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.

​Elizabeth Kearns
April 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.

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 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
 
 

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

​Ireland in the 1960’s was a place where skin colour wasn’t a big issue but religion was.  There were a few different protestant denominations but everyone was looked upon as either Catholic or Protestant and never the twain did mix (or very rarely).  There is a touch of Karma in this story.

I had met a very nice young man on holidays in England and come Christmas time he came over to Dublin to visit me and my family who lived in the country.  He was a Protestant.  I wrote to my Mother saying I would be bringing him home on Christmas Eve for the Christmas period.  She wrote back saying she didn’t want someone in the house who would not be going to Mass on Christmas Day.  I replied that my boyfriend was quite willing to come to Mass with us.  I got another letter from her saying “I won’t have a Protestant coming to Mass with us”.  My solution was to arrive home after Mass.

Sometime later a Protestant family moved into the house across the road from my parents and my father, Christy, and Fred, the neighbour, became great mates.  My father was not a big drinker but he liked a pint of Guinness or two and the mates would occasionally meet in the local country pub.

Then one Christmas Eve they met in town.  One drink led to another and then another, with some Scotches or Jameson’s in between.  By closing time they were very drunk.  When they had to leave the pub, neither felt like going home, so Christy suggested that, as Midnight Mass was due to start, they should go to Mass.  Fred agreed.

The Catholic churches in Ireland were very large because the majority of the population was Catholic.  On Christmas Eve they were packed with people.  Now if Christy went to Mass drunk and sat in one of the back pews, it wouldn’t have raised an eyebrow but no, the Catholic and the Protestant both staggered all the way up to the front of the church and sat in the front pew.

It was a great topic of conversation in the community over Christmas and for a long time afterwards.  My father was very sheepish about the affair, but it didn’t affect his friendship with Fred.

My Mother was mortified but, as I said in the beginning, it was Karma.
 

​Elizabeth Kearns
March 2018

​When I was very young (pre-school age), I was sent to live with my maternal Grandparents who had a farm.  The house had whitewashed mud walls, a thatched roof and a huge fireplace where the fire was constantly lit for heating and mainly cooking purposes.  An iron crane hung over the fire with an assortment of hooks on which to hang cast irone three legged pots of various sizes.
 
Two aunts and two uncles still lived at home, so I joined a household of six adults.  I didn’t know any of them before I went to live with them.  I have no recollection of my first weeks there or how I felt, but I have fond memories of living there.
 
My memories are just snippets of events.  It was during and after the Second World War.  I remember my aunts complaining they were unable to buy nylon stockings and having to draw lines up the back of their legs, making sure they were straight, so it would appear they were wearing stockings.  It was such a big deal that when one of my aunts was getting married, I decided that I would buy her a pair of nylons as a wedding present.
 
My Grandfather gave me a half-crown piece (2 shillings and sixpence) and my Grandmother brought me to the town in the pony and trap so I could buy the wedding present.  Of course, it was an impossible task as nylon stockings were not available, so I insisted on leaving the half-crown on the front left hand corner of where the wedding gifts were displayed.  This is so clear in my mind - I can still see the coin.
 
Other memories:

• My uncle Packie carrying me home from a party on his shoulders, across the fields, telling his companions stories of leprechauns.
• The same uncle saying one morning that he heard the banshee wailing the night before and that one of the Berrigan’s, (neighbours), was going to die.  I think one did die.
• Sleeping on a feather mattress and waking up in the morning, the mattress and me on the floor having slipped off the bed.
• The trashing and Jack McCann, an elderly neighbour who came to help, refusing to eat currant bread because he didn’t like “those little buggers” – the currants.
• My Grandmother making stir-about (porridge) every night and reheating it for breakfast.  This caused a skin to form on the inside bottom of the cast iron pot.  My younger uncle aged 15 and I would fight to be the one to scrape the pot.
• This younger uncle having a crystal wireless and letting me listen to a man talking.  Oh, wonder of wonders.
• When churning butter, anyone who came into the house had to take a turn at churning or the fairies would steal the butter.  I think they believed that, but it was a wonderful excuse to get a break from the tiresome chore of churning.
• Sitting at the base of the power or telephone lines on poles across the front field of the farm, listening to a hum and thinking it was my Mother and Father contacting me.  I got a great deal of comfort from it.  It didn’t make me sad. 

 
My Mother came to visit once while I lived with her parents.  I wouldn’t go near her; she was a stranger to me.  I knew she was my Mother, probably because I had been told.  I thought she was very pretty.  Thinking back now, that must have been very sad for her.
 
I still hanker for that part of my life.
 
Elizabeth Kearns,
February 2018

Songs are very powerful tools for reminding us of the past, even for people like me, without a musical bone in my body.
 
When I was a young girl, I went through a phase of asking people to name their favourite song.  Now, seventy years later, I remember their responses and if I happen to hear the song it reminds me of that person.
 
My Mother loved ‘If I was a Blackbird I’d Whistle and Sing, I’d Follow the Ship my True Love Sails In’.  I often wondered if she knew someone special who left on a ship.  Many of her family and neighbours went to America.
 
My Father’s favourite song was ‘Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree with Anyone Else but Me’, an old war time favourite.  I wasn’t very impressed with his choice, so I pressured him into saying ‘Davy Crockett’ was his favourite.  He humoured me and agreed, but I knew he barely knew the song.
 
My Grandmother couldn’t think of a song, so I suggested ‘My China Doll’.  She said, yes, that would do.  My Grandfather was always humming and “Doodledum doing” but I never knew if it was the air to a song.
 
Mrs Kiernan who lived next door liked ‘Que Sera Sera’ and told me it was French and meant ‘Whatever will be, will be’.  I was very impressed with her knowledge.
 
The man who lived the other side of us was a playwright.  He told me the most beautiful words he new were ‘A rose red city, half as old as time’ from the poem by John Burgon.  Insisting he name a song he said he liked ‘Clementine’ and taught me the words.   
 
Once a year our family went to the seaside for a day and part of the fun was going on the amusement rides.  One of my very best memories is of my sister being with me in a ‘Swinging Boat’, my father pushing us to swing higher and higher, while the song ‘My China Doll’ pulsated from the loudspeakers.  That was probably why I suggested to my grandmother that it was her favourite song.
 
When I was a teenager, a young man who was the lead singer in a band took a fancy to me.  I wasn’t impressed by him but was delighted when, on stage, he sang ‘The Blackboard of my Heart’, especially for me.
 
When I met the man who is my husband, the band often played ‘Save the Last Dance for Me’ at dances.  That song became our special song.
 
There are lots more songs that invoke memories for me.  They all have a special place in my memory… 
My oldest child singing ‘Little Green Apples’ and ‘Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head’ when she was four…
My second daughter age two, singing ‘Mama Mia’ all the way from Brisbane to Cairns and back, traveling by car.  We got soooo tired of that song…
My young son, on hearing the hymn ‘Peace is flowing like a river, flowing out of you and me, flowing out into the desert, setting all the captives free’, misunderstood the word ‘peace’ for the slang of urine.  He couldn’t understand how it would set the captives free.
 
Songs bring tears, happiness, joy and laughter. 
 
May they endure forever. 
 

Elizabeth Kearns,
February 2018

My small rebellion didn’t have much impact on society, but I thoroughly enjoyed it.

It started when the priest decided that he needed to train some boys to be altar servers.  Our school was in a rural area and there weren’t many boys to choose from.  My brother, who was only seven, was selected.  He was too young to learn the Latin responses to the Mass at the same time as the older boys, so the priest decided I could learn the responses and then teach my brother.

I was not impressed.  Firstly, having to line up with the boys caused a lot of teasing and at that time girls/females were not even allowed on the altar.

Our church was what was known as a Chapel of Ease.  The clergy came out from town to say Mass and for other religious ceremonies.  The children of the Clerk of the Church went to school with us and they unlocked the church each morning on the way to school and then hid the key.

One afternoon, coming home from school, I decided now that I knew Latin prayers, I would like to take the part of a priest and say Mass and especially have Benediction.  I thought the Monstrance a beautiful object with its golden rays and glowing coloured gem stones and wanted to hold it.  In fact I felt I was entitled to do it although the children whose Mother looked after the church said only an ordained priest was allowed to touch the Monstrance.

All the girls, except my best friend Philomena, thought it was a great idea and so all were delegated roles.  Some wanted to swing the Incense Burner although there was no incense in it, some to ring the altar bells and so forth.  Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, someone decided to ring the outside bell to let the parish know that a service was happening in the church.

In the Vestry was a chest of drawers with all the vestments, white, green, red, purple and black.  I chose one and robed up.  Then I took the magnificent Monstrance from its case and with my accolytes formed a procession onto the alter.

Then, knowing only the Latin responses to the Mass, I proceeded to say Mass and have Benediction.  But it came to an abrupt end when the Clerk of the Church arrived in answer to the pealing of the outside bell.  She gave us a tongue lashing at the time, but we never heard another word about it.  We were sure the priest would have lots to say, however there seemed to be an unreal silence about the whole episode.

Now 66 years later I am still glad I got to put my Latin learning to use and don’t regret or apologise for my rebellion against anti-feminism.

Elizabeth Kearns, 
July 2017