vividly recall the sensory wonderland of those walks: the rain barrel at the gable end of the small house, which had an aura, an aroma, that bespoke centuries of saving such water, with its dark green depths and its mossy edges; there was the “clamp” of turf, the house-shaped collection of bricks of peat, the only source of fuel for heating and cooking, which was another connection to the lost and forgotten past. Out in the “big” field were the haycocks, with the smell of the wet hay emanating from their centers, the outside layers dutifully drying in the sun before their winter storage in the shed.
There was the fetid busyness of the henhouse, with the cock strutting back and forth outside, guarding his harem. There was the rich, clear smell of the well from which the water for the tea and cooking and washing was drawn. There were the ripening hazelnuts in the bushes around the perimeter of the “land”, so easy to pop from their shells, and such a meaty snack in the afternoons; there were the currants, the tart green ones and the sweet red ones; there were the “goozers,” the sharp-tasting, hairy gooseberries, and the blackberries, which, in the autumn, were said to have been violated by the Pookah, that dark and mysterious creature who was said to have poisoned the berries by, dare I say it? Peeing on the bushes with the arrival of October, and, thus, they were left, rotting on the branch. All of these would be touched, tasted, inhaled, filed away during these walks, and grandfather would watch, puffing on his pipe. Then he would wink and smile, to let me know he was proud of the way I had conducted myself, and say, “sound man.”
We would return to a house abuzz with preparations for the Sunday dinner. The blackthorn would be replaced at the front door, and grandfather would turn me over to the ministrations of the women in the house, who revolved around granny, seated at the table, cutting the bread baked that morning. Whatever foods made up those meals are generally lost to me now, all except for a glorious Trifle, made by aunt Mary, with jell-o, sponge cake, gooseberries, sherry, bird’s custard and fresh whipped cream. I can still taste its wonderful richness.
The chat, throughout, on those days, as I recall it now, was light and positive, which is interesting, since the only thing all the adults had in abundance was hard work; but there was a joy in each other’s company that was tangible, and it enveloped us all.
By the time the lamp in front of the kitchen window was being lit, the big pot of tea would be brewing on the hob of the fireplace, and the breads and butter and jams would be paraded out, until, sated, the company would direct its eyes and commentary to the glowing fire, a place where dreams were lived, and hope rekindled, and cigarettes and pipes would be lit and savored, and no royalty could have claimed such comfort.
The ride home in one of the two cars that could be hired for that purpose in the town would be dark, warm and crowded. My brothers would sing songs full of remorse and loneliness and pity that were beyond their years: “Oh, father, father, dig my grave. oh, dig it deep and narrow. Sweet William died for me today, and I will die tomorrow.”
Late one afternoon, when I was about six years old, our postman, Paddy Mahon, appeared at our garden gate. The sight of that man, at that hour of the day, after he had completed his appointed rounds, always struck fear in the hearts of the recipients of his visit, for it could mean only one thing: a wire, a telegram, and this, in turn, could only mean the sickness or death of a family member at some distance from us. On this particular day, my mother was especially frightened, thinking it might be bad news from my father and my oldest brother, John, in America, and I am sure she was totally unprepared for what she found when she tore open the envelope in the doorway. She fell back against the door and exclaimed, “Oh, Jesus!” as she read the three words printed on the yellow paper: MOTHER VERY SICK.
She gave instructions to my sister, who was nine, as to the preparations to be made for my brothers’ dinner, cautioned me to be good and say my prayers, then got on her bicycle, with tears rolling down her cheeks, and set off to conquer the miles that usually brought us such joy. Two days later, we received another message, this time from a lorry driver who stopped at our gate. He told us that Granny was very bad, and that Tommy Jameson would be picking us up at 8:00 on sunday morning, which was the next day. We were to be ready for mass when he arrived.
After a mass filled with tears at Eglish church, all of the aunts, uncles and cousins were gathered back at Grandfather’s house, and because of space considerations, all of the youngsters were given our freedom. We played cowboys and Indians, football, hurling with makeshift sticks, called “crookys”, and rounders, which, although I didn’t know it at the time, was one of the precursors of baseball. We ran, climbed, jumped and expended ourselves in every way possible until we were called to come in to our supper. The adults who were not in the sickroom moved outside for a smoke while the “childer” ate, and we could see immediately that there was not to be even a hint of any further frivolity from us.
Our mother, indeed all the women left in the house, immediately took in hand squares of washcloth, painstakingly dried and raised to a number 10 sandpaper finish, and, after a perfunctory dab at a washbasin, proceeded to scour the dirt and whatever skin we had left from our faces. We knew enough to be silent from that point on. All of the adults, when they spoke at all, whispered, so we followed suit, for we knew, without being told, that something heartbreakingly sad was going to happen.
While we were still eating, the traffic between the bedroom and the yard outside increased, with the women taking shorter, quicker steps and the men, longer, slower strides. Gradually, Aunt Nell, the eldest, began marshaling the grandchildren, youngest first, into the bedroom to say goodbye to Granny, and in hushed tones, her throat catching on her tears, she explained the procedure to us. We were to go in, two at a time, bless ourselves, say the “Memorare,” give Granny a kiss goodbye and leave the room.
My sister and I were partnered, and I thought, no problem, until we stood together next to the bed, for I was thinking about us saying goodbye to her, rather than about her saying goodbye to us. As we said the prayer, she had her head turned to us, and, although I had said the prayer scores of times before, I had never heard the abject plea for mercy that it is, something that still affects me to this day. “Remember, o most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who fled to thy protection, implored thy help, or sought thy intercession, was left unaided...” When I bent to kiss her cheek, she put her hand to the side of my head, a feather, and smiled a smile that seemed to me, even then, heroic. Anne, crying uncontrollably, had to be comforted by my grandmother, “Whisht, acushla”, patting her cheek. Aunt Nell brought us out of the room, past the adults with their hands to their eyes. While the other youngsters took their turn, there grew the sound of feet shuffling in the doorway, aching for another peek at her, and the sniffling and the whispering. And finally, her own children gathered around her, with her husband standing at the head of the bed, while we standing outside had our hearts broken anew by the sounds of the cries and the calls upon god and his holy and blessed mother not to take her, to spare her, to be good to her. Then, the sound crashed to an almost-silence, and we caught our breath, thinking she was gone, and waiting for the next crescendo of sorrow that would surely come. But that eruption did not happen, and we searched each other’s faces for answers. Had god saved her? Now, craning around the doorjamb, I could see Uncle Paddy had sunk to his knees, with his head on his mother’s legs. Grandfather also had his head down to hers, and they were all crying, softly, now, wordlessly, to themselves.
When my mother came out of the room, my sister and brothers and I went to her and she clung to us. When she was able to compose herself to speak, she told us something so striking that I will never forget it. She said that, just before Granny died, she opened her eyes wide and a smile lit up her face. Her eyes roamed the room, and she said, “The room is filled with beautiful butterflies.” She was still smiling at the sight when she died.
Grandfather kept an extra walking-stick, a lightweight blackthorn, outside the front door, and, as soon as we arrived for a visit, I would take it in hand, as my brothers had before me, and, with his pipe in one hand and his own stick in the other, he’d say to me, “We’ll walk the land.” I can still vividly recall the sensory wonderland of those walks: the rain barrel at the gable end of the small house, which had an aura, an aroma, that bespoke centuries of saving such water, with its dark green depths and its mossy edges; there was the “clamp” of turf, the house-shaped collection of bricks of peat, the only source of fuel for heating and cooking, which was another connection to the lost and forgotten past. Out in the “big” field were the haycocks, with the smell of the wet hay emanating from their centers, the outside layers dutifully drying in the sun before their winter storage in the shed.
There was the fetid busyness of the henhouse, with the cock strutting back and forth outside, guarding his harem. There was the rich, clear smell of the well from which the water for the tea and cooking and washing was drawn. There were the ripening hazelnuts in the bushes around the perimeter of the “land”, so easy to pop from their shells, and such a meaty snack in the afternoons; there were the currants, the tart green ones and the sweet red ones; there were the “goozers,” the sharp-tasting, hairy gooseberries, and the blackberries, which, in the autumn, were said to have been violated by the Pookah, that dark and mysterious creature who was said to have poisoned the berries by, dare I say it? Peeing on the bushes with the arrival of October, and, thus, they were left, rotting on the branch. All of these would be touched, tasted, inhaled, filed away during these walks, and grandfather would watch, puffing on his pipe. Then he would wink and smile, to let me know he was proud of the way I had conducted myself, and say, “sound man.”
We would return to a house abuzz with preparations for the Sunday dinner. The blackthorn would be replaced at the front door, and grandfather would turn me over to the ministrations of the women in the house, who revolved around granny, seated at the table, cutting the bread baked that morning. Whatever foods made up those meals are generally lost to me now, all except for a glorious Trifle, made by aunt Mary, with jell-o, sponge cake, gooseberries, sherry, bird’s custard and fresh whipped cream. I can still taste its wonderful richness.
The chat, throughout, on those days, as I recall it now, was light and positive, which is interesting, since the only thing all the adults had in abundance was hard work; but there was a joy in each other’s company that was tangible, and it enveloped us all.
By the time the lamp in front of the kitchen window was being lit, the big pot of tea would be brewing on the hob of the fireplace, and the breads and butter and jams would be paraded out, until, sated, the company would direct its eyes and commentary to the glowing fire, a place where dreams were lived, and hope rekindled, and cigarettes and pipes would be lit and savored, and no royalty could have claimed such comfort.
The ride home in one of the two cars that could be hired for that purpose in the town would be dark, warm and crowded. My brothers would sing songs full of remorse and loneliness and pity that were beyond their years: “Oh, father, father, dig my grave. oh, dig it deep and narrow. Sweet William died for me today, and I will die tomorrow.”
Late one afternoon, when I was about six years old, our postman, Paddy Mahon, appeared at our garden gate. The sight of that man, at that hour of the day, after he had completed his appointed rounds, always struck fear in the hearts of the recipients of his visit, for it could mean only one thing: a wire, a telegram, and this, in turn, could only mean the sickness or death of a family member at some distance from us. On this particular day, my mother was especially frightened, thinking it might be bad news from my father and my oldest brother, John, in America, and I am sure she was totally unprepared for what she found when she tore open the envelope in the doorway. She fell back against the door and exclaimed, “Oh, Jesus!” as she read the three words printed on the yellow paper: MOTHER VERY SICK.
She gave instructions to my sister, who was nine, as to the preparations to be made for my brothers’ dinner, cautioned me to be good and say my prayers, then got on her bicycle, with tears rolling down her cheeks, and set off to conquer the miles that usually brought us such joy. Two days later, we received another message, this time from a lorry driver who stopped at our gate. He told us that Granny was very bad, and that Tommy Jameson would be picking us up at 8:00 on sunday morning, which was the next day. We were to be ready for mass when he arrived.
After a mass filled with tears at Eglish church, all of the aunts, uncles and cousins were gathered back at Grandfather’s house, and because of space considerations, all of the youngsters were given our freedom. We played cowboys and Indians, football, hurling with makeshift sticks, called “crookys”, and rounders, which, although I didn’t know it at the time, was one of the precursors of baseball. We ran, climbed, jumped and expended ourselves in every way possible until we were called to come in to our supper. The adults who were not in the sickroom moved outside for a smoke while the “childer” ate, and we could see immediately that there was not to be even a hint of any further frivolity from us.
Our mother, indeed all the women left in the house, immediately took in hand squares of washcloth, painstakingly dried and raised to a number 10 sandpaper finish, and, after a perfunctory dab at a washbasin, proceeded to scour the dirt and whatever skin we had left from our faces. We knew enough to be silent from that point on. All of the adults, when they spoke at all, whispered, so we followed suit, for we knew, without being told, that something heartbreakingly sad was going to happen.
While we were still eating, the traffic between the bedroom and the yard outside increased, with the women taking shorter, quicker steps and the men, longer, slower strides. Gradually, Aunt Nell, the eldest, began marshaling the grandchildren, youngest first, into the bedroom to say goodbye to Granny, and in hushed tones, her throat catching on her tears, she explained the procedure to us. We were to go in, two at a time, bless ourselves, say the “Memorare,” give Granny a kiss goodbye and leave the room.
My sister and I were partnered, and I thought, no problem, until we stood together next to the bed, for I was thinking about us saying goodbye to her, rather than about her saying goodbye to us. As we said the prayer, she had her head turned to us, and, although I had said the prayer scores of times before, I had never heard the abject plea for mercy that it is, something that still affects me to this day. “Remember, o most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who fled to thy protection, implored thy help, or sought thy intercession, was left unaided...” When I bent to kiss her cheek, she put her hand to the side of my head, a feather, and smiled a smile that seemed to me, even then, heroic. Anne, crying uncontrollably, had to be comforted by my grandmother, “Whisht, acushla”, patting her cheek. Aunt Nell brought us out of the room, past the adults with their hands to their eyes. While the other youngsters took their turn, there grew the sound of feet shuffling in the doorway, aching for another peek at her, and the sniffling and the whispering. And finally, her own children gathered around her, with her husband standing at the head of the bed, while we standing outside had our hearts broken anew by the sounds of the cries and the calls upon god and his holy and blessed mother not to take her, to spare her, to be good to her. Then, the sound crashed to an almost-silence, and we caught our breath, thinking she was gone, and waiting for the next crescendo of sorrow that would surely come. But that eruption did not happen, and we searched each other’s faces for answers. Had god saved her? Now, craning around the doorjamb, I could see Uncle Paddy had sunk to his knees, with his head on his mother’s legs. Grandfather also had his head down to hers, and they were all crying, softly, now, wordlessly, to themselves.
When my mother came out of the room, my sister and brothers and I went to her and she clung to us. When she was able to compose herself to speak, she told us something so striking that I will never forget it. She said that, just before Granny died, she opened her eyes wide and a smile lit up her face. Her eyes roamed the room, and she said, “The room is filled with beautiful butterflies.” She was still smiling at the sight when she died.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Where's The Electric Light?
People have asked me, “What’s the big deal with this media trip?” and I really, if I am on the move, or at all involved in something, don’t get a chance to elaborate on the reason for my obsession. It might be something that is confined to people of a certain age: those born a decade before or a decade after World War 11, or even to people from a certain area: the counties right in the middle of Ireland; Offaly, Laois and Tipperary. Our corner of the Midlands, Banagher, Co. Offaly, balanced right on the edge of the Shannon, had some peculiarities that made the anticipation, the reception and the consideration of the implications of new media interesting from the very beginning.
Anthony Trollope, one of the most respected, and certainly one of the most prolific Victorian novelists, had been the Postmaster in Banagher in 1850, living in a house down at the beginning of Cuba Avenue Just down the road from where my brother, Peter, now lives. When it got dark in Anthony Trollope’s house, it is presumed that he used a lighting medium of his time, a lamp fueled by paraffin oil, increasing illumination by the use of a glass “hurricane” bulb.
And one hundred years later, in 1950, when it got dark in our house, we used the same method of illumination that had been employed by Trollope: the paraffin oil lamp. When it was time for me to go to bed on a winter night, I was accompanied into the room by my mother bearing the lamp; leaving the door slightly ajar, she would depart, leaving me in a darkness so profound that it is immeasurable, even inconceivable by anyone used to modern lighting.
What had been going on during the intervening 100 years? The rest of the world had not been standing still; they had built and sunk the Titanic. The Telegraph Cable, after great effort, had been dragged across the Atlantic, initiating the deluge of Communication that has grown exponentially ever since. Ahem…even WW1& WW11 had been waged and won or lost, depending on where in the world you were situated. Ireland, of course, with a great deal of pain and difficulty, worked its way through the “Troubles,” and Ireland, England and the rest of the world heard of these things as they occurred. We in Banagher had to depend upon word-of-mouth and the papers for the news. I was eight when we finally got the Electric Light on the Birr Road.
Anthony Trollope, one of the most respected, and certainly one of the most prolific Victorian novelists, had been the Postmaster in Banagher in 1850, living in a house down at the beginning of Cuba Avenue Just down the road from where my brother, Peter, now lives. When it got dark in Anthony Trollope’s house, it is presumed that he used a lighting medium of his time, a lamp fueled by paraffin oil, increasing illumination by the use of a glass “hurricane” bulb.
And one hundred years later, in 1950, when it got dark in our house, we used the same method of illumination that had been employed by Trollope: the paraffin oil lamp. When it was time for me to go to bed on a winter night, I was accompanied into the room by my mother bearing the lamp; leaving the door slightly ajar, she would depart, leaving me in a darkness so profound that it is immeasurable, even inconceivable by anyone used to modern lighting.
What had been going on during the intervening 100 years? The rest of the world had not been standing still; they had built and sunk the Titanic. The Telegraph Cable, after great effort, had been dragged across the Atlantic, initiating the deluge of Communication that has grown exponentially ever since. Ahem…even WW1& WW11 had been waged and won or lost, depending on where in the world you were situated. Ireland, of course, with a great deal of pain and difficulty, worked its way through the “Troubles,” and Ireland, England and the rest of the world heard of these things as they occurred. We in Banagher had to depend upon word-of-mouth and the papers for the news. I was eight when we finally got the Electric Light on the Birr Road.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
New Free Apps for iPhone
When one hears the word "Media," one might very easily succumb to thinking about media in the very traditional terms of Film, Television, Photography, Radio, Recorded Music, etc. But there has been an absolute explosion in the Media platform; it has become infinitely wider and deeper, in the way that these things always "creep up" on us. Like, for example, around the time I was a Senior in college, all were stunned by the latest IBM Selectric typewriter. My God, the Future had arrived;one could type using a ball that seemingly knew which way to turn and impress the letter, once one had pressed the corresponding key on the typewriter! The book and movie about the unimaginable distant Future at that point was...1984! Since then, a lot of magic has been made available to us; things which, if they had been added to any package at the beginning of the '70's, would have cost a pretty penny (something I've never seen). Take a look at the following, some of them formidable, Apps, made available for free to the iPhone: all with the aim of increasing or enhancing one's Productivity
Productivity Apps
* my Homework - Students who need help organizing test schedules and homework assignments will love this free iPhone app.
* To Do's - This free productivity app makes it easy to keep track of items on your to-do list and get things done on time with priority settings for each task.
* iProcrastinate Mobile - Students who like to put off tasks will benefit from iProcrastinate Mobile. The free app offers easy task management for the most daunting of schedules.
* Easy Task Manager - This personal task manager has an easy-to-use interface that can be synched with multiple computers.
* Instapaper Free - Instapaper Free is a handy app that saves web pages, blogs and online articles for later reading.
Homework and Study Help Apps
* World Fact Book Lite - This free version of the World Fact Book is a great reference tool for students who want to learn more about different countries around the world.
* Exam Vocabulary Builder - This free app from AccelaStudy uses a flashcard approach to expand English vocabulary--perfect for students facing standardized tests or university entrance exams.
* Spel It Rite - Spel It Rite is a fun game that teaches students how to recognize misspelled words.
* Math Drills Lite - This interactive application works well for students who need practice with basic math--addition, subtraction, multiplication and division.
* Mathemagics Lite - Mathemagics is a free iPhone app that teaches students tricks that can be applied to mental math calculations.
Finance Apps
* Mint.com - This free app makes it easy to manage and budget your money on the go. Mint uses an attractive interface and has a lot of useful features.
* EZ Loan Calc - EZ Loan Calc is a loan calculator than can quickly calculate your monthly payments based on information you enter.
* Pay Pal - This free app makes it easy to access your PayPal account, send money and check your balance.
* ATM Hunter - Students can find the location of any ATM (that works with MasterCard) using this free iPhone app
.
* DailyFinance - This popular iPhone app provides real-time stock quotes, portfolio tracking and finance news from multiple sources.
Miscellaneous Apps
* GMAT PracticeQuiz - The free GMAT practice quiz app from Veritas Prep makes it easy for graduate students to practice for the GMAT.
* Testwiser Vocabulary Preparation - The free Testwiser app has more than 2,700 must-know words--great for students who are preparing for the SAT or GRE.
* iTranslate - This free iPhone app can translate text into 42 different languages.
* MyGPA Calculator - MyGPA can be used to calculate semester and overall grade point averages.
* Free Wi-Fi Finder - This iTunes app is a great way for students to find places to study away from home.
Productivity Apps
* my Homework - Students who need help organizing test schedules and homework assignments will love this free iPhone app.
* To Do's - This free productivity app makes it easy to keep track of items on your to-do list and get things done on time with priority settings for each task.
* iProcrastinate Mobile - Students who like to put off tasks will benefit from iProcrastinate Mobile. The free app offers easy task management for the most daunting of schedules.
* Easy Task Manager - This personal task manager has an easy-to-use interface that can be synched with multiple computers.
* Instapaper Free - Instapaper Free is a handy app that saves web pages, blogs and online articles for later reading.
Homework and Study Help Apps
* World Fact Book Lite - This free version of the World Fact Book is a great reference tool for students who want to learn more about different countries around the world.
* Exam Vocabulary Builder - This free app from AccelaStudy uses a flashcard approach to expand English vocabulary--perfect for students facing standardized tests or university entrance exams.
* Spel It Rite - Spel It Rite is a fun game that teaches students how to recognize misspelled words.
* Math Drills Lite - This interactive application works well for students who need practice with basic math--addition, subtraction, multiplication and division.
* Mathemagics Lite - Mathemagics is a free iPhone app that teaches students tricks that can be applied to mental math calculations.
Finance Apps
* Mint.com - This free app makes it easy to manage and budget your money on the go. Mint uses an attractive interface and has a lot of useful features.
* EZ Loan Calc - EZ Loan Calc is a loan calculator than can quickly calculate your monthly payments based on information you enter.
* Pay Pal - This free app makes it easy to access your PayPal account, send money and check your balance.
* ATM Hunter - Students can find the location of any ATM (that works with MasterCard) using this free iPhone app
.
* DailyFinance - This popular iPhone app provides real-time stock quotes, portfolio tracking and finance news from multiple sources.
Miscellaneous Apps
* GMAT PracticeQuiz - The free GMAT practice quiz app from Veritas Prep makes it easy for graduate students to practice for the GMAT.
* Testwiser Vocabulary Preparation - The free Testwiser app has more than 2,700 must-know words--great for students who are preparing for the SAT or GRE.
* iTranslate - This free iPhone app can translate text into 42 different languages.
* MyGPA Calculator - MyGPA can be used to calculate semester and overall grade point averages.
* Free Wi-Fi Finder - This iTunes app is a great way for students to find places to study away from home.
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