Our Saturday Nights 1946 – 1956
 
Right here, right now I am thinking about ‘a slice of life’ from my childhood.’ I’m thinking of Saturday nights. The only other nights I can remember are the annual occasions of Halloweens and Christmas Eves, but it’s the Saturday nights I will write about.
 
Saturdays were busy days for our family. My father’s regular job didn’t require him to work that day, so it was an opportunity to attend to all the chores that needed doing at home. To help feed us, home grown produce was essential. Depending on the season there was digging, planting, and weeding. My siblings and I were required to help. For us children, weeding was a never-ending chore. My father loved gardening, but he had two hates in the garden, comfrey, and ‘scutch’ grass.
 
I don’t know why our garden was prone to producing comfrey. It didn’t grow anywhere else in the neighbourhood. It had not been planted by our family. My father would dig up the dreaded ‘weed’ and throw it over the fence onto the grassy area alongside the road, where it continued its prolific growth. People came from all over the county to dig it up as a remedy for rheumatism and for healing broken bones. They would often knock on our door asking if they could take some as if we were the it’s custodians.
 
What my father called ‘scutch’ grass had long tentacles that wormed their way under the soil into the garden beds. My sister, brothers and I had to pull them out. We grew to detest this pest as much as my father. He was very fussy about how the garden looked. When planting seed or seedlings, he used a line (a string attached to two pegs) to ensure the vegetables grew in straight rows.
 
Cutting and harvesting the turf (peat) for heating and cooking was our other main Saturday labour from spring through to autumn. My siblings and I loved being in the garden and on the bog. We often got fed up with the work, but we felt we were part of a resilient family. We knew some children whose families didn’t work and lived in dismal conditions.
 
When the Saturday work was done, we had our evening meal, and then the tin bath was placed in front of the fire. It was filled with hot water from the kettle and pots heating over the fire.

​One by one, our mother washed our hair in an enamel basin of water using powdered Palmolive shampoo dissolved in a mug of hot water. Jugs of water were poured over our heads to rinse off the suds. First head shampooed was first into the bath. This was where the Lifebuoy carbolic soap came into its own. I loved the smell of that soap.
...

Right here in Benalla, right now there is an earthquake!
 
One hour later: This month’s prompt was very apt for this story. While writing the above the earth rumbled, the ground shifted, and the house shook – a 5.9 earthquake at 9.15am on 22 September 2021.

Our house was violently shaking. I was shaking. Sean was shouting “get out”. The dog was barking. The cat was running all over the place to find somewhere to hide. I was calling the cat. Never having experienced such a phenomenon before it caused uncertainty and was frightening. All is calm now.

My story - continued ...
 
While bath-time was happening, our father disappeared into the shed only to reappear when the bathing was over. Then he inspected everyone’s shoes. Out came the Nugget polish and polish brushes. He polished our shoes until they were gleaming. He would tell us stories of how soldiers had to have well-polished boots, not that he had ever been in the army.

He would also tell us how some people only polished the front of their shoes. They only half did the job. He said that when they were kneeling in church the unpolished heels were on display for all to see. This seemed to be his way of deciding who were competent workers. I sometimes glance at the back of shoes in church and think of my father.
 
When our shoes needed repairs his cobbler skills came into play. He was adept at mending our footwear. He had all the cobbling equipment needed for repairing worn shoes and boots – a cobblers last, a paring knife and an awl, hammer, brads, a sheet of rigid leather, hemp string, and a chunk of hard wax to coat the hemp.

​I had reached retirement age. My career life was a thing of the past and our business had been sold. Not having much to do after a busy life, was dismal. What could I do that would be
interesting, and new? Extra money would be nice too.  
 
One of my sons managed a turf farm. I could do that kind of work, drive tractors, mowers,
whatever. No problem, I’ll ask. “Can I have a job on the turf farm? About three days a
week would suit me.”
 
I got a job. Starting off, I was told to hose the thick layers of mud from under machinery with a high-pressure hose. Damp and dirty work. What else could I do?  Fill the tractors, mowers, and turf cutting machines with diesel, making sure to record the specific machine, it’s milage, hours, and the quantities of fuel in the logbook. The Government auditors didn’t take kindly to discrepancies. It was child’s play, but adult male workers often had difficulty with this chore.
 
I was the only female, and an old one at that, working on the farm. The workmen were courteous to me, but of course I was the manager’s mother. I’m sure they watched their Ps and Q’s when I was near. Whatever they personally felt, I never had the slightest problem, except they always monopolised the best tractors.
 
Moving irrigation equipment was a constant assignment. They started me on the galvanised pipes, which were scorching hot in the Queensland sun, too hot to handle. Where did I leave my work gloves? Oh yes! They are back in the shed. Why didn’t I think to take them with me? I progressed to setting up the travelling irrigators but was never given access to the central pivot systems.
 
Next, I was given the oldest tractor on the farm with the spraying equipment attached. But first I had to do a course in chemical handling before being allowed to spray weeds.  Then the instruction “Make sure you spray around all the water valves. Snakes love to hang out in those places, making it dangerous for anyone connecting hoses.”
 
I learned to operate the huge green John Deer tractor with 32 gears, but I seldom got to use it. The male workers always commandeered the best equipment. I had no forklift training but one day I tried to use it. I saw pallets stacked high and just for the experience I decided to move them. I lowered the lifting forks and moved forward intending to push the prongs into the spaces on the lowest pallet but missed. CRASH, they all came tumbling down.  I sheepishly told the boss what I had done.
 
Then I was given a promotion to what I would love doing. I was allowed to mow the precious resource – the grass. After being shown how to operate the big mower and told not to scalp the turf, I began doing a job I loved. It was uplifting and peaceful being out alone in a paddock, smelling the new mown grass, seeing pelicans on the dam, and watching the blue, red or brown dragonflies dashing back and forth. Then one day I mowed over the nest of a pair of plovers.  I was looking back to ensure the grass I was cutting was the required height and didn’t see the nest. As I came round on my next circuit, I saw the two plovers looking forlornly at their smashed eggs. My heart went out to those two birds. I felt so guilty. It still bothers me.
 
From that time forward I was very vigilant when mowing. On another occasion I saw a plovers’ nest with eggs and carefully avoided it, only to discover the eggs were gone the next day, probably taken by a fox.
 
Mankind can be careless and nature can be cruel.
 
Elizabeth Kearns
August 2021

I’m fortunate that life hasn’t thrown many curved balls at me. The one I will write about was a whammy.
 
My husband always dreamed of owning a hotel. Getting close to retirement age, we decided it was now or never to make his dream materialise. The saying ‘be careful what you wish for, it just might happen’ was very true. We bought a quaint old hotel on three acres with a fast flowing stream running along one side. The setting was lovely.
 
Our initial problem was acquiring staff. Because the hotel was in a tourist area, jobs were plentiful. When we employed suitable people, a rival establishment would make them an offer too good to refuse. There were numerous issues with some staff, from drugs to theft, so good employees were in great demand. Replacing workers was an ongoing chore.
 
My husband soon discovered he hadn’t the personality to humour dull, boring, and demanding drinkers who thought that because it was a public establishment, management should cater for their individual wants. Examples - the jute box music is too loud, the heating is too hot or the air conditioning too cold. Why don’t you sell such and such beer? Why do you serve him, he has blue hair?  The complaints were never ending, mostly by the public bar patrons. After two years it was affecting my husband’s health.
 
We decided to lease the business. The Hotel Broker brought two women to inspect the business who agreed to lease it under a company name. The contract was proceeding in a normal way until one of the women sent a fax to us with the company’s heading and the names of the directors. The principal of the company was a man barred from the premises because he was a violent troublemaker. He had a court case pending for assaulting the previous owner of our hotel. There was no way we would lease our business to such a person. He would have ruined the business. We withdrew from the contact. We were disappointed, but those things happen.
 
After that debacle we thought it best to sell the business freehold instead of leasehold. Again the Broker found buyers and a three-month contract was signed. Settlement was towards the end of November. We were looking forward to being out of the business for Christmas. The purchasers lived interstate. On the day of settlement they came to the area where our hotel was situated. By late afternoon I hadn’t heard from their solicitor about arrangements for hand-over. I phoned him but he refused to discuss the matter with me. This made me annoyed. I then phoned our solicitor and asked him to find out which day the people wanted to take over the hotel. We had to arrange for an official stocktake and then we would no longer have access to the business.
 
Our solicitor phoned me back telling me the buyers had decided to go for a few weeks holiday before the final settlement. I was furious. Because I had studied Real Estate Contract Law, I knew that by not settling on the due date they had reneged on the contract. I told our solicitor to tell the buyer’s solicitor the sale was terminated. I knew our solicitor’s family owned hotels so I asked him for the name of a different Hotel Broker. He told me of someone in Melbourne. I phoned the Melbourne broker immediately and listed our hotel with him. He said he would come up the next day to see it and get us to sign the listing forms.
 
During all this kerfuffle my husband was in bed. He said he wasn’t feeling well. I didn’t pay much heed to what he was saying. I was too caught up in the drama of the non-settlement of our business and deciding what to do next.
 
On the day after the non-settlement and withdrawal from the hotel sale, my husband asked me to take him to the doctor. He was immediately admitted to hospital. He was a very sick man. I felt guilty for ignoring him on that curve ball day.
 
Within a few days the new Hotel Broker had found buyers for our hotel. They settled in January during the terrible 2003 bush fires. The business had never been so busy. Accommodation was full to capacity with firefighting personnel. Meals had to be provided, bed linen changed and rooms cleaned but the settlement and handover went smoothly.
 

Elizabeth Kearns
May 2021
 
 
 
 

​Elizabeth Kearns
April 2021

​I don’t make use of a ‘too hard basket’. I do, however, have a ‘basket’ where I put things that I will never get round to doing because I have lost interest, have more important things to do (like memoir writing), or for numerous other reasons.
 
I first discovered this basket many years ago when I was employed. The department where I worked had an ongoing problem attracting and keeping Finance Managers. This was due to the Director being a bully. I was never the subject of his bullying. He was always very pleasant to me. He even came to my retirement gathering, which was most unusual. Perhaps he was pleased to see the last of me. However, he was the cause of several people leaving and/or having a nervous breakdown.
 
As a result of the constant changing of Finance Managers and the absence of anyone working in that role, often for a few weeks, some of the work became backlogged. Then another new person was employed to fill the position. She was a bully too. The first day she started work she was like tornado, creating havoc and upsetting several staff. Clearing the backlog was her priority, but it wasn’t part of her plan to do it herself. There was a pile of documents on her desk, left there by previous incumbents. They needed to be filed.  The pile was about 60cm high. She picked them up and took them to me “Elizabeth, file these” she said.
 
Out of some deep recess of my mind came my response. “You see that basket over there,” I said pointing to an unused basket. “Put them there. That’s where I put things I will never have time to do.” She gave me a strange look, put the documents in the basket and walked away. I had no intention of doing her filing. I had enough of my own to do. She never bothered me again.   
 
She stayed in the job for about fourteen months. The day she left, I picked up the pile of documents and placed them back on the Finance Manager’s desk.
 
Ever since that day I have made use of this expedient ‘basket’. Currently it contains two unfinished patchwork quilts, several recipes, photos, a photo album and a half crocheted jumper. Someday, if I live long enough, I may finish one or both quilts. The photos will never go into the album. I have discovered online photo books. The recipes will never see the light of day. I love reading about delicious meals but I don’t like cooking. I considered the jumper too old fashioned and abandoned it. Someday I may unpick it and use the yarn for a different project.
 
In the meantime, exercise classes, writing and genealogy which has just been retrieved from the above ‘basket’, is taking precedence.

⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭

Elizabeth Kearns
​March 2021

My dearest Trim,

​You are never far from my thoughts. It is six years since I last visited you. I had planned to see you in 2020 but the nasty Covid-19 virus sweeping the world, prevented me from travelling. My fondest wish is see you one more time before I leave this earthly world.
 
My father’s family lived and worked within your ancient boundaries. He was born in your bosom and died there too. He always wanted to take his last breath in the place where he was born. He was granted that wish, which would have made him happy. Although born in Trim, he was wrenched from his home before he reached the tender age of five due to the death of his parents. It was another deadly virus that took his mother from him in 1918-the Spanish ‘flu’.
 
Despite growing into adulthood in a different locality, his heart was always with you. All through my childhood he took me to visit you several times each year. We would go to the ruins of your historic castle on the banks of the Boyne River. He would tell me some of its history, informing me it was the largest Norman castle in Ireland and was built in 1172. We would eat the lunch we had taken with us, within its thick stone walls, feeling as though we were dining at a banquet of the former owners, the de Lacy’s, de Geneville’s or the Mortimers.
 
Next we wandered round the Yellow Steeple that had been part of an Abbey founded in the sixth century. The steeple was a refuge for your people from the Vikings. Because the Boyne is navigable from the coast to Trim, it was easy for those invaders to arrive at your beautiful setting to loot and plunder.
 
Then my father would take me to the cemetery searching for his parent’s graves, lifting fallen headstones, trying to decipher the faded and eroded text. We never did find my grandparents final resting place during those forays.
 
Next we went to see the Duke of Wellington monument. My father’s family home and business was close by. The monument was part of his early childhood. Unfortunately the buildings that belonged to his parents have now been demolished to make way for a car park. That makes me sad.
 
Arthur Wellesley, whom the monument honours, is your most famous son. He was born in Dublin but his family lived in Dangan Castle, close to you and he was educated in one of your schools. He twice represented you, Trim, as a Member of Parliament in Westminster. Defeating Napoleon at the Battle of Waterloo on Sunday, 18 June 1815, was his greatest achievement.
 
In 1699 Dean Jonathan Swift became vicar of Laracor on the outskirts of your township.  He lived in the Glebe house there. Years later, when he was living in London he longed for his garden at Laracor and ‘the beauties of the locality’. You have a way of holding on to the heartstrings of those who love you.
 
Our last destination for the day was the establishment that his parents had once owned--a Public House and grocery shop. I would sit in the ‘snug’ with a glass of orangeade while Dad would have a couple of pints at the bar and chat to some of the old-timers who may have known his parents. Afterwards we would get on our bicycles and begin the long journey home.
 
I too, was born in your hospital and baptized in St Patrick’s Church, but regretfully, I never lived in your historic town. I have always felt I belonged to you and I love to go to see you whenever I can

.♥ Elizabeth Kearns.

For me 2020 has been a wasted year. It was the year of my eightieth birthday. I was looking forward to a very special birthday and it didn’t happen. A trip to Queensland to visit my two sons and their families in March had to be cancelled. A last journey back to the land of my birth was out of the question. My daughter and her family had booked a holiday in Iluka, NSW for October and invited me to accompany them. The so-called second wave of Covid-19 in Victoria caused the cancellation of that event.

My family and family celebrations are very important to me. My eight-year-old grandson had his First Holy Communion in Albury, but the border between Victoria and NSW was closed. I missed that special occasion. His older sister had her Confirmation in November. Because of social distancing rules, only her parents and a sponsor was allowed to attend.  Another missed celebration.

This same granddaughter graduated from primary school last night. Only parents and two guests were allowed. After lots of debate her paternal grandfather and me, her maternal grandmother were the chosen candidates. The other two grandparents and her siblings, aunts, uncles and cousins missed out. The whole evening was greatly deflated.

I could go on and on about important events and special occasions that have been sacrificed because of this pandemic. Those special times can never be reclaimed. Younger people may be able to pick up the pieces of their lives but older people like me, can never get back this lost year. We don’t have an excess of years left that we can be complacent about the loss of time.

The prompt for this December writing is ‘One Moment, This Year’. All I can focus on are the lost moments that would have been precious to me. The only positive for the whole year was that instead of our Writing Group’s stories being read at meeting sessions, they were printed on line. I have hearing loss and by reading them at my leisure I was able to understand the full content of every story.

I detest the phrase ‘the new normal’ I want the original normal. Let’s not settle for anything else.

​Update.

I was awakened by Claudia, our dog barking. I sleepily scrambled from bed to answer the door. It was 7.30am on the 17 December 2020. My daughter was outside the door with a large cardboard box. I opened the door, then went into the lounge and sat down until the sleepiness seeped from my head and my brain began to function. By then my husband had the box. Giving it to me he said “Your Christmas present. I have to give it to you now instead of on Christmas day.” Inside was a beautiful tortoiseshell kitten. She was a cheeky, friendly little animal, immediately making herself at home with our dog, our house, and me.

I have wanted a cat since my last cat died of old age five years ago but my husband thought one pet animal was sufficient at our advanced ages. I never expected such a gift. Being given the sweet little kitten over-rides all the disappointments caused by Covid-19. This was my very special moment. ☺
​
 
Elizabeth Kearns
December 2020

When I was child in the 1940s and early 1950s there were loosely five classes of people. The upper classes who lived in mansions and had servants, followed by the middle classes who were business people and farmers with larger farms. Not huge farms, but not ten or twenty acres either. The doctors, solicitors, and teachers were part of this class too.   The next group was the working class, labourers, shop workers, truck drivers, cooks, seamstresses, and a host of other occupations. These people lived mainly in cottages. Then there were the people who had ‘come down’ in the world and those who had ‘gone up’ in the world.
 
Every Christmas and Easter, parishioners were expected to contribute to the upkeep of the greater institution of the church. This was in the form of ‘Dues’. At Mass on a Sunday soon after the day the ‘Dues’ were paid the priest read the names of the head of each family and the amount they had contributed.
 
Patrick Brady, as I will call him, was one of those people who had ‘come up’ in the world. He was not a well-liked man, being a harsh employer. He paid very low wages and his employees had to work long hours. Even we children didn’t like him. The biggest, juiciest sloes grew on the blackthorn hedges in one of his fields. If he discovered we had been in his field he would complain to our teacher.
 
Twice a year, every year, his name would be top of the list when the priest read out the names of the donors. Patrick Brady - one pound. Then came the names of the upper classes. Samuel Moore - 15 shillings, Michael Rigby - 15 shillings followed by the middle classes, several names - 10 shillings. The next block of names was the vast bulk of the parishioners, mainly families where the husband/father was fully employed. So and So - 5 shillings. After that came the 2 shilling and sixpence (half a crown) contributors. Finally the names of a couple of widows with very little income, Mrs. A – one shilling, Mrs. B – one shilling.
 
This was the norm year after year. People barely listened. Everybody knew what each family had given or if they had not given anything (horror of horrors).
 
One Christmas it all changed and it sure caused a stir. The priest read;
William Devine – Three pounds.
Patrick Brady - One pound.
The rest of the list was as usual.
 
The Devine’s had come ‘down in’ the world, but now with their children finished school they must have been on the way up again. The community considered them a peculiar family, not like most of the other families. For a start they named one of their boys ‘Virgil’. They liked to do their own thing no matter what the local community thought.
 
Everybody knew Patrick Brady would be ‘ropable’ at being pushed into second place. He thought being top of the list gave him supremacy.
 
There was great anticipation what would happen with the Easter ‘Dues’.
I think not one family missed Mass on the Sunday of the reading of the Easter contributions.
The priest read;
Patrick Brady – five pound and continued down the list to William Devine – 10 shillings.
 
People were delighted. Patrick Brady had been made to pay fitting ‘dues’, both those to place him at the top of the list and some of what he owed society. It would be difficult for him to return to his usual donation of one pound.
 
But the Devine’s weren’t done yet. The following Christmas the game continued;
William Devine – eight pounds.
Patrick Brady – five pounds.
 
Then at Easter;
Patrick Brady - Ten pounds.
William Devine – 10 shillings.
And that’s where it stayed. ☺
 
 
Elizabeth Kearns
​November 2020

​Elizabeth Kearns
October 2020

​Unlike many of our neighbours and friends, when I was growing up, my family had no interest in politics. Political talk was all around us. Even the children at primary school talked of the ‘Black and Tans’ and their horrendous deeds. How they had been notorious prisoners released from gaols in England and let loose on the Irish people. It was as if it had happened recently, not at a time before our parents were born.
 
Then there were the activities of the IRA and the legacy of the IRB. My parents told my sister, brothers, and me not to engage in any discussion about these organisations. They said ‘You don’t know where people’s sympathies are and it’s best to not get involved.’ This was good advice then. As a result, I grew up uninterested in politics.
 
When we bought out first house in Australia, we had insufficient funds for a full deposit. We needed a house where the owner was prepared to offer a second mortgage. The Real Estate Agent found such a person and we bought this man’s investment house.
 
Once we had moved in, he came round to meet us. He told us he had to sell the house to fund his political campaign. He was a candidate for the fairly recently formed Democratic Labour Party (DLP). This passed over my head but I wished him luck. I knew nothing about State Government and Federal Government elections. I have no idea which election he was contesting but I do know he didn’t secure a seat in government. That was that, and I still had no interest in politics.
 
I became good friends with an older woman. Her husband was a friend of Vince Gair, who had withdrawn from the Labor Party and established the DLP. They had attended Nudgee College together. By this time I was on the electoral roll and not having any political leanings voted for the friend of a friend. I can’t remember the outcome of that election.
 
A neighbour who worked in the taxation office car-pooled with a young man who had decided to stand in our electorate for the Liberal Party. I saw him most mornings as he called for my neighbour. On Election Day I voted for him. I had no idea who the other candidates were and I didn’t bother to find out. It was simpler to vote for someone I knew somewhat than for a complete stranger. He won and I continued to vote for him until I moved to a different area. Casting my vote had nothing to do with political parties, nor the abilities of a candidate.
 
For the next election he changed from his original electorate to the one where I now lived. That suited me. I cast my vote as I had previously. Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t know.
 
Then we were moving again. We bought a house and randomly selected one of the two local solicitors to do the conveyancing. The one we selected told us he was standing for the National Party and after determining we had no political leanings asked if we would help him with his campaign. This was something new to try. We agreed.
 
What stands out in my mind from the first meeting of this man’s political helpers was an older woman asking me if I was working for the National Party or for Gavan (the candidate). It was a very practical question and one that should have more relevance in politics.
Gavan didn’t win. The then unknown Wayne Goss, who was the other local solicitor, was the Labor Candidate (and future Premier of Queensland), defeated him. I wonder if we had selected him to do our conveyancing would we have become involved in the Labor Party.
 
The point of my story is all these political opportunities came out of the blue. I never sought political involvement but becoming involved is something I don’t regret. It was a wonderful learning curve. Looking back on my disinterest and lack of knowledge of the political system and knowing there are so many voters that are as indifferent and ill informed as I was makes me question compulsory voting. I believe voting is a privilege and if someone wants to access that opportunity, they should have to demonstrate a credible level of knowledge of the electoral system. ⁑


Elizabeth Kearns
September 2020

'Are you coming for a walk,' Bill asked.
Just give me a few minutes,' Ellen replied as she went into the bedroom. Picking up her hairbrush, she ran it through her unruly grey locks. She still wished she had nice manageable hair. Bill didn’t seem to mind that she kept her hair short making it more controllable.
 
With her hair looking slightly tamed and ensuring the back door was locked; she waited inside the front door saying ‘I’m ready.’
Bill slowly and stiffly got out of the armchair and approached his wife. Ellen opened the door and stepped outside, holding the door open for Bill.
 
They walked companionably along the footpath, commenting on such things as the empty drink cans and bottles that were discarded by uncaring people, or the fronds that had been blown off the palm trees by the blustery wind the previous night.
 
When they reached the park, they stopped by the edge of the lake watching the waterfowl. Ellen would always notice if any of the ducks with unusual markings was missing. They would both be concerned, especially in the duck-hunting season. They knew culling was necessary, but it wasn’t fair to the ducks. Surely they had a right to life too.
 
As they walked past the tennis courts, they watched energetic young people playing, running this way and that, in an effort to hit the ball back over the net. In their youth they had played tennis with friends and neighbours, now they were all parted by distance and death
 
Walking along the park pathway by the water, meeting people, smiling, nodding and greeting strangers was part of the enjoyment of the day as was ‘having a go’ on the exercise equipment. They would count their movements on each apparatus and were pleasantly pleased if they reached the goals they set.
 
Further on they sat on a bench seat to absorb the serenity of the park and have a little rest before continuing on their way.
 
Bill sometimes picked a rose for Ellen. This was not allowed in the park, but Bill loved to see Ellen’s delight when he gave her the beautiful flower.
 
On returning home one or other said ‘I’ll put the kettle on for a cup of tea.’
 
Today Bill said ‘Are you coming for a walk,’ before realising Ellen was no longer there. He rose stiffly from the armchair, opened the front door, and sadly walked to the park.
 
It was a sunny winter's day by the lake but only a few people were out walking. Those who were in the park stayed well away from each other. The unused tennis courts looked forlorn. The exercise area was quiet and empty. Striped red and white tape surrounded the equipment with an official sign saying ‘Closed.’
 
Even sitting on the park bench was out of bounds. Bill picked a pretty pink rose for Ellen, but he could not go to the cemetery to place it on her grave. That was ‘unessential travel’. Life had changed and all because of Corona Virus.֎
 

Elizabeth Kearns

​This story was written and shared as part of the Creative Writing group program during the Covid-19 break. 

​Thank you for agreeing to share it in the newsletter and on the website, Elizabeth.

My husband, Sean and I arrived in Australia in 1965. Sean bought a car which he used to travel to work. How he bought that car is another story. I had no car. I got my driver’s license in Ireland when I was 18 but I could not afford to buy a car. I longed for a car of my own and at the time of this story, I could afford to buy one. Not a brand-new car, but a good used one.
 
One day I was walking past a car yard when I noticed a little beauty.  It was just what I wanted.  I went and had a good look at it. It was a Skoda. I knew some vehicle makes such as Ford, Hillman and Vauxhall and that was the limit of my knowledge. To me a car was a car. I had never heard of Skoda, but I liked the name of this car ‘Skoda Felicia’. I loved its low profile and sleekness, a bit like a sports car and, best of all, it was a mid-blue, my favourite colour.
 
I do not remember how much it cost, but it must have been in my price range. I bought it straight away, no test drive or mechanical inspection. I paid for it and drove it home. I was so proud of it and was delighted at having discovered such a nice car.
 
The next day I planned to go shopping in my car. It would not start. I kept trying and trying but it was as dead as a doornail. When Sean came home from work that evening, I asked him to check it out and tell me what was wrong with it. He sat in, turned the key and it fired up immediately. There was no problem. He said I must have been doing something wrong.
 
It wouldn’t start for me again the next day. When Sean tried to start it there was not a kick out of it. This proved to be an on-going issue. Sometimes it would start and other times it was impossible to start. We took it to an auto electrician, but they couldn’t find anything wrong with it. It was just temperamental. My lovely car was unreliable. I would have to buy another car.
 
One day Sean saw a ‘reliable’ car in a sales yard. He talked with the salesman, and they negotiated a deal. My Skoda was traded in for the ‘reliable’ car.  I was sad losing my dream car, but I liked the idea of having a car I could depend on to start.  I was looking forward to seeing my new reliable car. That was until my husband arrived home with a big clumsy beige Austin A 40.  I considered it a monstrosity.
 
The Austin A 40 remained my car for several years and it never let me down.  I never fell in love with it and mourned my lovely blue Skoda. I have never felt attached to a car since. People dream of owning Jaguars, Mercedes, Jeeps, or Landovers.  If I can’t have my Skoda, any reliable car will do.
 
 
Elizabeth Kearns.
 
As Time Goes By - July 2020

​In 1973 my husband and I had four young children. We had come to Australia a few years previously and we were anxious to become financially secure. With a young family, it was impossible for me to work, even if a married woman with four children could get a job in Brisbane at that time. Our best option was to buy a corner store. The plan was Sean would keep working and I was to run the shop.
 
The shop had living accommodation attached and a large garden for the children to play. Everything looked promising. But, like all great plans, there were snags. We didn’t find out until after we had bought the shop that the milk was delivered at 4.00am and it had be taken in and put in the fridge immediately. Health inspectors frequently followed the milk delivery truck to ensure this law was followed.
 
The Newspapers and magazines were delivered at 6.00am and while they could be dropped off outside the shop, it was necessary to take them in and write the names of the people who had orders, on them. It would never do if someone was to miss out on his or her paper because we had oversold.
 
The shop opened at 7.00am. There would be people waiting for the shop to open. They wanted their newspapers, cigarettes or a Bex and Coke. It was amazing how many people were addicted to Vincent’s and Bex powders mixed with Coca Cola.
 
Meanwhile my husband would get his breakfast and leave for work and I would juggle getting the two older children aged 5 and 7 ready for school as well as serving customers.
 
We soon discovered living at the back of the shop had problems. People would come to the back door long after we had closed for the day, asking to buy milk, bread, cigarettes, matches, postage stamps (we sold them as a service to the public, there was no mark-up on them), and whatever else disorganized people decided they needed.  The shop was open from 7.00am to 7.00pm seven days a week, but those hours were not long enough for some people.
 
We couldn’t live like that, so we bought a house further up the street to live in. That was a help. People didn’t expect us to go down the street and unlock the shop after hours, to sell them what they wanted.

Now we had two mortgages to repay and trying to live between two premises with small children was stressful.
 
We decided to sell the shop. An older married couple were interested in buying but they were unable to get finance until they sold their house. We leased it to them giving them first option to purchase when their house sold. A year passed and their house was still on the market.
 
We had a dream of living on acreage. One Saturday my husband sale a house on 25 acres for auction, advertised in the ‘Courier Mail’. It sounded just what we would like but my practical husband said we could not consider it. We already had two mortgages. However, one afternoon I put the children in the car, a big old Valiant station wagon, and went to see the property. I liked it and I estimated it would be in our price range, that’s if we could get a loan from the bank.
 
After a lot of wheedling, I got Sean to reluctantly come and look at it. He liked it too but he said there was no way we could buy it.
 
The auction day came and I said we should go the auction to see what the selling price would be. A friend of Sean’s came with us.
 
The bidding started. There was a fair bit of interest but gradually bidders dropped out.  The next thing Sean was bidding. I was excited and tense. Maybe, just maybe, we would have the highest bid. Finally there was just another couple and Sean bidding. They had the highest bid and the Auctioneer was about to drop the hammer, when Sean made another bid. I learned afterwards that his mate had said ‘go one more’. The hammer dropped. We had to sign documents and pay ten percent deposit and we had 60 days to settle. We would lose that money if the bank wouldn’t give us a third loan.
 
The bank manager said they might consider giving us a bridging loan until our house or the shop sold. We had to wait for their decision.
 
We listed our house with a Real Estate Agent. I prayed and I had the children praying for the house to sell quickly or the shop leasees to buy the shop or the bank to give us the bridging loan.
 
A few days later, the Real Estate Agent phoned saying he wanted to take people to view our house. They arrived half an hour later, looked at the house and left. Shortly afterwards the Agent phoned again and said they have signed the contract. ‘Your house is sold’ he said. I was ecstatic.
 
Then the mail arrived. There were two letters. One from the bank saying the bridging loan had been approved and the other from the solicitor of the people leasing the shop saying they were now in a position to buy the shop. All that happened in one morning.

​Miracles do happen.


Elizabeth Kearns 
April, 2020

Elizabeth sent this story to Ireland for for the County Roscommon writing competition in 2019.  We are thrilled that we can publish it here.  

I am an old woman now and spend most of my time looking into the past. I am content reminiscing, although life was far from easy and seldom satisfying. I was the youngest of nine children and the only girl. My parents had a small tenant farm. I was lucky in some ways as there were enough boys to do all the outdoor work, even after four of them went to America. Being a girl, I had to help in the house and cook for my hungry brothers. I had to do the baking, churning, feeding the hens and taking care of the chickens and all the other household chores.
 
Feeding big strapping boys was a never ending job. Dinner consisted of a large three legged cast iron pot full of spuds, which hung on a crane over the turf fire to boil, a slab of bacon - either boiled or cut into hefty slices and fried, and cabbage or turnips. A lump of butter on the potatoes and a mug of buttermilk finished off the menu. The men and boys came home in the evening demanding tea. Pratie cakes cooked on the griddle went down a treat with a mug of strong tea for the man of the house and more buttermilk for the boys. After tea it was my job to make a big pot of stirabout for supper, making sure that there was enough for breakfast. This was the daily routine and apart from going to Mass on Sunday in the pony and trap there was very little to look forward to.
 
Oh! There would be the occasional wedding or funeral to break the monotony. That was my life until one day as my Father was coming home from the Fair, he was approached by a neighbour, Pakie Beirne whose wife had died in childbirth a couple of years back. He asked my father if he would consider letting me marry him. He had a nice little farm and a neat whitewashed thatched house. He also had three young orphaned daughters and his old father living with him. He was 42 and I was 22. My father considered it was a great match and I was not given any say in the matter. I had some misgivings with his age and his children but I thought it would be a chance to have my own home and rule the roost in my own kitchen.
 
The wedding took place and I moved in with my husband. I still had to cook, bake, churn, do loads of washing, much more work than I had to do when living with my parents, as well as caring for three young children and an old man and there was no one to help. I was also expected to help with outdoor jobs, like milking the cows, feeding calves and pigs. Then when I got my weary body into bed I was expected to be loving and amorous to my husband.
 
A year later I had a child of my own. I loved him dearly but my workload increased. Two years later, I had another child but my father-in-law had passed away so it sort of evened things out.
 
Life carried on like this for a few years and then a catastrophe happened. Pakie was killed in a freak accident. I had no idea how I would manage the farm as well as all my other work. My brothers came to help for a while after the funeral but I couldn't expect them to help in the long term. Several people suggested I needed to find another husband as soon as possible. I would be a good catch with my farm and homestead, although five children would be a drawback, especially as three of them were girls. I felt one husband was enough in any woman's lifetime and did not relish being hitched to another man.
 
Pakie had been a frugal man. He never discussed our financial situation with me and doled out a fixed amount of money which he considered sufficient for our needs. I knew he kept his surplus cash in a locked chest under our bed.
 
When his funeral was over and I had time to grieve, I remembered the chest. I found the key in an old mug on the mantelpiece and when I opened the chest I was dumbfounded. There was lots of money, not just coins but paper money – more that I could have imagined.
 
Being the youngest of my family, I had been allowed to attend school so I could read and write and count. I closed the bedroom door and with trembling hands took the money from the chest and laid it out on the bed and counted it. I couldn't believe how much there was. I counted it again just to be sure and then I put it back and locked the chest. Now I had to decide what I could do with the money. I certainly wasn't going to share it with another husband and if I hired someone to work the farm the money would soon be gone in wages, so that option was out. I could afford to take the children and myself to America where my brothers were, and perhaps we would have a better life. But what could I do to support my children? Two of my brothers in America had a hotel and boarding house. Perhaps they would employ me to work in the boarding house. No! I didn't think that would be work.
 
My mind took flights of fancy. 'Why couldn't I set up a pub here? I could use the little room we called a parlour. I'd need to find out how to go about it. Do I need a permit? I'd need a barrel of stout, bottles of whiskey, a few stools and glasses. I could make sandwiches if a man was hungry enough to want one – at a cost, of course. Miss Hannah Dunning owns the pub in town, maybe if I ask she will advise me'. That's the way my thoughts ran. I pondered the idea for a few days and then hitched the pony to the trap, got my mother to look after the children, and headed off to town wondering how I could approach Miss Dunning without going into the pub. Apart from serving drinks, a woman's place was not in a pub.
 
I was in luck. As I walked up to the pub, she was out the front tending the geraniums she grew in a window box. I asked her if I could have a quiet word with her and she was intrigued. She called Jimmy, her helper, to watch the bar and brought me into her kitchen. I explained what I was thinking of doing and asked for her help. When there was a lull in the bar, she brought me in and showed me what was needed and how things worked. She was more than happy to be my adviser and encouraged me to get started as soon as possible.
 
With the promise of a few drinks 'on the house' my brothers set up the bar in the parlour and I was open for business. Curiosity brought in my first customers. They were happy to be able to 'quench their thirst', smoke their pipes and have a yarn without having to go into town. Before long I had regulars and my business was improving. I was doing very nicely, thank you. I leased the farm for a yearly amount, keeping a small field for the pony.
 
Thady Naughten was a constant visitor to my bar and seldom drank more than half a pint. He always made himself available when I needed help and I valued his presence around the place. He often suggested we become wedded. He once said I wouldn't find a better husband in the whole of Co. Roscommon than him. I agreed that was true but told him I wasn't looking for a husband.
 
After a while I started serving tea, little sandwiches and buttered current bread in the kitchen for women. The women were reluctant to come in at first but eventually it became a welcome break in their mundane lives. They enjoyed having a nice pot of tea and discussing the happenings in our community.
​
The years passed and the three girls grew into young women and left home. My boys, Owen and Connor were also entering manhood. Owen took over running the farm, being the eldest son it would eventually be his. Connor helped me in the bar. Thady was still around whenever he had some spare time and was still asking me to be his wife.
 
I began to think of my future. The girls came home when they could but not as often as I liked. Owen was taking out a young woman and hinted to me that he wanted to get married. Connor could run the bar on his own so I was feeling redundant. When it came time for Owen to marry, we decided he would build a bungalow in the far corner of the front field and I would sign the farm over to him.
 
I got to thinking that the next time Thady suggested marriage, I would accept him, with conditions. He had a farm and I was not prepared to be a farmer’s wife again. The day came when he again asked and the look on his face when I agreed was unforgettable. It wasn't love or happiness, it was shock. It took him some time to process my acceptance and the terms I wanted. I wondered for a while if I had been imagining his ardour.
 
His sister's son, James, had been helping Thady on the farm with an understanding that it would pass to him in due course. Now that process was put in place, with James taking over the farm and building a little cottage for Thady and me. Thady was now the farm helper and adviser without the responsibilities. We were wed in our local chapel and moved into our cosy cottage. It was bliss living with that wonderful man.
 
When I moved out of the house that had been my home for so many years, Connor put his plans into action. Out came my scrubbed pine table, the chairs, the kitchen dresser with its row of large and varied jugs, plates and the mugs hanging from hooks. He moved the bar into the kitchen together with small tables and chairs. On shelves behind the bar he had all kinds of strange spirits – Bourbon from America, Gin from England, and Vodka from a place called Russia. I wondered who in their right mind would buy those sorts of drinks, but he assured me it was the way of the future.
 
Then he got Fergal Flanagan to play his fiddle in the bar and a young lad to play the bodhran. Maeve Mahon, who had a sweet voice and sometimes sang at weddings, was encouraged to come and sing.

Much to my amazement Beirne's pub became widely known for its ceilidhs. Visitors came from as far away as America, enthusing about this wonderful 'traditional' pub with its thatched roof and whitewashed mud walls. Some even considered having similar pubs in the US of A. Outside; motor cars replaced the ponies and traps.
 
As I said at the start life is queer, there is no predicting the future.
 
Thady passed away almost two years ago and not a day goes by that I don't miss him. I am hoping in the hereafter that Pakie meets up with his first wife and that I will be with my beloved Thady.

Elizabeth Kearns
2019

Leprechauns are often called the 'little people' and that's an accurate term for us. We are 'little people” and I will explain why later and yes, that's right. I am a leprechaun. I can hear your derisive laughter already. Well you may laugh. You don't have to live in an alien world, feared, ridiculed and disbelieved. We don't even have the privilege of challenging you for anti-discrimination. Just imagine the judge's demeanour on being told the next case is Baccan O'Cuinn, a leprechaun, versus Michael Ryan or some other 'normal' person, not to mention being able find a solicitor, willing to act for us?
 
I am going to try to make you understand that we are not faeries with magical powers. We are ancient, red blooded human beings just like you. We are canny people, we have to be to survive and this has led to the false stories told about us. Have you heard the story of a man catching a leprechaun and ordering him to show where the pot of gold was buried? The leprechaun showed him and the man tied a piece of cloth to a corn stalk so he could find the place when he returned with a spade to dig up the pot of gold.  When he got back, there were bits of cloth tied to several corn stalks so the man couldn't tell which the right one was. Was there anything magical about that? Of course not. It was probably something you would have done in a similar situation.
 
Talking about the 'Pot of Gold', yes we have pots of gold and silver too. It is our security, like you have money in a bank, under the mattress or in some other safe place. Some of you hoard silver and gold in case cash becomes devalued or useless as has happened in some countries. Gold and silver collecting has been part of our heritage. We seldom have a use for it but it’s there if we need it and we are not about to let someone to take it from us it because one of our kind has been careless enough to get caught.
 
We are always portrayed as wizened old men. (The story tellers must think our world could survive without women and those are the people you choose to believe).  Everyone in our society is equal and can dress as they like, provided when going out into the 'normal' world they wear a shade of green. Women frequently choose to wear clothing that is identified as male, as a form of protection. I suppose this is why leprechauns are always thought to be male but I can't understand why they believe we are ugly - wizened old men indeed, what an insult? Perhaps this is another form of bias.
 
We are a people of small stature because that is the race from which we evolved. We lived above-ground but a race of taller people conquered our land and tried to annihilate us. They succeeded in killing many of our people. Some of us out-smarted them and moved underground. In order to protect our communities, we encouraged them to believe that we had supernatural powers. They were superstitious people and believed what they thought they saw. It was their eyes, ears and minds deceived them, not us.
 
Another misconception is that we are all cobblers (shoemakers) always hammering away at a boot or shoe on a last. If we had a glut of such artisans we could make a fortune in your world. How hard is it to find someone to repair your shoes when they need mending?
 
Our communities consist of hunters and gatherers just like ants and other creatures that live in confined conditions. I know you blame various pests when your veggie patch or orchard is raided but guess what – my people are often the culprits? We have to live and you would not tolerate us in your society.
 
We have tailors, bakers and candlestick makers too. We have no need for advertisers, lobbyists, politicians or lawyers. We have no soldiers but we do have sentries to guard our borders in case some pesky person stumbles across our portals. The sentries are skilled in confusing the trespasser, leaving him to doubt his senses and unwilling to tell anyone what happened, that's if he could remember. We rely on the old Brehon Laws if a dispute arises. We are a tolerant people, willing to understand and accommodate individual differences.
 
You will never see a photo of a leprechaun. We do not like photos as they discriminate against people who are not photogenic. People the camera 'likes' will start feeling they are better that others just because they look good in a photo. Look at the world around you. The 'beautiful' people are lauded and acquire more than their fair share of wealth and possessions. Some ugly people also benefit from the image the camera portrays. They will use their perceived difference to their advantage. That can be threatening, sorrowful or pleading. They play on your fear, compassion or benevolence to achieve their aim.
 
We have a trick, literally up our sleeve, should a camera be in our vicinity. I can't reveal what it is because Tech Savvy people would feel challenged to hack our database to find the technology in order to modify it to their advantage. 
 
If you think of us at all, you probably think we are primitive. You are wrong. We keep up-to-date with what is happening in the world today. Sometimes we 'inspire' men or women in your world with ideas that our people consider beneficial to us but can only be implemented in your world. Actually this occurs more often that is realised. I won't say any more about that or I may be labelled a blabber mouth.
 
When you see a drawing or a sketch of a leprechaun he is always wearing green with perhaps a touch of red. The reason we always seem to be wearing green is for practical purposes. Just like armies wear mottled green or khaki in regions with leafy vegetation and beige in desert areas, we choose various shades of green as camouflage. If we have a neck scarf, bandana or ribbon in another colour it is because of a need to identify to which clan we belong.
 
We frequently have fleadh's (feasts of music, song and dance) where men and women find their life partners and it’s essential not to get attached to the wrong person for genetic reasons. In-breeding is not acceptable and a record of genealogy is maintained. A boy or girl can see at a glance which clan to focus on for a potential partner. Very simple and effective.
 
Our housing needs are met by dwellings built underground with cleverly concealed portals. We live in communities, somewhat like the 'hippies' of the seventies and eighties envisaged but unfortunately their greed, lassitude and illicit drug use caused them to fail. Our only weakness is an occasional tipple. The Uisca beatha (water of life aka whiskey) is a bit difficult resist especially when it’s so smooth it glides down one’s throat.
 
Now my story is at an end. Perhaps you are wiser and will be more flexible in understanding us and maybe sometime in the future, world events will cause people like you to seek our way of living and unite with us both above and below ground.

Keep dreaming!!!

Eilis Ui Ciarain (Elizabeth Kearns)

Time can be a hard master.  We are governed by time from the moment of conception.  Our foetal development is divided into trimesters and we are expected to meet the recommended targets.  It does not matter that we have no control over our development.  If we tarry too long, we will be forcibly removed.  Now if that is not a hard master, then I don’t know what is.

Of course, not everyone wants to be a slave to time.  When reaching retirement age, one of the delights to look forward to is not HAVING to get up at a certain time but then find we do get up.  Is that our body clock controlling us just like the business world or our place of employment did?  In retirement, we expect to be free to do as we want.  But are we?  There are medical appointments to attend, public transport to catch.  Even the enjoyable activities come with a sting in their tail.  They are on certain days at a specific time.  Time is so controlling.

My parents, like so many others, loved to welcome the New Year.  It was a sort of ritual.  My siblings and I could seldom stay awake, so we would go to bed.  My mother would waken us shortly before midnight.  We would sit around the fire drowsily watching the clock on the mantelpiece.  My father would have turned on the wireless to the BBC Radio Station and we would all wait patiently for midnight.

Our mantle clock would slowly, slowly tick off the seconds, but it was the chiming of Big Ben that bade farewell to the Old Year and hailed in the New Year.  As the peals of that famous clock rang out over London and through the airwaves to Ireland, it seemed to assure my parents that all was well.  There could be no mistake; it was definitely the New Year.   Then I would thankfully go back to my bed. 

On arising the next morning, it would still be a cold, damp, miserable winter’s day, just the same as before, 31st December.  Nothing had changed.

I still can’t understand why there is such a fuss about welcoming in the New Year.
_____________________________

Anyway, when is it really New Year’s Day?  Because of daylight saving, people on the Gold Coast have a double bite of the cherry, if it can be called that.  The crowds go across the border to Tweed Heads, NSW, to celebrate the New Year, then return to Coolangatta in Queensland for a second round of celebrating.

There was the Julian calendar, but in 1582 Pope Gregory XII decided he would publish a better one, namely the Gregorian calendar, and so dates changed.  When I was young, we celebrated Christmas Day on the 25 December, but we had another celebration on the 6th January.  We called that one “Little Christmas”.  After that date the Christmas tree and the decorations could be taken down.

The Julian and Gregorian calendars are based on the solar system, but the natural rhythms of our bodies, the oceans and seasons, are controlled by the lunar system.  It wouldn’t suit the business world if our day to day and month to month activities were controlled by the moon – far to changeable!  I expect it would suit them better if Easter occurred at the same time every year.
​
Our man-made calendars could cause unrest in the world, with people feeling they are being pulled this way or that way, not being sure if they are Arthur or Martha.


Elizabeth Kearns
 
 

My husband’s dream to own a pub became a reality, but, as the saying goes, ‘Be careful what you wish for, it might just happen’.  This proved very true as running a hotel – bar, dining and accommodation – was nothing like he anticipated.  The bar patron’s topics of conversation were repetitive and boring, but the publican was expected to be enthusiastic, witty and in total agreement with their opinions.  He soon realised he was not cut out to be a social listener, commiserate with and be a confidante to patrons with nothing better to do than gossip, complain and soul search.

What effect did this have on him?  Well, he began to feel unwell and the responsibility of running the business fell to me.  My decision was to sell the hotel.  Buyers were found and settlement day anticipated, but on the day of settlement the buyers decided to go on holiday and defer settlement to a later date.

When our solicitor informed me of this decision, I decided the sale would be terminated.  I phoned a different broker in Melbourne to find another buyer.  On the day this occurred, my husband, John, was in bed and said he was feeling very unwell.  I was so upset and angry I paid little attention to what he was saying.  The next day he asked me to take him to the doctor, which I did.  The doctor immediately admitted him to the local hospital.  I had little time to wait around for a diagnosis and returned to my work at the hotel.

The following day I went to see John, but, on walking into his room, found the bed empty and his belongings gone.  This happened to my sister when my mother had died, and I thought the same had happened again.  I was unable to think or move.  Just then a nursing sister came along and informed me that John had been sent to a larger hospital.  She apologised for not intercepting me before I reached his room.

The new Melbourne Agent quickly found an energetic and enthusiastic young couple who wanted to buy the hotel.  This time settlement went ahead as scheduled, much to my relief.  John was in hospital for a couple of weeks and made a full recovery.

My personal challenge did not end there.  A few days prior to settlement the disastrous 2003 bush fires began.  The hotel accommodation was full of fire fighters and meals had to be provided.  It was a hectic time for handing over a business, but personally our biggest problem was where to stay on the day we had to move out.  We had planned to temporarily move into a holiday house in Mt. Beauty, but the road was closed because of the fire.  We had a Pantec truck and a fourwheel drive with a trailer full of our possessions, but nowhere to stay!  All public accommodation was full of fire personnel.  What were we to do?

There was a vacant shop up the road from the hotel, so I contacted the owner and asked if we could stay there until the fire abated sufficiently to allow us to get to Mt. Beauty.  He kindly agreed and we took up residence for several days.  There was no furniture in the premises, no blinds on the windows.  We put a mattress on the floor for sleeping, ate take-away means and endured the curious stares of passers-by who could see us through the large, uncovered windows. 

A few days later we were able to access Mt. Beauty, however the fire situation was not over by a long shot. 

But that is a whole different story.
​
Elizabeth Kearns
November 2018

This family ritual is a ritual no more, due to an improved economy and environmental issues.

Every spring our family, from my father down to my youngest brother and even my Uncle Tom, was involved in ‘cutting the turf’ (peat to people outside Ireland).  This was necessary to ensure we had a fire for cooking and heating all year round.

The bog where we acquired our fuel was unusual in that it had what we called a high bank and a low bank (a raised bog).  For several weeks my father would spend weekends on the bog preparing our allocated area for cutting the turf.  This entailed cutting large ‘sunders’ (about 3 foot square) consisting of tree roots, scrub, bracken and spongy ‘topsoil’ for want of a better word and using them to fill the pit from where last year’s peat had been extracted.  He also constructed a temporary shack for shelter from rain, a frequent drawback in Ireland.

He then took a week off work for the big event.  My three siblings and I did not attend school that week so we could help.  When the first day of cutting arrived, my sister and I would head off to the bog in the donkey and cart, with me driving.  My parents would go there on their bicycles taking my younger brothers with them.

Mother would have packed plenty of food.  Working on the bog and in the fresh air generated a great appetite.  Uncle Tom made his own way there from where he lived.

My father cut all the turf using an implement called a slane.  These devices had a few different designs, some similar to a spade but much more sleek and some had a swing on one side.

There were several different roles in the process of cutting the turf (Girley Bog style).  When the sodes were cut they would be tossed from the slane to whoever was assigned to catch the wet sods and stack them on a wheelbarrow or on bogies.  The donkey (Neddy) was used to tow the bogies out to the bank where the turf was taken to dry.  The sods had to be unloaded and spread out for drying.  My mother’s job was catching the sods.  Uncle Tom pushed the laden wheelbarrow to the nearest drying bank and I led the donkey pulling the bogie to the further drying banks where my sister and brother’s spread the wet turf.

We had two bogies, so as soon as I got back to the pit another load would be ready.  I would unhook the donkey from the empty bogie and hitch him to the full one and off we’d go again.

When the cutting started my father would be much higher up on the bank than the catcher but layer by layer he would come to ground level and then descend down until he hit bedrock, about 6 feet deep.  For the last few layers water would start seeping into the pit and this entailed bailing.  It was worth it as the turf from that area dried very hard and burned longer.  We called it black turf.

The white turf from up high was spongy and burned very fast and was good for getting a fire started.  Then there was the brown turf which was the best.

When lunch time came Mam lit a fire and boiled the kettle (the fire also served to keep the midges atbay).  We all had mugs of tea, ham, hard boiled eggs, sald and homemade brown bread with current bread afterward.  We loved our meals on the bog and even enjoyed working there.  It was like a holiday. 

We would make our way home at the end of a long day feeling very tired but happy.  After dinner we would fall into bed to be ready for the next day on the bog.

Of course this was only the first stage of turf production.  When a dry skin formed on the sods, they were turned over so the other side would be exposed to the drying process.  Then later sist to eight sods were stacked together with spaces between each sod to allow for air flow.  This was called ‘footing’.

When the outer sods were dry each footing would be redone with the inner sods now on the outside and left to dry for a period, depending on the weather.

Then, when the turf was dry, it was formed into several ‘clamps’ until it could be brought home.  This protected the turf from the weather and also made it more difficult to steal, not that stealing was much of a problem.

The bog was also a wonderful place of adventure for us children.   Fraughans, also locally called Moonogs (like wild blueberries), grew profusely and we gorged on them.  There was wild cotton, white and purple heather, ferns and fox gloves, all sorts of mosses, streams with rich brown water and of course, bog holes.  The bog holes were a constant worry for parents but we delignted in their danger and became very adapt at spotting them.

Most other bogs in Ireland were flat and cutting turf was simpler.  Our bog, Girley, is now partly and ‘Eco Walk’ and partly a forest of spruce trees.
​
Bord na Mona (Turf Board) still cut turf on the huge Bog of Allen in the Irish midlands, but it is a mechanised process.
 
Elizabeth Kearns
June 2018