This blog is a personal take on Listowel, Co. Kerry. I am writing for anyone anywhere with a Listowel connection but especially for sons and daughters of Listowel who find themselves far from home. Contact me at listowelconnection@gmail.com
Author: listowelconnectionPage 67 of 193
Mary Cogan, retired from teaching in Presentation Secondary School, Listowel, Co. Kerry. I am a native of Kanturk, Co. Cork.
I have published two books; Listowel Through a Lens and A minute of your Time
Pit stop on Flesk Greenway, Killarney on January 6 2024
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Inchydoney at Christmas
A kind of temporary madness infected my grandchildren at Christmas. People who wear wetsuits on mild summer days went into the freezing sea in swimming togs in December.
Their Dutch visitor, Lotta, joined in the madness.
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A Moving Christmas Farewell
Sean Carlson shared with us his poem in memory of a famous Boston Irishman.
Here is the poem and the introduction from the online literary magazine Trasna
A Celtic Sojourn
For over twenty years famed Boston radio host Brian O’Donovan spread holiday cheer with his annual production of “A Christmas Celtic Sojourn.” From an oversized, red chair, O’Donovan presented to American audiences the Christmas traditions of Ireland through a mix of music, dance, poetry, and storytelling.
Born and raised in Clonakilty, Cork, O’Donovan emigrated to Boston in 1980. Six years later, he joined GBH radio and began producing a weekly radio show featuring traditional Irish music – A Celtic Sojourn. The three-hour show became a Saturday afternoon staple to GBH listeners across New England; and it made O’Donovan a beloved public figure. In 2017, then-Mayor Marty Walsh declared 14 December Brian O’Donovan Day, “in recognition of his contributions to immigrant communities in Greater Boston.”
O’Donovan died on 6 October after a long battle with brain cancer. This year, as we mourn the voices lost, let us fondly remember a man who brought so much of Irish music and culture to those in his adoptive home of Boston. He was indeed ‘a man you don’t meet every day.’
To our readers and writers, we wish you happy holidays and all the best in the new year. We leave you with this fine poem by Seán Carlson.The Sojourn
in memoriam: Brian O’Donovan, 1957-2023
The seat on stage sits empty
before the reels and ringing
bells, alert to remembrance
brief light of emigrant song
Snow swirls in wind sweeps
salt spread on sidewalk ice
a knit vest, unwound scarf
drape of red curtain lifting
His book opens to Bethlehem
the nativity laid, refuge within
bursting breaths of concertina
tension found in fiddle string
My father played the melodeon
My mother milked the cows—
Touches of Kavanagh haunt
the theatre halls of memory
on the wireless in Boston
West Cork, the world
Window candles flicker there
stables set with summer’s cut
wrenboy clamors at the door
ghosts now around a table
That voice echoes, beside me
my mother, my father
and the drift of one
into another, then
We listen to the eulogy on radio
grace the night already fallen
with a child’s Christmas still
on the tip of our tongues:
I said some words
to the close and holy darkness,
and then I slept.
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The Night of the Big Wind
(Post on Facebook by The Painter Flynn)
It’s that time of year when people look back. Here is another account of the fateful night in 1839 which lived long in the memory of people who lived through it.
Today in 1839 the Night of the Big Wind, “Oíche na Gaoithe Móire”, the most damaging storm in 300 years, sweeps across Ireland, damaging or destroying more than 20% of the houses in Dublin, 4,846 chimneys fell, and waves topped the Cliffs of Moher, The wind blew all the water out of the canal at Tuam. It knocked a pinnacle off Carlow Cathedral and a tower off Carlow Castle. It stripped the earth alongside the River Boyne, exposing the bones of soldiers killed in the famous battle 150 years earlier.
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Kanturk, My Hometown
Kanturk is in the diocese of Cloyne. Unlike the practice in the Kerry diocese where all the priests of a parish live together, in Cloyne each priest has his own house. The Canon, or parish priest lived in a lovely old house across the road from the church in Kanturk. He had an orchard beside his house and a wood just up the road. The name, The Canon’s Wood has stuck. Nowadays it’s a small amenity with artwork and plants. It has a place to shelter in a downpour as well.
These two “boars” are the work of a local artist. Legend has it that the last wild boar in Ireland was killed outside Kanturk and that is how the town got its name. In Irish Kanturk is Ceann Tuirc.
Detail from mural on Flesk Cycleway, Killarney, January 6 2024
This magnificent mural celebrates the flora and fauna of the surrounding countryside. It is the work of artist Curtis Hilton assisted by Magda Karol.
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Panto Time
Once upon a time pantomimes were a feature of January in Listowel. I dont have a year for this one but the names of the cast give a bit of a clue.
May all of those local people who brightened lives with this, and who are since gone too their eternal reward, rest in peace
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Kanturk Postboxes
Christmas is a time for connecting with the family. Here I am in Kanturk with some of my brother’s gang and some of mine.
My sister in law took me for a bit of a spin to check out a few postboxes.
Thank you to Susan Hickey for alerting me to this one at the entrance to St. Patrick’s place. It dates from the era of George V. His rule ran from 1910 to 1936.
This one at Glenlohane has the royal cypher sheared off. This type of vandalism was rife during The Troubles. This box is no longer in use.
This one in Castlemagner is actually in use, although in need of a little TLC.
It is the An Post replacement for this Edward VII one in the wall nearby.
Edward the 7th was king from 1901 to 1910.
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The Convent
While doing a bit of a clearcut I came upon an envelope of photographs which the late John Pierse gave me years ago. I am not sure if he took all the photos himself of if some are the work of his friend, the late Timmy Griffin.
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Old Friends
Danny O’Connor sent us this.
Hello Mary ,
When I lived abroadI always looked forward to meeting the late great Danny Hannon for coffee or sometimes lunch in the Listowel Arms on my visits home .
Danny truly loved Listowel and everything about it and the conversation was always flowing .
This photo was taken on Dec. 27th 2018 at the Listowel Arms Hotel .
(I am seated 2nd to left ).
Unfortunately some of the people in the photo are no longer with us .
RIP ( Danny Hannon , Pat Scanlon and Frank Greaney ) .
Kind Regards ,
Danny O’ Connor
Gurtinard Listowel .
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A Fact
Googol.com is named after the number googol, a one followed by 100 zeros.
Simon and Carine on the Flesk Cycleway, Killarney, January 6 2024
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Greetings to January 2024
New Year 2024 New year 2024 has dawned. We’ve had January 1,2, 3,4 Relentless rain has fallen Lashing on the windowpanes. Streaming down the roof tiles Gurgling down the drainpipes Gurgling up the gully traps Choking drains already blocked Water gurgling up through manholes. The lawn too has a well-watered look With ponds appearing at every nook Patio paving flags are well washed down. Roads are flooding, edges muddying. Dangerous conditions for driving Weather forecasts are dreary. Weak troughs, low depressions Announcing rain followed by downpours Falling in thunderous volumes Yellow and orange weather warnings announced Alerting us to more windy days ahead This is now the Irish weather norm With the odd tornado thrown in as well Leitrim roofs and buildings damaged. Trees are falling nationwide. Fields are flooding far and wide. Sporting pitches water logging Clouds are darkening, the sky is weeping. All is drabness. With sickly dreary darkness Kids are tetchy, bored, and gloomy. Confined to houses, some not too roomy. Too much screen time No outdoor healthy playtime With boredom thresholds And patience levels lowering. Too many treats on offer From stressed out weary parents. Trying to bribe them with sweetie presents We hope for fine weather soon. To clear the winter gloom and doom.
Happy new year Mary Mick O Callaghan January 2024
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The Dream Lives On
Maeve Binchy believed that everyone should have something to look forward to. She always had an airline ticket in her desk.
Listowel Emmetts have booked us all a ticket to Croke Park.
Result; Emmetts 1-11 Laherdane 0-3
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The Night of the Big Wind
(This account and image comes from a Facebook page, Ireland and Peg’s Cottage.)
Storm at Fanad…photographer name not recorded
It happened on a Saturday. It was January 6th, 1839, and heavy snow had fallen overnight. All over Ireland people awoke to a strange calm. As the morning went on the temperature rose until it was well above the average for the time of year. While children played in the quickly melting snow, mothers and fathers were inside their homes preparing for the festivities of Little Christmas, the feast of the Epiphany. By mid-afternoon it had become so unnaturally calm that voices floated between farmhouses more than a mile apart. Something was going on, but no one knew what.
A deep depression was forming in the north Atlantic. As the warm front moved eastwards and rose in the atmosphere, it was replaced by a cold front which brought high winds and heavy rain.
The rain began before noon. It started in the west and spread slowly eastwards. By late evening wind speeds had increased and temperatures had plummeted. By 9 pm the wind had reached gale force and still it carried on increasing. By midnight it had reached hurricane force and it stayed at that level until 5 am the next morning. All along the west coast people made their peace with God, convinced the end of the world had come. There was a terrifying rumbling noise throughout the storm and it got louder as the gusts increased. The wind blew out lanterns and candles and it was impossible to see what was happening outside, except when streaks of lightning occasionally illuminated an area or when the sky cleared briefly and the Aurora Borealis could be seen lighting up the northern sky with a mantle of red.
On Monday morning the sun rose over a wasteland. Familiar objects were unrecognisable. Landmarks had gone and nothing was where it should be. The people were dazed and exhausted from lack of sleep.
As well as homes, historic buildings had either been destroyed or badly damaged, never to be restored. Tombstones were flattened, dry stone walls were toppled and roadways were rendered impassable. Sea water had been carried inland by the force of the storm and flooded houses there. Seaweed had been carried for great distances and fish were found miles from shore. One of the most abiding memories of the night and its aftermath was the smell of salt. It lingered for weeks.
Given the storm’s ferocity the death toll was miraculously low. Perhaps 250-300 people lost their lives, most of them at sea in the disastrous wrecks. RIP.
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My First Fact of 2024
The Wat Pa Maha Chedi Temple in Thailand is also known as TheTemple of the Million Bottles. It is constructed using Heineken and Chang beer bottles.It is a kind of Buddhist reuse recycle project.
Collection of the bottles began in 1984. The temple took 2 years to build. The monks had collected so many bottles that they added extra wings to the original plan.
The very best way to work up an appetite for the Christmas dinner.. The Goal Mile on Christmas morning.
The Cogan family did the GOAL Mile in Cork in 2016
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Remember
A poem by Donna Ashworth
If you haven’t sent cards this year, or forgotten someone’s gift.
If you don’t have matching pyjamas or a festive family photograph.
It’s okay.
If you can’t find the energy to be merry and bright,
or your tree isn’t even decorated yet.
That’s really just fine.
If you don’t feel like watching your favourite Christmas movies, or honouring the traditions that you normally always do.
Don’t sweat it, my friend.
This year has been hard, for many.
Really hard.
If you can’t see a way to celebrating like you have in the past, don’t worry.
Just hang on in there, finding any joy you can in any little way.
Just make it through till next year.
One day at a time.
We need you.
Hang on in there.
You are loved.
Donna Ashworth
Author of ‘wild hope’
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Christmas in The Black Valley
by Dan Doyle
Photo and caption from MV Eanna on Facebook
Idir bhád agus rothar.
Seo grianghraf de Patsy Lydon (RIP) i mí na Nollag 1991 ag iompar a chrann Nollag ó Eannach Mheáin chuig a theach ar Inis Treabhair, in aice le Litir Mór.
This is a photo of Patsy Lydon (RIP) taking his Christmas tree from Annaghvaan to his home on Inis Treabhair Island near Lettermore in December 1991. Patsy was the last person to live on Inis Treabhair before his passing. God Rest his soul.
This was one of the photographs from an exhibition of cyclists in Galway City and County from over the years on display in city centre shop front windows as part of Galway Bike Week which was some 12 years ago or so now.
Now Dan’s essay prompted by the photo…
The memories of Ireland come to us at Christmas more than at any other time of the year those of us who went away young. This man with his Christmas tree on his bike it kind of speaks to me. He is alone on the wet road probably going to his home where he might be alone also.
I have visited old men on the mountains of Kerry before I went away and as I walked up to the house I heard conversation and when I went in there was nobody there, just the old man talking to himself, as the wind moaned in the chimney. The night breeze in the hills made a ghostly sound sometimes as it gusted through the cliffs and the heather. As we can look back at the bleak road he has come with his tree, we wonder why is he even bothering if there is nobody at home to even say “Nice tree” or “God, it smells so fresh. Nothing like the smell of pine needles. Will you be having a drop of tea after you put it up ”
The photo in black and white takes me away back. We walked to midnight mass. It was usually frosty walking through the bog. At the cross roads more would fall in with us and walk to the town. Something special about midnight mass, something special about the Latin, something special about walking with our brothers. I knew I was counting the years we would be together. I knew I was going at an early age. I had to go because I knew somewhere there was warmth and a warm bed and maybe a girl to tell me ” I was waiting for you. Let me hold your hand as you already have my heart ” so I walked the roads like this man and he is me if I didnt go away,
Coming home from midnight mass we waited till we could see the big Christmas candle lit in the window. It seemed to flicker its welcome across the bog. On my last Christmas at home I asked Timmy to stand a moment by the little bridge coming home from Midnight mass. I wanted to soak it in one more time. I wanted to feel the magic of it forever. There was no electricity in our parts for a long time. It was a cold damp night and even after all the years I still feel how it was. So the man and his tree speaks to me. I will be saying a prayer for him tonight. He traveled that wet road to get the tree and I feel his loneliness. He might be heading for a little boat to row across to an Island, a place that further isolates him, so like the Druids of old maybe he will sit and talk to the tree, after he has a nice fire going.
I went at 18 and i took time to adjust. That first Christmas I was able to send a fist full of dollars home to mom so she could actually pay for everything the day she got her supplies, even a bottle of the cratur for the neighbors who were sure to come in. We had them in Kerry too living back in the hills just like the man with the bike, lonely men who walked in at night just to sit by the fire ,just to see other human beings, so mom could take down a few cups and spill a drop in and pass them around and look towards America ,
” This is from Danny , I hope he is looking at the same moon as we are tonight ”
I was far away but a girl was waiting for me. She was going to take my hand and never let it go again . This is for Lily, and Maureen and now I go to say a few prayers for the man on that wet road with his Christmas tree , 3 Hail Marys is all I’ll say. I have been saying them since midnight mass long long ago and the Blessed Mother has kept her eye on me. Sometimes I went astray but she frowned and pulled me back.
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Some Listowel Windows
Danny’s Hairdresser’s and Wig Clinic
Doran’s Pharmacy, Upper Church Street
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Mass Times
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Tralee Christmas Remembered
by Michael O’Callaghan
Memories of Christmas Past and Present
I can remember my grandparents’ O Callaghan’s house and their Christmas preparations. There was a big emphasis on baking and having all the ingredients ready in their house long before Christmas to bake the cakes and plum puddings.
Around the end of September my grandma, clad in her wrap around shawl, and granddad would yoke up the pony and trap. Their destination was Madden’s shop in Tralee to buy the sack of white flour, currants, raisins, and whatever other ingredients were necessary for baking cakes and bread. At this time all bread and cakes were home baked in the range. Rural electrification had not fully hit the area.
After Maddens they headed for the tobacconist to buy the plug tobacco for my grandfather’s pipe. The final stop was Godley’s bar to buy the couple of bottles of whiskey. They then toddled away back home because the big bulk of the Christmas shopping was done and dusted.
The cakes and puddings had to be baked no later than” Halloween “so that they would have settled down and had absorbed all the flavours of fruit and drink by Christmas. They would have been given dosages of whiskey, porter, and rum to help their preservation.
My grandparent’s lives were simple and their big event was midnight Mass on Christmas Eve’. The Christmas goose was a big Xmas dinner item. There was little or no mention of Santa.
In my youth things had changed considerably. Christmas trees were becoming more popular. Putting up the crib was a big event and Santa Claus was big news in our house.
I do remember that if you wanted a bike or trike you had to order it months in advance, or it was no deal. Caballs shops in Tralee did a bumper trade. We had no Amazons or Smyths Toys, or Toy master. All the toys and bikes were bought in one of the three Caball’s shops in Tralee.
My father always insisted on sending Brian O Higgins Irish Christmas cards with the message as Gaeilge and each card had to have a religious and Celtic symbol. Many years later I am sending the same type of card.
I had a school mate, Father Stack, who was a member of the Kiltegan missionaries, and he came to the school where I worked each Christmas, and I bought their cards. That is many years ago, but I am reluctant to break the link even though he died some years ago. I still buy their cards.
At home in Tralee there was an annual list of family and friends in Ireland and abroad to whom cards had to be posted. This list was stored away by my father and withdrawn from a drawer in the first week of December. The cards were duly written with a letter enclosed in each one of them giving all the family news about births, marriages, and deaths. This exercise could go on for a week. Then they were all checked and posted together. I loved that ritual and still do exactly as he did.
Now the next great event was the shopping list. This was our online home delivery shopping. We had no supermarkets and were dependant on a few grocery shops. Our grocery shop of choice was Mikey Connors in Castle Street, Tralee. He was somehow related to my mother, but my father didn’t like his political affiliations. Anyway, Mikey’s was the shop of choice. He insisted that you had to have your Christmas shopping list in by the second week in December to ensure delivery for Christmas. Big Pat Sullivan was the van driver who delivered all the shopping. They were way ahead of today’s click and collect or home deliveries and online shopping. He arrived and put all the shopping on the table and then sat down and had a cuppa. Living was easy going enough and of course he got his Christmas gift. We also got our loyalty bonus in the form of a Christmas cake and a bottle of Sandeman port whether you liked it or not. So, the shopping was always delivered in good time for Christmas.
The Christmas post was another great event. We had relations in England and America and the cards and letters were eagerly awaited and read by all. They were the annual family census reporting births, marriages, and deaths in the greater family for the year.
There was fun too in the delivery of these letters. We had the same postman for many years. He was a great character, but his Christmas round was more arduous than necessary because he was a bit fond of the crature. Our house was the last on the line and all he wanted to do was sit down and rest which he often did. My father offered him a tipple which he duly scoffed off. Then he might shake out the bag on the table to make sure everything was delivered. I often ran around to deliver a few cards. No one minded because it was pre GDPR and was in the spirit of Christmas.
Then we had the Christmas turkey. My father always got a big bronze turkey from a friend, but it had to be cleaned and plucked. We had a local turkey plucker named Tandy Savage. Tandy was quite fond of the cratur as well and was always very busy around Christmas plucking turkeys. He had his clients and went from house to house plucking his trade. Tandy would take a break to have his half whiskey and bottle of porter. He would be nicely when he arrived at our house, and he told yarns or played the spoons. It was an annual Tandy show.
He moved on when he got his dosh for his endeavours. He was truly one of the great characters along with his neighbour and friend Ned Kelleher, who had a pony and trap to bring tourists around Tralee and Blennerville.
I must say I enjoyed the Christmas period. This started with the youngest member of the family lighting the big red Christmas candles in the windows on Christmas eve.
I was sad in a nice way when we bought our first electric candle in Quilters in Tralee. My father had cut a log early in the summer, left in the shed to dry, varnished it, bored a hole in the base and top and wired it up. We were very proud when we switched it on.
Then there was the magic of going to bed early on Christmas Eve full of expectation and joy hoping that Santa Claus was coming down the chimney with our presents that we asked him for.
I remember the joy on Christmas morning when we opened our presents. There was happiness unbounded that Santa had come and that in addition to our requested toys we always got a surprise.
Then there was the `Christmas dinner with the turkey and Brussel sprouts from the garden with carrot and parsnip mash with peas and roasties, all liberally smothered with rich turkey-based gravy. My mother’s turkey gravy was so yummy.
Television had not come to Kerry in my youth, so we had more simple pursuits like a walk along the nearby canal banks or back to the strand to skim stones along the water if the weather permitted.
When we came home my father always insisted on reading Christmas stories and poems which sounded great to me.
They were simple Christmas times when we played with our new Christmas games. We also played cards, draughts, ludo, made jigsaws, collected stamps with not a trace of a television in sight.
They were in their own simple way very exciting times for us. We had super fun at Christmas time with just family and neighbours around us on Christmas Day.
The Christmas holiday period was always an important time for family visitation. We paid courtesy calls to the grannies and other relations around, but one visit was always special. We visited my uncle Daniel and his wife Julie, and they reciprocated. They had a passion for playing cards and their house was a base for Blennerville card games for the Christmas turkeys. That was serious stuff.
They came to our house for supper on St Stephens night. Once supper was over there was a visible restlessness until we started the card game of 31, playing in pairs. I knew very little about cards and there were often a few raised voices when I struck down my partner. This was my annual experience in the delicate art of card playing.
The Christmas season extended on till Nollaig na mBan on the sixth of January which was always celebrated in Kerry as Little Christmas or Women’s Christmas. The menfolk had to do all the work and cooking on that day. It is still a festival party event which is celebrated in sell out events in hotels in Kerry.
Christmas is far more commercialised now with the Christmas lights, alcoholic drinks, chocolates, and biscuits shamelessly appearing in supermarket shelves in the month of August.
Christmas decorations and all the other paraphernalia associated with the festive season now appear before Halloween masks, nuts and fruits disappear off the shelves. This is a ludicrous situation and a definite source of confusion for children and adults alike.
We still embrace Christmas here at home as a nice family time to give presents and to share some time together, while still trying to keep some perspective on what the season is all about and how we celebrate it.
Our satnavs have steered us a long way from Bethlehem. We are now following a very commercially driven star.
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A Kerry Christmas Card
Artist unknown
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A Sad Sean MacCarthy Poem
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Time to say Good Bye
It’s Slán libh from me for 2023.
If God spares us all we’ll meet here again in 2024. ‘Til then I wish you all a happy and peaceful Christmas.Thank you for all the positive feedback and support during the year. M.C.
It was the week before Christmas. Suddenly the frost had gently dropped like manna overnight and the meadow to the east of our house glistened in the morning sun. Even the haggard was radiant in its crystal grass-blades and the hill above was coated in a Christmas cloak. The furze slept their winter sleep.
I looked out our front window. The view was stunning. All of North Kerry was emblazoned in white frost. The best window in Ireland, my uncle Mike had christened it once as he gazed out with his eternally satisfied demeanour. From Mount Brandon in the south west to Sliabh Mis and Carrantuohill to the south to the Paps in the south east. They were all there in their December furs. The window itself was now adorned with holly and crepe decorations and my father’s home-made candlestick.
Although I was having an identity crisis with Santy for the first time, having reached the unfortunate use of reason, drifting out of the more predictable age of unreason, I was being infused with Christmas-ness by the frosty morning. Our PYE radio was playing “The Green Green Grass of Home” by Tom Jones (a song I always since associate with Christmas) and the seasonal motto was over our kitchen door proclaiming “God Bless This House”.
Just one thing was gnawing at my heart’s hinterland that morning. A group of us had planned to go out “in the wran” on St Stephen’s Day and I had planned to be one of the first in our area to take a guitar. The previous summer, I had planned to have a guitar by Christmas. There were always bits of electric wire lying around Mick Finucane’s ditches in his Gort below the Quarry to the west. And Mick was such a sound man, he wouldn’t miss a few bits of wire. I had heard about my cousins in Urlee who had made home-made fiddles by using vernacular items. So I brought home the lengths of wire, got bits of a butter box and crafted a home-made guitar of uncertain genetic descendency. It had three of Mick Finucane’s electric fence wires as strings and made a sound akin to a cat with serious stomach issue. It didn’t last long as the strings had a mind of their own and preferred the freedom of shrivellry. And I had worn my fingers away trying to play “Hound Dog”. It was the end of my short music career. I thought.
It need not be mentioned now that Mick Finucane’s cows were found wandering around the hill around that time. I wouldn’t know anything about that.
Now, as I looked out the window to North Kerry, I saw Ned Kennelly making his way up the crystalline path through Mickeen’s Field towards our house. His cap as always sitting at a slight nose-ward tilt on his head. His raised chin to counteract the angle of the cap. A lively gait in his nimble legs. The always-energy of his stride poured out to anyone he would meet. He exuded that bubbly pre-Christmas tingle.
Mysteriously, he was carrying a fairly large package wrapped in newspaper, as far as I could make out. I intuited that something magical was about to happen.
It was that forgotten memory that boomeranged back to me as I headed out for a post-competition walk-jog on Monday night last along the Greenway in Tralee. I had been looking up some old photos during the day in search of sports photos from the 1960s. I came across a musical photo that had been hidden for the best part of six decades. Sitting outside our front door in the 1960s, getting ready for the “wran”.
The rest of the St Brendan’s AC gang are too fast for me so they whizz off to do their 8K while I take the jarvey-journey along the magnificent greenway. They would pass me on their way back later with John Culloty way ahead, charging like a steam train. A runaway human steam train.
I settle into a nice waggly-walk but feel the reminders of the previous day’s national 10K masters championships in my back and shoulders. A glowing walking championships festival in St Anne’s Park in Raheny where masters and seniors walked together. Until the seniors sped away in their 20K and 35K voyages of wonder. I did a pb for the 10K with the help of the real walkers who sped by me at intervals in the up-and-down course.
Now as Monday night reveals a starry sky, the pains come out to share the recovery walk with me. “Your shoulder blades will ache for want of wings” the Romanian poet Nina Cassian had written some years ago. Definitely feel that way now as Sunday’s exertions take their toll. It will be more pronounced on Tuesday when the forty eight hour lactic slump will voice its existence. That poem by Cassian is called “Temptation” and the first line challenges with “Call yourself alive!”
If the body is not alive, the mind comes into play as I head west along the Greenway with the lights of Ballyroe rising up the hill to my right.
And the discovery of the old photo chases me out under the stars and so I recall Ned Kennelly coming in our front door all those years ago. No knocking on doors in those days. We lived “ar scáth a chéile” on our Lisselton hill, seven hundred feet over the valley of North Kerry. “God bless all here” he announced as he came into our kitchen.
My mother had the strong tea pouring in no time but my eyes were on the packaged object which Ned had placed beside him. He chatted away to my mother about Christmasses long ago and how the price of candles had gone up and how the Christmas boxes were getting smaller. I got the impression that he was playing the waiting game with me…whatever was in the parcel was a funny shape, wide at one end and tapering away to slender at the other end. I could read the writing on the The Kerryman that it was enclosed in. A cord was holding the wrapping in place.
I was sitting on a thistle for what was like half my life with my legs hopping on the cement floor. I noticed that Ned was roguishly absorbing the intensity of my impatience.
And then he turned to face me directly and I experienced fully how alive his eyes were. He says “I think you have music in you! You had better let it out, boy bán”! That expression was often used on our hill of people who were not good at cutting turf, digging spuds, shovelling out manure or pulling a calf from a cow.
He had me trína chéile.
He began to tear the Kerryman pages away with a ticklingly crackling sound. Like the seventh veil, the last page came way and fell on the floor and there it was in Ned’s hands! A guitar! A beautiful brown and white guitar. With real strings. Six strings. And Elvis Presley’s name on it. A world of possibilities was held in those hands.
I was struck dumb. My hands fell by my sides and I was disarmed. I was also confused as maybe Ned was showing me someone else’s guitar. He had a big family himself and he was probably going to ask us what we thought of their present…until he repeated the sweetest words: “I think you have music in you… and this is for you…”
He reached out the guitar and my arms accepted it gratefully. My mother said strongly “What do you say!” Not a question. An order.
Strings Attached
The rest of that pre-Christmas day was a day with strings attached. It was a stringed Christmas. I am not sure what Santy brought to be perfectly honest a few days later on a frosty Christmas morning. I had an Elvis guitar and it came from my new hero, Ned Kennelly.
Later it was revealed to me that Ned had heard about me going west to Mick Finucane’s Gort in search of the golden fleece of the strings and my aborted guitar-construction. When his eldest son gave up his musical career, left his guitar at home and headed off to England, Ned had decided to gift the guitar to me on that magic week before Christmas in the swinging sixties.
After a goose dinner on Christmas Day, I borrowed a wire clothes hangers from my mother’s wardrobe. I didn’t ask permission as it’s hard to believe how scarce wire clothes hangers were in the 1960s. Anyway, I didn’t want to bother her by asking as she was busy all day with food and washing up. My father was still recovering from his busy weeks as a postman so I grabbed the clothes hangers, ran out to the shed and fashioned the wire into a mouth organ holder.
Then came St Stephen’s Day. With my two-day old guitar-friend, I headed down the hill on my monster-bike. On my head was a made-up cowboy hat that had been thrown away by my father, a bit of black polish on my face and a pair of wellingtons on my feet and a few pieces of crepe paper hanging loose. At Lyre Cross, I joined Mossy Henchy, Pat O’Connor and Tom Mulvihill. Off we went out in the “wran” as we called it.
We cycled to every house from Lyre to Lisselton Cross, through Ballydonoghue and Kilgarvan, via Tullahinell and Asdee and back through Guhard, Farnastack, up Scralm and into Larha. Coining we were! I can see the faces of the audience that awaited in each house. Delighted to be honoured by musicians fulfilling an ancient tradition, they would throw the pennies at us after a few bars of music. We were stars. We were on tour. We were making money from music and we were mesmerising the population of three parishes.
We had enough pocket money for the first weeks of the new year and the whole world was opening up ahead…
I smile now as I look up at the stars on my return jog into Tralee. There’s Venus and Mars up above me as far away as they were six decades ago. The lights of Tralee draw me towards the town as John Culloty, as expected, powers past me with a good quarter-mile to spare over Ursula Barrett, Ivan from Spain and Kenneth Leen.
I see a falling star…
Well, my musical career never happened. After years strumming my Elvis guitar, even with new strings from Fred Mann in the small square in Listowel, it was revealed to me that I didn’t have a note in my head. Or in my hands. Someone told us after the day in the wran that we were given money to stop playing! The boys with me may have some musical talent, but my well was dry.
The next Christmas, I found a drum at my bedside when I woke up on Christmas morning. I had obviously given hints to Santy that perhaps percussion rather than strings was how I could release the music in me. The drum however created logistical problems as I often got inspiration to play it late at night when my parents were trying to go to sleep. And my pet dog Spot attempted to accompany me with a terrier-wail that reached a high pitch. My father suggested strongly that if I went out the hill and played during the day, it might be a better idea.
The drum dream died too. I tried the fiddle later. It felt like a guitar that never grew up, so my fiddling doodled out. As did my dream of music.
I had to rebrand my borders and redefine my definitions. Life ensured that. As Albert Camus said “You will never live if you are constantly looking for the meaning of life”.
The Methodology of Music
When I think back now, Ned Kennelly’s saying that I had music in me may not have been a mistaken reading of my child-psyche. Years later I would discover that music and art have many dimensions. Humble or otherwise, there is both in all of us. Some may find the means to express them in a day or a week. Others may take years. For many, it may take half a lifetime to find the methodology of the music, and it may come out in the most amazing ways, once you meet the moments and mark the miles.
Some months after that stringed Christmas, when I watched Ned fashion the treadle for a sleán out of a piece of raw ash, I began to understand what expressing the music meant. When I saw him putting a patch on a wellington so lovingly that the wellington became a friend of his hands, I understood it more. I began to see what he meant by music. When summer beckoned all along our hill, I saw him turn the green earth of the hill field to set spuds where furze bushes had grown only a generation before. I heard his music then too. The instrument of the spade and his keen eye were composing music with the earth that April day.
As I listened to the words of Petula Clark singing “Downtown”, I hinged on the words “the music of the city”. Much later I was privileged to watch, live on stage on Broadway, “The Phantom of the Opera” with its haunting song “The Music of the Night”. Even this very Christmas Eve in Tralee parkrun (for which I was presented with a certificate for completing 100 of them), I could hear the music of the feet and hearts. Some as sweet as Sissel singing “Shenandoah” – although my own foot-music was more heavy metal than Chopin’s Nocturne, Opus 9. And what comes on the radio on the way home from the parkrun this morning but Cass Elliot singing “You’ve got to make your own kind of music”! Life re-pitched in its own chaotic creativity.
The generosity and the advice to make my own kind of music outlasted all the Christmasses of my life. The potential that Santy was there in all of us every day was the lesson I learned from Ned. It would carry beyond “Twixtmas” into the years.
Ned has long since gone to his eternal reward. I chatted with his son Eamon this Christmas Eve to tell him about the gift of neighbourly love that I was given on that Christmas week long ago. The guitar has now merged with nature but the abiding legacy of its gifting marches on.
As will my memory of Ned Kennelly who taught me how to put lyrics to the melody of life on a Christmas when my shoulders wanted wings.
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A Craft Fair
Listowel Community Centre on Saturday December 16 2023
Fifi Shades of Cake with her scrumptious cakes…almost too good to eat.
This Killarney man had the most gorgeous rustic stables, all made from fallen wood and tree branches. My photo doesn’t do them justice. If you don’t already have a nativity set, this stable is a must buy.
If you are after knitwear for a small one, these are perfect.
This elf was guarding Santa’s door.
I met my lovely past pupil, Paulina, now the mother of two lovely children.
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An Old Christmas Card
William MacNeely Christmas Card, 1949
A Christmas greeting card from William MacNeely (1889-1963) from 1949. He was the Donegal-born Bishop of Raphoe from 1923 until 1963. Following his ordination as a priest, his first appointment was to the teaching staff of St. Eunan’s College in Letterkenny (1912-16). MacNeely subsequently volunteered as a chaplain in the First World War, serving with Irish battalions in the British Army from 1916 to 1918, seeing action on the Western Front, during which he was injured in a gas attack. He was appointed Bishop of Raphoe in July 1923 (at the relatively young age of thirty-five). He served as Bishop for over forty years. He died on 11 December 1963. The design of the Christmas card is most likely the work of Richard King (Rísteard Ó Cíonga), a renowned stained-glass artist who also contributed much of the artwork for the ‘The Capuchin Annual’ publication
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A Date for the Diary
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A Christmas Fact
In the 14th century, Christmas pudding was a type of porridge made using mutton and beef alongside spices, wines, raisins, currants and more. Over time, people slowly added more alcohol alongside eggs and dried fruit until we eventually ended up with the Christmas pudding we’re all familiar with today.
