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
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.
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.
Christmas 2023 crib in St. Mary’s Parish Church, Listowel
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Volunteering at Christmas
Just four of the lovely volunteers in my favourite shop; Teresa, Eileen, Eileen and Mary in St. Vincent’s Listowel on December 15 2023.
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The Wran
Continued from yesterday…
With Tambourines and Wren boys
Wm. Molyneaux
We had great times with the same Wren, so we did. One St Stephen’s Day I was out with Coolkeragh. They were a good crowd. We were travelling on, whatever. I don’t know that anyone of us knew the names of the people where we were at all. But still is was a good place. Well, any torn down house or anything, we’d say to ourselves that we wouldn’t go in there at all.
So this house, anyway, we crossed it. It was a small little pokeen of a house. Myself and the player were talking. We said to ourselves we wouldn’t go in there at all-you know. There would hardly be no one there at all- poor looking.
“Cripes,” says I (as if I had the knowledge) “ “I imagine,” says I, “but I see an old woman walking around the house, and now that old woman might only get insulted. We want nothing from her,” says I, “but she might get insulted if we didn’t go into with the Wren.” “Well, by God, that’s right, Williameen. “We go in then.”
In we went. This poor little woman was inside. A very small little house entirely. She had a few coals down. I went up to the fire, myself and the player. He was Willie Mahoney over in Coolkeragh and a good player he was. The Dickens, I went up. I was inclined to “hate” the tambourine over the coals. There wasn’t as much fire there as would heat it. Stay, I told him play away. He played away. He played, I think, a hornpipe. God he was a good player! We were at it for a bit, and with that, whatever look I gave, there was the poor woman and the tears rolling down her face.
“Stop, let ye,” says I to the crowd. “Stop, let ye, there must be something wrong here. Will ye stop!” I turned around to the old woman: “well, poor woman,” says I “there must be something wrong with you or with someone belonging to you. And if we knew anything like that,” says I, “we were not going to come in at all” says I “if we knew what we know now…. When we see the tears in your eyes we wouldn’t have come in at all….
At that she started, at the top of your voice: “Yerra,Wisha, Weenach!oh!oh!OH!..It isn’t any dohall I have at all about the Wran Boys!….Yerra, Wisha…..my husband, Tom….he’s inside in the Listowel ‘ospital with a sore leg. And, and if Tom was here today, wouldn’t he be delighted to see the fine crowd of fine respectable Wren boys that made so much of me as to come in here! Wait a fwhile ‘til Tom ‘ll come home and if I don’t be telling him that…..oh!oh!oh! and she went on at the top of her voice.
I turned around to the crowd: “lads,” says I, “have ye much money around ye?
“agor, we have”says the captain, we could have up to about five pounds, (it was early in the day) “Are ye all satisfied to give this poor woman,” says I, “half of what ye have? The day is long” says I, “and we will make enough to maintain us through the night.” And they said they were agreeable. The cashier was just starting to pull out his purse and off she started again: “oh! No! No! Wait awhile now and I must turn around and give ye something. She had long stockings on her, and she stuck down her hand in one of them-down, down, and then she got hold of something and she started pulling and pulling til she pulled up a big cloth purse-as sure as I’m telling you there would a quarter sack of male fit inside it! And I couldn’t tell you what money was inside it. Up she pulled the bag anyway and reached a shilling to myself. “No, ma’am,” says I, “put that in your own pocket.” Then she started again: “oh! No! No! No! If you don’t take that now, decent boy! Oh,Yerra Wisha after what ye had done for me! Yerra, Wisha, the best friend I ever had in all my life would not do what ye’re after doing for me. That the Almighty God and the Blessed Virgin Mary may save and guard ye! Bless and protect ye! And that you and yer crowd might be going around on the Wran,” says she, “ for the next 100 years without a feather out of ye.”
That happened, for a God’s honest fact.
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In Town with Camera
Listowel Arms
Lynch’s Coffee Shop
Jumbo’s
Charlie and Willy on Jumbo’s window
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Irish Farmers Journal in the seventies
Some local people in this old paper in summer ’74 and ’75
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Some Problems seem to Never Go Away
Before I Was a Gazan
Naomi Shihab Nye, 1952
I was a boy and my homework was missing, paper with numbers on it, stacked and lined,
I was looking for my piece of paper, proud of this plus that, then multiplied, not remembering if I had left it on the table after showing to my uncle or the shelf after combing my hair but it was still somewhere
and I was going to find it and turn it in, make my teacher happy,
make her say my name to the whole class, before everything got subtracted in a minute even my uncle even my teacher
even the best math student and his baby sister who couldn’t talk yet.
And now I would do anything for a problem I could solve.
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MY CHRISTMAS WISH
by Junior Griffin
Oh Lord, when we give this Christmas time,
Do teach us how to share
The gifts that you have given us
With those who need our care,
For the gift of Time is sacred~
The greatest gift of all,
And to share our time with others
Is the answer to your call,
For the Sick, the Old and Lonely
Need a word, a kindly cheer
For every precious minute
Of each day throughout the Year,
So, in this Special Season
Do share Your Time and Love
And your Happy, Holy Christmas
Will be Blessed by Him above
Junior Griffin
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Carols on Church Street
The Folk Group were in great voice on Saturday last as they sang carols on Upper Church Street. A group of traders came together to raise money for three local charities. The folk group sang and we bought tickets in the participating businesses.
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A Fact
In 1843, the custom of sending Christmas cards began. At the time, Sir Henry Cole worked as a senior civil servant and had helped set up what would become the Post Office, and he wanted to try and encourage it to be used by ordinary people.
His idea of Christmas cards was created, and they were initially sold for only 1 shilling each, and the custom slowly became more popular throughout the years.
Serendipity is the making of unexpected and pleasant discoveries by accident.
Front (faded) and back (vivid) covers of a book discovered in a charity shop and purchased for 50c.
A story from the book… Pail but not Wan
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The Wran
I don’t know the year for this one.
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With Tambourines and Wren boys
Wm. Molyneaux
(Continued from yesterday…)
But then, about the Wren. How the wren derived her dignity as the king of all birds. That was the question. An eagle issued a challenge between all birds, big and small as they were-wrens, robins, sparrows, thrushes, blackbirds, jackdaws, magpies, or else. They commenced their flight this day-Christmas Day-The eagle, being the bravest continues her flight and was soaring first. All the other birds were soaring after, until, in the finish, after a lapse of time in her flight, the weaker birds seemed to get weary and could not continue their flight some ways further. But the Wren pursued to the last. The other birds got weak and worn out and in the heel of fair play, the eagle said that she was the king of all birds herself now. The wren concealed yourself under the Eagles feathers, in the end of fair play the Eagle got worn out. The wren flew out from under the Eagles feathers and declared yourselves the king of all birds. That is how the Wren derived her dignity as being the king of all birds. So we hunted her for the honour of it.
Also, when St Stephen was in prison and as he was liberated the band went out against St Stephen, and it was a daylight performance and the wren, when she heard the music and the band, came out and perched yourselves on the drum. That’s how we heard the story.
Anyway we made our tambourines. You’d get a hoop made (in them days) by a cooper. There is no cooper hardly going now. You’d get this made by cooper for about half a crown. I used to make my tambourines always of goat’s skin. You could make them of an ass foal’s skin-anything young, do you see. How? I’d skinned the goat, get fresh lime and put the fresh lime on the fleshy side of the skin-not that hairy side but the fleshy side of the skin-fold it up then and double it up and twist it again and get a soft string and put it around it and take it with you then to a running stream and put it down in the running stream where the fresh water will be always running over it, and leave it so. You could get a flag and attach it onto the bag, the way the water wouldn’t carry it. Leave it there for about nine days and you come then and you can pull off the hair and if the hair comes freely you can take up the skin and pull off the hair the same as you would shave yourself. And then you should moisten with lukewarm water. You should draw it the way it wouldn’t shrink. You should leave it for a couple of hours. You would get your ring and you’d have the jingles and all in-the bells-you’d have them all in before you put the skin to the rim. You should have two or three drawing the skin to keep it firm-pull it from half-width, that would be the soonest way t’would stiffen. Let the skin be halfwidth and put it down on the rim and have a couple pulling it and another man tacking it with brass tacks. That’s the way I used make my tambourines, anyway. Ther’d be no sound out of it the first night. I used always hang my tambourines outside. And then the following morning t’would be hard as a pan and a flaming sound out of it. And then after a bit t’would cool down. T’would be bad to have them too hard, they’d crack. Ah, sure I made several tambourines that way.
To be continued…
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A Christmas Poem
Christmas
John Betjeman
The bells of waiting Advent ring, The Tortoise stove is lit again And lamp-oil light across the night Has caught the streaks of winter rain In many a stained-glass window sheen From Crimson Lake to Hookers Green.
The holly in the windy hedge And round the Manor House the yew Will soon be stripped to deck the ledge, The altar, font and arch and pew, So that the villagers can say “The church looks nice” on Christmas Day.
Provincial Public Houses blaze And Corporation tramcars clang, On lighted tenements I gaze Where paper decorations hang, And bunting in the red Town Hall Says “Merry Christmas to you all.”
And London shops on Christmas Eve Are strung with silver bells and flowers As hurrying clerks the City leave To pigeon-haunted classic towers, And marbled clouds go scudding by The many-steepled London sky.
And girls in slacks remember Dad, And oafish louts remember Mum, And sleepless children’s hearts are glad. And Christmas-morning bells say “Come!'” Even to shining ones who dwell Safe in the Dorchester Hotel.
And is it true? And is it true, This most tremendous tale of all, Seen in a stained-glass window’s hue, A Baby in an ox’s stall? The Maker of the stars and sea Become a Child on earth for me ?
And is it true? For if it is, No loving fingers tying strings Around those tissued fripperies, The sweet and silly Christmas things, Bath salts and inexpensive scent And hideous tie so kindly meant,
No love that in a family dwells, No carolling in frosty air, Nor all the steeple-shaking bells Can with this single Truth compare – That God was man in Palestine And lives today in Bread and Wine.
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+ R.I.P. Maureen Sweeney+
As a tribute to a heroine who has passed away, here is her story from a previous blogpost…
Flavin Sweeney wedding 1946
2nd, lL to R, Maureen Flavin Sweeney Blacksod Bay, 5th L to R Theresa Flavin Kennelly Knockanure, 6th L to R, Peg Connor Moran, Knockanure
Billy McSweeney told us this story and it appeared in Listowel Connection in 2018
In my Grandparents time, Kerry people understood that they were cut off from the rest of Ireland by a series of mountains; they realized that they were isolated and had to look after themselves. Life was harder in Kerry than in the Golden Vale or on the central plains of Ireland. The mothers of Kerry especially, knew that they had to look to every advantage to help their children and prized education highly to that end. In the mid-19thcentury the people of Listowel welcomed enthusiastically the establishment of St Michael’s College for Boys and the Presentation Convent Secondary schools for Girls, not forgetting the Technical School. The people who read this blog are most likely familiar with the Census’ 1901 and 1911 and will have noticed that many homes in Listowel housed not only Boarders but also welcomed Scholars who came from the villages and isolated farms scattered around North Kerry. These boys and girls spent 5-6 years in the Listowel schools to be educated for ‘life’.
The upshot of this was that from Listowel we sent out many young adults who were a credit to their teachers to take their places in many organizations and many whose names became nationally known for their talents and abilities, especially in the Arts.
Let me tell you about one such young girl, Maureen Flavin, who was born in Knocknagoshel, Co Kerry. When the time came for Maureen to go on from National school she was welcomed into the Mulvihill home in Upper Church Street who themselves had a young girl, Ginny, of the same age. Maureen and Ginny became fast friends and stayed so for life.
When Maureen finished school in 1930 she wanted a job; couldn’t get one in Kerry because of the times that were in it, so she answered an ad in the National Papers for an Assnt. Postmistress in Black Sod, in North Mayo. Her references and qualifications were suitable and in due course, as she says, to her own surprise she was offered the job. This was to set Maureen on a course where she would be an integral part of one of the most momentous actions of the age. Mrs Sweeney, the Black Sod Postmistress, was married to Ted who was the Lighthouse Keeper, both operating from the Lighthouse building in Black Sod. They had a son, also Ted, who Maureen fell in love with and married in due course. They in turn had three boys and a girl and life took up a normal rhythm for the family; that is until 3rd June 1944.
The WW2 was in full swing at this stage with Gen. Eisenhower as the Allied Supreme Commander and Gen. Rommel the German Commander in Normandy. Rommel knew that an Allied invasion was prepared and imminent. Conventional Meteorological sources at the time for the US and German military said that the coming days would bring very inclement weather so that the invasion would have to be postponed. Eisenhower postponed the action and Rommel left Normandy for a weekend in Berlin based on the same information. The British Chief Meteorologist had however visited Black Sod some years previously and knew the value of Black Sod as the most westerly station in Europe and when a break in the weather was reported by Black Sod on 3rdJune he persuaded Eisenhower that 6thand 7thJune would be clear and to ignore the same conventional Met advice used by both the US and the Germans. Ted compiled the reports for the Irish Met Office and Maureen transmitted them. Maureen remembers receiving a telephone call a short time later from a lady with a ‘very posh English accent’ asking for confirmation of her report. Ted was called to the phone and he confirmed the readings, The rest, as they say, is history.
(R.I.P. Maureen, who passed away on December 17 2023, aged 100. She was a recipient of the US Congress Medal of Honour)
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A Fact
In one week from today it will be St. Stephen’s Day 2023