tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61204316649652732132023-11-19T22:30:12.106+00:00Cork Non-Fiction Writers GroupThe Cork Nonfiction Writers Group Welcomes you to our blog. Here you will find a variety of nonfiction work ranging from poetry, memoir, essay, etc. Topics for 2010 include: nonfiction essay, childhood home, subjective realities, other times and places, humour, other decades or history, where writing takes us, and poetry.Cork Non-Fiction Writers Grouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00270383491275627222noreply@blogger.comBlogger195125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6120431664965273213.post-19767935903361677692016-11-16T22:38:00.000+00:002016-11-16T22:38:03.343+00:00The Gruesome Secret of Our Ash Tree <br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3f3f3f;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><b>Our European Ash (<i>Fraxinus excelsior</i>) © 2016 by Victor Sullivan.</b></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A fine old tree stands proudly at the east end of our garden, just as it did when my wife and I bought the derelict property in 1970. The large, overgrown plot with its mature Sycamores, Elms and Laurels, had been neglected for decades and it was some months before we cleared an access path and finally touched the massive trunk of our Ash tree. Its present girth is 3.35 Metres. (11 feet). </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We had been advised that this particular tree was the subject of a Preservation Order, a matter of little interest to us at the time, as we had no intention of felling it for firewood. We set about repairing the house that had been built around 1904 and in the course of our repairs we discovered that a small section, we called it the scullery, had once been part of an earlier structure on the same site. From old maps in Cork City Library we learned that our acquisition had replaced a row of three cottages, constructed for Prison Warders employed at the nearby, disused and derelict prison, Cork City Gaol.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">During summer, the view of the old prison from my bedroom window is obscured by our Ash tree's dense foliage but in winter, through its bleak, barren, lower branches, the gloomy main gate-house of Cork City Gaol is clearly visible. The gate-house was designed to be, not only the main entrance to the prison, it was also an execution facility that incorporated a cell for the condemned, with twin beds, one above the other. It also had a tiny chapel where the wretched condemned prisoner could receive the Last Rites of the Church. The spot immediately in front of the main door is the precise location where numerous public executions took place between 1827 and 1865. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Such public events were a popular source of free entertainment and attracted large crowds of enthusiastic onlookers. Some mothers are said to have brought their children to witness the formalities and thus be memorably warned that a similar fate could await them if they were disobedient or misbehaved. Placing bets on how many kicks the victim might achieve before expiring was another common practice at these well-attended events. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The date and time of each execution was advertised and it was wise to arrive early in order to be assured of a good position for a clear view of the Hangman's performance. Not everyone wished to be 'up too close' to the Hangman, some preferring a more distant over-view of all the onlookers and the focus of their attention in front of the prison's main door.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">One execution enthusiast was a very small man of considerable athletic dexterity and a grim determination to see everything. Doney loved executions and he boasted that he had never missed one. His limited height meant that he could only see the details of the Hangman's skill from the front row of the dense crowd but that was uncomfortably too close to the Gallows, the Rope and the Condemned. If Doney moved further back among the gaping crowd he would have seen only the backs of the people directly in front of him. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">To solve the problem, Doney claimed personal viewing rights on what he considered to be the best position for execution observations, high in the branches of <i>his</i> Ash tree, which, in those days, was the only tree growing in the immediate area. It stood a comfortable eighty yards to the south-west of the Gallows. Doney climbed higher and higher until he reached the topmost branches of his Ash tree, while less agile followers struggled to secure a position on the lower branches. As some very ancient wounds on the trunk of the tree suggest, far too many people climbed onto the lower branches, snapping them off, hence the tell-tale scars on the now aged trunk.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It is said that 'All good things must come to an end,' and so it was with the public Executions. The 'Respectable Residents' who lived near the Prison raised an objection to the City Authorities, complaining, not about the executions in public, but about the low class of people such spectacles attracted into the area. Their complaint was eventually taken seriously and, in 1865, the last public execution took place outside the main door of the Cork City Gaol. Thereafter, executions were carried out inside the high walls of the prison, hidden from public view, the 'Respectable Residents' who lived nearby were no longer bothered by unsavory crowds of gapers and Doney never again had reason to climb into his observation perch that still grows magnificently at the end of our garden. </span></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for your interest in the Cork Non-Fiction Writers Group. Individual writers and contributors hold the copyrights on all contents.</div>Cork Non-Fiction Writers Grouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00270383491275627222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6120431664965273213.post-86245375425692909292016-11-09T22:06:00.002+00:002016-11-09T22:55:37.684+00:00Film Review<br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">by Cecily Lynch © 2015</span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">During the Cork Film Festival I saw a documentary on the journey of African refugee people from their native pastoral lands to the big cities of Europe.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The film’s opening sequences were almost biblical. There was a long shot of hundreds of men women and children crossing a scorching desert on foot. Then there were night scenes of ravaged looking boats being loaded with silent and downcast people. More and more humanity was crammed into these flimsy crafts. Children wailed as the first waves ploughed into the boats. The adults were silent and petrified. The engines broke and they were at the mercy of the rough seas. The boats lurched crazily from side to side, spilled the elderly and weak into the black darkness. Their cries for help could be heard above the crashing of the waves. The survivors moaned in the darkness.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Towards dawn an Irish rescue ship approached. Screams for help arose. The people were hysterical with fear. The naval officers imposed a strict discipline. Women and children sick and covered with vomit were winched first up the side of the rescue ship. The rescuers wore anti infection clothing and mouth masks. The stench from the battered boats was appalling.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">As the rescue ships approached the harbours of the Italian and Turkish cities, volunteers and Red Cross aides stood with rows of police, in long helpless rows as screams of terrible grief and loss arose from the decks of the rescue ships. As they disembarked, the refugees were contorted with grief for the loved ones who had been swept overboard. Their cries of desperation were heart shattering. The cries rose up to the skies in wild screaming of utter pain. The dashed their heads against the harbour walls, they rolled on the ground, the pounded their heads, they threw their arms up. The police shifted uneasily and the soldiers looked away, at the sight of such human grief and suffering.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">There is no doubt that the visual impact of cinema is extraordinarily moving and sometimes unbearable. </span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for your interest in the Cork Non-Fiction Writers Group. Individual writers and contributors hold the copyrights on all contents.</div>Cork Non-Fiction Writers Grouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00270383491275627222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6120431664965273213.post-35241816984898503052016-11-09T21:55:00.000+00:002016-11-09T21:55:30.872+00:00The Feis<br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">by Cecily Lynch © 2016</span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The Feis is a peculiarly Irish institution. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">(It is pronounced 'Fesh').</span> The Eistedfod in Wales bears the closest relation to it. However, the Irish Feis extends to six or eight weeks and is based on competitions in various art forms: singing, reciting and the playing of instruments. Over the six weeks of the Feis, twelve thousand performers strut their stuff on the stage; the majority are under 18 years. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It had been almost 60 years since I had been in the Feis. As a skinny and shy teenager I had performed in a verse-speaking group. We had, unfortunately, come last in that competition. I had resented this humiliation and had vowed never to set foot in the Feis again.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Now hoary and grey, scarred by the many battles of life, poisoned by bitterness and grief, I pulled back the entrance curtain. The theatre was half-full. Children ran around. Grandmothers abounded. Teenagers were decked out in outlandish garments. Parents hovered anxiously. No, nothing had changed in the intervening years</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Competition 38 was announced. A stream of children mounted the small stage, stiff with nervousness and stage fright. They assembled into formation. I waited, remembering my own nervousness all those years ago. The teacher rapped the desk. And suddenly the hall was filled with angel voices, rivalling the seraphim and cherubim rising, rising, swelling, rolling, like a sweet spring tide. It was, in one word, glorious. I was rapt, entranced. Stream after stream of children mounted and performed their piece. Boy sopranos. Sang like violins. Little girls in frilly dresses lisped the harmonies in the seriousness of childhood concentration. More and more young children ascended the steps, their treble voices mounting to the heavens. More and more streamed up to the stage, their clear voices rising like birdsong.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And there I was, the cynic, who had come to mock, to laugh, to be sarcastic about the doting parents, the fawning grandparents, there I was smiling in delighted joy, elated, transfixed, and transported by the intent gravity of the children, as they sang their hearts out in the untroubled land that is childhood.</span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for your interest in the Cork Non-Fiction Writers Group. Individual writers and contributors hold the copyrights on all contents.</div>Cork Non-Fiction Writers Grouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00270383491275627222noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6120431664965273213.post-68627966721273692392016-10-27T11:53:00.000+01:002016-11-09T21:42:35.758+00:00Swans in Prague<br />
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by Sara O’Mahony © 2015</div>
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<b><i>Enlightenment from nature on a river in Prague</i></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The swans on the river in Prague,</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">They are there to tell us to be clean and do what we can</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">About the environment</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">If you could see how dark</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Dark murky the water was</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And see the flotilla of </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Twelve swans, then three,</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Two swans, all on the river that night</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Loud and clear in that moment,</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It was about being pure and to learn from them.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">They are existing in nature, surrounded by industry</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">That is a unique message. </span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for your interest in the Cork Non-Fiction Writers Group. Individual writers and contributors hold the copyrights on all contents.</div>Cork Non-Fiction Writers Grouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00270383491275627222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6120431664965273213.post-75399044256490814572016-09-28T11:50:00.000+01:002016-10-27T11:42:54.724+01:00Diary of a Carer<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">by Cecily Lynch © 2014</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Old age is so touching, so gentle, so dependent, so sweet, so irritating, so pathetic in its failing powers. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I entered the gates of a large and beautiful house. I could see the patient at the window, waving at me. My heart sank. I faced eight hours of forced smiling, of choking back resentment at his criticism of my clothes, my accent and appearance. ‘In you go, girl.’ I addressed myself sternly, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">‘</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Get on with it!’</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The odour of urine met me full on. The elderly gentleman was in his underwear, his shrunken limbs blue with the cold. He looked very cross. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">‘About time you came’, he spat the words at me viciously, ‘It’s five past ten already!’</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">‘Well Thomas’, I gushed, although my temper was rising, ‘Aren’t you the early bird this morning.’</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">‘Bah!’ was his only answer.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">‘</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">We’ll soon have you nice and warm, won’t we?</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">’</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> My professional patter sounded false even to myself.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I got on with my work. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">He was particularly difficult, limp and uncooperative.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I paused, looked carefully at him. His lips were blue, his breath fluttering.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I spoke into the emergency button quietly. Then I took his hands in mine. He trembled and whispered very faintly, </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">‘Forgive me, you have always been so good.’ His voice trailed away and his eyes closed in the long, long sleep of death. </span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for your interest in the Cork Non-Fiction Writers Group. Individual writers and contributors hold the copyrights on all contents.</div>Cork Non-Fiction Writers Grouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00270383491275627222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6120431664965273213.post-50451797934184682032016-09-23T18:44:00.000+01:002016-09-28T11:38:37.288+01:00On the Rim of the Known World<div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">On the Rim of the Known World by Cecily Lynch</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">© 2011</span></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Sublime Isolation</span></i></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The peninsula of Beara in West Cork is wild romantic and beautiful. On a recent visit I wondered at wildness, the loneliness, the incredible emptiness of the rugged, timeless spaces. On the very edge of the western world is situated Dzogen Beara, the Buddhist Retreat Centre on the edge of sheer cliff where the wild Atlantic bashes and crashes drowning the monks' reverent chanting. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I walked along the little winding roads admiring the pretty bungalows built impossibly on bare rock. Each a separate little world but so far away. The hedgerows were fertile with cowslips, foxgloves and ferns, the distant mountains run along the skyline peaking to the huge heights of Mangerton and Carrantuohill. I felt the impact of being the only person for miles and miles around. Between the sea and the sky I hung suspended, my past slipped away and I was just a little drop in the universe.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">It was with a start that I realized that it was the 21st century and the bus was coming.</span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for your interest in the Cork Non-Fiction Writers Group. Individual writers and contributors hold the copyrights on all contents.</div>Cork Non-Fiction Writers Grouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00270383491275627222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6120431664965273213.post-652340066841413652016-09-23T17:17:00.001+01:002016-09-23T17:17:26.799+01:00Christy WHO?<div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i>My Midnight Rescuer</i></span></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">by Victor Sullivan © 2012</span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The Lambretta scooter had come with me from London when I returned to Ireland in the latter half of the1950s, devoid of any knowledge of what had been going on in my native country during my absence. My hobbies and interests were entirely focussed on things of a technical nature, mainly ham radio, industrial electronics and keeping the Lambretta fit for purpose. I took little or no interest in the notable personalities in the public eye and no sport of any kind ever encroached in my fields of curiosity or enthusiasm.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">While employed on a process control project in the most northerly end of the country I received an invitation to a cousin's wedding in West Cork at the opposite end of the country, necessitating a 200 mile trip on my ageing scooter. I could not escape from the job until 6:00pm on that Friday afternoon in August. Having filled the Lambretta's tank to the brim I set out on my expedition. In Ireland in the 1950s roads were poor, traffic was almost non-existent, apart from local farm tractors and horse-drawn vehicles. Signposts, wherever they existed, could not be trusted. Driving at around 40 miles per hour I estimated five hours should get me to my destination. Allowing a stop for a meal I'd be there by midnight.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">It was pleasant driving along the rural roads for the first two hours. The sun shone. The Lambretta purred along confidently. I was making excellent progress but hunger-pangs prompted a break having reached the main Dublin to Cork road so I stopped for a meal at the first eating-house I encountered. I also topped up the fuel tank, (late-night service stations were as yet unheard of) and set off once again. Things were never quite the same after that. It was growing dark and the Lambretta intermittently emitted a dog-like growl that became progressively more threatening as the next hour wore worryingly on. The dog seemed to grow bigger and nastier and I noticed that even though the hand-grip throttle was turned fully against the stop my speed was dropping to below 30 MPH. The scooter was unwell, very unwell. Everyone seemed to have gone to bed as I growled through the town of Cahir in County Tipperary and headed anxiously onto the long, lonely stretch of bleak road heading towards Mitchelstown and the distant city of Cork. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">It was around midnight when the dog was shot. A sharp bang underneath me and the growling stopped. So did the Lambretta's engine and its lights went out. I stood beside it, cursing. It was very dark on that lonely roadside in County Tipperary with only a dead scooter for company. I had no torch, no light and any hope of getting to the wedding in the morning was rapidly fading. My only remedy would be to thumb a lift from a passing vehicle, any passing vehicle... if there ever would be one. Some local farmer might trundle by but I needed a long distance traveller. Begin to walk? No. Better stay with the scooter. I took its side panels off, laid them on the road and hoped the action might earn a sympathy vote. I grew cold. Then colder. Nothing moved on that empty wilderness of lifeless road. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Was it an hour? Perhaps two?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">A faint noise in the far distance... a slight brightening of the sky... a whatever-it-might-be was approaching. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The thing coming towards me along that long stretch of road across the moorland was no fast mover. Then I saw its headlights. I stood in the middle of the road waving a side-panel of the Lambretta. The noise grew louder, the vehicle began to slow down and stopped. It was a huge truck, a fuel tanker. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The driver lowered his window.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"You're in trouble, my good man?"</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Thanks for stopping. My scooter's died and I have to get to West Cork for a wedding in the morning."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Well, I can take you as far as Cork city and no further. I can't take your scooter though, so throw it in the ditch and climb in." </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I obeyed gladly and a powerful hand reached down, grabbed my right hand and hauled me effortlessly up into the comfortable passenger seat of the warm cab. I presume we exchanged names and I undoubtedly expressed my gratitude for the very welcome lift.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Where have you come from?" was my rescuer's first question.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Donegal."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"They haven't much of a team this year. Tell me, what did you think of the match last Sunday?"</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"What match?" I asked innocently. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Ah now! You're having me on! What did you think of our team, eh?"</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">By the time we reached slumbering Mitchelstown it had begun to dawn on the tanker driver that there was at least one person on the planet who knew nothing and cared nothing about the outcome of last Sunday's match and it had been his misfortune to have picked up that one freak of nature, me. There had been no topic of conversation other than that match and it must have been with profound relief that my rescuer dropped his weird passenger off in the empty streets of Cork city in the small hours of the morning.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Somehow, via thumb, bus and luck, I got to the wedding venue just in time, sleep-starved and food-starved but glad to have made it.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Later, at the reception, I recounted my adventure to a man I didn't know seated beside me.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"A big road tanker you say? Are you sure?"</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Yes." I confirmed. He looked at me as if I had announced that I had some unpleasant, infectious disease and quickly left his seat. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Moments later an anxious looking woman approached me, holding the hand of a young boy.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Are you the fella who got the lift to Cork in the petrol tanker last night? she asked.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"I am."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"And you shook the driver's hand?"</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"I did. He pulled me up into his cab by this same hand." I replied, holding out the limb. She seemed reassured.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Would you please shake hands with my Michael." she requested.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Somewhat amused I said, "Of course." and stretched out my hand towards the shy seven-year-old who stared at my paw in awe before nervously grasping it, then grinning from ear to ear.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">An overweight lawyer came up to me a little later; "What kind of tanker was it?" he asked.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"A big Esso tanker." I answered.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Then let me shake that hand of yours!" he demanded aloud. That seemed to initiate a general drift towards me of would-be hand-shakers. Some muttered something about it being a privilege to shake my hand. Soon I had shaken hands with half of the guests, young and old, at their request and my utter bemusement. I was not a well-known celebrity, merely an obscure second cousin of the groom. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I sought out a much respected uncle and demanded an explanation. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Well you must be the nation's prize eegit! There isn't a man, woman or child in the county who wouldn't give their all to have been where you were last night. Your hand was held by the mightiest hand that ever held a hurley. That tanker driver was the hero of the Hurling match last Sunday and many other matches before it. You, of all people, with not the slightest knowledge of, or even the remotest interest in the game of Hurling, were rescued from the roadside by the finest hurler that ever lived, the great Christy Ring!"</span></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Whenever my children, and now my grandchildren accompany me on visits to Cork Airport, they find it embarrassing when I make a point of addressing a life-size bronze statue of a man wielding a hurley. </span></i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I salute the statue and say aloud: </span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Thanks for picking me up, Christy." </span></i></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for your interest in the Cork Non-Fiction Writers Group. Individual writers and contributors hold the copyrights on all contents.</div>Cork Non-Fiction Writers Grouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00270383491275627222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6120431664965273213.post-75119412784140984822016-09-23T16:34:00.000+01:002016-09-23T16:51:35.124+01:00A Search for Roots<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><i>Seeking in the rain…</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The pouring rain does not deter the two senior women who have travelled the Seven Seas to reach the place. Wearing wax jackets and wellies, armed only with pruning shears and cameras, they are scouting an old graveyard by the sea, in a remote area of Ireland. They try to read an ancient map that currently looks like a wet rag. At any rate, it’s more of a rough sketch, found in their family papers in Australia.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Alone at the beginning, they can now hear voices; next thing, three young men appear from nowhere, walking in-line along the only narrow path crossing the cemetery, in the direction of the sea. They are speaking loudly, in a language that is closer to Russian than to Gaelic or English. The open skies do not seem to affect them either.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Each party nods politely to the other and the trio disappears, but not far, as the duo can still hear their discussion, getting livelier with time. The women make their own noises, with exclamations and laughs, as they find, or not, the clues they are seeking.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The job at hand is hard: most of the tombs are covered in ivy and bushes have sprung up everywhere; in truth, machetes would have been more efficient. In addition, rain and winds have eroded many inscriptions. It takes patience: cutting off enough vegetation to reach the text and trying to interpret the remaining letters and dates. They may never succeed, as some characters are totally illegible. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">When, at last, one of the two sisters shrieks with delight (the other one joining-in immediately), it brings back the lads who think that there is murder going on there and rush “at the ready” to save the “damselles” (so-to-speak).</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The five are soaked and dripping all over but, even if tentative explanations are not fully understood on both sides, all will remember their parting: a warm exchange of wet farewells, loaded with goodwill, among a cluster of placid tombstones, in a forgotten corner of Ireland.</span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for your interest in the Cork Non-Fiction Writers Group. Individual writers and contributors hold the copyrights on all contents.</div>Cork Non-Fiction Writers Grouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00270383491275627222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6120431664965273213.post-7884129876640120072016-09-19T17:57:00.000+01:002016-09-23T16:25:56.853+01:00THE UNLOCKED HOUSE <div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Arial; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
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by Madelaine Nerson Mac Namara, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16px;">© </span>2015 </div>
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Mirror you lie</div>
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flat on your back</div>
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the window sill</div>
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your gloss hard bed.</div>
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Gulls and magpies</div>
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wander the sky</div>
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clutter and clear</div>
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your unlocked house.</div>
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Clouds visit you</div>
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sunlight tickles</div>
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the dusk riddles</div>
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and tells stories.</div>
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Patient lover</div>
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you wake and dream </div>
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my tomorrow's</div>
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face and weather.</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for your interest in the Cork Non-Fiction Writers Group. Individual writers and contributors hold the copyrights on all contents.</div>Cork Non-Fiction Writers Grouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00270383491275627222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6120431664965273213.post-13330823270483316852016-09-19T17:28:00.000+01:002016-11-09T21:40:44.967+00:00Ireland’s Freedom Centenary<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3170a7; font-size: 14px;"><b>By AIDAN O’SHEA.</b></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbWBcR_x_VzKm8SQI1DFMgsI1qsMiSnR6nthrjXKS42xxLk3HCz95-h5mRzfeaeRMEKUvRtVUE_Spqo5JGY8SZ-oZFsQqLB0z0dYMpUvDyWn4xM6Pw_8RsYFyF_bTIq0ldT52_rIS4gW_p/s1600/Pearce.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbWBcR_x_VzKm8SQI1DFMgsI1qsMiSnR6nthrjXKS42xxLk3HCz95-h5mRzfeaeRMEKUvRtVUE_Spqo5JGY8SZ-oZFsQqLB0z0dYMpUvDyWn4xM6Pw_8RsYFyF_bTIq0ldT52_rIS4gW_p/s1600/Pearce.png" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Look carefully at this photograph. Here is a young man in his mid-thirties who was executed by firing squad at dawn on May 3rd, 1916. Patrick Pearse was condemned by court martial as commander of rebels in The Easter Rising, a rising which lasted less than a week, a rising that could never withstand the power of British military force in Ireland. His is a soulful, doleful appearance; his life was both heroic and ultimately tragic. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">In this centenary year, we should review his life and his work. Patrick Pearse was born in November 1879 at 27 Great Brunswick Street Dublin to James Pearse (1839-1900), a widower and monumental sculptor from Birmingham, and Margaret Brady (1857-1932) of County Meath. James converted to the Catholic faith before this marriage in 1877. The second family comprised Margaret (b.1878), Patrick (b.1879), Willie (b.1881), and Mary Brigid (b.1884). </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The family business thrived and they moved to the suburb of Sandymount when Patrick was five years old. He spent five years at a private school before entering the Christian Brothers School at Westland Row. By this time Irish national and cultural spirit was being actively promoted by teaching orders of brothers and nuns. He proved to be a diligent student, sensitive to being teased about having a Birmingham accent and having a slight squint. He excelled at the Irish language, which was taught outside the main curriculum. He was awarded a book prize entitled <i> The Tongue of the Gael</i> by Tomás Ó Flannghaile. This book inspired him to explore the half-forgotten treasures of the Irish language, poetry and heroic folklore. In his final school year, Patrick achieved second place in the island of Ireland in the Senior Certificate examinations. </span></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Conradh na Gaeilge.</span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">He was then employed at his school as an instructor in Irish and actively took part in Conradh na Gaeilge (Gaelic League), a voluntary organisation dedicated to promoting the native language, campaigning for its recognition in schools and publishing new writing. His evident spirit and fluency impressed older Conradh members, and he was elected to the Ardchoiste (executive committee) within a year. He had found his métier. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It is widely acknowledged that the Conradh became a broad cultural movement which acted as a seedbed for political change. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">James Pearse died in 1900. Thus Patrick and Willie (who had trained as an artist) took over the management of the family firm. However, the firm went into decline because of poor financial management and outstanding debts. Patrick managed to pay his way through an Arts degree in Irish, English and French at University College, Dublin. He also qualified as a barrister. In 1903 he was appointed editor of<i> An Claidheamh Soluis</i> (Sword of Light), the weekly bilingual paper of the Conradh. It soon became evident that he wrote very finely in Irish and English. His work included editorials, orations, short stories, short plays and poetry. In the following decade, he became the principal voice of resurgent nationalist thought.</span></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Scoil Éanna.</span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Pearse worked tirelessly for the Conradh, travelling the country to promote new branches, visiting the Connemara Gaeltacht, not only to learn from native speakers of the language, but to train many of them to teach the language to others. In addition to this pioneering work, he founded Scoil Éanna in 1908, a bilingual high school for boys. Two years later, the school moved to Rathfarnham, and Pearse opened a high school for girls, Scoil Íde. His ambitions exceeded his financial skills, however, and both schools struggled with debts. Nevertheless, he offered a wide creative curriculum which emphasised patriotism and the Irish language. The schools became the family business, involving his mother, Willie and his sisters. </span></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Rebellion.</span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Patrick Pearse was a key speaker at the inaugural meeting in November 2013 of Óglaigh na h-Éireann (Irish Volunteers), a civilian militia. Many of this militia volunteered to serve in the British forces in World War I (1914-18). They did so in the hope of Home Rule for Ireland as a reward. A minority of the Óglaigh planned an armed uprising in the cause of Irish freedom. Arms and help were sought from German military sources, on the basis that England’s preoccupation with the War was Ireland’s opportunity. The rebels’ plans were mired in confusion, a German arms shipment was intercepted, yet the Dublin insurgents decided to attack on Easter Monday, 1916. Thus Patrick Pearse was chosen as Chairman of The Provisional Government of The Irish Republic (Poblacht na h-Éireann). </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> Turbulent years would follow in Ireland, involving the execution of the leaders of the rising, the imprisonment of hundreds of captives, the establishment of Dáil Éireann as provisional Irish Parliament in 1919, a violent war of Independence, a Truce, The Anglo-Irish Treaty and political independence in the form of an Irish Free State (December <span style="font: 8.0px 'Times New Roman';">6t</span>h 1922).</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">In remembering Patrick Pearse, the real and symbolic leader of an Irish Republic, we honour him in the name of all men and women who set the nation, or most of it, on the path to the freedom we enjoy today<span style="font: normal normal normal 11px/normal 'Times New Roman';">.</span></span></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for your interest in the Cork Non-Fiction Writers Group. Individual writers and contributors hold the copyrights on all contents.</div>Cork Non-Fiction Writers Grouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00270383491275627222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6120431664965273213.post-26827176738379139562016-09-19T15:18:00.000+01:002016-11-09T22:55:07.484+00:00Our European Ash (Fraxinus excelsior) <br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> © 2016 by Victor Sullivan.</span></h2>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">If this Ash Tree could talk! </span></h3>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A fine old tree stands proudly at the east end of our garden, just as it did when my wife and I bought the property in 1970. The large, overgrown garden had been neglected for decades and it was some months before we succeeded in clearing an access path to the farthest end and finally touch the massive trunk of our Ash tree. We had been advised that the tree was the subject of a Preservation Order, a matter of little interest to us as we had no intention of felling it for firewood. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">During summer, the view towards the East from my bedroom window is partly obscured by our Ash tree's dense foliage but in winter, through its bleak, barren, lower branches, the impressive main entrance to Cork City Gaol can be seen. No longer operating as a prison, it is now a popular Tourist attraction, nevertheless it has a gloomy history. The very spot that I can see from my bed is the precise location of numerous public executions in the mid- 1800s. Such events were a popular source of free entertainment and attracted large crowds of enthusiastic onlookers. Some mothers brought their children to witness the formalities and thus be memorably warned that a similar fate would await them if they were disobedient or misbehaved. Placing bets on how many kicks the hanged victim would make before expiring was a common practice at public executions. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The date and time of each execution was advertised locally and consequently it was advisable to arrive early in order to be assured of a good position for a clear view of the performance. Not everyone wished to be 'too close' to the Hangman, some preferring a more distant over-view of all the onlookers and the focus of their attention outside the prison's main door.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Such an enthusiast was a small man of considerable athletic dexterity and grim determination, Doney. Doney loved the public Executions. He boasted that he had never missed one. He claimed to have established viewing rights from what he considered to be the best viewing position, high in <i>his</i> Ash tree to the south-west of the Cork City Gaol. It was then the only substantial tree in the area that was close to the front of the prison. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Doney's tree was the much younger embodiment of what is now our respected Ash tree. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The 'Respectable residents' who lived in the area near the Prison raised an official objection to the City Authorities complaining, not about the executions in public, but about the low class of people attracted by such spectacles. Their complaint was eventually taken seriously and in 1865 the last public execution took place outside the main door of the Cork City Gaol, presumably keenly observed by Doney from 'our' ash tree. Thereafter, executions were carried out inside the high walls of the prison, hidden from view. The 'Respectable residents' of Sunday's Well were no longer bothered by unsavory crowds of gapers and our Ash tree was never again required by Doney. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">© 2016 Victor Sullivan. </span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for your interest in the Cork Non-Fiction Writers Group. Individual writers and contributors hold the copyrights on all contents.</div>Cork Non-Fiction Writers Grouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00270383491275627222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6120431664965273213.post-40023009837896079762016-04-13T12:30:00.000+01:002016-09-19T15:14:31.037+01:00DEORAITHE <div>
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DEORAITHE</div>
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Le Aodán Ó Sé © 2015</div>
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Tá rabharta nua le taoide na himirce </div>
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Imirce intíre is imirce thar lear.</div>
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Páil na hÉireann ag éirí plúchta</div>
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Is ag slogadh plúr na tuaithe.</div>
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Na mílte Gaedheal le céim ollscoile</div>
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Ag teitheadh leo ar fuaid na cruinne.</div>
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Ní le sclábhaíocht ach le tóir ar</div>
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Impireacht dian an domhandachais.</div>
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Mar chúiteamh ar an rabharta daonna</div>
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Seo chugainn comharsain nua</div>
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Ildánach, ilteangach, ilchreidmheach</div>
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A n-iolrachas mar dhúshlán dúinn.</div>
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An saibhre linn a dtuirlingt orainn</div>
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Mar fuilaistriú ar chlanna Gaedheal</div>
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Fad is a bheidh ár muirear féinigh</div>
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Ag spaisteoireacht i bhfad i gcéin?</div>
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MIGRANTS</div>
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There is a new migratory tide around us</div>
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Internal migration and migration overseas.</div>
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Ireland's metropolis ever more congested</div>
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As it swallows the best of our youth.</div>
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Thousands of our are graduates fleeing</div>
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Back and forth across the globe</div>
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Not as deportees or penniless labourers </div>
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But as cogs in capitalism's world empire. </div>
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To compensate for this human exodus</div>
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Here come new neighbours to our shores</div>
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Talented, multilingual, of all faiths and none</div>
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Startling and challenging our parochial core.</div>
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Are we not richer for their arrival?</div>
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Will they be a blood transfusion to our nation?</div>
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Meanwhile our loved ones stroll down foreign boulevards</div>
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And flicker occasionally on Skype.</div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for your interest in the Cork Non-Fiction Writers Group. Individual writers and contributors hold the copyrights on all contents.</div>Cork Non-Fiction Writers Grouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00270383491275627222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6120431664965273213.post-26916039063697599772015-11-23T17:53:00.000+00:002015-11-23T17:53:00.086+00:00Who was Johnnie Gill? Chapter 21<div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">By Victor Sullivan © 2015 The Wedding Gift</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Johnnie was genuinely upset by the consequence of his own carelessness, frightening May so severely on the occasion of their first unfortunate meeting. He was determined to improve his relationship with May, but how best to go about it?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Wedding presents were traditionally either decorative and useless, or mundane, practical, useful things. His gift would have to be exceptional, useful, long-lasting, conspicuous and above all, DIFFERENT. Furthermore, his wedding gift would have to give little or no pleasure to his unpleasant brother while being the absolute life-long delight of his wife. If May's prolonged appreciation of his wedding gift could be a thorn in Richard's backside every time he saw it, so much the better. But what could achieve such a profound specification? </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The solution presented itself as he was having a sorting-out session in The Cell, a month before the wedding, at the fervent request of his mother. He was packing things into a box; his books, his documents and what his mother referred to as 'his flithers.' A tattered page slipped out from among 'the flithers' and slithered onto the floor. The perfect solution to his problem! Doubtless it would be the most expensive gift May would receive on her wedding day, but thanks to careful management of his his various enterprises, money was not a problem for Johnnie. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">When he first acquired a reputation for repairing sewing machines, Johnnie had occasionally been asked to procure machines for other dressmakers. He ordered them from the Singer shop in Cork and was pleasantly surprised to receive a generous seller's commission on the sale of each one. All such machines were of the treadle type as they were for professional dressmakers or tailors. The page of the catalogue that had fluttered onto the floor in such a timely fashion did not show a treadle model but a portable, table-top, hand-operated machine.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Johnnie wrote to Singer for the latest catalogue from which he ordered the table-top model, specifying the posh version that boasted a white ceramic crank-handle among its special, attractive features.[ The Author can vividly remember being allowed to wind bobbins on that sewing machine with the white ceramic handle. ] The order included several spare bobbins plus dozens of reels of silk, linen and cotton thread in a wide variety of colours. The machine was enclosed in what was morbidly termed its 'coffin-style' carrying-case. For the journey to Castletown Bere it was additionally protected by a wooden crate. It was sent by rail to Bantry and from there by sea on<i> The Lady Elsie</i>.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Johnnie met the little coaster as it docked at the pier and waited while the passengers disembarked. He asked the man at the gangway to bring him the expected crate addressed to Mr. Johnnie Gill. 'HANDLE WITH GREAT CARE.' was painted on all four sides and 'THIS SIDE UP' on the top. The man gingerly landed the crate on Johnnie's donkey-cart.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">"What is it?" he asked with genuine interest.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">"<i>Dúlamán!</i>" Johnnie replied as he set off with his crate. "And the very best quality <i>Dúlamán</i> it is too!" he added, leaving the crew-man of<i> The Lady Elsie</i> scratching his head.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Johnnie's next problem was deciding on the most appropriate method of delivery of the sewing machine to the bride. Was there some protocol to be observed in such circumstances? Delivery to her new home or to her childhood home at Adrigole? His bridegroom-to-be brother unwittingly decided the matter for him when he bluntly asked Johnnie not to attend the wedding or to appear at the celebrations. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">"I don't want May upset by your presence. She still hasn't recovered from her first meeting with you."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Johnnie had been expecting such a request and understood the reason for it but he pretended to be surprised, deeply offended and distressed by his brother's demand. Now he knew exactly when and how the sewing machine would play its spectacular part. It would be his proxy, his representative, his ambassador, acting on his behalf. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Two days before the wedding, Johnnie made an early-morning visit to the Hotel to deliver the carefully wrapped mystery item. The Hotel proprietor agreed wholeheartedly with the idea of a pleasant surprise for the bride and said he had always admired the Gill family and he would be honoured to co-operate. They worked out some strategic details, Johnnie expressed his thanks, left the hotel and turned Ribbon's head towards Eyeries. To be conspicuously absent, as requested by his brother, would be his next contribution to the occasion.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">On 3rd May, 1902, Richard Gill and May Harman were married. After the church formalities, the small group of relatives gathered for a family celebration in the Hotel in Castletown Bere. Unlike most weddings, it was a rather sombre event as the Gill family was still formally in mourning following the death of the bridegroom's father. Old Thomas Gill, had died in the last week of the previous November. Nevertheless, there were the usual speeches and toasts. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Whisperers questioned the presence of a first cousin acting as Best Man instead of the bridegroom's brother… but that would mean Johnnie… Johnnie would have been able do the job in spite of his handicap and he would tell some very good yarns… Why not Johnnie?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">But where was he? Why wasn't he present at his brother's wedding? Surely he ought to be there on such a special occasion. Could he be ill? Could Richard have warned him off…? Nobody seemed to know.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The wedding cake, having been first stabbed ceremonially by the Bride and Groom, was then sliced into precise segments by the waiter and distributed to the guests. That was the moment when the Hotel proprietor chose to make his dramatic entry to the dining room, pushing a serving trolley on which something large and rectangular was hidden under a plain white table-cloth. The buzz of conversation died as all eyes focussed on the mystery object.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">"A special delivery for the Bride!" announced the proprietor, bowing to May and quickly sweeping the white covering from the trolley with a flourish, revealing a high quality box. A lady's workbox perhaps? The Hotel Proprieter, after an appropriate delay for dramatic effect, reached out, released a catch and lifted the cover off. The Singe<b>r Portable Sewing Ma</b>chine was revealed, generating gasps of surprise and admiration. The card inside was read aloud: </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">"To May from Johnnie" </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The announcement was met with a round of applause and the machine became the focus of everyone's attention. Few, if any, of those present had ever seen a portable sewing machine and they crowded around it. May, in tears of delight and possibly some other emotions, wanted to thank Johnnie and sent the hotel staff searching for him but without success. Word of the wonderful wedding gift the new Mrs. Gill had received from Johnnie Wheels spread around the town and beyond. For months following the wedding, women calling to the Gill's farmhouse would ask to see the sewing machine. May was always pleased to take it down from its conspicuous place on the shelf beside the stairs and show off her machine's impressive features and abilities. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Such demonstrations sometimes led to an order for a sewing machine and Johnnie secretly shared the commission with his sister-in-law. What May's husband, Richard, didn't know about wouldn't trouble him; also, what May's husband didn't know about he couldn't claim, demand, get his hands on, and drink! </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Even with such mutually advantageous, secret transactions between them, try as she might, when in the presence of Johnnie, May could not overcome her irrational sense of unease and foreboding,…or fear … or discomfort? … and all those words failed to describe May's feelings. Johnnie tried to understand. May tried to understand. They talked about it. Johnnie decided to reduce his presence in the house for May's sake. He abandoned The Cell upstairs completely, stating that he preferred to sleep in the kitchen on Eureka, beside the warm fireplace with the dog for company. He would transfer all his 'thingamebobs and flithers' to the workshop. May felt guilt, gratitude and relief all at the same time. She had enough to do running her new home and the many farm chores that came with it, without having to bother about Johnnie. Her mother-in-law was becoming very feeble and was muttering about not liking to sleeping downstairs in the parlour as it was not agreeing with her troubles. Marriage was not the bed of roses May had hoped it would be!</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Soon the first baby was on the way. That sewing machine would be very useful!</span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for your interest in the Cork Non-Fiction Writers Group. Individual writers and contributors hold the copyrights on all contents.</div>Cork Non-Fiction Writers Grouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00270383491275627222noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6120431664965273213.post-83359672841040871002015-11-21T14:57:00.000+00:002015-11-23T15:28:59.072+00:00Who was Johnnie Gill? Chapter 20<div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> by Victor Sullivan © 2015 A girl from Adrigole</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">1901, October.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">May Harman, an intelligent, pretty, twenty-year old girl from Adrigole, watched a cripple drag himself towards her, along the muddy main street of Castletown Bere. She had heard of his existence and knew that he had been badly injured when a child but it was the first time she had actually seen him moving along on some sort of trolley. She experienced a shudder of anxiety, mixed with revulsion as he drew closer and she stepped quickly into a shop door-way to avoid meeting the muck-spattered freak on wheels. The shop-keeper was about to ask what she wanted from his shelves when he noticed Johnnie passing outside and he understood immediately. Most women avoided getting close to Johnnie. Some men avoided him too.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Ah! That's only Johnnie Wheels. He's fairly harmless. But don't ever cross him. Clever divil he is; he understands complicated gadgets like sewing machines and fixes them for all the dressmakers and tailors."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"But he's filthy!"</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"So would you be, missy, if you had to drag yourself around through all the cow and horse-dung down there on the ground, as he does."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"He makes my skin crawl. Ugggg!"</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Say a prayer for him, missy. His must be a very hard life. He can't walk and 'tis said he can neither sit or stand. Dreadful way to have to live, dreadful altogether isn't it? 'Twas a mad sheep that attacked him and crippled him when he was only a young boy."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">May continued on her way to the dressmaker, hoping that she would not encounter Johnny Wheels again. Her visit to the dressmaker was for what she hoped would be the final fitting. Although May was quite a competent seamstress and had considered making the dress herself, it was for a very special occasion and best left to the professional dressmaker. It was for her first formal visit to the home of the man that her father had arranged to become her husband. The match had been agreed and, being a farmer's daughter, the prospect of becoming a farmer's wife appealed to her. As May entered the dressmaker's shop her eye fell on the sewing machine near the window and the very notion of it being repaired or even touched by the crippled creature that she had encountered on the street seemed crazy. Surely not! How could anything so filthy and horrible have anything to do with a machine that could produce such neat stitches on those beautiful, fine fabrics or spotless white linen. But her own new dress would have been made with that machine! </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">May put on the unfinished dress. As the dressmaker worked her way around her creation, making minor alterations with pins here and there, May asked bluntly, </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Is it true that the cripple, Johnnie Wheels, repairs sewing machines like the one you've got here?"</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Oh Johnnie! He's great with the sewing machines. I'd be lost only for him. Only last week he was in here giving my machine the once-over as he called it. Fluff builds up in all sorts of places in the machine and that can cause problems. I'd be scared to open it up myself and poke about in its innards. I was working on your own dress when he called in last week."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">May looked down at her dress and shivered slightly. She half-expected to detect streaks of cow-dung on the fabric but failed to see any.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Was my dress on the machine while he was here working on it?"</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Ah no! Johnnie always makes me clear away all my work before he gets going on the machine. Then he opens it up and picks out all the fluff before he oils it. He gets fierce fussy about cleaning it and polishing it afterwards. I have to keep scrap strips of all the different materials I use for him so that he can test the stitching on them all. He's fussy and funny at the same time. He tells some great yarns while he's working."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Regardless of how fussy and funny Johnnie might be in the opinion of the dress-maker, May was relieved to learn that the freak on wheels hadn't been pawing her new dress with his cow-dung-coated fingers. May left the dressmaker's shop having been assured that the dress would be ready for its final try-on in two days. She went in search of her father and found him, sitting in the pony trap, reading one of the two local newspapers, The Southern Star.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Well?"</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Two days more." May replied as she untied the pony's reins and passed it to her father before climbing in beside him. On the road back to Adrigole they talked about matters in the Southern Star. May never mentioned the crippled man she had seen with the wheels under him, who could fix sewing machines. If she had, she might have been better prepared for what followed. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">May's father, aware of his obligation to find suitable husbands for his daughters, had made discreet enquiries and a situation developing to the west of Castletown Bere had caught his attention. A fairly decent farm with a substantial area of commercial peat-bog attached would provide security for his daughter, May. The current half-blind owner was elderly and his wife was becoming quite feeble. The couple's son who worked the farm was in his forties and could probably do with a good, young woman in the house. Letters were written and a visit was arranged.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">1901, November. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> On a fine Sunday afternoon in early November, May Harman accompanied her father in the pony-trap, to meet her future husband. Traditionally, they could expect an invitation to 'walk the land' and had brought their boots for that opportunity. Richard and his blind and feeble father came out into the lane to meet them while his mother waited at the door. May's first impression of the younger bearded farmer who approached her with hand extended, was that he looked older than she had expected. 'Getting on in years,' would be appropriate, she thought. Richard's mother welcomed the visitors and invited them in for tea 'after they had walked the land.' Old Thomas Gill declared that as he couldn't see much any more and would prefer not join them. In truth, he was no longer able to walk far, 'his years had at last caught up with him.' </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">May, her father and bridegroom-to-be, Richard set out to view the farm.The livestock consisted of one friendly black and white sheep-dog, a couple of cats, a herd of dry cattle, twelve milking cows, some calves, two pigs, poultry, ducks, a large flock of sheep and one goose. ("there were two but a fox got the other one!"). They walked the farm boundary, part of which included a small river. They saw the large area of peat-bog where cutting rights were sold as measured strips to neighbours and even to some families from the town, who then cut and saved their own year's supply of fuel. From the high, moorland part of the land, the view of Berehaven harbour, Bere Island and beyond it to Mizen Head, was magnificient. To the west lay the Atlantic Ocean. As they returned to the farmhouse for the promised tea, May, delighted and excited by everything she had seen, was struggling nervously to retain her composure. Richard and her father were getting along well together as they discussed cattle and sheep and the prices they made at the last fair. She, the future Mrs. Gill, would behave properly, politely, respectfully at all times. On reaching the open farmhouse door, May removed the first of her muddy boots, stooping down to replace it with a retrieved shoe. She began to tie its lace.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">From the darkness inside the kitchen, at floor level, a large, scrupulously clean hand was suddenly thrust straight towards her in greeting.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Hello, I'm Johnnie!"</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Raising her eyes from her shoe-lace, May saw the hand and a leering face mere inches from her own face. Her piercing scream of sheer shock and terror echoed through the house. It was a moment in her life that she would never forget. Even in her old age, images of that utterly unexpected, face-to-face, close-up, first meeting with Johnnie occasionally disturbed her sleep.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Johnnie was every bit as shocked and distressed by the pretty visitor's reaction. He had meant well. He was just being friendly and welcoming. He apologised profusely to the girl for frightening her so severely. But damage had been done. Richard was furious and, but for the presence of the important visitors, Johnnie would have felt more than the mere chill of his brother's hatred. But nobody had bothered to send Johnnie word about what was about to happen at the Gill farm. He had not been back to his home, or even to the workshop to assemble chairs, for two weeks. The possibility of matchmaking had never crossed his mind. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">He had untackled and stabled Ribbon as usual and then entered the farmhouse on Eureka. There he had found his ageing mother preparing the table in the rarely used parlour, setting out her best china. She simply said that visitors were out walking the land and added that he had time to get rid of Eureka and make himself clean and presentable before they returned for tea, when he could introduce himself to the two visitors from Adrigole. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Which, he did, with such disastrous effect. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Johnnie didn't linger for the formal tea. He deemed it prudent to go on an urgent mission to Allihies, or to Bantry, or to China or Russia or to… somewhere… anywhere!!<span style="font: 11.0px Geneva;"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">*************</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Two weeks later, on on 24th November, 1901, Johnnie's father, blind Thomas Gill, died peacefully, aged 83. Johnnie was 31. He followed the funeral procession in his donkey-cart as far as the graveyard beside the North Road, Castletown Bere, where he remained on the roadside, outside the cemetry wall, where he was closer to the grave than most people, as the family plot lies immediately inside the roadside wall. He heard the soil and stones fall onto his father's coffin. He would join his father and Ada and other family members in that same plot some day. But not yet!</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">[1] May Harman was the author's Grandmother</span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for your interest in the Cork Non-Fiction Writers Group. Individual writers and contributors hold the copyrights on all contents.</div>Cork Non-Fiction Writers Grouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00270383491275627222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6120431664965273213.post-46387009700179144702015-11-18T16:00:00.000+00:002015-11-20T16:04:01.520+00:00Who was Johnnie Gill? Chapter 19<div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">by Victor Sullivan © 2015 Goodbye Brenda</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">1896</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> The residents of Castletown Bere and the surrounding district eventually lost interest in the odd friendship between the cripple, Johnnie Gill and Brenda. The pair met frequently, not only in her uncle's the bar but they would often be seen together, at wakes, funerals and local football matches. They attracted curious stares from Naval personnel and other visitors to the town as they travelled together on Johnnie's donkey-cart. Random taunts were tolerated, rebuffed, or conspicuously and irritatingly ignored. The pair seemed happy in each other's company. Sadly, it was not to last.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Brenda had waited anxiously for over a week without seeing Johnnie enter the bar. Someone told her that he was working in the Urhin area or staying with relatives near Ardgroom. She dreaded what his reaction might be when he learned about what had come from America. As each day passed, her anxiety grew. Imagined distressing scenes were played out in her head. Her own confused feelings were submerged in the melting pot of misery that had overtaken her. The regular customers had noticed the sombre change in their usually bubbly bar-girl too. Had she and Johnnie Wheels broken up? Or worse…?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">As the sun was setting one evening, Johnnie re-appeared, behaving as though nothing was amiss. He ordered his usual with a wave, parked Eureka and waited. Personal delivery of his drink was exactly what he needed, had expected and got. He smiled up at her as best his scarred face would allow, then, as she stooped to hand him his drink, Johnnie saw the distress and the tears.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Must talk to you. Side door." was all she said quietly and immediately retreated behind the bar, turning her back on everyone, pretending to re-arrange bottles on a shelf before vanishing into the kitchen.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Johnnie set his drink aside and pulled himself out into the street on Eureka. He went to the side-door where Brenda was waiting for him. She said nothing but held out a letter for him to read in the fading daylight. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">It was from Brenda's aunt in America announcing that a well-paid job awaited her in a Boston Hotel. Her room had been painted and furnished and everything had been prepared for her arrival. The tickets were paid for and she was to sail from Queenstown on 27th of the month.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Is this your father's doing?"</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Who else?"</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Brenda was expecting white knuckles and the slam of spiked Horses into the ground at least. Instead, after a long silence, she watched Johnnie change from being the friendly, clever, funny, sometimes cantankerous cripple, into a sad, kindly and very wise, disabled old man. He reached up and grasped her firmly by hand, pulling her down to squat beside him.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Brenda. Your father's right, of course. I know that… and you know it too, deep down. He knows I could never run your farm after he has gone to join your mother. That farm will need a man, a real farmer sort of man. I can milk a cow in my own way, but I could never plough a field with horses. Nor could I mow oats or shear sheep. Sheep and me don't get along very well anyway. The truth is, Brenda, if we carry on clinging to each other, it will destroy your entire life. We must increase the distance between us. It will hurt us both for a while but pain fades. I know a lot about pain, so believe me. Go to Boston, see how others live. Do some living for yourself. Then come back to your family farm some day and marry a strong, able-bodied, farmer's son, and don't be wasting yourself on this sewing-machine fixer who drags himself around on a plank with wheels."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">It sounded like a well rehearsed speech. Which it was. Johnnie had rehearsed different versions of it over and over again. He had planned to use it many times but at the last moment he could never find either the courage or honesty to express the painful words and logic. Brenda's aunt had provided the necessary key to unlock the unmentionable. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Johnnie released the girl's hand, spun Eureka around rapidly and returned to the bar, finished his drink quickly and left before Brenda had conquered her emotions sufficiently to reappear before the observant, speculating customers. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">On the evening of the 27th, Johnnie Gill dragged himself onto his donkey cart and headed for the high moorland at the top of Rea, to the spot where, at the age of ten, he had ridden a sheep at speed, crashing into that grey boulder that had crippled him for life. He stopped beside the boulder. It was the first time he had returned to the scene of the sheep accident. Berehaven Harbour with its usual collection of British Naval vessels warranted little more than a glance. Out to the west, lay the broad horizon of the Atlantic ocean, to the south he could see as far as Mizen Head quite clearly. His careful timing calculation was proved correct. There, visible in the blue haze was a west-bound steamship. Johnnie stared at it, knowing that on board, grasping the starboard taff-rail in both hands, Brenda would be staring towards the flat-topped profile of Knockoura hill behind him, at a spot just a little bit below its crest. They had agreed to say farewell that way at their final meeting. Eventually, distance, haze and the sunset obliterated the last traces of Brenda's ship from view. Johnnie dismounted from the cart and with a hammer and a small cold-chisel, he chipped a simple 'BRE' on the same boulder that had ruined his life. It must have grown too dark for Johnnie to see what he was doing as the remainder of his girl-friend's name was never completed. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i>(The boulder was shattered with gelignite during a land improvement scheme in the 1940s). </i> </span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for your interest in the Cork Non-Fiction Writers Group. Individual writers and contributors hold the copyrights on all contents.</div>Cork Non-Fiction Writers Grouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00270383491275627222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6120431664965273213.post-55817407488348615142015-11-13T17:25:00.000+00:002015-11-17T15:01:38.530+00:00Who was Johnnie Gill? Chapter 18<div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">by Victor Sullivan © 2015 Brenda, Love, Hate and Wills</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">1894</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Johnnie Gill returned twice to the bar 'just to have his face looked over' but on each occasion Brenda's father was present. Then, on his third visit Brenda was serving alone behind the bar counter and her father was absent. Johnnie ordered his usual pint with his usual gesture on entering, positioned Eureka in its usual place and waited for the usual sideways nod from Brenda to one of the usual customers to pass his drink down to him. He waited, longer than usual. Nobody handed his glass down. Then the flap of the bar counter was raised and he watched his drink approaching… in the hand of… Brenda! She squatted down beside him and handed him the glass. Taking his head between her hands she pretended to examine her handiwork on his face but they both knew that there was insufficient light to see anything. Johnnie's free hand touched hers for a moment and she returned to her work-station behind the bar counter. Impossible? A dream? He had vowed to keep his one-pint rule after Ribbon had so embarrassingly taken him to her former home while slept on the cart. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">To hell with vows! He ordered a second pint… just to see if Brenda would repeat the personal delivery service… and… SHE DID!</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> It was the beginning of an unusual relationship that was destined to end in tears as they both knew it would. In the early weeks, Brenda's long chats with Johnnie in the bar were thought to be a mere symptom of the girl's kind nature towards the unfortunate cripple and her interest in the progress of his facial scar. As their warm friendship became more obvious, not only to the bar customers but to the entire town, whispers became more audible: </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">'What would her poor mother have said had she had lived to see her precious daughter falling for with that crankie cripple?'</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">'You'd expect her father to put a stop to it! How could he allow his only daughter to carry on like that while working in her uncle's pub. He'd surely want his only child to do better than Johnnie Wheels!'</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">'I wonder… could they… ya know… God forgive me!… breed?'</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The strange friendship of the couple attracted considerable attention and it required strong determination to ignore the innuendo and often cruel, offensive remarks. Brenda, well accustomed to bar-room teasing and scurrilous taunts, would notice Johnnie's knuckles turn white as his grip tightened on his spiked Horses and she would tactfully defuse the situation. Brenda knew there was a limit to his endurance. She had witnessed Johnnie Gill's explosive temper and the consequences of his leg-breaking fury. In miners' jargon, Johnnie was like a blasting charge with a very short fuse. Antagonise him if you dare! </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Before long the pair were to be seen sharing Ribbon's cart. Together they attended the wake of a popular bar customer who had dropped dead in the street for no apparent reason. Richard also attended the same wake and grew angrier and angrier as his opinion was repeatedly sought regarding the antics of the bar-maid and the cripple.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Richard confronted Johnnie on the matter when he stopped Eureka by placing his boot on one wheel as they met on the lane beside the Gill's spring well. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Why do you keep disgracing our family by carrying on with that girl from the bar in town?"</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Why do <i>you</i> keep disgracing our family by drinking far too much in that same bar?"</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Richard's boot came off the wheel and swung back, but the kick did not make contact with Johnnie's face as intended. Instead, the shin met the prong of one of Johnnie's Horses and it pierced deep into Richard's leg as Johnnie quickly raised his arms to protect himself. Richard bellowed in pain while his intended target backed quickly away to a safer distance. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Ask for my permission before you try to kick me in the face again, unless you want the same lesson I gave that sailor!" Johnnie taunted his limping eldest brother. It was mutual open hatred from that moment.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Their father, Thomas Gill, having stretched denial as far as could be expected of anyone, had to admit that his eyesight was deteriorating quite rapidly. He could no longer read a newspaper. He announced that he was 'about to put his affairs in order so as to leave everything neat and tidy when he passed on.' A trip to the solicitor was arranged and he went alone, carrying with him a few documents, one of which was a sealed letter written by his second son, Tommy, who had emigrated to America some years earlier. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">According to an earlier will, (drafted not long after Johnnie's cripling accident with the sheep), on the death of his father, the eldest male heir, Richard, would inherit the farm, the house and the income from half of the peat-bog that formed a large part of the Gill's property. Tommy, the second son, was to receive the income from his half-share in the peat-bog. Financial arrangements were made for the widow and for each daughter. It was a condition that the entire family would have the obligation to jointly care for their crippled brother, Johnnie. That document was drafted before Johnnie surprised everyone with his survival, mobility and independence. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The solicitor read the earlier draft will aloud to Thomas Gill and then opened Tommy's sealed letter addressed to 'Thomas Gill's Legal Advisor when making his will.'</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"This changes things." was his first comment.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"What does?"</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"According to this letter, written in the presence of, and witnessed by, a Lawyer, your second son, Tommy, who now resides in America, relinquishes all his rights to his inheritance, assigning it instead to the person he refers to as: 'My disadvantaged brother, Johnnie, whose injuries will be for ever on my concience as it was I who encouraged him to ride that sheep. May God forgive me! Signed Thomas Gill. Born in Ardgroom, Ireland on 9th October, 1857.'</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">There was a long, head-nodding silence before the letter-writer's elderly father answered.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Do as he wishes. Make it legal. The money from that half of the bog will keep Johnnie into his old age. The night before Tommy left for America he said to me that it would be a relief not to see Johnnie dragging himself around on his trolley, day after day. Poor Tommy. I never suspected he was to blame for the sheep accident. We all believed it was Johnnie's own childish mistake. Tommy couldn't stand the guilt any longer."</span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for your interest in the Cork Non-Fiction Writers Group. Individual writers and contributors hold the copyrights on all contents.</div>Cork Non-Fiction Writers Grouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00270383491275627222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6120431664965273213.post-7159964952843382112015-11-12T13:00:00.000+00:002015-11-17T13:00:33.235+00:00Who was Johnnie Gill? Chapter 17<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">by Victor Sullivan © 2015 An Everlasting Smile
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The town was busy as Johnnie turned Ribbon into the Square and tied her to one of the tethering rings in the wall beside the Bar. Inside, six early customers were talking about the battered old sailing ship that had arrived in the inner harbour on the previous evening, its rigging all in a tangle and several spars broken. It had probably run into a storm but nobody knew anything about it. No member of the crew had come ashore yet.
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Johnnie, clad in his latest version of Cromwell, entered the bar, looked up from floor level and ordered himself a pint of stout from Brenda. He was wearing Cromwell No.3, made by himself, that had taken over the duties of Cromwell No. 2, the latter having finally been worn to such a state of utter delapidation that he had finally deemed it to be beyond any further patching or repair. Johnnie reversed Eureka into its usual place at the end of the bar counter where six regular customers were seated on the high bar-stools. They greeted Johnnie cheerfully and they all engaged in speculation about what cargo the damaged ship might be carrying and where it might be going to or coming from.
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">"Nobody's come ashore from it so far."
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">"No flags showing…"
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">"Might have all been blown away…"
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">"Ever heard of the Marie Celeste? The undamaged ship with no trace of the crew?" Johnnie asked?
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">At that moment the bar door opened and three strangers entered. They looked like seamen, probably from the mystery ship. Brenda greeted them cheerfully as she slid Johnnie's pint along the bar counter towards one of the locals, indicating with a nod towards the floor that it was for Johnnie, a normal occurance in the bar. Johnnie on Eureka was no longer a strange novelty; he had simply become an accepted part of normal life in and around Castletown Bere.
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The three newcomers appeared to have appointed one of their members as spokesman on their behalf. He ordered whiskeys by pointing at a bottle and holding up three fingers. It was clear that he spoke little or no English. Had he enough money? … Yes he had. Brenda filled the three glasses and completed the transaction. Attempts at conversation were quickly abandoned. The language barrier was unsurmountable. Meantime, Johnnie had placed his glass of froth-topped stout on the front 'work shelf' of Eureka and lowered his face to take the first sip through the frothy head. The seaman who had ordered the whiskey knocked back his glassful in one gulp and glared around as if challenging his two anxious crew-mates and everyone else present to do likewise. His two colleagues tried to imitate their leader and one ended up coughing and spluttering while the other tried to hide his unfinished drink in his fist. It was clear to everyone in the bar that the two smaller and younger sailors feared their aggressive, bully of a colleague. The atmosphere in the bar became tense. The local men lifted their pint glasses and sipped the contents slowly. Johnny could still reach the dark liquid without having to lift and tilt the glass just yet. He lowered his head to sip his drink. At that moment the bully saw a freak lying on some sort of plank on wheels on the floor. Deducing that Johnnie was trying to drink from the glass, the bully yelled some incomprehensible words and, with his heavy seaman's boot, pushed Johnnie's head down onto his glass.
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">A gurgling scream turned every head towards Johnnie as his head came up, a mixture of stout and blood flowing from a flap of his face that had been sliced open by the smashed glass. It took only a few seconds for the locals at the bar to realise the enormity of what had happened. Jackets were taken off, sleeves rolled up. Two of them barred the door to block any escape. As they moved in towards the bully with clenched fists, Johnnie yelled something that sprayed blood through his exposed teeth and stopped them. In stunned satisfaction, they stared in surprise as Johnnie's super-strong arms locked around his attackers leg and the twin prongs of one of his Horses were buried deep into flesh somewhere. In the same instant his firewood-breaking technique was applied as if to a branch of a tree, to the the leg of a man. Johnnie's massive shoulders bulged as the bully's bellow of agony drowned the snapping of bones as he crashed to the floor. He made no further attempt to hurt anyone, the twin prongs of Johnnie's left Horse that hovered inches above his eyes ensured that.
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">One half of the double door of the bar was lifted off its hinges and the whining bully was carried on it to the pier by his two very worried crew-mates, escorted by the bar customers whose menacing body-language required no translator. On the way to the pier other curious and amused bystanders joined the cortege. Having dumped the patient roughly on the pier to await a boat to take him back to his damaged ship, the bar clients returned with the door, replaced it on its hinges and went in search of Johnnie. They found him, still on Eureka, inside the wide bar window where Brenda, kneeling beside him, was availing of a shaft of evening sunlight to illuminate Johnnie's slashed face as she prepared to sew his cheek back together.
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">"Shouldn't we get the Doctor?"
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">"I'll go for him."
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">"Don't waste your time. I've tried. He's out of town for the week." Brenda responded.
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">"Shouldn't you wait 'till he gets back?"
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">"No! This has to be sewn together straight away! A bad cut like this must be sewn as soon as possible or 'twill heal with his face all open. I've sewn glass cuts before, but that was on hands and nothing like this. Don't expect any bar service until Johnnie is fixed up. My father has gone off somewhere and won't be back 'till late tonight. I'm on my own here."
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Brenda crouched over her patient, armed with an ordinary sewing needle and thread. With only a momententary hesitation, she drew the flap of Johnnie's cheek to where she felt it should be and pushed the needle through the flesh. Johnnie didn't even wince but the result was not satisfactory and she cut the stitch out.
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">"I need a curved needle to do this. God! Where will I get the likes of that?"
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Johnnie tried to speak but found it impossible to make himself understood. He indicated that he wanted to write and one of the onlookers produced a pencil and a piece of cardboard. Johnnie wrote:
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">2 TWIGS, 1 STRAW, 1 GLASS OF WATER, 1 LIGHTED CANDLE.
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The items were procured quickly. Johnnie took the needle from Brenda and pushed it through two twigs. Next he cut a section from a straw and placed one end between the puzzled Brenda's lips, indicating that he wanted her to blow through it while he directed the opposite end of the straw close to the side of the yellow flame of the candle. Brenda blew, creating a thin point of intense flame in which Johnnie manipulated the needle, deftly bending it with the twigs before dropping it with a sharp hiss into the glass of cold water. Pulling off the twigs, he presented the curved needle to Brenda. The helpers standing around looking down at the bloodied form of Johnnie on Eureka applauded.
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">"I can't stitch him properly down there. 'Twould be better if he was on the bar counter."
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Willing hands did as Brenda wanted and Johnnie, complete with Eureka, was hoisted carefully onto the counter. Two men were given candles to hold, the needle was threaded and the stitching began. It was a long, clean gash that ran from the corner of Johnnie's mouth almost to his right ear. The curved needle was an immediate success as it penetrated the cheek flesh repeatedly, drawing the sides of the gash together. It was obvious that Brenda had done such stitching before, even if it wasn't on somebody's face. The stitches were neat and even. Johnnie never even whimpered and appeared to have fallen asleep.
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">But he hadn't! Each time Brenda leaned close to his face to insert another stitch the neck of her dress drooped loosely just below her patient's eyes affording a unique and rewarding glimpse of her interesting clevage, mere inches from his nose. It happened without embarrassment, awareness, or need for apology.
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">"That's the last one. Now to clean you up and bandage your face."
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The bandage proved difficult. It went around his head and covered his mouth. Starvation and silence threatened to be a possible outcome for a few days. The bar customers joked about the impossibility of a silent Johnnie as they hoisted Eureka, with Johnnie on it, into Ribbon's cart and sent them homewards before returning to the bar to congratulate Brenda and re-commence their interrupted drinking.
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Afterwards, word spread about the mayhem in the bar. The reports differed wildly. Some versions stated emphatically that two legs were broken, another account claimed that it was the two shin bones of one leg that were "in bits and sticking out." The repeated and embellished descriptions of the bullying seaman's injuries became more and more gruesome as the day passed. By the time the story had reached and circulated in Allihies, the bully had been beaten to a pulp by the cripple, Johnnie Gill, and would never again be able to walk. If asked what had really happened, Johnnie merely replied,
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">"Ach shure I only put a bit of manners on him!"
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">That was all the confirmation that was needed. Nobody would ever again try to attack Johnnie Gill… if they wanted to retain two fully functioning legs.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">It wasn’t food or need to speak that troubled Johnnie in the days that followed the leg-breaking incident, it was Brenda. He simply couldn’t get her out of his mind. Each time he ran his tongue along the wound inside his repaired cheek the stitches reminded him of her. Whenever he had difficulty speaking, eating or drinking, he remembered her. Every time he saw his own hands they reminded him of Brenda’s hands and how kind they had been to him, even if those stitches had hurt more than he would ever admit to. Everything he thought about got mixed up with images of her. Brenda had offered to remove the stitches if he returned to her. IF he returned to her?! What had IF got to do with it? How SOON should/could he return? THAT was his next problem.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Johnnie’s gashed face had healed remarkably quickly and the removal of the stitches proved to be a straightforward procedure for Brenda. She undertook the procedure without the presence of any helpers other than the unnecessary, unwanted and unappreciated presence of her father. It was he who passed a mirror to Johnnie that revealed, for the first time, his new facial appearance, an everlasting, lopsided smile. During the following weeks Johnnie practiced various facial expressions whenever he stopped beside a pond of still water. He attempted to practice his new looks in Ribbon’s drinking water bucket: neutral or blank, puzzled, displeasure, intense displeasure, authority, anger, downright bloody fury, laughter, leering, sneering. He finally gave up, conceding that he, and the world around him, would have to accept that a basic component of his facial expression would, for ever, be a lopsided leer, bordering on a smile, no matter how mad angry he might be feeling! What made his new appearance easier to live with was that his leer reminded him of Brenda. Wonderful, beautiful, kind Brenda, who had stitched him up when his face had been split open. Brenda! Brenda…</span></span></div>
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</span><div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for your interest in the Cork Non-Fiction Writers Group. Individual writers and contributors hold the copyrights on all contents.</div>Cork Non-Fiction Writers Grouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00270383491275627222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6120431664965273213.post-3357716953663684062015-11-11T14:44:00.000+00:002015-11-11T14:44:00.726+00:00Who was Johnnie Gill? Chapter 16<div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">by Victor Sullivan © 2015 Mobility & Ghost Stories </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Over time, Johnnie's donkey-cart acquired several money-earning tools. The first of these was a hand operated grindstone that put a keen edge on many a knife and chisel. Johnnie would arrive in his donkey-cart outside a farmhouse and call to the occupants to bring out their knives to be sharpened. Willing children would be invited to bring a jug of water and then turn the handle of the grindstone while Johnnie skillfully honed the blades. Such was the demand for his sharpening services that he was obliged to add a second, coarser, grindstone for sharpening heavy axes and that essential peat-cutting tool, the sleán. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Word reached Johnnie that one of Castletown Bere's two cobblers had been obliged to give up his shoe and boot repairing services because both of his hands had become 'all twisted with the pains and his only son had run away to sea.' Johnnie felt that a visit to the old craftsman would not be time wasted and so it proved. The man was well aware of Johnnie's reputation for repairing horse-harness, so boots and shoes would be no problem. In fact, Johnnie Gill had, from an early age, successfully carried out boot and shoe repairs. Johnnie bought many of the cobbler's tools and his stock of leather. He also listed the principal clients as dictated by the retiring cobbler. As part of the transaction, Johnnnie was to receive some lessons in the finer points of shoe-making . They then retired to Johnnie's usual bar where he lay on Eureka on the bar floor and the old ex-cobbler sat on a low fish-box beside him. The symbolic cobbler's last was placed on the saw-dust covered floor between their glasses. Many hours later, kind bar patrons unknown hoisted Johnnie and Eureka onto his cart, together with his newly acquired cobbler's last and other acquisitions, and launched Ribbon in the direction of the Gill farm. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">But it was not at Gill's farmhouse that Johnnie awoke. The unfamiliar, neglected buildings and the overgrown bushes seemed to be part of a dream. Then, slowly, his thumping brain cleared a little, realisation dawned and he remembered poor old Molly O'Hanrahan's donkey! That's where they were! At Molly's abandoned cottage. Ribbon, unaided, had simply returned to her old home while Johnnie had most certainly NOT been in control! He vowed that henceforth he would be a 'One-Pint and no more' drinker. It was a vow that he almost kept.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">On a trip to Cahermore, five miles to the west of Castletown Bere, Johnnie delivered a set of chairs. While there, his services were called upon to sharpen knives, repair shoes, and stitch harness. It proved to be a long day as word went around that he was working in the area. People were still bringing him more jobs as darkness fell. He was invited to 'stay the night' and was given a substantial meal. That night he slept in his client's kitchen, on Eureka, between the family's big sheepdog and the banked down, open fire. Awake before anyone else in the house, Johnnie ventured outside on Eureka, to find that Ribbon had already been fed, most likely by the same person who had left a pile of harness outside the door that would require at least another day's work. On seeing the surprise workload, Johnnie's generous hosts invited him to 'Stay the night' yet again and the profitable experience became a routine. In the years that followed, Johnnie was welcomed into several houses where he could 'Stay the night' on his work circuit that included the villages of Cahermore, Allihies, Urhin, Eyeries, Ardgroom and Adrigole. However, not every family was willing to have the quaint cripple within their home as many children, and several mature adults, were intimidated by his appearance as he disembarked from his cart and dragged himself about on Eureka, sometimes wearing Cromwell. It was not unusual for very young children to run away from him in tears, much to his regret.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Johnnie's increasing practice of 'Staying the night' had an unexpected social effect. It was considered quite normal for some houses to have a reputation as a Scríocting House where neighbours would gather regularly to play cards, tell stories, gossip, sing ballads, play a fiddle and even dance. A really good evening's entertainment could sometimes continue into the early hours of the morning. Such homes tended to offer 'Stay the night' invitations and Johnnie Gill found the cheerful evenings much to his liking. Thanks mainly to Susan's early tuition and her school reading books, together with the reading material he had salvaged from the Dunboy Castle bonfire many years earlier, Johnnie discovered that he had a flair for story-telling. It was a time when the ability to read was not yet the established norm in the area and a good storyteller was always welcome in a Scríocting House. Johnnie's late-night ghost-stories became notorious for scaring people. He usually set the scenes locally, very locally, so that his listeners, when on their way home, would have to pass the vividly described and easily identifiable roadside boulder or tree at the very spot where the hideous, supernatural event had taken place in his story… and might be about to be repeated …. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">On at least one occasion, and probably on several more, while telling one of his localised horror stories, Johnnie himself became so frightened by the ghastly details he had described so vividly, that he had to stay at the scríocting house overnight. He was simply too scared to pass the roadside pile of stones where he had set the scene of his story. However, there was a genuine historical horror event associated with that particular pile of overgrown stones where Johnnie set some of his yarns. The pile of stones had once been a wretched hovel in which an entire family had died of cholera in 1832. In that grim year the people were so terrified of catching the dreaded disease from dead bodies that, instead of reporting the deaths, procuring coffins and arranging funerals, the neighbours had simply stuffed gorse bushes into the tiny thatched cabin and set it alight with the corpses still inside, then they tumbled the stone walls in on top of whatever remained. Children were warned never to go near, or pick blackberries from around the overgrown remains of the hovel because: "Those blackberries belong to The Others."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Johnnie's story-telling reputation gave him further publicity for his more ordinary, practical services. Many of the younger people knew him as 'Johnnie Wheels' for obvious reasons, a nickname that he was quite proud of. Unlike many able-bodied men in the area, he was always fully employed, in spite of his physical disadvantages. He invariably carried a fistful of coins in a pocket, a rare thing among his peers. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Johnnie's rota of 'Visitations' meant that he and Ribbon might not appear at the Gill farm for several days at a time. On his eventual return he would quickly assemble a batch of chairs or, if he had no actual orders, he would produce bundles of chair-legs or other components, ready to be assembled at short notice. Harness repairs were often required urgently resulting from some incident such as a cart capsize or a bolting horse. Someone always knew where to contact him in an emergency because Johnnie advertised his travel plans widely.</span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for your interest in the Cork Non-Fiction Writers Group. Individual writers and contributors hold the copyrights on all contents.</div>Cork Non-Fiction Writers Grouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00270383491275627222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6120431664965273213.post-7986747404750655052015-11-09T21:29:00.000+00:002015-11-09T21:29:00.291+00:00Who was Johnnie Gill? Chapter 15<div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">By Victor Sullivan © 2015 Shoes for Ribbon</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Ribbon had been very carefully trained and well looked after by her former owner, Molly O'Hanrahan. The only thing that Johnnie's newly acquired donkey needed was some hoof paring and a set of new shoes, requiring another visit to the whip-cracking, elderly blacksmith. Ever since that memorable occasion, ten years earlier, when Eureka had been recovered from the blackguards who had tried to steal it, Johnnie had often visited the smith's forge. Sometimes old Nancy needed a horseshoe replaced, or her young and skittish, successor, Bessy, but often Johnnie merely visited the aging blacksmith for a friendly chat and to learn and practice new and clever tricks with the long-lashed stock-whip.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">It was early one bright June morning when Johnnie proudly drove up to the forge with Ribbon and her cart, but the cheery, jovial greeting he was about to utter didn't get beyond the first word. The feeble condition of his friend, the blacksmith was all too obvious as he emerged from the dark interior of the forge to lean against the door-frame. A racking cough and blood-streaked spitting confirmed his initial opinion that the old man was not going to shoe many more animals. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"You'll be my final customer, Johnnie. I'm letting the fire go out tonight. I'm not able for it any longer. You've just arrived in time. Is she gentle and quiet?" </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"As gentle as an angel. She used to be Molly O'Hanrahan's donkey, Ribbon. You two met before, I suppose."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"We did indeed. Poor Molly, she was aghh…….." His words ended in a pitiful choking sound and a long coughing bout. After much spitting and panting he seemed to recover his strength and un-tackled Ribbon from her cart.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The hoof paring of the first leg took much longer than was usual. Ribbon may have had unusually tough hooves. Pretending that hoof trimming was a useful skill for Johnnie to acquire, the old smith suggested that Johnnie's powerful hands should perform the paring of the donkey's hooves. Fitting and nailing the shoes took a much longer than was usual but at last the job was done. Little was said. Johnnie paid for the shoes and the blacksmith tackled Ribbon to her cart and watched as Johnnie demonstrated its tipping floor and his mounting technique, with Eureka. He turned Ribbon towards home.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Wait! I have something for you. It will either keep you out of trouble or get you into it!" </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Johnnie stopped Ribbon and waited. The blacksmith went to the door of his forge, reached up, took down the stockwhip and presented it to Johnnie.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Here. Take this and mind it for me. It has served me well. Be sure to rub it often with unwashed sheep's wool, fresh off the sheep. That's important to keep it supple. Good luck with it." </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"I'll mind it like a baby … for you. Thanks."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Johnnie flicked the reins and Ribbon plodded awkwardly towards home in her new shoes. aware that he and the blacksmith would never meet again. His old friend would never be forgotten, the whip he was clutching in his left hand would see to that.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">As he appoached the Gill's farmhouse, Johnnie's mother was walking towards him, stopping him in the lane before he reached Ribbon's stable. She had been anxiously waiting for his return and had seen his donkey-cart cross the river at the bottom of the valley.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Johnnie! Johnnie, don't untackle Ribbon. I want you to turn around and take your sister to town. That toothache is killing her all day. She needs the dentist. You and Ribbon take her to town. She's in a lot of pain. The men are all too busy at the hay and need the horse. The two mile walk to town would be too much. Johnnie, could you take her….? "</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Johnnie was aware of his 21 year-old sister's bouts of toothache. Her misery had been a dark cloud in the household for weeks. Now, unable to bear the pain any longer and with her swollen face wrapped in a thick scarf, Ada had, at last submitted to the inevitable and agreed to visit the dentist. The agony of tooth extraction was terrifying even when only being imagined or talked about. Now, in her desperation for relief from toothache, Ada prepared herself for the full reality of the anguish as she travelled towards the dreaded dentist on Johnnie's donkey-cart. They stopped outside the door of the dentist's house. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"I'll wait here with Ribbon for you. It mightn't be as bad as you think. It will be over quickly."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Ada hesitated to get out of the cart and Johnnie remembered his own dread of anticipated intense pain before it struck and he felt a deep pity for his miserable and terrified younger sister.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"GO! Go now and get it over with!" He encouraged. Ada went, leaving Johnnie to imagine the various stages of the procedure taking place inside the net curtained window, that would culminate with his sister's screams. He waited. There was no scream. He began to imagine possible reasons for the delay. Then the door opened and there she stood, the dentist beside her, holding one arm. He helped her down the two steps and into the donkey-cart. The young dentist grinned at Johnny's bemused expression and answered his unasked question:</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"She didn't feel a thing! Latest fashion in painless dentistry. Anesthetics. She will tell you all about it later. She's a bit groggy right now but that will soon wear off. She might have a bit of a headache too but that will pass." </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">It was a greatly relieved Ada who walked, still a little unsteadily, into the kitchen and began to recount her surprising painless tooth extraction. Her joy did not last long. That night her face swelled and a fever followed that every effort by her mother to alleviate failed. Ada grew weaker as the days passed. The doctor was sent for. He diagnosed severe blood poisoning following a tooth extraction, shook his head solemnly, expressed sympathy and left on his horse. Within an hour, Ada was dead, aged only twenty one. It was 11<span style="font: 8.0px Helvetica;">th</span> June, 1894. Johnnie would be 33 in just over one week later, not a happy birthday.</span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for your interest in the Cork Non-Fiction Writers Group. Individual writers and contributors hold the copyrights on all contents.</div>Cork Non-Fiction Writers Grouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00270383491275627222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6120431664965273213.post-12463146951408326802015-11-07T17:52:00.000+00:002015-11-07T17:52:00.042+00:00Who was Johnnie Gill? Chapter 14<div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> by Victor Sullivan © 2015 Money, Drink and Ribbon</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">1892</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">While the demand for rat traps would be everlasting, Johnnie's interest in manufacturing them faded, the same was not true of chairs. Johnnie had sold his chairs as far away as Bantry, having appointed a nephew of the very satisfied Mrs. Lynch to act as his agent, payment strictly on a commission basis. Thomas Gill felt he could no longer lay claim to his own workshop above the cow-stalls as Johnnie's work-in-progress filled every available corner. Wood shavings and sawdust covered the floor and chair-components were tied in bundles that hung from the roof. Johnnie had developed a production line system. No longer did he make one chair at a time from start to finish. Instead, he would make only left front legs for two or three days, then change to right front legs and so on. In the interests of space saving, he only assembled each chair and wove the cording of the seat immediately before delivery to a customer. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">It became clear, even to the most casual observer, that the family cripple was earning substantial money from the combination of his chair manufacturing enterprise, his popular fishing tackle creations and the sewing machine services he provided. His brothers and sisters were getting an irregular pittance from their father for their traditionally expected free, (almost), labour on the farm. Jealousy smouldered beneath the surface for many months and the little acts of kindness that Johnnie had grown used to from his family members could no longer be relied upon. The matter reached boiling point in the Gill household late one evening.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">For many months Johnnie had been frequently journeying to town on Eureka, availing of a friendly tow from any horse-cart that passed him. Occasionally he would borrow Nancy and her cart to deliver chairs either directly to local individual customers or to meet the little steamship at the pier for delivery to his chair-agent in Bantry. Whenever he had Nancy and the cart, it became his routine to visit the Hardware and Timber merchant to replenish his stock of raw materials. It had also become his habit on such occasions to visit the Corner Bar for a pint or two before setting out for home, a practice frowned upon most heavily by both of his non-drinking, pious parents. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Johnnie Gill undoubtedly had imbibed more than two pints on a cold, April evening in 1892, when he had to be lifted onto the cart by a couple of bar customers who noticed his hesitant predicament with some amusement. Being kindly and helpful men, they untied his horse, placed the reins in Johnnie's hands, turned Nancy towards her home and gave her a gentle slap on her rump. The old mare ploddingly navigated the two miles competently and safely until, on arrival at the Gill farmyard, Nancy tried to enter the open doorway of her stable with the cart still attached and her intoxicated driver snoring. The front end of one cart-shaft dislodged the stable door-frame and at the same time a wheel of the cart crushed the wooden water-butt beyond repair. Nancy would never drink from it again. Captain's frantic barking initiated a general state of pandemonium, the outcome of which was a severe chilling of the domestic climate towards Johnnie and he was barred from ever again taking Nancy to town without constant parental supervision.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">'Necessity is the mother of invention' and, inspired by considerable desperation and motivated by much ill-tempered frustration, the next big ambition began to germinate rapidly in Johnnie;s head. The solution was staring him in the face every time he took to the road. There was always one to be seen somewhere. In fact they were everywhere, dozens of them, in most cases they were driven and owned by shawl-wrapped women taking butter and eggs to market or going to Mass. On Sundays there would be scores of them lining the roadside hedges near every church. DONKEYS! Donkeys with their carts. A donkey and cart would suit his requirements perfectly. A few modifications to the traditional design of the cart would make life much simpler for loading both Eureka and himself. But it mustn't be just any old donkey. Extremely careful selection would be needed. Some donkeys were known to be very temperamental, obstinate, dangerous even. He would have to choose his animal very carefully. Could there be such a thing as a wise donkey? The Postman would be the person most likely to be aware of the potential for a quiet donkey transaction. The Postman would know who might have one for sale; he would be aware of those unfortunates who no longer needed their donkey due to permanent incarceration in the Workhouse, in a terminal sick-bed or in a coffin. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Within a few weeks of Johnnie's first discussion regarding available donkeys with the Postman, the Workhouse door had opened for elderly and feeble Molly O'Hanrahan and, consequently, Molly's donkey, named Ribbon, needed a new owner. Molly had nieces and nephews who drove a hard bargain for Ribbon and her traditional cart. They demanded separate payment for the meticulously cared-for harness. Finally, after much haggling, the transaction was completed and Johnnie arrived at the Gill's farmyard, lying on the floor of the little donkey-cart, proudly driving Ribbon, with Eureka on tow behind. Johnnie announced that this was HIS donkey and cart, not merely something he had borrowed for the day. He reminded everyone that it was the 23<span style="font: 8.0px Helvetica;">rd</span> of June, his 30th birthday, and Ribbon and her little cart was a birthday gift to himself.<span style="font: 11.0px Geneva;"> </span>His sisters, Susan and Ada, admired the placid donkey, stroked its nose and patted its neck; his brother, Richard, seethed with ill-concealed jealousy. Standing in the doorway some distance away, Johnnie's mother wondered how many new problems and embarrassments would follow the arrival of this donkey with the silly name of Ribbon.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Johnnie's father had no objection to the new addition and the seldom-used, thatched, building known as 'The Welcome Inn,' became Ribbon's stable. The adjacent lean-to was cleared of rubbish and rubble and it provided shelter for the donkey-cart. Johnnie devised methods for cart and donkey management that ensured his total independence. He constructed a platform inside Ribbon's stable from which he could handle all the donkey's harnessing requirements. With the help of a couple of modified spade-handles with hooks at the end, Johnnie was able to back Ribbon under the tipped up shafts of the cart, pull the shafts down, guide the back-chain into it's place across the straddle, then, with the help of a short pole with a hook at one end, he could secure both draft and britchen chains. Result: One efficiently tackled donkey and cart. Ribbon proved to be obedient, gentle and it was obvious that she had been well-trained. She was quickly accepted, befriended and frequently petted by everyone in the family, even by Richard eventually. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">On the days that followed the arrival of Ribbon there was much sawing and hammering going on at the foot of the workshop steps where Johnnie was making modifications to his donkey-cart. Richard, watched the operation for a while and later reported that Johnnie had sawn the entire floor out of the cart and that such destruction of a perfectly good cart shouldn't be allowed. Nobody agreed with him. Johnnie must have had good reason to do such a thing; he always had good reasons for doing the unexpected. And so it was with his donkey-cart floor.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">He had arranged the right hand side of the cart floor to pivot like a see-saw so that when it was tipped backwards, with the help of a knotted rope, Johnnie could haul Eureka, with himself on board, up the inclined floor. On reaching the balance point the floor tipped forwards into the usual cart-floor position, placing Johnnie, still on Eureka, in what was to be his prone, Ribbon-driving position. Donkey driving would be like that for decades to come. A couple of wooden pegs secured everything safely while traveling. On releasing the pegs Johnnie moved Eureka backwards until the floor began to tip, and, controlled by the knotted rope, Johnnie, on Eureka, trundled down gently and safely to the ground.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Didja ever see Johnnie Gill getting in an' outa his dunkey-cart?!" was a common question around Castletown Bere. On his visits to the town he was sometimes followed by a group of children, curious to see how the agile cripple managed the feat. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> Their curiosity never bothered Johnnie, he seemed to enjoy showing off his strange skills to an appreciative audience. He was proud to be IN TOTAL CONTROL and he became a well-known character as he and Ribbon travelled the roads and lanes, delivering chairs, repairing harness, adjusting and repairing sewing machines and occasionally making fishing flies for the aristocracy. </span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for your interest in the Cork Non-Fiction Writers Group. Individual writers and contributors hold the copyrights on all contents.</div>Cork Non-Fiction Writers Grouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00270383491275627222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6120431664965273213.post-62086349976158977422015-11-05T17:17:00.000+00:002015-11-06T17:37:52.872+00:00Who was Johnnie Gill? Chapter 13<div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">by Victor Sullivan © 2015 Fair Day</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">1890</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Cattle and drovers filled the roads leading to Castletown Bere for the Autumn Fair Day. The town square was filled with grim-faced farmers, shifty-looking cattle buyers, steaming cattle, horse-carts with sheep in them, horse-carts with pigs in them, horses with riders on saddles, horses with riders without saddles, donkey-carts, a bull being led by a rope attached to his nose-ring. The ground was awash with cow-dung and soft and gentle rain fell steadily upon the smelly scene. Buyers were trying to strike early bargains in the hope of securing space on one of the two small ships that waited at the nearby pier. Their purchases would be ferried to Bantry, from where the animals would continue their journey by rail. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The Gill family had six bullocks to sell and while his father herded the cattle along the road, Johnnie followed behind on the floor of the horse-cart, driving Nancy. Autumn Fair Day, or any other Fair Day for that matter, was no place for Eureka to be, down there among all those hooves and legs and shit! Although there was no formal allocation of space for individual farmers on the town square, or anywhere else, each family had a traditional patch to which they tended to gravitate with their animals on a fair day, there to await the attention of the cattle buyers. So it was with the Gills. With Nancy's reins tied to one of the rings on the wall of The Corner Bar, the six bullocks formed a tight group beside the cart. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The bullocks were in prime condition and were quickly spotted by the cattle- buyers who then delayed making any approach as they did not wish to be seen as keen to buy and thus risk pushing the price up. Eventually a cattle-buyer approached, grunted a lot, but soon the deal was done and Thomas Gill was asked to drive the animals to the pier, which he did. Then he visited the Bank to deposit the fruits of the transaction. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">In the upstairs window of The Corner Bar a curtain moved. An eye peeped out at the scene spread out below on the town square. Men with caps and hats, very few bare heads, occasional sticks waving in the air, cattle everywhere, several horses, a few carts with pigs and several with sheep. Since opening time, her uncle had been serving the few early drinkers. The bar had not yet filled with men who had sold their produce and had immediately developed a thirst.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Aged nineteen, Brenda, a farmer's daughter who lived quite close to the town, had been begged and cajoled to come to help her uncle behind the bar occasionally, especially on Fair Days or other busy occasions. The bar was beginning to get busy and she would be called down to assist at any moment. The curtain was pulled back further as the curious girl pressed her blonde head against the glass, trying to get a better view of something odd that had caught her eye on the horse-cart immediately below the window. Someone was lying on the cart in an un-natural position. Then, just as she realised that she was looking at the cripple, Johnnie Gill, Brenda saw two youths with sticks approach the cart and to her horror, they appeared to prod the occupant with their sticks. Then they moved, one to each side of the horse where they quickly undid the britchen and draft chains and hoisted the shafts of the cart into the air, causing the crippled occupant to slide helplessly onto the filthy ground. Brenda had seen enough. She dashed down the stairs and into the bar, shouting at the top of her voice:</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"There are two blackguards beating up poor Johnnie Gill outside the door!" </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Glasses were instantly put down and there was a rush for the door. Outside, two bullys were shouting, </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Where's your old blacksmith now?" as they began to kick Johnnie repeatedly. That was the very moment when the bar customers reached them. Painfully, very painfully, they realised that it was now their turn to lie down beside their victim to be rolled over and over in the cowdung while very rough justice rained down upon them from boots, sticks and a horse-whip. They had to promise to never, ever again, never, <i>never,</i> NEVER, <i>NEVER</i>, interfere in any way with Johnnie Gill and that God might strike them blind if they ever did such a thing again. Furthermore, if they mistreated the cripple again, the pair of them would be taken out to sea on a fishing trip…. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Can you swim?"</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"No."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"So much the better for you! 'Tis quicker if you can't swim."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">And with that chilling threat, the rescuers returned to their drinks, while a few stayed to help Johnnie and ensure that his two humiliated, filthy and battered attackers left the busy town square without delay. Johnnie had suffered a few bruises from the kicks but he made light of it as, thankfully, he had been wearing Cromwell. A concerned Brenda brought a bucket of water and Johnnie, with much good-humoured encouragement, persuaded her to throw it over him. They laughed about it and he told her jokes. After three or four more buckets of water and several more laughs, she had him looking reasonably presentable, just as his non-drinking father returned from the Bank, seeking an explanation as to why Nancy had been un-tackled from her cart. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Brenda watched the horse being re-tackled and she clapped at Johnnie's agile, rope-assisted climb onto its flat floor. What had surprised her most about the entire incident was how naturally and nicely Johnnie had spoken to her. He had thanked her for pouring water over him and for cleaning up the cloak thing he called Cromwell. In spite of the odd circumstances, it had been quite a friendly sort of chat that they had, not in the least like the incoherent mutterings she had expected from a cow-dung covered cripple. She would have to alter her opinion of cripples, well, some of them anyway. Johnnie had been so polite, respectable and well-spoken, even when covered in cow-dung! A gentleman cripple!</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> Thomas Gill hoisted himself onto the setlock of the horse-cart and turned Nancy towards home. Brenda went and scrubbed her hands clean, wiped her face, tidied her hair and returned to the bar to assist her uncle behind the counter. Her hands and face may have been clean but the hem of her skirt bore generous bovine evidence that she had been squatting beside the cripple, Johnnie Gill, in the town square, on Fair Day.</span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for your interest in the Cork Non-Fiction Writers Group. Individual writers and contributors hold the copyrights on all contents.</div>Cork Non-Fiction Writers Grouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00270383491275627222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6120431664965273213.post-56005034354396353212015-11-04T16:54:00.000+00:002015-11-05T15:46:09.237+00:00Who was Johnnie Gill? Chapter 12<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">By Victor Sullivan © 2015 RATS</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i>(This chapter is not suitable reading for the squeamish!)
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Johnnie's early rat-kills were achieved with a stick or with his slingshot. Consequently word spread that he was a useful rat-catcher. He disliked the term and he disliked going into someone else's farm to kill rats. The slingshot was not accurate and the customer expected to see a row of dead rats arranged for inspection. With luck, he might kill one or two. It was not a rewarding enterprise. Rat-traps would be far more reliable and would not require him to spend hours waiting for a rat to put in an appearance.
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">He had seen rat traps of the gin-trap type but construction of such things were beyond his capacity. He could make cage traps.
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">His prototype consisted of a wood box with a door at one end, hinged at the top, with a heavy weight to close it when the trip mechanism carrying the bait was released by the visiting rat. It worked but it had a drawback. Unless the captive rat was detected and dispatched by dog or by drowning very promptly, a desperate rat had no difficulty in gnawing its way through the wooden side and escaping, leaving behind a useless wooden trap with an escape hole in its side.
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Johnnie's improved design consisted of a strong wire cage that proved to be less prone to escapes. It still had a disadvantage. Once it had caught one rat it ceased to catch any more until its contents had been killed and removed and the trap re-baited and reset.
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The next major development of Johnnie's traps was his creation of the 'everlasting' Lobster-Pot Rat Trap. Some of these may still survive, forgotten and hidden high in the roof-timbers of sheds and out-houses. Based on the traditional design of a lobster-pot, Johnnie's 'everlasting' trap had a similar entry tunnel with bait tied at the far end. Beyond the entry tunnel was a large interior space. Unlike a lobster-pot, a lightly balanced trap-door at the end of the tunnel dropped the exploring rat into the spacious holding zone and the trap-door instantly reset itself in readiness for the next visiting rodent. This type of trap was made from strong fencing wire and a thin metal plate formed the tipping trapdoor.
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Improvements followed, the most notable one being a hook set at the end of a long pole with which the door-catch at the end of the trap could be released efficiently, in the presence of one or two efficient terriers, without any personal risk. The hooked pole could be used to transport the cage of live rats to a suitable stream or water-butt for terminal submersion. The cage-traps worked but Johnnie did not promote their sale. They took a long time to make and customers were less willing to pay a fair price for rat catching equipment than they were for chairs or fishing tackle.</span><div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for your interest in the Cork Non-Fiction Writers Group. Individual writers and contributors hold the copyrights on all contents.</div>Cork Non-Fiction Writers Grouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00270383491275627222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6120431664965273213.post-21662466306278574602015-10-31T21:32:00.000+00:002015-11-04T16:53:05.481+00:00Who was Johnnie Gill? Chapter 11<div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">By Victor Sullivan, © 2015 </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Chairs and Decorum</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">1883 </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">From his lowly, prone position either on the floor or on Eureka, Johnnie had an unusual view of the kitchen chairs in the Gill farmhouse. He noticed that his mother was clearly uncomfortable when seated on one of the crude kitchen chairs or on the settle-seat.<b> </b>She was constantly changing position, seeking comfort. He watched, sketched, said nothing, but he planned to make a better, more comfortable chair for her. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Fully aware of his crippled son's manual dexterity, Johnnie's father had given him free access to his workshop and to the many tools that he had accumulated during his years working on major projects on the surface at the mines in Allihies, Urhin and at Dunboy castle. The chair design that Johnnie selected was a simple one, a standard design that might have been routinely set to challenge a carpenter's apprentice. Johnnie completed it without much difficulty and it finally stood on its four legs on the workshop floor. It was strong, fairly light but it had no seat. The seats of the existing, heavy kitchen chairs were large, solid slabs of thick wood, not easily obtained or worked. But Johnnie Gill's chair was to be DIFFERENT. His father, who had been following the chair's development with genuine interest, was persuaded to purchase a ball of white rope when he was next in town. Johnnie used it to weave a coarse but strong and flexible seat for his chair. A visit to Dan-the-tailor "to have his back scratched" resulted in a beautifully machine-stitched cover for the final comfort component for his mother's chair, the cushion. Behind the stable door hung a bulging sack of horse-hair that had been contributed from the tail and mane of Nancy and her predecessors over several years. The sack bulged less conspicuously after Johnnie had raided it and used the horse-hair to stuff the cushion for his mother's comfort. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Unable to sit on the chair he had made, Johnnie persuaded Susan to come secretly to the workshop and test the chair's comfort features. He told her she was not there to flatter him, it was her duty to be critical of the chair, to point out where it hurt, if it did, or if there was anything that should be different. He could make changes if necessary. Susan declared the chair to be perfect. He suggested that she should stay sitting on it without moving for some time. She did so and said it remained very comfortable even after quite a long sit. However, Johnnie failed to understand why, if his chair didn't hurt her, his older sister begin to cry while she sat on it, staring at the handsaws hanging on the workshop wall. Women!</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">There was to be no presentation ceremony in the kitchen. Late one night, when everyone had gone to bed, Johnnie quietly removed the ugliest of the old chairs from around the kitchen table, rearranged the remaining ones and installed the new chair in the place always occupied by his mother. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Next morning……….. More tears, in spite of the vastly increased comfort.<span style="font: 13.0px 'Lucida Grande';"> </span>WOMEN!!</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The success of the chair was talked about and boasted about. Not surprisingly, old Mrs. Lynch, who lived not far away, heard about it and began to feel her pains more acutely as winter approached… perhaps a new chair, like that one Mrs. Gill got from her son Johnnie, would ease her sitting and improve her aged bones… Johnnie received a note from the formidable old lady, inviting him to visit her<i> 'to talk about them chairs we hear so much about.' </i>Johnnie frowned at the shaky hand-writing. While his mother was of fairly normal proportions, he was keenly aware that Mrs. Lynch was definitely not. If Mrs. Lynch ever sat on his mother's chair she would overflow on both sides and challenge the strength of the chair-legs to support her. The job would require tact, courage and… and… "Decorum?" suggested Susan innocently and was immediately enlisted as chair-maker's assistant on the Lynch Project, her function: to undertake all aspects involving her speciality, Decorum, whatever that might imply. The most vital measurements to be captured were the width of the customer, (a) at the knees and, (b) at the beam (as in a ship). Both measurements to be taken when Mrs. Lynch was sitting comfortably on a flat surface. This would determine how far apart the front legs of the chair would have to be. Johnnie and Susan discussed and rehearsed the possible options on the way to Mrs. Lynch's house. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"There is a settle seat in her kitchen and you could ask her to sit on it." Johnnie suggested, "then get her to move to the end of it until she is up against the arm-rest."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Then what do I do?"</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Then you sit beside her on the settle and move right up close to her."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"What good will that do?"</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"We will then get her to stand and when she does, you stay sitting and I will measure from you to the arm-rest and that will be the measurement between the inside of the front chair-legs."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"She should be sitting in her most relaxed position for that measuring to be right. How do I make sure that she is in her most comfortable and relaxed position."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Use that decorum you were talking about, of course!" </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The technique worked and two weeks later Mrs. Lynch's special chair was almost completed and the white hemp rope had been woven firmly across the wide frame. Thanks to Dan-the-Tailor, the purple, outer case of the cushion was decoratively machine-stitched with white linen thread displaying a large 'L' in the centre and stuffed with sheep's wool instead of horse-hair. The entire Gill family gathered to watch Johnnie's two older brothers carefully carry the finished Lynch chair down the stone steps from the workshop and place it on a bed of straw on the horse-cart. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Chair delivered,… favourable initial comments, … payment promised after one week's trial, … payment received, … Mrs. Lynch's pains were greatly diminished and her bones were much improved.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Mrs. Lynch's house was a popular venue for late-night card-playing and story-telling and consequently news of the 'Johnnie-Chair' spread rapidly. A girl who was to be married the following September saw the Lynch chair and declared that 'there was no way she would agree to go and live in her husband-to-be's hovel in its present condition and the least he could do would be get Johnnie Gill to make two of his chairs for the kitchen.'</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">What happened next was neither planned, intended or expected, yet it happened, much to Johnnie's advantage. His chairs became a fashionable component of a dowry, a new house, a wedding gift or simply a 'Must Have' for those who could afford them.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> <i>Some of those chairs still exist on the Beara peninsula. The author was invited to sit on one while researching this chapter in a farm-house in Urhin, in 2007.</i></span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for your interest in the Cork Non-Fiction Writers Group. Individual writers and contributors hold the copyrights on all contents.</div>Cork Non-Fiction Writers Grouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00270383491275627222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6120431664965273213.post-87794508347079793512015-10-31T15:30:00.000+00:002015-10-31T15:30:01.490+00:00The Frank O'Connor Short Story Award Festival<div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">by Cecily Lynch © 2015</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I got wonderful value from this festival – entertainment, information and the meeting of friends.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The winning story was written by an American girl in her twenties. She was pleasant and unassuming. Her story was on the dark side, though. It began brightly enough with a description of meeting a man on her street who was dressed as a giant white rabbit. The story continued with her reaction to this innocent fancy dress. The author described her panic, her fear of being murdered by a serial killer, by her terror of a gun attack, by her fear of a mad rapist or of a frenzied racist attack. The story ended by the white rabbit passing peacefully by. The style of the writing in this short story was an anguished outpouring of the fears of a woman in an American town. The writing was outstanding in that the story consisted of one long breathless sentence, adding greatly to the tension and fear felt by the narrator.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">In the Triskel Christchurch three independent publishers discussed how they choose the manuscripts from the thousands they received. They judged on the presentation initially. Then came the search for an authentic voice. They read the beginning, the middle and the end, and judged from these extracts. Then they passed the manuscripts over to professional readers who gave their opinions based on their experience of what would sell. Finally they consulted with the authors on the editing process. I admired their respect for the authors, and their consciousness of the effort creative writing takes.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">On the final evening, successful short story writers read from their work. I was very moved by the tender reading by Claire Keegan of her novella 'Foster'. You could hear a pin drop in the hall as the story of a sensitive child's experience of being fostered on the farm of a relative and her growing awareness that these kind people were her true parents.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The second reading that night was from Mary Costelloe's book 'Academy Street', read by the author herself. It was a beautiful experience for me. A lonely Irish woman's life in New York was portrayed with much sympathy and compassion. The story told of the girl's reason for emigrating, her vocation of nursing, her interior life of passion and sorrow, her growing awareness that most of love consists of mercy. These developments in her life were delicately described.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Afterwards, I reflected on why people read novels. Perhaps everyday life cannot touch or communicate the deepest emotions, and daily routine does not do justice to the miracle of l<span style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman';">ife.</span></span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for your interest in the Cork Non-Fiction Writers Group. Individual writers and contributors hold the copyrights on all contents.</div>Cork Non-Fiction Writers Grouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00270383491275627222noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6120431664965273213.post-15054883404340228632015-10-28T20:17:00.000+00:002015-10-31T15:23:42.449+00:00Who was Johnnie Gill? Chapter 10<div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">By Victor Sullivan © 2015 </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">As Tough as Leather</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> The owner of the neighbouring farm was about to return to the hayfield with his horse and cart for the final load of hay while ominous black clouds built up overhead, threatening to put a stop to the operation. The brilliant lightning-flash and simultaneous thunder-clap startled the horse and it bolted past Gills farmhouse, its anxious owner helplessly running after the terrified animal and the wildly swaying, out-of-control cart. At the first bend, just beyond Gill's house, both cart and horse were capsized, fortunately causing only minimal damage to the horse. The cart also survived unscathed but there was extensive damage to the leather harness. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Thomas Gill and his two strong sons were quickly on the scene and Richard sat on the horse's head while the remaining damaged tackle was released. Once the struggling horse was safely back on four legs and was being carefully examined for injury by its anxious owner, Richard ran to get Nancy, tackled her quickly to her own cart, found a hay-fork and headed quickly into the neighbour's hayfield. The interrupted job had to be completed before the darkening clouds and imminent downpour ruined what hay remained to be brought home for his worried neighbour. It was done without hesitation or even asking for permission to enter the field. A neighbour in trouble was everyone's problem. Richard began to load the cart with hay. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Johnnie, attracted by the commotion, dragged himself along on Eureka to survey the damage. Apart from a couple of small cuts and some invisible bruises, the neighbour's horse had been extremely lucky. Johnnie eyed the damaged harness lying across the stone wall while its owner continued to calm his still agitated animal.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"The harness got off worst, by the look of it." Johnnie commented.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"'Tis torn bad!" came the dismal response, "'Twill take time…. and money to fix it…. "</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Johnnie had pulled the heavy harness down on top of himself from the wall and was working his hands along the leather of the britchen. A distant rumble of thunder agitated the nervous horse once more, demanding its owner's full attention for several minutes while Johnnie conducted a closer inspection of the broken harness.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"'Tisn't as bad as you think. The leather isn't damaged anywhere. Only the stitching. That stitching was never up to much anyway, wherever you got it. Look!" and he pulled out one end of a dirty bit of heavy thread and shredded it with his fingers. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Rotten! Useless! That stitching could have given way at any time when you were going down a steep hill with a heavy load. It probably saved that horse from being badly injured when the harness ripped apart so easily." Johnny pointed out. "Yourself too." he added.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Johnnie Gill was always ready to exploit new opportunities. Here was one staring him in the face. By the time Nancy returned from the hayfield with the final load of rescued hay, Johnnie had arranged to re-stitch the horse's harness for his grateful neighbour.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">He went home on Eureka with the broken harness piled on top of himself and later that same evening he prepared dozens of long strands of strong, 'wax-ends' of linen thread by drawing each one over a lump of black wax. Then he twisted several together and ran the result across the wax several more times. His father provided advice where he could, having watched the process many times but never having actually stitched anything heavier than his own boots. Surrounded by four candles, a couple of awls, a special needle and the general purpose, razor-sharp knife he had named Queen Mave, Johnnie worked through the night and as dawn was breaking he made the journey along the lane to his neighbour's house on Eureka. He deposited the repaired and now much stronger harness outside the front door and departed. Good job done!</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The exciting idea of using Nancy to tow Eureka directly, without the encumbrance of a cart, had been a much processed thought in Johnnie's head, ever since he had launched Eureka onto the roads and lanes of the countryside. His early attempts at controlling the horse from beneath a cart by yelling the usual horse instructions had been met with a total lack of co-operation by Nancy. Vocal orders from beneath her were just that, beneath her, and she chose to ignore them. When Johnnie traveled on the floor of the cart, holding the reins in the usual way, Nancy responded obediently to his simple, direct orders. So….? Could long distances with Nancy <i>without</i> a cart be possible? The future was looking much brighter. It would be worth trying.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The cartless horse-towing trial took place in secret and it must have been a dismal and possibly a painful or startling failure. Cartless horse-towing was never again attempted behind Nancy, or behind any other horse.</span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for your interest in the Cork Non-Fiction Writers Group. Individual writers and contributors hold the copyrights on all contents.</div>Cork Non-Fiction Writers Grouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00270383491275627222noreply@blogger.com0