Cork Non-Fiction Writers Group

Present Tense by Aidan O'Shea

2012-01-21T13:32:00.000Z

Shed the hardened skin of the old year.

Take a pumice stone to the welts that remain.

Balance the heart's annual accounts.

Credit the love received and give it back

With interest. Then debit the slights

And the indifference by writing them off

As bad debts of the past imperfect.

Here is the plan for the New Year:

Count the heart's coinage daily and be glad;

The loving glance, the hand outstretched,

The laughter shared, the skim of lip on cheek,

The wordless language of hope and joy.

Find them, tingling in the present tense.

Christmas Songs:Bridging Two Continents by E. Alana James

2011-12-16T19:48:00.001Z

As I sit down to write this, I have just downloaded Christmas music, updated with such new names to me as Michael Buble', Harry Connick and Diana Krall. Heaven only knows where our standard Christmas CD collection is, buried, I am sure, in the piles of boxes that inhabit the small cubbie holes around our house, some so small we have to squeeze to get into them. My partner has already made her way to the States, it being the in-between year where we go back to spend time with our family on the coast of California.

The holidays in our house span two continents and six decades of memories. And, just like with the music, some traditions seem old and are tucked away in the closets yet still available, while it is the new in both technology and relationships that have become the mainstay of our Christmas Holiday Season. For those who are new to our story, we moved from the United States to Ireland five and a half years ago. At 50+, what seemed at times like a courageous act, has given us a new lease on life and no where is this more obvious than at the holidays.

As an example, before I walked into our Cork NonFiction Writers Group Christmas meeting in downtown Cork this morning I sauntered up the street to Brown Thomas where, for a small donation, I added a ribbon to the Rememberance Tree. While no longer a Cork Bishopstown Rotarian, I worked the booth at this tree for too many years not to always want to add our parents names to the many others whose yellow ribbons cover the tree from base to its top three stories above. The streets were packed with people and I was delighted to look at the variety of decorations in shop windows. The rain was light, but my mind was on snowflakes.

Christmas is time to mark the changes and to remember the sheer joys that come to us through this blessed life. For some it is a religious centering as well, as is appropriate for the darkest part of the year, or at least seems apropos for any in the Northern hemisphere. Yule logs bring light to dark times and our adopted land makes this tradition resonate with our souls as we see the sun come up at around 8am and our world goes dark well before 5pm. Our dogs remind us that the requisite two walks a day just need to be closer together. As I walked this morning past the graves of the three furry friends who moved with us five years ago "Joie de Vivre," especially as it has to do with playing ball, cut through the rain showers.

Life on two continents, virtual communications, daily work relationships with people all over the world, these have become commonplace. Perhaps it is the strangeness of these new things, or maybe the time of year that makes me nostalgic – not for the perennial white Christmas, as that often was accompanied by cars stuck in drifts and rotten weather – and not for deeper relationships long past as the new people in my life mean as much to me as any others I have enjoyed – but rather nostalgic just because of the joy of memory. It's fun to recall where we were, and indeed who we were, as we pull out the decorations each year. Equally wonderful are the old songs done new ways, and old traditions carried out in new places.

And so I take a line from the lyrics that are playing, and "fall asleep counting my blessings." Old friends and new, golden memories to be brought out, dusted off and appreciated and silver ones to be created. These are the joys of the holiday season and I know they are joys shared by all who take the time to reflect no matter what this time of year means to them. As we move from darkness to the light may 2012 bring all the joy and fulfillment you can imagine to all who read this.

SANTA IN DISTRESS: How flattery ensnared Father Christmas by Victor Sullivan

2011-12-16T11:30:00.001Z

SANTA IN DISTRESS: How flattery ensnared Father Christmas

The village community was determined not to be out-done by the near-by town where Father Christmas annually arrived by some flamboyant conveyance at the large illuminated Christmas Tree in the Town Square. Something would have to be done about the matter. The topic was raised on the village street and in bars, in the hairdressing salon and barbershop. A committee was formed and the committee appointed sub-committees. Brain-storming sessions spawned conflicting brilliant ideas that were voted on and the results were ignored or adopted with multiple modifications. Delegation of responsibilities followed. Every child would expect a gift so a financial sub-committee was established to raise funds. A tree was selected and felled. It arrived by tractor and was erected prominently at the point in the village where four roads meet.

A shortlisted potential Father Christmas was approached, was asked, requested, begged, cajoled, implored, blackmailed, threatened, beseeched and flattered to play this essential role in the proceedings. The flattery did the trick. How could I could refuse such an honour.

I received a delegation from the Santa Transport Sub-Committee (the STSC).

It was explained that a member of the STSC had a sister who knew a garage owner thirty miles away who had a genuine Model-T Ford that could be hired for weddings and carnivals. It was to be Santa's mode of transport. At a strictly-to-be-adhered-to hour, in my own car, I was to arrive at a large farm shed about 3 kilometers outside the village. There, hidden in the shed, the Model-T would be waiting with its owner at the wheel. On the passenger seat would be a large cardboard box containing a Santa suit, gloves, beard, hat, boots, sack and even a pair of glasses to which had been added bushy white eyebrows. Departure time had been determined with meticulous military accuracy. The word 'synchronicity' kept popping up. It being decades before the mobile phone era, lookouts had been posted along the arrival route to signal the progress of the Model-T by raising a Santa flag to ensure the synchronicity of the piper starting his mournful droning welcome.

On the appointed day, at the appointed minute, the piper preceded the ancient vehicle bearing Father Christmas into the village main street to where the local dignitaries were waiting at the foot of the Christmas Tree. Clergy of three denominations graced the occasion together with a creamery manager, a policeman, the doctor, a couple of school-teachers, the undertaker and several others.

Speeches were minimal, conspicuously monitored by a stopwatch-wielding committee member. Soon it was time for Father Christmas to deliver my own carefully prepared and well rehearsed speech to the children and their parents. The concluding words were met with rapturous applause and the children pressed forwards squealing and shrieking in their excitement as I gestured to Fairy Godmother to start the distribution of presents with the help of her three Elves. Everything went without a hitch. Everyone was happy, the children were pleased with their gifts, the parents were delighted with the professionalism of the entire event and the organising committees were justifiably proud of their achievement. It was to this merry background that Father Christmas took the microphone to make my farewell speech that ended with advice to the children to .."hurry home now, continue to be very good boys and girls and remember to hang up your stocking on Christmas Night."

As the applause died down I expected to hear the harsh growl of the returning Model-T. My prolonged farewell hand-waving session was becoming both absurd and tiring when I detected an air of consternation among the committee members. Frequent furtive glances in my direction increased my anxiety. Had something been forgotten? Had I omitted to perform some important function? While the parish priest was thanking Santa for visiting the village and wishing everyone a safe journey home, the undertaker approached me and muttered "The Model-T took another Father Christmas to children in a couple of hospitals. He won't be coming back for you."

"Then how..?" I began.

The undertaker shrugged and said as he left me, "You'll have to think of something."

Something tugged at my trouser leg. I glanced down and met the innocent blue eyes of a blonde four-year-old girl gazing up at me, utterly awe-struck. She held my red trouser-leg in a white-knuckle grip that proclaimed unquestionable permanence. I scanned the waiting throng for a possible parent, grandparent, aunt, brother, sister or anything else that might remove my latest charming but unwanted attachment. She tugged again and spoke clearly and distinctly:

"Steve says you're not the real one but Mummy said don't listen to him. I want a yellow teddy."

(Where's my Model-T? That undertaker was just trying to be funny... wasn't he? How should a Father Christmas talk to a kid like this one?).

"I said I want a yellow teddy, like the one Anne's got."

"Er.. A yellow teddy is it. How big is Anne's yellow teddy?"

"He's huge, he's huger than Anne. I want mine to be bigger."

To my horror I realised that my blonde attachment's desire for a yellow teddy had become a matter of communal interest. People gathered closer to enjoy the yellow teddy specification debate.

(Where's my Model-T? Where's that incompetent Santa Transport Sub-Committee? How the hell am I to get out of this situation with the reputation of both Santa and myself intact?).

"Will you bring me a yellow teddy bigger than Anne's?" This time the tone was more demanding.

(STOP! Pause... Think... Don't tell her to say 'please' nicely. What would the real Santa say? ...And don't use that sort of language either!).

My trouser leg was shaken violently. My charming blonde attachment was becoming decidedly less charming.

"Will you bring me a yellow teddy?"

"Er... I'll have to er check ... er..."

"Well? Will you?" challenged a male voice from the crowd. That did it!

"Go on! Tell the child you won't bring her a yellow teddy, you old fraud."

"Say you will!" – "Oh no he won't!" – "Oh yes he will!" – "Boooo!" – "Boooo!"

Charming blonde attachment started to bawl.

"Now look what you've done! Call yourself a Father Christmas, do ya?!" "Boooo!"

From then on it got so worse that my traumatised memory fails to recall any further painful details that led rapidly to my state of terminal despair.

Never doubt the powers of Fairy Godmothers, especially the one who assisted Santa on that fateful day. Assessing the grim situation from which there appeared to be no escape for Santa, she grabbed the microphone and declared that Santa was clearly tired after his journey and would appreciate a quiet cup of tea in a private room in the Hotel down the street. She successfully appealed to the parents of 'This angelic child' to come and detach their daughter from Santa. She declared that a Police escort would clear the way to the hotel for herself and Santa. The man in uniform responded instantly to his unexpected new duty and uttered dire warnings of eternal incarceration to anyone contemplating impeding Santa's progress. He then led the bemused and expectant mob towards the Hotel, where, having successfully delivered both Santa and Fairy Godmother inside the door, he stood stoically barring any further entry.

That obnoxious red outfit was quickly removed and I made a rapid, unobserved exit via the hotel kitchen to the service yard at the rear. Then I legged it, covering the three kilometers back to my car in what seemed to be mere seconds. Adopting a puzzled facial expression, I drove slowly through the village, past the denuded Christmas tree towards the hotel where people were still crowding around the entrance. I stopped the car, lowered the window and asked an elderly onlooker what the excitement was about.

"It's Father Christmas." came the reply, "He's in the hotel. We're waiting for him to come out again."

"I'm afraid he's gone. I met him in his Model-T. He's miles away by now." I informed him.

A familiar piercing wail rent the evening air: "I want a YELLOW TEDDY!"

I closed the car window and drove home.

Don't bother to ask me again. Flattery no longer works.

The Blackboard by Laurence A. Gea

2011-11-28T18:07:00.002Z

Anna, still wearing her coat and shoes, drops her flowery backpack in the hallway. She zips it open, pulls out a sheet of paper and waves it in front of my face.

“Look!” she says, beaming.

I read the first of the questions:

“What was your favourite toy? Hmm...”

I see myself at her age, playing for countless hours with blond, red or dark-haired dolls; one is missing an arm, another has a funky eye, permanently shut no matter how vigorously you wake her up. But the image that stays with me is that of a three-legged easel at the back of which – on the plywood part - I used to write “secret” messages.

“My favourite toy was a blackboard,” I say.

Anna lifts her eyebrows.

“A blackboard? What is a blackboard?”

In Anna’s school, all classrooms have interactive boards. From her desk, the teacher opens and closes folders on the white screen that faces the pupils. A large “Good morning,” displayed across a bucolic background of cows and green hills finally appears to greet everyone. The shape of the letters will look the same tomorrow. There will be no way to tell if the teacher has had a good night’s sleep.

I have often wondered why I do not feel the expected nostalgia whenever I take Anna to school. I recall a picture taken when I am her age, entitled “Ecole Primaire Arthur Rimbaud, Cours Préparatoire.” I am sitting at a small desk, similar to the ones I see in her classroom. I am wearing a white pullover with a large emerald green shamrock splayed across the front. My mother’s inspired needlework was my uniform for that day.

Suddenly it dawns on me. The smells. I recall the scent and velvety feel of chalk; the sponge smelling of the past, that feels like a frog, and that you have to squeeze above a bucket with water the colour of a pond. The noises are different too. The clanking sound of the pointing stick dropped on the teacher’s desk, the occasional teeth-jarring screeches of chalk on board, the soft snap of a long piece being broken in two to better fit a small hand... All these sounds have been replaced by modern ones.

Tap, tap, tap, on the keyboard.

Click, click, click, on the mouse.

The voice of my godchild draws me out of my reverie.

“Marraine, what happened to your blackboard?”

“Well, I was probably too big for it.”

I clearly remember my disappointment the day I found out it had been given away; I suspect my mother wanted to help me let go of the past, so I could grow.

On the way to school the next day, I carry my imaginary tableau noir under my arm. Anna is hopping around me, showing off her Irish dancing steps. Her arms are slightly lifted for balance.

“Look what I learned yesterday!” she says, beaming above her dicky bow.

Her feet tap, tap, tap the ground.

My hands tap, tap, tap the keyboard.

I pause, and decide to save those lines.

Click.

William Cosgrove VC by Aidan O'Shea

2011-11-12T18:00:00.004Z

A forgotten Irish Hero.

The coast of East Cork has a modest charm of its own. Rostellan, Farsid, Whitegate and Roche’s Point lead on to Guileen and Inch bay. This is the area where we spent seventeen summers, staying in former coastguard houses at Poer Head. That name (from the Norman-French de la Poer) tells us that this is fertile tillage land of large estates and relatively poor Irish tenants.

I heard that a local man had been a First World War hero, and I set out in search of his story. William Cosgrove was born on October 1st 1888 at Ballinookera, near the little fishing village of Aghada. He was one of five sons to farmer Michael Cosgrove and Mary Morrissey. A daughter, Mary Catherine, died aged thirteen from tuberculosis. Life was harsh for the Cosgrove family, and Cosgrove’s father journeyed to Australia to seek work.

Mary Cosgrove and her six small children moved to a cottage in nearby Peafield. William attended the local school at Ballinrostig where his academic career was undistinguished. As soon as he was old enough, he left to become an apprentice butcher in Whitegate, a neighbouring village on the edge of Cork Harbour. He regularly delivered meat to Fort Carlisle army camp. The military establishments around Cork harbour were an important part of the local economy, drawing supplies and personnel from the immediate area.

As the years passed, William’s thoughts turned increasingly towards the Army as a career, and in March 1909 he enlisted in the 1st battalion, Royal Munster Fusiliers and was assigned regimental number 8980. The Munsters had developed from the private army of The East India Company, which explains why their cap badge featured a Royal Bengal tiger. Life in the army for William up to 1914 would appear to have been very mundane, but the declaration of war in August, 1914 drastically changed all that. At the outbreak of war, the 1st Battalion of the Munsters was stationed in Rangoon, Burma. They left Rangoon on the 21st of November, 1914 and landed in England on January 10th, 1915, still in their Indian issue uniforms. They stood on the quays shivering in their khaki drill shorts. The battalion was then assigned to the 86th Brigade of the 29th Division, in preparation for the landings at the Dardanelles. This was a narrow strait in North-eastern Turkey, joining the Aegean Sea to the Sea of Marmara.

The 1st Munsters together with the 1st Battalion Royal Dublin Fusiliers and Hampshire Regiment were on the converted collier ‘River Clyde’ when it ran gently ashore at ‘V’ beach on the 25th of April 1915 at 6.20am. On departing from the ship the 2000 British troops were subject to the most ferocious enfilading machine gun fire from the Turks. Some of the Battalion’s finest men fell at this stage of the battle; those who managed to get ashore could not advance due to this withering Turkish fire. On the following day it was decided to destroy the wire entanglements that the naval bombardment had failed to do. It was during this attack that Cpl Cosgrove performed the action that was to earn him the regiment’s first Victoria Cross of the war. The action is best described by Cosgrove himself.

Our job was to dash ahead, face the trenches, bristling with rifle and machine guns and destroy the wire entanglements. Fifty men were entailed for the work, poor Sergeant-Major Bennett led us, but was killed, a bullet through the brain. I then took charge, shouted to the boys to come on, from the village near at hand came terrible fire to swell the murderous hail of bullets from the trenches. Some of us got close to the wire and we started to cut it with a pliers, you might as well try and snip Cloyne round tower with a scissors.” He then grabbed hold of the stakes holding the barbed wire, “I dashed at the first one, heaved and strained and it came into my arms … I believe there was wild cheering when they saw what I was at, but I only heard the screech of bullets and saw dirt rising all round from where they hit. I could not tell you how many I pulled up. I did my best and the boys around me were every bit as good as myself.

He was also wounded during this action and was promoted to Sergeant and saw no further action due to his wounds. The award of the V.C. was gazetted on August 23rd, 1915, stating “For most conspicuous bravery leading this section with great dash during our attack from the beach to the east of Cape Helles on the Turkish positions on April 26th, 1915. Cpl Cosgrove on this occasion pulled down the posts of the enemy’s high wire entanglements single-handed, notwithstanding a terrible fire from both front and flank, thereby greatly contributing to the successful clearing of the heights.”

A popular ballad celebrates the bravery of the Munsters, who lost 4267 men in World War One.

The Kaiser knows the Munsters

By the Shamrock on their caps,

And the famous Bengal Tiger, ever ready for a scrap,

And all his big battalions, Prussian Guards and grenadiers,

Fear to face the flashing bayonets of the Munster Fusiliers.

Cosgrove transferred to the Royal Fusiliers in 1918 to the Leinster Regiment in 1920, the Northumberland Fusiliers in 1922 and later went as an Instructor to the Indian Territorial Force in 1928 to become 7042223 Staff Sgt Instructor. These regimental changes came about following the disbandment of Irish regiments in July 1922, because of the establishment of The Irish Free State (Saorstát Éireann). He came home in 1935 pending discharge to pension; unfortunately his plans were all to go wrong. He was admitted to Millbank hospital, but took discharge before he was fit. After a short leave in Cork, he returned to London, where he was admitted to Middlesex hospital with complications caused by shrapnel still lodged in his body. He was later transferred to Millbank hospital, where he died on 21st July, 1936.

William Cosgrove’s body was conveyed from London to Fishguard by road en route to Upper Aghada for interment in his native place. About five hundred members of the Old Comrades’ Association (O.C.A) of the R.M.F., met the vessel at Penrose Quay, Cork, and formed a guard of honour as the coffin was being taken from the boat to the waiting hearse. When the remains reached Upper Aghada, the coffin was removed from the hearse and shouldered by members of the Cork O.C.A., and local people to the burial place. The last post was sounded, while other ex-army men stood to attention. A British serviceman’s funeral was an unusual spectacle in those days, following the struggle for Irish independence. . On the 16th of June, 1940, the O.C.A. of the Royal Munster Fusiliers unveiled a memorial over the grave.

Every year, a small ceremony takes place at the war memorial in Whitegate village, to honour Irishmen who fought and died in all wars. Irish Army UN veterans mingle with British and US forces veterans in mutual respect and remembrance. A guard of honour is provided by the Irish Naval Service.

Footnote: The Dardanelles landings ended in failure and the withdrawal of Allied forces after ten months of intense fighting, at a cost of 200,000 lives. William Cosgrove’s portrait is given a place of honour in Collins Barracks Military Museum, Cork, beside veterans of the War of Independence. History has come full circle.

Doodlebug by Victor Sullivan

2011-11-11T21:23:00.003Z

A true story of Essex in World War Two © 24/4/2010

"Please Mummy, may I go across the road to play with Carol?" eight-year-old Jane requested in a stage-whisper as she entered the kitchen where her mother was preparing one of the family's many rabbits for the evening meal. With a swift movement the rabbit was skillfully deprived of its skin as Jane watched the familiar procedure.

"That's not one of our own rabbits, is it, Mummy?"

"Er— of course not. I got this one from the butcher's shop. Why are you whispering?" asked her mother.

"Because Grandma is asleep in Daddy's chair again and I might wake her."

"Humph!" grunted her mother, the rabbit being of greater interest at that moment.

"Mummy, when Daddy comes home from the War will he let Grandma sleep in his chair like she does now?"

The eight-year old had asked that question more than once since her Grandma had come to live with them at number 14, Heath Drive in the quiet village of Theydon Bois at the edge of Epping Forest. Grandma's home and shop on Plaistow Road had been badly damaged by Luftwaffe bombs during one of the many air raids on the East End of London. Grandma had arrived on the doorstep of her married daughter Ivy's rural home accompanied by Jane's Aunt Cissy, a roll of carpet with a kitten inside it, some items of furniture and a piano with glinting shards of bomb-blasted window glass embedded in one end. Grandma felt safer, much safer, in Theydon Bois. Aunt Cissy went by train each day to work in London where her job entailed censoring mail. The Mansfield family and their next-door neighbours, the Johnstons, had jointly constructed an Anderson Air-Raid Shelter in the Johnstons' back garden. It had been used several times when the sirens wailed their rising and falling warning. The village had experienced a few air raids.

Digging Party for the installation of the shared Anderson Air Raid Shelterat 14/16 Heath Drive. L to R: Mr. Moore, Hod Mansfield (Jane’s father), Colin Dibble, Mr.Johnston. Mrs. Ivy Mansfield watches from over the fence.

"Will Daddy make Grandma sleep in some other chair when he comes home?" Jane asked again.

"We'll have to wait and see what happens when Daddy comes home, won't we."

"Mmmm. Please Mummy can I go to play with Carol?"

"Oh go on then!... Don't make a mess all over Carol's house... You should both play outside on a fine day like this."

"Yes Mummy!" Jane replied over her shoulder, already trotting down the driveway heading towards the home of her playmate directly across the empty road. As she reached the front door Jane became aware of a faint distant noise. An aircraft from nearby North Weald Airbase? She had often counted the Lancaster Bombers as they flew out on their deadly missions. She listened. No. This noise was not a Lancaster, nor was it the powerful snarl of a Spitfire. It gave her a creepy feeling, then, as she rang the bell she remembered what it was. She had heard it a few times before. The door opened and the welcoming, smiling face of Carol's mother looked down at her visitor as Jane pointed to the clear blue sky overhead said quietly,

"That's a Doodlebug, isn't it?"

Mrs. Forster's kindly smile vanished as she listened for a moment to the steady, harsh drone that was getting louder.

"You're right, Jane. It's a Doodlebug. Go home to your shelter!"

As Jane crossed the road her other friend, Meryl Brewley, was approaching and both girls pointed up at the sky together then ran to the back door of Jane's house. Jane burst in followed by Meryl and announced:

"There's a Doodlebug!"

"You'll call wolf once too often, young lady!" Jane's mother admonished her daughter and just then she became aware of the sound and realised the child was right as the rising wail of the Air Raid Siren confirmed the approaching danger.

"SHELTER!" barked her mother.

Jane and Meryl ran to the shared Anderson Shelter in the adjoining garden reaching it just as the now very loud noise of the Doodlebug suddenly stopped and Jane heard her mother yelling,

"Mum, Doodlebug! SHELTER! NOW!"

Jane leaped down over the few steps and dived into the Anderson Shelter followed by Meryl. The cramped metal structure was half under, half over the lawn, its roof covered in grassy turf. Glancing back Jane saw her mother run from the French window that led directly from the living room to the garden and almost throwing herself down the shelter steps. Meryl remembered her school training sessions, grabbed some pillows and clamped them over Jane's and her own ears. Jane's mother, Ivy, turned and screamed frantically towards the house:

"MUM!"

The end of the word was obliterated by the most ear-shattering explosion they had ever heard. The shock-wave hit and they sat listening to the the tinkling of shattered glass followed by thuds and thumps outside. They waited. How long should they wait? Would it be safe to go out now? Would the house be still there? Would the other houses be still there? Would Carol's house be there? And what about the rabbits and the chickens in their flimsy accommodation under the apple tree at the end of the garden? It suddenly grew darker, much darker, as a dense cloud of black smoke enveloped the garden.

"Grandma?" said Jane. Her voice didn't sound right. Her ears were not working properly. She repeated it, louder this time and it came out as a shriek:

"GRANDMA!!!"

Without a word her mother ran towards the house. There was a changed and darker world outside. Where there had been fresh green grass, clear skies and sunshine there was now a pall of thick, black smoke. Black smuts fluttered down onto the grass where bits of strange stuff lay smoking between larger fragments of twisted metal. Glass splinters from shattered windows were scattered everywhere.

The siren's wail began again, this time holding a continuous steady note denoting ALL CLEAR.

They rushed towards the house, relieved to see that it was still standing. On the way they passed one half of the French Window leaning against a rose bush. All its glass panes were still intact. It's other half was still closed and bolted in its place but every one of its glass panes had been shattered.

On the living room floor Jane's Grandma was getting to her feet in the midst of broken glass, books, knitting wool, an empty wooden biscuit barrel and knocked-over chairs. Only her dignity had been injured and the gentle old lady said things about Germans that her little granddaughter should not have heard her utter. But then, her own house and butcher shop had been destroyed by an air raid.... There was a limit to one's polite tolerance.

"Did the Doodlebug throw you on the floor, Grandma?"

"Of course not."

"Tea?" asked Ivy.

"Yes please, Ivy. Unless there's something stronger?"

As Ivy went towards the sideboard her young daughter and Meryl went exploring into the hall. There they stepped over the attic hatch-cover that had tumbled down the stairs and now lay beside the door-mat. The girls cautiously ventured out through the hole where the front door had been. It now dangled crazily from one hinge having been blasted open. What an exciting day! Doors blown off hinges, windows broken and thick black smoke swirling about. Now Jane could definitely say that her home had suffered real bomb damage. Her status in school would be assured.

AFTERMATH

"JANE! MERYL! Come over and see what's happened to all our windows." Carol called excitedly from across the road but before Jane and Meryl could respond a convoy of emergency vehicles led by an ancient Fire Engine with a clanging bell came up Heath Drive, heading towards the column of smoke rising at the end of the road. Two trucks of ARP men followed and some Home Guard volunteers on bicycles.

"I must go home first," declared Meryl, "they will be worried about me."

Jane crossed the road to join her other excited friend.

An ambulance drove slowly past and a Red Cross nurse called out to the two girls:

"Is there anyone injured in there?"

"No thank you, not today!" came the cheeky reply.

The ambulance progressed slowly along Heath Drive, unsuccessfully seeking injured victims, closely followed by the village Policeman, P.C. Hart, panting along on his bicycle. The next vehicle to arrive was far more interesting. It was a large van with steam rising from a vent in its roof. Jane and Carol followed it and watched as the side panel was raised to reveal a counter from which tea was immediately offered to everyone. FREE!

"It's the WVS! C'mon, let's get some tea." prompted Carol. Jane hesitated.

"Better ask at home first." She did and regretted her decision.

"No!" Jane's mother dismissed her daughter's pleading request abruptly. "We have our own tea, even if it is rationed. The Women's Voluntary Service has come to help those people who have had their homes and their kitchens destroyed. It's not for the likes of you."

Jane was about to argue when her mother grabbed her by the hand and said,

"I'm coming with you to see what damage was done to Heath Drive by that Doodlebug."

At the gate they found another neighbour, Mrs. Wiltshire and her young son Raymond, calmly watching the spectacle. Other neighbours had also emerged from their houses or from shelters. Friendly hand-waves were exchanged but few words were uttered. Jane and her mother didn't get far. A team of men were approaching with ladders, rolls of tarpaulin, a wheelbarrow of tools and an assortment of other emergency materials.

"Temporary windows and roof repairs at your service! Anyone get hurt here?"

"Nobody hurt. Windows smashed, even the taped ones, doors off hinges, attic hatch came down. Haven't had a proper look around yet."

"That'll do for starters. Just show me around while these guys run up a ladder and check your roof-tiles. We don't want loose tiles sliding down on anyone."

"Anybody hurt further along Heath Drive?" Ivy asked.

"Just one caught by a bit of flying glass. Two houses at the end of the Weind lost their back walls. One old lady got a bad fright when the back wall of her house came down. The house at the end of Heath Drive is badly wrecked, Bennett's they told me. Mostly windows smashed in the rest. Lucky everyone at that end of Heath Drive had gone on an outing, a picnic in Epping Forest someone said. They'll get a hell of a surprise when they get back, especially the Bennetts."

"Which house did it hit?" asked Ivy.

"None! Hitler missed! Bloody thing landed in the field. The farmer came down and is hopping mad as it burned one of his haystacks."

"My Grandma is hopping mad too." said Jane, "She said awful things about Germans. She said they were...."

"JANE! That will DO! Go play with Carol."

And she did.

The two friends began to collect bits of Doodlebug from Carol's garden. Some of the bigger pieces were still warm. When Meryl returned and joined them they collected pieces from Jane's garden, then from the roadside and from other people's gardens. By the time their mothers came looking for them they had assembled a satisfying collection of twisted Doodlebug souvenirs. They intended to bring a few samples to school as evidence. That would show them! What an exciting day it had been. Pity about the WVS tea though.

That evening Jane's Auntie Cissy stepped from the LNER train at Theydon Bois station on her way home from her job censoring letters. There was an unusual buzz of excited chatter in the station booking hall as she passed through and she overheard "Doodlebug… Heath Drive… houses... V-1... destroyed... bomb... fire engines... many damaged…"

Cissy ran all the way from the Station through the village, along Dukes Avenue and into Heath Drive, arriving breathless and gasping at Number 14, and found it was still there with everyone in it unharmed. She had to ask several questions to elicit what had happened. They told her that a V-1 flying bomb had exploded at the end of the road and broke some windows.

Jane,leaving her home on way to school. In her left hand she carries her gas mask (not visible)

The V1 impact site is at the end of the footpath, 125 metres away.

EPILOG:

I lived in Theydon Bois for a few years in the late 1950s. The crater left by the V-1 Doodlebug was still clearly visible at Heath Drive then. So was Jane. She came down a snow-clad hill on a toboggan and crashed into me. We got married in 1960 and moved to Ireland where we celebrated our Golden Wedding in 2010.

I count myself very fortunate that Adolf Hitler's V-1 Doodlebug missed Jane Mansfield of 14, Heath Drive, by 125 metres!

The Dance that Never Was by Victor Sullivan

2011-10-30T22:08:00.000Z

The band was playing but where were the dancers?

The ballroom had been swept clean in readiness for the well advertised dance. The proprietor, Curly O'Donovan, personally carried out his final inspection, ensured that the toilets were clean, that fire extinguishers were in position and serviceable, that the rolls of admission tickets were in place and finally he drew the bag of cash from his overcoat pocket and placed it in the drawer of the desk in the cramped ticket office. Satisfied that all was ready he sat down at the side of the empty dance-floor, unfolded his copy of the local weekly newspaper and studied the back page once more, trying to determine what opposition, if any, his planned dance might be facing. During the nineteen sixties in Ireland the back page of many local newspapers displayed entertainment and public dance announcements and there were no other dances advertised for the same night. The band he had booked was very popular. It would be a profitable night.

The Bluebell Quartet had established a popular niche market offering a mixture of 'old fashioned' ballroom dancing with sing-along music that was well suited to a wide age-range market. Confident that its reputation would fill his hall for the well-advertised dance, Curly eagerly awaited the arrival of the band.

At 8:30 pm he opened the door just as the band's minibus drew up outside. A quick greeting, some speculative remarks regarding the size of the crowd that could be expected and the four musicians began transferring their equipment from the minibus to the stage. At 9 o'clock the first notes of the evening were played to the empty dance-floor. Few, if any, patrons were expected to enter until after 10 pm, that was normal. Then a brave early trickle would quickly build up to a rush at the door and by 11 pm the polished floor would no longer be visible from the stage.

The band ran through its warm-up selections for the first hour with only Curly as audience. By 11:30 there was a whiff of anxiety in the air. Where were the usual early fans? Curly approached the stage and spread out a copy of local newspaper, jabbing his finger on the generous display advertisement. There it was: Dance from 9 to 2 with music by the ever-popular Bluebell Quartet.

Unease, puzzlement, worried glances and dismissive shrugs on the stage as the proprietor paced the bleak floorboards, eventually seeking solace in the projection room above the balcony.

The Bluebell Quartet played on, now well into the repertoire that should already have had scores of early feet on the dance-floor.

What could have happened? Had there been some major disaster that they were unaware of? Had the President died suddenly? Or the Pope? Never before had they played for an event where nobody turned up. Where were the Bluebell's devoted dancing followers? Had somebody started an unsavory rumor about the band, or about the hall?

At midnight Curly strode out into the street, returning quickly to announce glumly from the centre of the dance-floor, "We'd better abandon the dance, lads. There's nobody coming. The street is empty. There isn't a living soul… OH!"

Four pairs of eyes stared down at him. He seemed to have been struck dumb or was about to have some sort of fit. He quickly regained his composure however.

"Pack up, lads. Pack up your gear and come to my house for a cup of tea."

Curly sat on one side of the empty hall, staring bleakly at the very clean floor like one defeated in battle while the four musicians dismantled their kit and loaded it into the minibus. Each one returned to the stage to make a final check that nothing had been forgotten and then sat beside the man who had booked them for his doomed dance.

"What's happened? Why did nobody turn up?" Edward enquired.

By way of reply Curly took out his wallet and began to count out notes.

"No!" Edward stopped him, "It's the business policy of the Bluebell Quartet never to take more than is taken at the door from a dance promoter. You took nothing tonight so that is what we charge. Nothing."

"No! Nothing!" echoed the other three, Harry, Willy and Victor as Curly waved the wad of notes towards them.

"We'll hold you to the tea though!" added Harry, always quick to defuse an awkward situation with humor.

"But it wasn't your fault, it was all mine." declared Curly. The four pairs of eyes stared at him, silently demanding an explanation from the very embarrassed proprietor of the hall.

"I booked you for tonight but I forgot to check what night it was. Nobody would stay out late anywhere around this part of the country on this night. They're all afraid of the ghosts! It's All Souls Night. It's Halloween!"

© Victor Sullivan, 2010 (former Bluebell Quartet Organist)

En Route to Congo by Bus by Gerry Mulcaire

2011-10-27T21:47:00.002+01:00

Civil unrest and political instability on an Irish bus

While sitting on the bus on Merchants quay in Cork, feeling a mixture of apprehension and excitement, and wondering if this trip was worth the risk involved. After-all, the Democratic Republic of Congo is a country which is politically unstable and ravaged by war. Being one of a few white people in a mainly black population, I would stand out like a sore-thumb and with little of the local language it is not going to be easy.

I read an article in the Examiner about Pat Falvey, the Mountaineer and adventurer from Cork, in which he spoke of his regret in spending so much time away from his family due to his adventure travels. I too have a passion for adventure travel, but also conscious of losing precious time with my kids, or even leaving them without a dad, as has happened to others. This causes conflict in me, but I am consoled by the thought that the good which will come out of this trip is worth the risk.

My wife called on my mobile to tell me they would be passing the bus shortly as the kid's wanted to wave at me, so I positioned myself by the window in order to catch their attention. Their eyes searched frantically for me, but they did not see me. My heart sank as I waved at them passing by. "Why did she not slow down driving past," I thought to myself. My attention turned to the other passengers on the bus, which was almost empty, and to the bus driver who had a very abrupt manner. A mother was standing outside the bus as her kids entered and the driver stopped them with an angry tone, hold it! He said. 'What's wrong with him now?', 'they have their tickets!' she shouted.

My attention then turned to the smell of alcohol and urine coming from the back of the bus. A man was lying across the back seats obviously drunk. After the driver was finished checking tickets he went to the back of the bus and tried to wake the drunken man, 'hello! Come on, wake-up! You can't sleep here!', while at the same time calling the Gardai, to have him removed. He then called his supervisor to advise him or her of the situation. Being aware of how much time was already being wasted in travelling by road and ferry to catch my flight in London to my final destination, DRC, which is situated in Central Africa,I did not need this unnecessary delay, nor expect to experience civil unrest so soon.

In the meantime the angry mother was still complaining loudly about the driver's attitude while looking for a seat in the middle of the bus as she moved from the back due to the stench, and probably not wanting to be near the driver either. It was obvious that the driver was irritable and taking it out on the passengers. As it was hard enough leaving my family for two weeks, not sure if I would even see them again, I was trying to stay positive, so not wanting to become a sounding board for her dissatisfaction with the driver and foul smell on the bus, I avoided eye contact with her.

Two Gardai arrived and managed to wake the man at the back and removed him from the bus. He looked to be in his sixties, and I tried to imagine what his story was. "Was he one of the Irish emigrants who went to London in the sixties and seventies?", and ended up alcoholic and homeless like many others. Had he come home for a visit and was now attempting to return to the UK, but had one or two too many to drink. Thinking to myself, 'There go I but for the grace of God', having been like him many years ago.

All of this put a damper on my romantic thoughts of freedom and adventure. I missed my family already. Anyway, "No turning back now"! I thought to myself as we pulled away from the bus stop.

Things started to look up as we changed drivers in Waterford and the new driver was much friendlier and cheerful. We were not sorry to see the back of the other one. His departure triggered sighs of relief, and comments about his aggressive manner could be heard around the bus.

Eventually we arrived at Rosslare harbour and had to wait a while before we could board the ship. Some of the passengers got out for a smoke, as they had done at every opportunity on the way. Noticing a family with young children playing outside the bus, I missed my own kids already. After a while the driver informed us we would have to get off the bus with our hand-luggage to clear customs, and get back on the bus again to board the ship. Driving straight on would have been more convenient, besides being on the ferry would feel like making more progress on my journey.

As we would be travelling through the night on the ferry, I explored the decks and lounges searching for somewhere to sleep. At one stage while lying across seats in a lounge I heard the voices of the family who were playing outside the bus. The mother was complaining about a man who was being aggressive to the kids. Later, overhearing one of the kids saying that the man looked like he was going to grab one of them, and sensing there was a bit of paranoia going on, I moved to another spot in case of being a suspect, as I was travelling alone.

Next morning as we were waiting for the deck door to open , this family were also waiting at the same door, and the mother gave me an accusing look as she said to her daughter 'Come over here love!,' while keeping her gaze on me. Feeling offended by her look I was hoping she could see the picture of my kids on my mobile phone, which was at an angle so she could see them, and see I am a parent too. Then, another frightful thought, 'What if she thinks I am taking photos of her kids?' Later on I was regretting not saying something like" Don't worry I have enough of them at home."

Maybe I should be more understanding as I am very protective over my own children. At this stage, having enough of this paranoia I was hoping the deck doors would open.

It was good to be back on the bus making headway on my long journey. We had a few more stops before we reached London, and eventually arrived. As if there was not enough paranoia to deal with on the journey, worse was to come here. Mainly due to the terrorist threats and the Glastonbury festival which is a major event in the UK there were police with sniffer dogs checking commuter's bags. Being conscious of the fact that I would be waiting for some time, and the police being on high alert, my presence would seem suspicious to them. Loads of people were being stopped and searched, and although I had nothing to hide having two suitcases and a ruck-sack it would have been very inconvenient, besides I was tired, and impatient to start the next leg of my journey. Being so eager to get on the bus for Heathrow I jumped the queue without realising it, but on hearing a sarcastic remark from the driver, promptly apologised to the other passengers, and boarded the bus, happy to see the back of Victoria.

Finally we arrived in Heathrow, where I could begin to make faster headway to my destination. After rearranging the contents of my bags to sort out the stuff to carry in my hand-luggage and weigh the bags again, there was another long wait for check –in. With my suitcases checked in I was able to relax and felt much freer.

Boarding was announced and I was finally on my way, feeling foolish for wasting so much time travelling by road and ferry, when I could have been here in less than 2 hours if I had taken a flight, but on second thoughts considering my budget was tight I saved myself a lot of money.

A Puzzle, by Marie Guillot

2011-10-01T21:36:00.000+01:00

© May 2011

What is it?

It's a puzzle.

The pieces,

All jigsawed,

Prick the fingers.

It's a bingo.

The numbers,

All printed,

Have to match.

It's Mathematics.

No matter

Additions or divisions,

They multiply.

It's a homework.

Work

At home,

For home.

It's a test.

Patience,

Perseverance,

Endurance.

Finally, the result.

Matching,

Multiplied,

Homely.

So, what IS it?

It's not a game.

Year after year,

It's filing

The return

Of the tax.

© Marie Guillot, 2011

FEMALES ONLY by Marie Guillot

2011-09-21T18:24:00.000+01:00

Graphic by Marie Guillot

The risks of being a female

You will never see Margot close to any male, young or old. In fact, it looks like a conspiracy. Every time she tries to meet the new kid on the block, there is some hurdle: there are visitors to greet, or it's lunch time, or it's downpouring, or they have to go somewhere. But the family is good to her and Margot is not a rebel; she is easy going and adjusts to the situation. She seems quite happy as it is.

Maybe her happiness has to do with the fact that she gets pregnant every year. The joys of raising her baby are heaven for her. It's also a great satisfaction for Anne's family. They usually invite friends to celebrate. That's when she is in her glory, when everyone admires her offspring, all white, the best one ever, praising every feature. Her own work.

There is only one thing she does not like: in the yard, her comrades despise her. They say she is only a surrogate womb. She does not understand what it means. All she knows is that she looks different from them. All of them are white, while she has black patches all over.

Once a year, she gets special attention: a friend of Anne comes with a bag of strange objects and there is a bit of fuss around her. Not much, not unpleasant, and it's soon over.

Then they chat. It's almost the same tribute every time. The friend says: "You should get a strong one again, this year. Margot is a great girl."

And Anne replies:

"We love her. She is a major asset in the development of our pure-bred Charolais cattle."

The Girl We Met by Victor Sullivan

2011-09-12T17:41:00.001+01:00

© 2011
My wife and I were on holiday in West Cork, Ireland and it was around lunch-time when we stopped the car and picked up an American hitch-hiker. Her holiday was almost over, her money was spent and she was due to fly home to New York from Shannon Airport on the following day. We let her out in the village of Eyeries as she wished to photograph the colorful buildings as all the tourists do. We drove the two miles to our holiday chalet in Urhan.

The first radio reports were coming in... an aircraft had flown into one of New York's Twin Towers... Then another one... America was under attack! All aircraft were grounded.

As the enormity of the disaster became clearer the plight of our hitch-hiking American dawned on us and we drove back to Eyeries in search of that girl... but we failed to find her.

Surprise Rail Trip to the Dentist, by Victor Sullivan

2011-08-25T20:15:00.001+01:00

World War II had brought increased hardship to many people in Neutral Ireland in the early 1940s but at the age of five or six I was barely aware of any such difficulties apart from being unable to sample things I heard about or had seen illustrations of, such as bananas. It was a time when initiative was admired and rewarded. A time for turning the blind eye and for rule bending. Winks and nods became more meaningful while furtive glances and calculated silences became a communications art form. A flair for living on one’s wits ensured the survival of the fittest in reasonably comfortable circumstances.

My mother was principal teacher at Meenies National School two miles from Drimoleague and my father was manager of Warner’s grocery store and bakery in Bantry, twelve miles away. He commuted between Drimoleague and Bantry six days each week in his black Ford Prefect, ZB4004.

Ford Prefect ZB4004 outside 'Aurora' in 1940

We lived half a mile outside Drimoleague in a house named Aurora that overlooked both the road and the single-track railway that led to Bantry. I learned to count the wagons on each passing goods train at a very early age and still, many decades later, I automatically begin to count the wagons whenever I see a moving freight train. Wave at the Driver and Fireman on the locomotive or at the Guard in his Guard’s van at the end of the goods train and the response was usually a reciprocal wave. Like many boys of my age I wanted to be an Engine Driver or a Guard on a goods train. I envied that Guard in his own private accomodation, trundling along behind the swaying wagons, day after day, with nothing to do but blow a whistle and wave a green or red flag occasionally.

Rationing and ration-books, shortages of tea, sugar sweets, kerosene and associated black market dealings had little impact on me but when private cars were banned from the roads of Ireland and ZB4004 was propped up on wooden blocks 'to ease the tyres,' I had to cycle two miles up-hill to school.

My father was confronted with a more serious commuting problem as the only morning passenger train ran from Bantry via Drimoleague to Cork. It returned from Cork to Bantry each evening but he needed to go in the opposite directions. As the limited bus service would have got him to his workplace much too late, he borrowed his brother’s bicycle and undertook to cycle the twelve mile journey to Bantry each morning and pedaled home each evening to Drimoleague, exhausted and frequently wet and cold.

He was a respected and popular figure in Bantry where he seemed to know hundreds of people by name and they all knew him as Jimmy-in-Warners. Back in those hard times, to know someone with access to sources of extra tea, sugar and cigarettes was a status symbol. To be on cosy, first-name terms with Jimmy-in-Warners was a status to be envied indeed.

Jimmy-in-Warners

Officially the following event never happened… But it did and I am the only living participant and first hand witness.

Following a bout of severe toothache, I was told one morning that I was not going to school that day. I was to go to Bantry with my father, to visit a very close friend of his, a dentist. All that way to Bantry! Twelve miles on the crossbar of that bike! It sounded potentially more painful than the toothache.

We started out with me perched grimly on the crossbar but we immediately headed in the wrong direction and after only half a mile we turned left and dismounted at the level crossing on the Bantry side of Drimoleague railway station where the gate-keepers were the Dinneen family, who we knew well. With the bicycle, we went inside the stone wall and waited as the heavy white and red level crossing gates were closed against road traffic and the lever pulled to signal to the Driver of the morning goods train waiting at the station that the way was open to Bantry. One short whistle blast followed by heavy chuffing soon brought the familiar black tank engine into view as we edged our way towards it between the railway tracks and the high hedge that separated the rails from Garda Sergeant Murphy’s vegetable garden.

I had never realised just how big those wheels were until the moment they passed so close to me on that morning. They were really big! Even the small wheels were big! I could have reached out and touched them. I felt the heat of the locomotive on my face as it passed with an accompaniment of swirling clouds of steamy vapour wrapping around us. There was a lovely hot, oily, engine smell too. The Engine Driver looked down and raised one finger to my father as the queue of wagons rumbled slowly and steadily past. For once I was too overawed and too close to count them. As the Guard's Van approached, the train slowed to a crawl but did not stop.

'Put your arms up for the Guard to catch.' My father ordered and hoisted me into the air, sidestepping along beside the moving train as he did so. Two strong hands hauled me up into the very dark interior of the Guard’s van. The bicycle followed, then my father was hauled up, the door was firmly shut and the chuffing grew louder and more rapid at the front end of the train.

A strong stink of creosote and wood-smoke in a world of almost total blackness was my first impression of the Guard’s domain. As my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom I identified a pair of tiny slit windows at both sides of the creaking mobile dungeon. These windows were mounted in that bulge at the side of most Guard’s vans, one pane facing forwards, one backwards. My attempt to see anything clearly outside was frustrated by the grimy glass. I was not tall enough to see through the small glass pane in the door. The Guard fed scraps of wood into a tiny pot-bellied stove in the centre of the floor and engaged in solemn conversation with my father. The van’s two pairs of wheels made a thump-thump, – thump-thump, – thump-thump sound that I felt pounding through my feet, quite unlike the familiar clickety click rhythm of the passenger coach wheels.

After about twenty five minutes the goods train began to slow down as it approached Bantry and the Guard opened the door. Welcome daylight flooded in and I was instructed to stand by the door and be ready to disembark from the moving train at the Barrack Road level crossing, immediately after we had passed over the metal bridge that spanned the road to Glengarriff. Apparently we, the only unofficial passengers, would not be going all the way to Bantry station. Again the train slowed to a crawl but did not stop. My father jumped down first and the Guard lowered me into his arms from the moving train. Then the bicycle was handed down, a wave to the driver and the train increased speed for its last half mile approach to Bantry Station.

There, standing by the side of the shining rails, my father made me solemnly promise that I would not tell a living soul how we travelled to Bantry. It was a big, big secret and it demanded a huge amount of secret-keeping effort for many years. I could never tell my younger sister, Audrey, nor could I ever mention it to my playmate Stephen because his dad was a policeman, Garda Quinn. Prior to that momentous day I had never even suspected that my ever-so-respectable father travelled unofficially and illegally on the morning goods train.

Wheeling the bicycle between us we walked down Barrack Road which was then a steep, rough lane, that brought us directly onto Barrack Street and just a few dozen paces from my father's workplace at Warner’s grocery shop. The shop operated a delivery service and I was handed over to the message-boy for delivery by pony-cart to one of my father’s close friends, the local Jewish dentist. I was instructed to address the dentist as Mr.Birkahn, which I did as he welcomed me into his surgery. He told me tales of his adventures with my father while he deftly removed the offending tooth. He called me a very brave boy and gave me sixpence. Later that day I travelled home to Drimoleague, unaccompanied and minus one tooth, on a very ordinary bus. It stopped precisely outside the gate of Aurora, (Jimmy-in-Warners knew the bus driver and conductor also).

I kept the secret of my freight-train journey for two decades, then, when the West Cork Railway closed in the early 1960s, I felt it would be safe to tell the story. When I did tell the tale nobody believed me until my father added the following anecdote:

One September morning Jimmy-in-Warners was, as usual, commuting illegally to Bantry in the Guard’s van of the goods train when the train slowed to an unexpected stop. The Guard looked out and saw the Fireman running back towards him while the Engine Driver could be seen removing his overalls in a field, having climbed over a fence.

'The runs?'

'It’s the mushrooms. That field is white with them. Driver says pick all we can and Jimmy-in-Warners can sell them for us in his shop.'

Boiler suits were removed, their leg-ends knotted and the makeshift sacks were quickly filled with nature’s unexpected bounty of wild mushrooms. Delighted with an opportunity to repay the many favours he owed the train crew, Jimmy-in-Warners joined in the mushroom picking. How he managed to retain any degree of decorum while wheeling his bicycle, laden with two bulging mushroom-stuffed boiler suits down Barrack Road to his shop in Barrack Street is not recorded but word of mushrooms-in-Warners went around the town very rapidly. Soon a sign appeared in Warner’s shop window ‘Mushrooms Sold Out'. The mushroom takings were handed over to the train crew next morning together with two neatly folded boiler suits, each wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string.

Soon after that incident Ford Prefect ZB4004 reappeared traversing the road between Drimoleague and Bantry and one evening Jimmy-in-Warners brought home bananas. The War was really over. There would be no more illicit rail travel.

The Guard's Van in which we travelled illegally.

Midnight Cow: by Victor Sullivan

2011-08-23T11:30:00.001+01:00

Can a long dead cow save a life?

Driving home alone through many miles of dark, narrow country roads in the early hours of the morning; gorse and briars occasionally scraping against the side of the car; avoiding potholes in the road surface; struggling to keep awake; another thirty miles to go according to that last signpost.

Graphic by Marie Guillot

Suddenly, from a high rock outcrop on my left a cow is tumbling down onto my car. I see her vividly in the headlights for a moment. COW! Two wild, glaring eyes stare at me as we rush towards each other. I see eye-lashes, a wet nose and dribble of saliva in that final millisecond before her full weight crushes down on the car and her huge, heavy head comes bursting in on me in an explosion of windscreen glass and......

My legs ram the brake and clutch pedals into the floor sending screaming tyres spinning the car into an uncontrolled juddering stop facing the direction from whence I had come. Heart pounding, sweating, panting for breath, surprised that I could feel no pain. Was I dead? No. I still gripped the steering wheel. I was in a car– my own car! The windscreen wasn't shattered, the bodywork wasn't crushed. The headlights still worked and I could see that they illuminated the black semi-circular streaks my smoking tyres had imprinted on the road. THE COW! Where was the COW? How could I have missed hitting her and she me at that speed?

Now trembling violently, I opened the car door and stepped unsteadily out into the night. In the headlights' beam I followed the skid-marks to where they first began. Nothing! Not a trace of a cow, no blood, no glass, no evidence of an impact. I looked up to where the animal had appeared from. It was an unbroken line of gorse twenty feet or more above the road, with no gap that a cow could possibly have come from. To this day I find it difficult to believe that THERE WAS NO COW. My sleep-starved brain had created the cow and possibly saved my life as I fell asleep at the wheel. THERE NEVER WAS A COW....

Or was there....?

When I was very young, four years old or less, one of my uncle's cows named Brownie lunged towards me causing me to fall backwards into a shallow drain with the cow glaring down at me with her head only a few inches above my face. I knew of the incident as it was recounted among the family many times but I had no memory of what happened until several weeks after my sudden stop on a clear road.

Quite unexpectedly I suddenly recalled the image of Brownie's huge head, eyelashes, dribbling muzzle and eyes glaring at me through a clump of rushes while I lay in the drain.

It was exactly the same close-up image of the cow's head that I 'saw' through the car windscreen on that lonely stretch of road.

Thanks for saving my life, Brownie!

Ode to the Old Cat by E. Alana James

2011-08-18T10:53:00.001+01:00

Samson

I had a friend who used to say her cat was "older than dirt" – our cat, Samson may also fit that description. At 22 human years old, he was going strong until last week, when he obviously had a stroke. His spirit is still strong, and although his body no longer moves much at his command he still has us – and his command over us remains as it ever was. We are well trained and will do anything for him.

Samson is king over our household, ruler of dogs, and the one who sits wherever he wants whenever he wants. No one would ever know that he came from humble origins, having been adopted from the humane society in Denver, USA. Later, when transported by plane across the pond he settled into life in Castlepark as the one cat in residence among all the holiday homes.

He earned the name Samson his first day home. Small bit of fur, sitting at my feet when Caesar, my three year old Great Dane came roaring down the stairs and decided that this cat would be fun to play with. Out goes all of Samson's hair (for a little guy he fluffs up brilliantly) and WHAM! he takes a big swat at Caesar's nose. The Dane immediately sits down, looks crushed and gives me a face as though to say, "What did he do that for?"

For 22 years, he has shared our family's ups and downs, sitting on our laps and allowing himself to be stroked through all of it. He mourned when Ceasar died and took the puppies that followed him quickly in hand (or paw as it were). My life partner, Margie did not come from a house with cats and so believed that she did not like them. Samson's purr, his gentle insistence on affection, and his demanding ways changed all that. He played with toys until just a year or so ago, and easily leaped over the barrier into the bathroom where he is fed until just last week.

He will move on to join the spirits of our other animal family members soon and will be buried on the hill with the other two who travelled with him from the US. I will forever remember seeing their three crates get loaded into the plane at Newark, and their affectionate companionship after that long flight. Whatever was going on, Samson, Shadow and Stefan knew that the others were close by and obviously found comfort in that.

In his last years, as Shadow and then Stefan moved on, Sam showed us the power in flexibility. Undaunted, he accepted puppy love and while no longer needing to dominate over the dogs as he did as a younger cat, he still maintained his unique space in their lives. All the pack that our dogs run with come in, say hello to Sam, and then go out for their walks in the mornings. He weighs less than five pounds, he stands less than 10 inches yet the size of his spirit has been enormous and he will be greatly missed.

About the author:

E. Alana James lives and writes in Kinsale, Ireland where she moved as she reinvented the second half of her life. Her website: http://www.ealanajames.com/ is a repository of inspirational stories, big ideas and practical wisdom on how to stay flexible, change gracefully and create the life you want. She loves to blemd science, subjective reality and metaphysics to help focus the power of our minds on the lives we want to live.

Alana enjoys the company of other nonfiction writers in Cork, Ireland as they meet on alternate Thursdays at the Cork City Library. You can find more of their work at: http://www.corknonfictionwritersgroup.blogspot.com/

People, Kids, Dogs And Warm Summer Days: Flourishing with PERMA

2011-08-14T23:15:00.000+01:00

by E.Alana James – © August 2011

Would you agree that people seem to flourish more in the summer? Don't you just love to celebrate warmth, friendship, and the sheer joy of being alive at this time of year? Living in Ireland, as I do, I have found that I have become a sun worshiper, as we often seek out those things that we enjoy, over which we have no control, and it seems that here the sun is more out of control than anywhere. In fairness, I appreciate sunshine more now that I live in a place where it is rare, than when I lived in Colorado where it was in evidence 300 days a year or more. This is the second article in a series focused on what it takes to lead a life where we flourish, something that perhaps it is easier to feel on warm summer days.

I just finished drinking a cup of coffee looking down from the 2nd (in Ireland it would be the first) floor window of our home as a group of kids wrote signs saying "Go David" and the like, in support of a young lad, 12 years old, about to participate in his first triathlon. He is certainly flourishing and the other children are showing their support. While very unusual, in fact a first, for a lad in his age group to compete, he is confident and secure as are all his family and friends around him.

We all have different things we find pleasurable...

For me there are two main joys to summer: walking our dogs on the hill above our house and taking a barbeque to the beach. Early mornings add a lusciousness to the walk on the hill, which, even though it is over familiar ground, brings new lovely moments each day. One morning it will be the sunrise, another morning it is the colors of the blooms on the blackberry brambles, another it is the sight of the tall grasses and then, later, the smell of it right after it is harvested.

While in the middle of writing this I took an hour off to sit with neighbors as we cheered David on as he ran in the triathlon mentioned earlier. The gathering was very pleasant as we chatted about this or that, waiting for the three brief moments when he came within range and we could cheer him on. While this year it was sunny enough and dry, I suspect we would have been there even if it had been slogging down rain.

In a similar fashion, I would be walking my dogs in the rain - some mornings or evenings with the three of us all in our rain gear. Of course, the water and being bundled up do nothing to deter the dogs.

Why do I tell you these stories, hoping to provoke your own memories of kids, dogs and summer events? Because I want to tie them to pleasure, engagement, positive relationship, meaning, and accomplishment (PERMA) – and the Theory of Wellbeing by Martin Seligman. Perhaps it is easier to feel our wellbeing at this time of year as we notice experiencing and flourishing, in life.

The points I want to leave you with are that while triathlons aren't my thing, being a member of this community is. That while there was some pleasure in hanging out with neighbors and a small amount of natural engagement, it was more about positive relationships and the meaning was about community and cheering on the accomplishment of someone else. Relative to each other the five attributes of PERMA rise and fall. What are your PERMA events this summer and how are they stacking up to help you lead a flourishing life?

ENTER, LAUGHING by Aidan O'Shea

2011-07-27T16:25:00.001+01:00

Sister Rosario, my impresario.

Scoil Chríost Rí

(Christ King Boys' School)

Being the youngest of three boys is a great start in life. When I arrived, mother and father had already been house-trained as parents. If toys or ornaments were broken, I rarely get the blame. I quickly learned that a frown, a sob and then a few tears yielded a dividend of hugs for you and a scolding for your brothers. All around my little frame was a melodramatic cast of bigger people talking, singing, shouting, smoking, sulking, bossing and posing. In this drama, mother played the lead role. Her lines ran like this. "Pull up your socks, wipe your nose, take your elbows off the table, go to the toilet. What are you doing so long on the toilet? Don't say dis an dat, it's this and that. Where did you hear that awful word? Sit on my lap, give your mam a kiss."

These commands were punctuated by mother's songs, recollected from her time in the chorus of Cork Operatic Company. By the age of four I could give a fair rendering of Lehar's Girls were made to love and kiss, and who am I to interfere with this? This was often followed by Thomas Moore's pledge of love in Believe me if all those endearing young charms.

Father too was an unwitting voice coach, loudly leading the chorus of We stand for God and To Jesus' heart all burning at Sunday Mass. He had been a member of Herr Fleischmann's choir in The North Chapel, and he showed it. Our parish priest, Fr. Coveney, also had dramatic flair. He would have made the final auditions for The National Theatre, given the rhetorical flourish of his sermons. "Think well on the four last things: Death, Judgement, Hell and Heaven" he warned. Home might have been music-hall, but church was high drama.

I soon developed a habit of mimicking these words and melodies, often to the amusement of the adults round about. I made up love songs, jumbled up the words of hymns to comic effect, and preached hellfire and damnation to puzzled aunts. Mockery and mimicry were my cheeky response to authority. Mostly, I got a laugh, and occasionally a clip around the ear. "Just wait until you go to school. That will soon knock the corners off you". I was warned. But they had not reckoned with Sister Rosario.

It was official policy that boys to the age of seven be taught by female teachers. That explains why I started in the girls' school of The Presentation Sisters in 1947. They were a jolly lot, including Sister Patrick who liked to hitch up her skirts to play football with the boys, and Sister Rosario whose teaching tool was not the bata (cane) but the tuning fork. Much of the Sister's body was covered by a veil, a linen hood, and a starchy breastplate over a black shapeless frock, held at the waist by a rosary bead girdle. This ensemble left only face and hands on view. With these she could control and conduct fifty four- year- old boys. She loved music so much that she used it to teach virtually anything. We sang the alphabet, our prayers, our arithmetic tables and our geography.

Her big production was First Communion Day 1950 for senior infants, aged seven.

There we are. All forty nine of us are beautifully dressed and groomed. I now know that Sister Rosario had a discreet store of outfits on standby for lads whose families could not afford the cost of the clothes and shoes. We practised first confession with her, and even rehearsed receiving the host, using cream crackers for the Eucharist. Come the day, and we sang like angels: Tantum ergo sacramentum, veneremur cernui.

Next Autumn we moved next door to Scoil Chríost Rí (Christ King Boys' School), a tougher regime in every way. Class sizes were now in the low 70s, controlled by Presentation Brothers and some male lay teachers. My giddy humour was quickly curbed, as any tendency to show off would be hammered into place in the school yard.

Sister Rosario made a comeback into my life in 1954, designated a Marian Year. She and Brother Bonaventure organised a show involving her Communion Class of 1950. It was actually three Acts, to ensure that every boy took part. Act 1 was a choral verse account of the life of St. Bernadette of Lourdes. I landed the part of narrator. This was enhanced by a coloured slide show, drawing gasps of amazement and fervour from the capacity audience. In a bold contrast, Act 2 featured a lively medley of cowboy songs, to cover the time taken to set up the Big Production Number of Act 3. This one put Walt Disney to shame with our (all-boy) version of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, in which I was cast as the wicked stepmother. I spat out my lines with venom: "Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?" I relished the hisses and boos from the packed audience.

The first night was a triumph. Brother Bonaventure and Sister Rosario came round to the dressing room as we wiped off the stage makeup with Ponds Cold Cream. I sat back and waited for the compliments. "Very good, Aidan. But could we make you a little more um.. ladylike?" he said. Sister Rosario nodded discreetly, and next evening I was give two fine Jaffa oranges to stuff in my bosom. I was transformed! Venus de Milo would have been jealous of me. Next evening, Act 1, the humble life of St. Bernadette Soubirous, tugged their heartstrings again. But disaster struck when I returned the dressing room. My bosoms had been peeled and eaten by the cowboy chorus! If I could get my hands on that Old cowhand from the Rio Grande, I would have lynched him. But I rallied, stuck out my bony chest and went right on stage again, an even more villanous wicked stepmother. There's no business like show business, like no business I know! Thanks, Sister Rosario. You gave me my first big break.

Aidan O'Shea

Dishwasher Predators by Victor Sullivan

2011-07-14T22:46:00.000+01:00

Small game hunting in a dishwasher

Eight-year-old Carol went to put a plate in the dishwasher, its door was slammed rapidly and she returned looking somewhat bemused, still carrying the plate and announced:

'There's a mouse in the dishwasher, Daddy.'

We live in an old house where mice are an occasional problem, usually solved with a trap or two.

'We seem to be faced with three options,' I declared, keen to display my strategic wisdom in such a situation, 'One, we could open the door and chase it out of the machine. Two, slip in a baited trap, close the door again and wait. Three, switch on the machine and give the mouse a good hot wash.

'Aaaaaaaah! NO! Daddy. How would you like to be shut in a machine and sprayed with very hot water?'

'I certainly don't want any mice running about inside the house.' declared her mother vehemently.

'What's his name?' contributed Carol's younger brother.

'Don't be daft. It's only a mouse.' snapped Carol.

'He must have a name, how would other mice know what to call him if he had no name? I think his name is Monty. Monty Mouse sounds respectable.'

I gently opened the dishwasher door a fraction. Then a bit further, and then another bit but there was no trace of Monty or any other rodent.

'Carol! You made it up. There's no mouse in there,' I accused, triggering an instant chilliness.

One bright, sunny morning I went to empty the dishwasher that had performed its duties overnight and saw, with my own two eyes, a mouse leap from inside the filter basket in the floor of the machine onto the lower rack and vanish.

I was obliged to dine on humble pie and apologise profusely to my smug daughter. Yes, there was a real mouse. OK, it probably was Monty, but how did Monty get into the machine and how did he vanish so quickly?

Both trays out, meticulous inspection of dishwasher; discovered an air vent at one side I had never noticed before. I had to hand it to Monty for sheer mastery of his environment. The little fellow had worked out that once the machine fell silent all he had to do was wait until it cooled sufficiently before entering via the vent pipe and eating his fill from the food scraps caught in the filter basket before returning to safety via his secret vent-pipe. What a mouse!

We ran the machine empty and ensured that no food remained in the filter basket. Two baited traps were introduced. A plug of nylon pot-scourer was prepared and placed near the dishwasher, ready to be inserted quickly into the vent as soon as Monty was observed inside the machine. As there had been no sightings for a day or two the top tray became loaded with glasses and a few plates. The lower tray had been removed.

'Monty's back!' Carol announced next evening.

Cautiously I opened the door of the machine a fraction. A thin tail was just visible projecting from beneath the bottom rotor. A skillful movement got the nylon pot-scourer into the vent and the door was closed. Monty was now incarcerated with no hope of escape and no food supply other than the bait on the two mouse-traps. All we had to do was wait... and wait... and wait... Nothing happened.

We needed the dishwasher. The family demanded that I should 'DO something!'

A peep inside confirmed that Monty was still there. Direct and brutal terminal violence would have to be resorted to. I decided to apply the Snooker Cue technique. Not having a cue, a broom-handle, equally long and straight, was selected as weapon of choice.

The Sheffield Crucible has never seen such a tense scene. Even Sam, our very large German Shepherd dog joined the semicircle of excited onlookers that gathered behind me as I approached the dishwasher, broom-handle at the ready, intent on rodent murder.

CLICK!

The door opened out and downwards and I caught a glimpse of that tail protruding from under the rotor. Now to remove Monty's cover by turning the rotor 90 degrees with the broom-handle. Success! But Monty then scuttled to the back of the machine seeking an alternative refuge. My angle of attack was too high for my weapon of choice to fit under the heating element. Crouch low... lower still, feet astride the open dishwasher door... take careful aim... steady... deep breath... ready...

Suddenly I was heaved off my feet as something very powerful charged through between my legs from behind and the kitchen ceiling light passed rapidly forwards over my head as I landed on my back on the floor, feet still astride the dishwasher door. I howled in pain as furiously clambouring canine claws sought a firm footing, digging into my thighs and other important places while my disorientated brain deduced that the large hairy monstrosity lunging agonizingly again and again on top of me was the tail end end of our big dog. Sam's dormant hunting instincts had been reawakened on seeing me stalking the mouse and he had decided to demonstrate his expertise in such matters. His repeated lunges into the dishwasher were accompanied by the sound of teeth snapping against teeth, snapping on the rotor, snapping on the heating element and snapping on .... CLICK! With a mighty yowl of pain the dog's head violently struck the underside of the top tray, lifting it off its rails, smashing the glasses on it and showering him with the splinters as he recoiled from the shock of the mousetrap tripping in his great jaws. Sam then shot backwards, sat on my face for a moment, dug several more claws into me and retreated to a remote, less hazardous corner of the kitchen, shaking off shards of glass as he went.

All the other members of my audience were convulsed in unsympathetic hysterical laughter with tears of mirth streaming down grinning faces. My anatomy bore the claw-bruises for months.

No trace of Monty, living or dead, was ever found.

He really deserved to get away. What a mouse!

Sam

YESTERDAY THE WHALES by Madelaine Nerson Mac Namara

2011-07-12T13:22:00.002+01:00

Festival Without Tickets

Yesterday, the whales! And all the people happy, after work, in the long, calm, bright, warm summer evening, all walking or driving, following the rumour of the whales and then, looking at them with small cries of joy when they saw them.

Everyone talks to strangers, asks the one question: "Have you seen them?" and everyone answers kindly. Either they have just arrived themselves, like us only having heard the news of the whales being somewhere around the harbour; or they have heard that they have been seen elsewhere, not so far away, and there is a ferry to get there. Some others have seen them and point to where we too might see them, spouting perhaps, maybe even breaching.

Dapper and shabby, young and old, travellers and country people mingle contentedly. People come and go, leave the places from which the whales are seen, with a wonderful, peaceful smile, animated, refreshed by this event, this adventure, the searching and finding, the marvelling, and then the letting go of the whales, storing their memory, linked to that of the sky, clouds, sun, sea, waves, gulls, cormorants, boats, oarsmen, fields, trees, cattle, island, and of the crowd itself.

Because this gathering, both dynamic and tranquil, has turned festival, one without ticket or invitation. It has no purpose but to contemplate these visiting creatures, totally other, totally wild, as we would be if only we could, and total mystery. We cannot communicate with them. We would so much love to be able to tell them how to find their way out to the safety, for them, of the open sea.

It is a situation neither of work nor of play, but of pure, sheer, cliff-like being. There is only desire, desire to see glory, mystery, form, otherness, life different, and joy at welcoming their astonishing gift of vulnerable, unselfconscious presence.

Is not this what many call Heaven? It happens many times in June 2001 in Cork Harbour. In the town park at Passage West, on the the verge of the motorway between Mahon and the tunnel, hundreds of cars merrily stopped; even further upriver by Jury’s in Cork city, throngs pressing onto the parapets of quays and bridge. I cannot return this gracious visit, only sharpen my resolve for more strength, attention, passion, more care, vigilance, tenderness, more wonder at the ever present blessing!

ANDY GAW by Máirtin Ó Connallan,

2011-07-11T15:41:00.001+01:00

Andy Gaw

I used meet Andy Gaw

In Pana

I was ten

Then

He'd slip me thruppence

Into my tiny hand

His

Even tinier

White as alabaster

And just as smooth as

Ogre like to a child's mind.

Always in a cap and coat

Winter or summer

Talking barely audible,

A book

Or two

Under his oxter.

I found out later

They never charged him

In the Library

A quintessential borrower

He robbed the rich

To pay the poor

They said

I wasn't poor

He was poor.

Oh childish mind, little did I know

Here was Cork's own

Mother Theresa

An eon before.

He stood up for me

The day the “Echo” boys

Attacked me

Down Bowling Green Street

They froze

Not knowing how to handle

This little man

Silently, fiercely

Shielding my small frame

From their taunts and kicks;

Never mind son

He whispered

They know no better

They'd know better

If my three strong brothers were with me.

I am a Better Man than my Father, by Victor Sullivan

2011-06-06T16:00:00.002+01:00

How a trivial remark to a child has benefitted three generations.

Three times a year we visited my mother's childhood home. Even before I knew enough words to describe it, on a fine day the view from the front door of my uncle Tom's farmhouse amazed me. On one particular visit to this idyllic place I experienced a life-defining moment, one that stands out vividly in my memory.

My parents had brought my sister Audrey and me on a visit to my uncle Tom and my Grandmother. Following the excellent meal in the farmhouse kitchen, my father felt the need for his customary after-dinner smoke. He left the table and went to the open front door where he selected a cigarette, lit it and inhaled deeply while admiring the glorious scenery that spread out before him: hills, mountains, sea, Bere Island, the stark chimneys of ruined Dunboy Castle rising above an expanse of moorland with grey rock outcrops, gorse and heather. Cattle and sheep grazed in green fields across the valley. Hungry Hill towered above the magnificient Berehaven harbour with Róncarrig lighthouse as its centre-piece. Beyond the lighthouse the bay extends all the way to the town of Bantry, where my father was manager of Warners Grocery Store.

Uncle Tom eyed him with grim disapproval. He had an intense dislike of tobacco smoke and a poor opinion of all who smoked 'weeds.'

Tiring of the grown-ups' chatter, I left the table also and was promptly and sternly ordered by my father to go back to my place and ask for permission to leave the table before getting up.

'Well you didn't ask permission to go for your smoke.' I responded.

'Don't give cheek to your betters!' snapped my father angrily as he stood silhouetted in the sun-lit doorway, his head surrounded by swirling cigarette smoke.

As I slunk back towards my place at the table I began to whimper but the strong, work-hardened hand of my uncle grabbed my left arm very firmly and he announced loudly,

'Listen boy! As long as you never smoke you are a better man than your father!'

Even at the age of six I was aware of the high esteem in which my father was held by everyone. Some important people knew him and called him Mister Sullivan. Now, thanks to my uncle Tom's declaration, I had been instantly elevated to somewhere above my respected father's public status. I would have to keep such knowledge to myself until I grew older, of course, but it gave me a new confidence just knowing that I was not only better than my father but better than many of those I was expected to look upon as my 'betters.'

From then on I began to keep a silent look-out for my inferiors. Finding them was easy; my schoolteacher mother for a start.

Everyone in the house next door were quickly catalogued as my inferiors, as was the local doctor, a couple of policemen, a railway inspector, clergy of two denominations and at least four of my mother's teacher friends. Farmers passing on their way to the creamery were observed and added, almost without exception, to my growing list.

Many pictures in newspapers of the time showed people smoking. These would have been the important kind of people who got their photos in newspapers and magazines. Who they were didn't really matter, they were simply important people who smoked; the relevance did not escape me. Posters outside the cinema often showed the great film stars puffing their way down my social scale.

There was that photo of Winston Churchill wearing his hat and that cigar.... and Stalin.... and Princess Margaret; I wasn't sure about Eamon deValera, I never caught him smoking.

I cannot remember how long I basked in the knowledge of my superiority over such entities but the experience has been immensely beneficial because it made me into a lifelong non-smoking SNOB.

In my teenage years mature reason modified the notion of my personal superiority and I developed the theory that those who were intellectually, emotionally or even physically weak needed the artificial support of nicotine to keep up with their non-smoking superiors, people like me.

Even now, enjoying my retirement, I find myself glancing at the drivers of other cars as they wait for the lights to turn green and the ones with a cigarette are automatically downgraded both socially and intellectually. Observed pretty girls walking past become distinctly less pretty when I see them light up. (I told you I was a non-smoking SNOB).

Over six decades after my uncle's declaration that I was a better man than my father, I can proudly claim that my three adult offspring and three grandchildren are all fervent anti-smokers having been brought up with this story and the concept of the superiority of the non-smoking sector of society.

Thanks, Uncle Tom, thanks a million.

Photo by Victor Sullivan

(reflected in a cigarette advertising mirror from his father's shop)

JAUNT TO KILLARNEY by 'Abbi'

2011-05-25T16:22:00.004+01:00

Queen Victoria toured Killarney by horse and so did I.
Photo by Victor Sullivan 2007

When I was a child I used to be sent, together with other grandchildren, to my grandmother during the school holidays. She lived with her son and his wife. Their house was a snug thatched one, with a half-door, on a small holding on the edge of the ‘run-away’ bog (also known as the moving bog). So named because, at midnight, on January 1st 1901, and following a spell of the heaviest rain ever known to the people of this area, the bog erupted. The rain had started back in November, and it continued without let-up into the New Year. The bog was no longer able to contain more water so it moved, gently at first, downhill to the nearest streams and rivers, where it gathered volume and momentum, bringing with it one whole sleeping household: the Donnellys who tragically were lost in the disaster. However, the oldest girl of that family escaped, as she had, that very day, travelled to Limerick to go “in domestic service”. There was no other loss of human life but much livestock and fowl perished. There were rumours of bizarre sightings such as hens hitching a lift on the backs of cows, as they were being swept westward with the bog to the lakes of Killarney some 12 miles distant.

As I said, my grandmother lived with her son and his wife. The half door, which I loved, opened into a large flagged- floor kitchen and coming up to feed time, it served as a perch for a hen or two, Invariably, they perched with their rear ends turned inwards, which threw the grandmother into a flat spin. She would chase the offending fowl around the kitchen like someone run amok, lunging at the hens with her apron and putting the house in uproar. I learned to dodge those side-swipes. Those scenes were hilarious. The more so because she failed to see the funny side of the situation and she also did not appreciate being laughed at.

There were no children in that family so I guess visits from us would have livened things up for them for awhile. Whatever their reasons, they seemed happy to see us, we were greeted with a big welcome, open arms, and hugs and kisses – when we arrived the aunt would sing “ye’re as welcome as the flowers in May”. It was a little farm of good husbandry and a hospitable household. They kept some fine healthy livestock. There were 2 or 3 cows, a pony and the long-suffering donkey, whom we bullied mercilessly. There were pigs, ducks and a few different breeds of hens, (guinea fowl included). I think it is quite ‘posh’ now-a-days to rear your own hens and chickens in your lawn!

I listened, with fascination, to the grown-ups talk of Killarney; so famed in song and in story, the beauty and romance of the lakes and the excitement of the races. So began my ambition to see it all for myself. So, I laid plans for a visit.

I should mention that my uncle and his wife were ‘larger than life’ characters and could be described as a hearty and handsome couple, full of fun and they delighted in the odd practical joke. They were also very hard-working farmers and toiled together side by side in the fields and in the bog; they seemed happy and content in each others company. I used to particularly enjoy my days with them in the bog, dancing about in my bare feet on the soft turf bank. I used to make a nuisance of myself too and one day my uncle, knowing I was afraid of frogs, became exasperated with my carry on and he put one in my shoe; I put my foot in without realizing and stuck my toes in it ‘ewe’! How he laughed! They cut and saved the turf, cut and saved the hay and when it was ready, hauled it home to the barn, sod by sod and wind by wind. These tasks were carried out so effortlessly that it didn’t seem like ‘work’ as such. The sun, of course, always shone in those ‘golden days’, the skies were always blue and the fuschia always bloomed!

However, I pursued, with some energy, my plans to see the ‘Great Lakes’. I got them to agree to take me, ‘some fine day’. This was during the second world war when nobody owned cars except the doctor or the priest or, in some cases, there might have been a hackney car, for funerals or some such important affair. So, our only mode of transport was by pony and car but this was fine by me – we were finally going to Killarney! Both the pony and car were well prepared for the journey. There were hessian sacks of freshly mown hay placed in the car to ensure a ‘soft’ journey. Plenty cushioning would have been needed because rough doesn’t describe the condition of those unforgiving roads; deep rutted tracks is what they were with enormous pot holes. Grandmother insisted I bring her shawl “against the cold” on the return trip. We set off, in high spirits, a little after dawn. It was mid-summer time so that there was some early morning activity on the road; farmers bringing their churns of milk to the creamery and other farming tasks. We were about half way along our journey when we pulled into a gap “Now” my uncle said “ close your eyes and prepare yourself for a surprise”!

I couldn’t wait for my first glimpse of ‘Beauty’s Home Killarney’. What greeted me, however, was far from ‘beauty’ but the most dismal scene imaginable. Where I thought I was getting my first glimpse of the lakes, what greeted me was a very big ‘puddle’ in the middle of a field, with a few lonesome stringy rushes growing out of it. Tears of disappointment welled up in my eyes and I was about to start crying when they decided the joke had gone far enough and after some soothsaying and cajoling we trotted on again.

In Killarney, in those days, as in all country towns, stabling was provided. So, having fed and watered our good pony we set off to view the wonders of the ‘real’ lakes from the comfort of a jaunting car; The lakes were a wonder and I was enchanted, as I am today whenever I visit Killarney. Back into the town with us then, where my aunt bought some sausages. We hid them carefully under the sacks of hay, to be enjoyed for a late night supper Sausages then, for country folk, were as rare a treat as ice-cream.

We then joined the other race-goers, on foot. When we reached the race field I was dazzled: the crowds, the bright colours, the beautiful horses and the gaiety of it all. We bought ice cream from a little white hand-held cart; that delicious taste still remains with me. We placed our bets – in sixpences, visited the colourful stalls and bought trinkets from the ‘Cork Women’. Time now to be thinking of the homeward journey. We went to tackle up our pony and check on our sausages but alas, some hungry hound dog had sniffed them out and feasted on them during our absence. I was so looking forward to that final treat of the day but alas, it wasn’t to be. We trotted home at a nice lively pace under the Milky Way. I wrapped myself in the shawl and fell into a safe comfortable sleep amidst the sacks of hay. It never rained that day or if it did I don’t remember it.

© 2011

STATUES by Aidan O'Shea

2011-05-06T19:00:00.007+01:00

Fr. Mathew

Heroes and humour on Ireland’s streets.

We in Ireland have issues about our public statues. Many of them represent standing or mounted heroes of Britain’s colonial past. Some of these have been erased from our view by explosion, which removed Nelson’s Pillar from the heart of Dublin. Others just disappeared, like the statue of Queen Victoria recently unearthed from the President’s Garden in Cork University. Statues of nationalist and religious figures took the place of our former colonial masters. Poets, priests and patriots are now jostling for our attention.

There he stands at the centre of Cork, life-size in bronze, his right hand gently extended, as if to calm us. Father Theobald Mathew (1790-1856), a priest of the Capuchin Order of St Francis, led a mass-movement of temperance which spread from Cork throughout Ireland, Britain, The United States and beyond. It seems appropriate that he should stand at the head the main street, gazing over the North Channel of the River Lee. His motto Ireland sober is Ireland free still carries a ring of truth.

Time was when most city buses stopped at The Statue and many a nervous lad waited there for his true love to arrive. We Irish don’t take our heroes or their statues too seriously; Father Mathew has sported Cork colours on many a sporting rally. That is an irony, as he was a Tipperary man. Beer bottles have been placed in his extended hand! Another local wag has suggested that Father Mathew is indicating with his hand and saying “I’ve been drinking pints of stout since I was that height.” His delicate feelings are mentioned in a popular ballad.

The smell on Patrick’s Bridge is wicked,

How does Father Mathew stick it?

Here’s up ‘em all says The Boys of Fairhill.

Dublin folk also love to mock their statues and monuments, and each new piece of public art quickly gets a nickname. The Spire which replaced Nelson’s Pillar at the General Post Office is called The Binge Syringe because of the local drugs culture, and more coarsely The Stiffy on the Liffey.

The 6- metre bronze figure of Anna Livia, James Joyce’s mythical female representing the Liffey, reclined voluptuously in a trough of flowing water on O’Connell Street. Very poetic it might be, but the Dubs renamed her The Floozy in the Jacuzzi, and many a drunken reveller joined her in her watery bed. Some of the carryon was outrageous, so she was removed into storage, and later was floated up the Liffey in a mock-heroic ceremony to rest again at Croppy’s Green. There she lies in peace at last near her watery self, her modesty protected by railings.

Literary greats are also gently mocked. A fine bronze of the poet Thomas Moore stands at College Green on a traffic island, with an underground toilet below; Moore’s popular ballad The Meeting of the Waters is the sly name for this site. Oscar Wilde reclines languidly on a large granite boulder at the corner of Merrion Square; even he would have enjoyed the subtitle The Fag on the Crag. The poet Patrick Kavanagh is commemorated seated in bronze by The Grand Canal at Baggot Street Bridge. Given his grumpy manner, The Crank on the Bank is well-deserved.

Dublin’s most faithful chronicler, James Joyce, stands in a characteristic pose, leaning on his cane at the junction of O’Connell and North Earl streets. As this is a family audience, discretion demands that you fill in the blanks of his nickname, The P***k with the Stick. Even Dublin’s most famous mythical character, the street vendor Molly Malone, still wheels her bronze barrow at the foot of Grafton Street, her jaunty pose and décolletage earning the name The Tart with the Cart.

Medieval kings kept a joker or fool at court, and Shakespeare gave these characters wisdom as well as wit. Perhaps wit is wisdom. A special joker’s chair was kept near the throne to ensure that the fool, the innocent, the common man was close at hand to deflate the pretensions of power and fame. A bronze Joker’s Chair stands in the garden of Merrion Square, Dublin as a memorial to one of our finest satirists, the actor Dermot Morgan (1952-1988). The chair stands symbolically empty, inviting comedians of the future to poke fun at our heroes, past and present.

James Joyce

Spanish Civil War Ends. 70th Anniversary: |by Victor Sullivan

2011-04-04T11:30:00.003+01:00

A violent death on a bus in Spain

An early morning BBC news broadcast mentioned that it was the 70th anniversary of the end of the Spanish Civil War. I was in Spain but failed to find any special marking of the occasion. Neither side seemed inclined to celebrate the fact that they ever even had a Civil War. Presumably the side that won weren't happy with whatever it was they got out of it, (Franco), and the side that lost didn't want to be reminded that they had lost.ããIt was therefore a very ordinary warm April day in Spain with the temperature approaching 26 degrees C when I boarded the local bus waiting at its terminus in Torrevieja, paid my 1 Euro 15c and sat in the left hand front seat behind the driver. The rear half of the bus near the exit doors was already full of ladies with trolley baskets and shopping bags, some facing forwards, others backwards, all engaged in loud, agitated conversation in Spanish.ããAs the doors were about to close an attractive young girl came aboard and slid into the front seat across the gangway from where I was sitting. She did not arrive alone however. A wasp sneaked in behind her just as the doors closed. The insect landed on the window beside the girl's bare right shoulder as the bus moved off through the narrow one-way streets of Torrevieja.ããDuring a pause at traffic lights the girl became aware of the wasp and ever so cautiously she began to to back away from her seat and towards mine. The loud chatter continued at the rear of the bus, the woman driver stared straight ahead, the wasp continued to explore the large pane of glass and the girl moved closer and closer to me, her eyes fixed on the insect. ããHer left hand swept searchingly near my face a few times until the slender fingers made contact with the yellow pole outside my seat. She gripped it with white-knuckle intensity and the slow, ballet movements continued. Her right hand gradually moved down behind her back and deftly removed a shoe from her gracefully raised right foot. ããA gentle, sweeping arm movement brought the black shoe onto her left shoulder, close to my face. The flat sole that faced me was of smooth, black, flexible plastic material. The heel was grasped in a firm fist.ããThe wasp, now near the top of the window, began to crawl down towards the centre of the large pane. It paused for several seconds, then continued its downward journey. The bus had now turned into a wider street and was moving more rapidly. The wasp paused once more.ããI saw the muscles of her shoulders tense and I heard the intake of breath above the chatter of the women behind us. Suddenly the shoe wielding arm swung across the bus with the velocity of an Olympic Tai-Quando contestant's coup de grace. The sole of the shoe made violent and perfectly flat contact with the window pane producing a sound like a loud rifle-shot.

Women screamed at the back of the bus. The driver braked hard and brought the vehicle to a rapid standstill. Fortunately the girl had held on grimly to the yellow pole or she would have been catapulted forwards against the windscreen. Shopping bags and trolley-baskets fell over, some contents spilling onto the bus floor. The wasp was now a mess the size of my hand on the glass.ãThere was a brief moment of shocked silence while the driver determined the cause of the explosion, quickly deducing the sequence of events from a shoe dangling from a passenger's hand and the mess on the window. The driver's explanatory announcement in Spanish over the PA initiated a hurricane of abuse from the women at the back. One came forward and demanded that the driver visit all passengers whose nerves had been shattered by what everyone thought was a gun-shot. The spokeswoman then hurled what I assumed was severe x-rated Spanish abuse at the miscreant who now stood sheepishly and silent beside me, with the guilty, wasp-smeared shoe still dangling from one finger.

Having visited and calmed the distraught women passengers at the back of the bus the driver returned, pulled a roll of kitchen paper from behind her driver's seat and thrust it at the culprit. No words were spoken, just a gesture towards the messy window. The journey continued. The window was obediently cleaned. Spilled shopping items were picked up and the chatter in the back seats gradually rose to its former pitch.ãã

That happened on a bus in Spain on the 70th anniversary of the end of the Spanish Civil War, a war that claimed the lives of around 500,000 people.

ANATOMY by Marie Guillot

2011-03-26T16:00:00.002Z

Graphic by Marie Guillot

Can one be too old to learn?

Unlike most children (as I learned later), I never played doctor with my pals. Apparently, that created a gap that was never filled in my education.

As a young French girl of the Baby Boom, I had only vague notions about the inside of my body. My long arms were always sticking out from my jumper sleeves, and my long legs allowed me to beat my friends at roller skating in the park. Boys were interesting curiosities all right, but only up to a point. Until you became a student and gave them second thoughts.

Marriage (with one of them) and childbirth enlightened me on a number of points. By that time, I thought I had learned all that was needed in the field. A good number of years later, the dreaded menopause triggered a new anatomical quest.

That's why I am now sitting in an evening class, a great opportunity for senior citizens (as we are called). Our comrades-in-arms here are a refreshing mix of ages, genders and backgrounds.

Bill the teacher starts: “The first thing to know is that your body contains 60 to 70 per cent of water.” Wow! I get this mental image where all the various accessories of my body are packed up in the top part, down to the middle of my ribcage; the rest is a reservoir, all the way to the feet. Bill continues: “Water is essential for life. Since we are losing fluids all the time, we have to replenish the corpus.” Our eyes are wide open. We have heard that message before, but now it actually seems true. He moves on: “Besides the obvious, regularly-spaced pit-stops, do not understate the effects of ordinary losses, like sweating, crying, vomiting or bleeding. Using your imagination, think of other bodily activities.”

With water continuously flowing out, there is only one way to go. Bill is not preaching in vain about having to drink, again and again...

The main part of the course is related to the organs. To see the extend of our knowledge, our teacher asks us to call them out. We are very enthusiastic, shouting all at once: “The heart, the guts, the lungs, the genitals, the brain…” (in that order, same as in real life). Bill keeps cool, as always. He then explains: “An organ is a relatively independent body part that performs special functions. Exact definitions vary with countries and experts.” We think: theory, theory... He carries on: “For some, the tongue is an organ, while the pancreas is a gland. All agree, however, to list the lungs, the heart, the liver, the kidneys, the stomach and the brain as organs.” How can we remember all that?

“And by the way,” Bill adds, “You are missing one on the list.” The class cries out more answers, as an apology to the forgotten specialised part: “The spleen, the thyroid, the ileum.” A respectful silence settles in, the ileum, sounds serious, that must be it. But our teacher is not satisfied and we go on: “The duodenum, the caecum, the sternum.” Obviously, a Latin trend is started, everyone remembering words heard in their past. “No,” Bill replies at last, “The one you forgot is... the skin!” The audience sighs with relief, the mystery is solved. Some of us start laughing, pinching our skin in disbelief. Unfaltering, he announces: “Thanks to its receptors, the skin is an organ of touch, protection, and regulation. It can also stretch when needed.”

Marvelling at these manifold functions, the class is now quiet, under a spell. The digestion of the organs will take some time.

Mizen's Wicker Hamper; by Victor Sullivan

2011-03-03T21:22:00.019Z

Kindness during hard times recalled

Mizen Head, the wild, windswept, most south-westerly extremity of the island of Ireland, juts out into the vastness of the Atlantic Ocean at Latitude 51º 27' 01" N Longitude 9º 49' 07" W. Surprisingly, it does not boast a lighthouse but the array of radio masts and the rusting remains of their predecessors bear witness to the former importance of the place as a navigational aid for the ships that ply the busy sea-routes. Modern satellite-aided navigation has resulted in the downgrading of the former radio station and it is no longer manned. A fascinating Museum informs tourists about the life and duties of the men who served on the many Lighthouses around the coast and at the Marine Radio Station at Mizen Head.

In the Summer of 2007 I joined the line of visitors from Britain, America, Europe and elsewhere and entered the Museum. Inside, a cut-way model of a Lighthouse tower soars up to the roof and beside it a large wicker hamper rests on a simulated jetty. I recognised that hamper instantly and I was whisked back to a moment in the 1940s, a time of rationing, hard times and shortages of almost everything, including sweets, cigarettes, sugar and tea, thanks to World War 2.

Warners of Bantry had the contract for supplying Lighthouses around the south-west coast of Ireland and my father, (known as Jimmy-in-Warners), was the manager of that establishment. On seeing the large hamper I vividly recalled sitting on the shop counter watching my father packing that very same woven willow king-sized hamper with the supplies for the men who manned the isolated Marine Radio Station at Mizen Head.

Jimmy-in-Warners personally packed the hamper while the shop-assistant ran to and fro fetching the items on the list. On the counter between me and the hamper was a shining tin canister of sweets, rare treats in those harsh times. I watched hopefully as my father carefully pushed the sweets and a few cigarette packets into gaps between the packages in the basket. Gradually the contents of the hamper rose until a final sprinkling of a few more sweets terminated the operation, the lid creaked shut and the two leather straps were buckled.

My father replaced the lid on the tin of sweets and returned it to its appointed place beneath the cash till. Then the shop assistant lifted the heavy hamper from the counter revealing just one precious 'forgotten' sweet ... for me.

Four or five years after that experience, with the war over and sweets and other luxuries once more readily available, my father suddenly announced that he had received a very special invitation to visit Mizen Head on the following Sunday. Sunday afternoon drives were part of the family's normal routine but on this occasion my father seemed to be suppressing great excitement. On reaching Mizen Head he led us down the many steps to the spectacular bridge that spans the yawning void separating the last tip of Ireland's main land from the Marine Radio Station on the rocky island. The gate was locked but a man in uniform came towards us from across the bridge. He unlocked the gate and welcomed Jimmy-in-Warners, my mother, my younger sister, Audrey and myself to Mizen Head Marine Radio Station.

And what a reception we received! Jimmy-in-Warners was clearly a very popular VIP visitor. We were taken on a guided tour of the Radio Station, watched the automatic Morse code transmitter tapping out its monotonous string of dots and dashes and we were entertained with tales of wartime convoy attacks, of passing ships on fire, U-Boat conning towers, low-flying aircraft dropping depth charges and stories of the arrival and subsequent unpacking of the hamper of goodies with the ever-welcome 'off-list' sweets and cigarettes. All the men remembered the sweets.

We were treated to tea and cakes (from Warner's bakery) and there may have been other hospitality provided for the grown-ups while Audrey and I were taken to see how the explosive charges were set off as a fog signal.

Eventually the visit ended and we were escorted back across that scary bridge. As we climbed the steep steps a lone voice called after us: "Thanks for all the sweeties, Jimmy!"

If you don't believe my story, ask that hamper, it was there on that day also.

The Life of a Writer, by E. Alana James

2011-02-11T11:11:00.007Z

The Footings on Which You Can Build That Life

(Illustration by Marie Guillot)

When carpenters build a home they start the foundation with the footings. These concrete pathways help to spread the weight of the home from the foundation walls to the surrounding soil. So too when you build the life of a writer, you need to put three particular types of footings in place in your life to spread the weight of this new endeavor so that you will be successful.

Perhaps when you think of what it might be like to live the life of a writer, someone like Dennison Berwick who travels the world in his 32 foot yacht home that he calls the Kuan Yin. He sails around the world, writes about his journeys and uses his blog and website to promote his books. Perhaps the glamour of that life appeals to you too with its: notoriety, freedom to travel at will, maintaining a sharp brain through old-age, and the joy inherent in living a creative life.

This article deals gives an overview of what we find when we ask, "What builds a good foundation for writing?" Three main ideas surface:

1) the disciplines that give you strength,

2) the need for flexibility in a number of areas,

3) the daily grind.

First, there are several disciplines you need to adopt: reading, practice and organization. In order to write well you have to read a lot, almost everyone who has ever written on writing agrees to that. But in today's web-based world it also makes sense that what you read covers a wide variety of content areas as your readers are likely to be well read with a variety of interests. All the researchers who have studied mastery of an art, whether it be at playing chess, painting, etc., agree that it takes 10,000 hours of practice to become really good at something. Therefore constant practice is a must. 10,000 hours is equal to three hours a day, 365 days a year, for 10 years. Writing is a very competitive field, although with web-based publishing it is now much easier to break into than it used to be. Nevertheless, only those who have been willing to put in those 10,000 hours will likely rise to the top. Lastly, you need to be able to organize your thoughts in order to be a good writer. A lot of this goes on at subconscious level. As you interview, research your topic, take pictures, etc. in preparation for your writing your subconscious mind will help you sort and to classify so that when you put it all together in an article it makes sense.

Second, the message is clear: if you don't have a lot of flexibility in your life or your personality don't try to be a full-time writer. The first thing you need to be flexible about is your source of income - it is necessary that you should not try to support yourself on your writing as you begin. You also need to be flexible about what you write, remember you are writing for a public and also for your editor. A lot of other people will have their fingers in your finished products. The final flexibility that you need is with your self. If you only hold yourself to the highest standards, you'll always be somewhat frustrated, or not high enough, and your work may be sloppy or not progress in skill. There will be some days you write well, and some days when everything disappoints. Be kind to yourself and know these are just part of the process.

Finally, you have to be willing to take writing on as "the daily grind." With self-publishing writing has become a multifaceted business. As with any business there are options, and each will have a financial outcome attached. Recently it has become evident that many authors are making more money on Amazon with Kindle, than they used to make with royalties and publishers. The world of writing and the world of publishing are so closely connected that in today's environment you need to be willing to do both.

So how does all of this add up to the life of writer? If you work it properly, as you keep your mind-set on the lifestyle you want to live, you may just end up like Dennison Berwick. On the other hand, and equally delightful in many ways, you may end up with a hobby that will delight you throughout the rest of your life. Wherever you go, or what path you follow, you'll use that flexibility, background and strong habits that you develop now to carry you through.

COOKING FOR MEN: by Aidan O'Shea

2011-02-04T11:30:00.006Z

(Illustration by Marie Guillot)

How I discovered my feminine side in the kitchen.

Nowadays, we cannot speak of women's work or of men's work either, for fear of giving offence. Women are challenging and overcoming barriers and prejudices in work, sport and public life. Men are more evasive when it comes to breaking through their glass ceiling, by changing nappies, cleaning the house or watching romantic movies starring Colin Firth or Hugh Grant. For most men, cooking belongs in a secret codified feminine world, right next to pregnancy and childbirth.

When our youngest child started school, Deirdre decided to study for a BA at the university. I was very supportive, offering to adapt my working hours by collecting the children from school on two afternoons per week. This arrangement allowed her to take lunch in college, and return home in the evening, inspired and refreshed. As for the kids, the novelty of being collected from school by Dad, who played good cop by allowing TV before homework, lasted well into the second week. Then tempers began to fray, as reports filtered back to mum that Dad's cooking skills began and ended at the can-opener. Matters went downhill when my Smash ™ (a brand of instant mash potato) came out of the pot all lumpy. Deirdre (alias CSI Woman of the House) then found empty cans of salmon, steak and kidney pie and baked beans in the trash, and my cover was blown.

My first instinct was to do some plea bargaining. If she would teach me some of her recipes, then peace would return and a repeat of the Irish Potato Famine might be averted. This was a great idea in theory; working it out was the hardest part. My first lesson was on Beef Stew, a thing of great depth and beauty in Deirdre's hands. As I trimmed the round steak, the carving knife slipped and I almost added a fingertip to the menu. Band-Aid applied, I smiled bravely if tearfully through the onion slicing. It is a healthy thing for a man to cry. Once the carrots and celery were scraped, peeled and chopped, (Oops, I forgot to wash them first); Deirdre's helpful instructor tone of voice had by now taken on a definite edge. So, it had taken me 35 minutes to reach this point. She could have done the same in ten minutes, while simultaneously multitasking homework supervision and talking on the phone.

Prepping finished, now for the actual cooking. As the commands were barked out, I coated the onion in butter melted in a pan, added the chopped meat tossed in plain flour, browned them for a minute or two, then gradually added boiling water. Voila! A smooth brown sauce was formed. Not a lump in sight! Proteins, carbs, fats and water cuddled up in an amorous embrace. Transfer the contents of the pan to a casserole; add more water, followed by chopped thyme, carrots and celery. Turn down the heat, turn down the tension and glance at the clock. Just over an hour so far, and not a potato peeled yet. Deirdre gave a weary smile as I poured two glasses of our best house wine. It was time for a case conference.

She spoke first. "At this rate of progress, you would have to spend 80 minutes each evening preparing dinner for the following day, and I would have to take 80 minutes per week out of study time to coach you in a new recipe. I think that you should take proper cookery classes." "Great", I replied, barely covering my wounded male pride at this remedial step.

A week later, I climbed the stairs of Cork College of Commerce, caught up in a tide of adult learners. Nobody would guess my secret destination. I could be attending classes in computers, accounting or marketing. Room 302 was tucked away from the main corridor, and on the door in bold print were the words COOKING FOR MEN. The room was furnished with two rows of work benches, punctuated with sinks. At the top was teacher's bench, and along the side wall a line of cookers. Other men stood self-consciously about, one wearing a striped apron. Teacher swept in, a lady who took command of the situation immediately. We introduced ourselves. "Hi, I'm Aidan, and I can't cook". There! I had taken the first of the twelve steps.

That night she demonstrated sponge cake, passing around the still-warm finished product. Now for the homework. There would be three recipes per week, one starter or baking product, one main course and one dessert. Pick your preference, buy the ingredients, and cook the item next week in class. In this way, we saw and tasted three recipes per week. Best of all, we brought home a finished product. Sometimes we did not, as she allowed you to burn your queen cakes or to quietly bin your failures. In time, the male pupils started to display certain other female habits, like meeting for coffee, shopping together in the market and swapping tips. My Irish Mutton Stew got thumbs down from the kids, as I had failed to skim off the sea of fat globules at the top. But my Smoked Fish Bake has entered the family repertoire. And my Brown Soda Bread recipe, with its secret X -Ingredient, puts Darina Allen in the shade.

Thanks to my kids, I get a comical apron for Christmas every year since. That's over thirty aprons to date.

Shafted! A miner's story of life-saving and a weighty question by Victor Sullivan

2011-01-28T11:30:00.002Z

Shafted! A miner's story of life-saving and a weighty question.

The Mine Foreman wearily reached the top of the fifth ladder in the mine shaft and paused for breath. The new Urhan Copper Mine was not deep enough yet but each day it grew deeper and deeper. The ladder rungs were wet and slippery. Water seeped from the hard rock of the shaft wall and trickled and dripped down into the blackness below. His source of light was the candle stuck into a lump of clay on his hat but above him was a small circle of daylight where he would eventually emerge into fresh air, the heather of the hillside and that magnificient view across Kenmare Bay towards the mountains of Kerry. But it wasn't the scenery that motivated him towards the surface. It was the thought of the warm comfort of the sheebeen and its other liquid comforts.

The Foreman had got into the habit of sneaking to the illicit premises during the mid-day break while the shaft of the new mine was less than five fathoms deep. Drinking during working time was strictly banned but so far nobody had reported his sheebeen visits to the Mine Manager, Captain Spranza.

As he reached for the next ladder-rung a sudden yell above made him glance up in time to see a black shadow falling towards him. Locking one arm in the ladder he grabbed the falling man with the other and with his massive miner's muscles managed to stop the man's fall and drag him onto the ladder. Both rescued and rescuerer clung to each other as they came to realise what had happened. Death had been avoided. Injuries were painful but slight. Some muscles might ache for a few days, bruises would fade and grazes would heal; nothing new for anyone working in the Urhan Mine.

News of the incident in the shaft reached the ears of Captain Spranza and he sent for the Foreman next morning.

"That was a very brave act. You could have lost your own life as well as that of the man you saved. You are to be commended for your action. That man and his family will be deeply indebted to you for evermore. I will mention your action in my report to the Directors."

"Thank you sir.'

Captain Spranza shook the rescuer's hand warmly as he left the office and then whispered in his ear,

"I wonder if you had known what I am about to tell you, would you have acted in the same way? The man you saved had only just left this office having officially reported your frequent trips to the sheebeen.'

A Parade in Cork by Marie Guillot

2011-01-21T11:30:00.002Z

A Parade in Cork: A group marching in the streets. What for?

Illustrations by Marie Guillot and Victor Sullivan

At the corner of Cork City Hall, the marching band sets off. Our crowd is now moving. Slowly at first, then faster, as the men in uniform are leading the pace. We are instructed: “Walk four abreast, all of you. Four abreast.” Our eagerness is boundless: each foursome is making an effort to keep the cadence. But something is amiss. Soon, there are stragglers, crossing the bridge in dribs and drabs. Turning into Oliver Plunkett Street, we are somehow gathered again. The four abreast has become between-two-and-six across. It works better that way.

The Christmas shoppers are watching us, not knowing our purpose. Protesters? Doubtful. Usually, protesters are not preceded by military music and not followed by a large firetruck, all lights flashing. A Santa Claus parade? A new kind then: the marchers are only carrying ancient books, all dull-coloured. Nothing really to attract young children. The organisers are distributing leaflets to the onlookers, who read them and smile at us. Now they understand: the old books are being transferred from Anglesea street to the Grand Parade library in commemoration of the burning of the Carnegie library in 1920. They were donated after the fire by generous families (not only Irish, but from other countries as well), to start a recovery.

Having reached its destination, the parade is brought to a halt along the stalls of the Christmas Market. For the cameras, the participants raise up their books, all jolly in unison. They enter the library to reinstate them, one by one, a symbolic gesture in memory of the donations. Several public readings follow, some read by descendants of the donors. All texts are expertly selected, bringing history to the occasion. They remind us how a tragedy can trigger determination and bring goodwill out of an extended community towards the restoration of its city.

To recuperate from these emotions we are then invited beside the festive Christmas tree, to share wine and mince pies. The elderly books rest on a table, worn out from their many journeys. A few fanatics among us take advantage of the quieter time to look at them and exchange impressions. In particular, a book about Cork City (published in 1801) is almost torn apart between two admirers. Such is the destiny of books.

Thanksgiving: How our American tradition has evolved during five years in Ireland by E. Alana James

2010-11-25T22:36:00.003Z

Thanksgiving

How our American tradition has evolved during five years in Ireland.

By E. Alana James - 11 November 2010

Illustration by Marie Guillot

Having adopted life in Kinsale, County Cork, Ireland, over five years ago now we have become adept at managing the celebration of a holiday specific to one country when living in another. Upon reflection, the changes we have experienced are instructive of our settling in and making connections within our community.

The first year I remember both celebrating and ruing the differences in what it took to get things done. On the one hand, there were no lines in the markets and we could purchase a range fed turkey with no bother because few others wanted them in November. However, we had to do without pumpkin pies as there was no filling to be found and the real pumpkins had all been sold earlier in the season. Our guests were neighbors, older gentle and interesting folk who had graciously included us in the small gatherings that happened in the neighborhood. Much of the conversation around the table made little sense to us, and in truth the Cork accents were often so strong as to render us incapable of reply.

The second year was an experiment in mixed cultures, one that perhaps did not lead to the best entertainment experience of our lives. We had sorted the pumpkin pie issue by simply bringing cans home in a suitcase after travel to the US. The turkey was the best we had ever had, coming as it did from the local butcher. Our guest list included a younger couple who we knew from the town, the older gentleman who manages the works of our village, and an American who had rented one of the houses close by. Unfortunately the American was of the sort who felt that his way was the best way and “What was wrong with the locals that they didn’t...?” Take your pick: answer their emails being at the top of his list. The one brief moment of connection for me was when I explained to him what I had learned from my Rotary group in Cork - that people here are so closely connected that they seldom resort to emails, at most texting. Why move to the impersonal when you can go downtown for lunch and run into everyone you need to see? What we were experiencing was our lack of connection rather than their rudeness. The Irish couple concurred and I felt as though I had won a prize in multicultural understanding. When the older gentleman fell asleep at the table it seemed a proper comment on the evening.

Our third year felt as though we were finally at home and Thanksgiving modeled much of the lessons we had been learning. We were flexible, resulting in a bigger dinner on the Saturday while we took the heart of the celebration of our holiday to our multicultural group meeting on the Thursday by sharing pumpkin pie. Having built real homey connections with people, our guest list including the folks with whom we walked our dogs, worked, and lived close to, all of them people who shared other events regularly with us. We understood 95% of what was said throughout the evening, only really breaking down at the end when our guests fell into politics and sports. There was only one man whose accent was strong enough to cause me to have to ask him to repeat himself so I could answer a question. And best of all people stayed, talked and laughed until well after 1am. Great craic.

It wasn't until the fourth year that we unpacked the China, and rolled out the bits and bobs that truly make the celebration one with historic memory by including grandmothers silver, the tablecloth we picked up in Hungary, and the centerpiece that included the little bits of handmade crafts from Africa. Perhaps that is the greatest gift of moving to Ireland for us, that we become increasingly part of the world culture because travel is easier and the community norm allows for greater multicultural mix.

This year we are taking Thanksgiving to a new high, and now that we have a regular group of friends who will join us for the feast, we can stretch the tradition a bit. We found that it didn't work for us to have a meal on any day but Thursday so we are back to the traditional day while being adventurous instead with the food on the table. Our friend from China, Tina, will be making the feast and we are adding Chinese traditions to our American norm. It is bad luck to have an odd number of main dishes so we will have a small amount of soup and then six dishes to be shared together: a couple of types of dumplings, a vegetable and potato salad, and a couple of meat dishes. Tina and her friend Grace will teach us how to make all these, thus adding to the repertoire of our lives.

Thanksgiving continues to teach us many things as it helps us to reflect on our lives, and how much we have to be grateful for in our adopted home echoing the original Thanksgiving feast.

Those settlers long ago had found warmth and helpfulness in their new neighbours. Those puritan settlers were not prepared to make their way in a wilderness and had it not been for the helpfulness of the native people they found there their crops would not have been successful. They had neighbours who literally kept them alive in that first winter. While nothing in our journey has been so extreme, we continue to find the connections with other people in the appreciation of the wide world in which we live as sources for our deepest gratefulness.

Mowing Dinner: A terminal moment most fowl by Victor Sullivan

2010-11-04T11:04:00.001Z

Mowing Dinner
A terminal moment most fowl

My Uncle Tom, a farmer, was ready and willing to treat me as a ten-year-old man and I tried to respond as manfully as I could. On one memorable occasion he had deemed me fit to cut a small field of oats with a one-horse mowing machine. He had overseen my oiling of the moving parts, issued warnings about hazardous features and watched as I backed Nancy between the shafts and tackled her to the machine. Then I carefully lowered the knife-bar, mounted the cast iron seat from behind as instructed and lined up the mare for the first cut following the straight line of standing oats that my uncle had already opened with a scythe.

"Tom! TOM! Get the child off that machine right now!" bleated my fussy grandmother from the roadway that overlooked the small field where I was proudly in command of both horse and mowing machine.
"He's all right," drawled my Uncle, "he can manage it fine!"

With my left foot I moved the lever that engaged the cutting gear, flicked the reins, Nancy leaned forwards and off we went. The golden oats fell into a neat row behind us as the chattering mechanism did its intended work as well as successfully drowning out my grandmother's continued protests. The sharp, triangular teeth of the knife reciprocated rapidly between the pointed dividing fingers of the knife-bar as the machine advanced into the standing stalks of ripe oats, severing each one cleanly three inches above the ground.
The tricky turn was executed satisfactorily at each corner and the remaining patch of oats grew smaller and smaller. Soon it was time to be on the look-out for any rabbits that might be hiding in the diminishing cover. How many more cuts before my task would be completed, one? Two at most and still no rabbit came charging out. Bob, the sheepdog, lay sleeping in the sun, utterly uninterested; a bad omen. We clattered on.

Suddenly a loud and horrible squawking startled both mare and myself as a violently flapping Rhode Island Red hen rose, legless, into the air out of the falling oats as the reciprocating knife-bar passed beneath her.
By the time Nancy and I had completed the final round of the field my uncle had captured the unfortunate bird and terminated its unexpected distress. The drama had been grimly observed by my hen-loving grandmother who was clearly not pleased with my harvesting achievement.

We had her for dinner next day, the legless Rhode Island Red. My behavior was impeccable at the table. It was a more solemn meal than was usual.

Photo: A Mowing Machine of the type in the story, minus shafts and horse. The cutting knife-bar is in the vertical position

Visitors of the Night: Are all Georgian houses haunted? | Marie Guillot, October 2010

2010-10-28T10:28:00.001+01:00

Visitors of the Night

Are all Georgian houses haunted?

A scream. Then we hear Lina trying to force open the door of the old library where we are sitting. In a state of frenzy, she finally succeeds and enters the room. She is white as a ghost.

“I knew your house was haunted. They all are when they are so old, especially in Ireland.”

Having lived for 12 years in that tri-centenarian Georgian house, I thought I knew it inside out.

Lina and Garry, our American friends, are visiting us for the first time this evening.

“What happened?” I asked.

“I saw a ghost. I know you won't believe me, but I saw it moving.”

I offered:

“Let's retrace your steps, Lina. You'll show me where you saw the ghost.”

Reluctantly, holding my arm, she leads me back through the dimly lit lobby, towards the kitchen.

Then she turns around.

“Look over there. That's where I saw it.”

We are now facing the front door of the house; actually an inside glass door, preceding the final porch which has another door, the one visitors would come at.

Both of us are staring, holding our breath.

In a flash, I see a shadow moving behind the glass.

“Did you see it Marie?” she shouts. “Now you believe me.”

We were warned: there are stories about the house. Among them, a ghost soccer team playing on the main lawn; a stain of blood that does not come off a wall; a carriage coming to the front door, heard but not seen.

Since then, we have added our own stories to the repertoire. Namely a ghost dog on a Halloween night; the moaning of a child, audible only in one precise spot upstairs; and, of course, various unexplained rumblings during the winter nights. Not to mention that a piece of gutter fell down shortly after we moved in, as well as a large portion of one ceiling.

As French people, brought up from birth with la raison pure (rationalism), my family was rather excited about those stories. The game was to find a proper explanation for each incident.

Until, one day, or rather, one night...

Back from a late outing in Cork, exhausted and eager to crawl directly into bed, I made my last stop in the upstairs bathroom. There, in the quietness of the place, I heard distinctly a double tap at the window. I froze, looking blandly at the closed curtain. Tap Tap again. I have to admit that I left the room without further exploration.

Against Lina's will, I open the glass door. There, we see two bewildered crouching creatures.

“Martine, Pierre!” I exclaim, “que faites-vous la?” (what are you doing there?)

The young French couple are our guests for the week. Having no English, they had decided to stay out tonight, so as not to interfere with our visitors.

They were only trying to enter quietly without bothering anyone. Now, they are deeply embarrassed by the turmoil they have created. Lina relaxes a little bit, but says that she can still feel something strange about the house. So do I. It's a matter of interpretation... and of pulling the curtain.

Beach Bums by Aidan O'Shea

2010-10-21T10:21:00.001+01:00

BEACH BUMS
by Aidan O'Shea

Dateline: Calpe in the Spanish Province of Alicante, July 2010.

It's a challenge being a grandad on holiday. The Ford S-Max diesel growls its way down Avenida de Los Exercitos Espanoles, turns into Calle Gran Bretana, and parks on sandy waste ground. Operation Beach is under my daughter’s command. "You take the towels and togs (swimsuits), you the parasol, buckets and spades, and, Dad, get rid of the recycling. Monika (the au pair), catch the girls’ hands while I take Róisín in the buggy." This highly-trained commando unit is about to establish its beach-head on Playa Arenal.

We are not alone. A solid phalanx of bathers and baskers has already occupied a line less than a metre from the tideless edge of the sea. But niche is our middle name, as we use the buggy to prise a space wide enough for our Iwo Jima moment. I plant the parasol base in the sand, screwing home with practised ease. Then I unfurl my blue and white ensign (Dunnes Stores @ €12.99) and set up base camp. I mutter the motto of the Spanish Republic, No pasaran, they shall not pass, as I vow to hold this beach-head against all comers.

No word is spoken as tops and shorts come off in a trice, revealing skimpy swimsuits and vast expanses of white Irish flesh. This is soon camouflaged in buttery layers of Ambre Solaire Factor 30 for kids. The same kids are by now amphibian, and they hurl themselves into the sea, flanked by two of the adults. The Mediterranean caresses our skin, in contrast to the icy embrace of Ireland’s Atlantic waves. We go for baptism by total immersion, competing with shoals of little fish which dart and weave balletic moves around us. Guard duty changes after about 15 minutes, as I already feel the sun’s glow on my neck and shoulders.

I retreat beneath the parasol to guard the handbags and cash, taking time to watch the passing parade. It’s mostly locals today, who talk, gesture and jostle in a friendly jumble of sound and movement. Dads play beach tennis and let their kids beat them. Others strut by dressed in the minimum of fabric or even less, indifferent to the effects of excess weight and gravity on the human form. Penélope Cruz and Javier Bardem seem to have stayed at home today.

The sun reaches its zenith and the neon sign on the nearby pharmacy shimmers at 33 Celsius; it is time to beat a retreat. Sand takes its revenge at this point, clinging in between the toes and forming an invisible film in the underwear. Beach bags become like lead, tempers fray and children beg to stay longer. Vamos! My daughter commands. She marvels that the children never asked for the toilet, that fiery cabin at the edge of the beach. I decide not admit that I had taught them that essential skill, namely peeing in the sea. Our small organic pollution is unlikely to tip the balance of global ecological meltdown.

Playa Arenal is one kilometre long, so its promenade is a competitive sprawl of bars and restaurants, all offering a Menu del Dia under €10 for three courses. Damp hair and sandy feet are quite the thing at lunchtime, and the kids are transfixed by cartoons on Spanish TV over the bar. Three litres of water, a glass of beer and lots of pan y aioli later, the world looks good again. Kids eat calamari and we don’t mention the word squid. We live in the incandescent moment. Costa Blanca? More like Costa Blanka, I think. Fed and watered, we trudge back to our combat vehicle, chafing sandy legs on melting upholstery, and head home for a siesta to the chorus of "Paparazzi" by Lady Gaga.