Listowel Connection

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

Tag: Black Valley

Christmas Memories

By

On December 22, 2023

In Listowel, Personal, Poem, Tralee

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.

© Photo and information with thanks to Joe O’Shaughnessy.

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.

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Listowel Christmas Memories

By

On December 6, 2023

In Listowel, Tarbert

Photo: Chris Grayson

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Listowel Christmas Market

December 2 2023 4.oop.m. saw me in The Square for the market and turning on of the Christmas lights. Stalls were just setting up and people were very slowly gathering. It was very very cold.

That is my excuse for not bringing you the photos I had hoped for. I didn’t wait around but looking at reports on Facebook everyone had a great time.

These lovely girls were among the early arrivals.

One of the first, and most important stalls to set up was the soup, mulled cider and sandwiches crew who joined Elaine in raising funds for Kerry Hospice.

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The Black Valley

A lovely man called Dan Doyle allowed me to join his Facebook group where he reminisces about growing up in The Black Valley. He has given me permission to share stuff.

This lovely man is Dan’s dad. Here is what he wrote;

Tom Doyle my dad on a road in Beaufort , Kerry Ireland, somewhere beneath the mountains around the Gap Of Dunloe almost 100 years ago ,we just recently got this only photo of the man himself. someone read our stories here ,God Bless us ,Great to see you big man after all these years.

Once in awhile we take my dad and introduce him to The Black Valley crowd.  He would shake his head if he knew anybody even read anything i wrote. He never went to school. He couldnt read or write.  He was a gifted man with a mind for helping people, one of the strongest men i ever knew. He sat under a tree in the mountains as my mom read to him ,so his eyes were closed and she read and they were a sight to see, so here is Tom Doyle my dad around 100 or 110 years ago somewhere in the mountains of Kerry.

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Coolahan’s Santy

Photo: Tarbert on Facebook

This somewhat scary effigy of St. Nicholas has graced Coolahan’s window in Tarbert for 100 years. Local children knew that once he took up his position, the real Santa would soon be on his way.Great to see that he is still standing, even if he is a bit the worst for wear.

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A Request

Does anyone know where one could get a copy of the book by Joe Quaid of Athea called Hook Line and Sinker?

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John O’Connell’s Remembers Childhood Christmases

At Christmas 2020 in the midst of Covid people here encouraged others to recall happy childhood Christmases.

Noreen Neville O’Connell shared these memories which she recorded from her husband of more than 50 years’ trip down memory lane.

“In our house in Curraghatoosane ( Bothairín Dubh), Christmas preparations started with white washing. Lime was mixed with water and a little bluestone added and this was painted on with a wide brush or sometimes the sweeping brush. Red berried holly was picked up in the Hickeys and a few red or white candles were stuck in a turnip or a 2 pound jam crock filled with sand and decorated with a piece of red crepe paper if we had it. The crib was set up on the wide window sill and decorated with holly or laurel.

On Christmas Eve I went off shopping with my mother in our ass and cart. My job was to hold the ass  as mother leisurely shopped, in all the shops, where she left her  loyal custom throughout the year. Here she got a “Christmas box” as a present. This was usually a fruit cake wrapped in festive parchment with a lovely little shiny garland around it or a small box of biscuits. There was no rush on mam, or no great worry about poor me in my  short pants, patiently awaiting by his docile ass. Throughout the long shopping  trek, I got   a bottle of Nash’s red lemonade and a few thick  ha’penny biscuits. It was up  Church street to Barretts  shop and bar, Lena Mullalys,  O Grady’s Arch store, , to Guerins in Market street, John Joe Kennys in the Square and many more smaller shops in town,  for flour and meal, tea and sugar, jam, biscuits, jelly,  a cut of beef, lemonade,  and lots of stout and a bottle or two of sherry.

Eventually with our cart laden with the provisions and the bottles rattling away  in long wooden boxes ( which would be returned with the empties after Christmas), we set off home. Poor Neddy and me, tired and cold but mother content and fulfilled and warmed by perhaps the drop of sherry or perhaps a  little  hot toddy she might have shared in a Snug  with a friend she met on her shopping expedition!! The last stop was at Jack Thornton’s for a few black jacks, and slab toffee which revived my drooping spirits.

As we travelled home the homes were ablaze with lighted  candles . It was a sight to behold, which I can still see as plain today as it was 70 years ago. There was very little traffic back then but I lit the way home  with the torchlight for mam, me and Neddy . The “ Flight to Curraghatoosane”!

Next it was to  untackle and feed and water our gentle, compliant ass, unload the messages and join my father and 3 brothers for a welcome bite. I was the 2nd eldest of four boys and felt high and mighty to be chosen to chaperone my mother. “Mother,s pet” says Noreen!!

 Next morning we were awake at cock crow to open our purties. (These were sometimes hidden in the meal bin and one year we were informed of this by an older neighbouring boyo and when the coast was clear one day, we searched and found the hidden cache.We were smart enough to remain  silent  so nobody  spilled the beans. ) We  walked, fasting, down to 7 a.m Convent Mass.  Then home to play with and maybe dismantle a purty to investigate its workings. The stuffed goose was roasting in the bastible. What a glorious smell . I loved the delightful brown gravy, carrots, turnips  and pandy, all from our own garden. As well as supplying milk in town, we had a fine market garden and so we had plenty of fresh vegetables. The trifle dessert was such a treat. 

Next day –St Stephens day was gambling day in our house, when the neighbours congregated to play 110 which could last for days, even into weeks. Plenty porter was gratefully accepted and savoured as well as  tea and cake. As I got older St Stephen’s day was the day for the wran (wren). We started getting ready early in the day and it was the day that the fancy cake garland that came around the  “Christmas box” cakes, were recycled and transformed into part of the” wran “head dress. We had a fantastic wrenboy group, known as the Dirrha wrenboys, captained by the well -known Sonny Canavan. A wren dance followed in a few weeks, hosted often in our  home and was the event of the year with music, song and dance and 2  half tierces, and attended by locals and visitors and denounced from the pulpit  by the parish priest, if he came to hear of it.”

Catherine Nolan Lyons’ photo of Dirha West wren boys on Charles Street in 1959.

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Looking for Somewhere to Go Tonight ?

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Courtesy and Politeness

Billy McSweeney found this gem in an old schoolbook

Care should be taken to cultivate gentle and obliging manners in all intercourse with friends. It is a common error to suppose that familiar intimacy supersedes attention to the lesser duties of behaviour; and that it may excuse a careless, or even a rough demeanour under the notion of freedom.  On the contrary, an intimate connexion can only be perpetuated by a constant endeavour to be pleasing and agreeable. The same behaviour which procures friendship, is absolutely necessary to the preservation of it.

Let no harshness, no appearance of neglect, no supercilious affectation of superiority, be encouraged in the intercourse of friends. A tart reply, a proneness to rebuke, a captious and contradictory spirit, are often known to embitter domestic life, and, to set friends at variance; it is only by continuing courtesy, and urbanity of behaviour, that we long preserve the comforts of friendship.

You must often have observed that nothing is so strong a recommendation as politeness, even on a slight acquaintance; nor does it lose its value by time or intimacy, when preserved, as it ought to be, in the nearest connexions and strictest friendships. 

In general, propriety of behaviour must be the fruit of instruction, of observation, and of reasoning; and it is to be cultivated and improved like any other branch of knowledge or virtue. Particular modes and ceremonies of behaviour vary in different places. These can only be learned by observation on the manner of those who are best skilled in them. But the principles of politeness are the same in all places. Wherever there are human beings, it must be impolite to hurt the temper or pain the feelings of those you converse with. By raising people up, instead of mortifying and depressing them, we make ourselves so many friends, in place of enemies.

Strive dauntlessly; habit is overcome by habit.

Senior Class Reader

Macmillan’s Class Reader c.1940

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1991

By

On July 6, 2022

In Listowel, Listowel Writers Week, Schools

Listowel Castle, June 2022

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Great weekend in The Tinteán

Nathan Carter rocked Ballybunion on Friday and Saturday nights June 1 and 2 2022

Photo: Facebook

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The Black Valley

Lovely photos of an unspoiled part of The Kingdom shared online by Michael Rodgers.

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Pres Secondary School staff 1991

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Last few from Writers Week 2022

A few photos from early June 2022

Alice and Mary

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Nuns, Childers’ Park and some funeral customs

By

On March 9, 2017

In Uncategorized

November 2016 in The Black Valley

Photos; Catherine Moylan

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Listowel Nuns

I’m posting this in the hope that someone will recognise the sisters or the priests with them. The photograph is Mike Hannon’s

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NEKD is Moving



Work is ongoing at the old post office in William Street. It is to be the new home of NEKD or so I’m told.

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They Stretched in Never-ending Line…..


 along the margin of the pitch and putt course. Though not quite as picturesque as Wordsworth’s daffodils, Listowel’s fluttering and dancing narcissi brighten up the town park these days.

There is a new line of trees along by  this path as well which will act as a shelter belt and a new defining line to the pitch and putt course.

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We do Death well in Ireland


I’m told that at one time in Ireland when a person died, the first person to be contacted was the priest and the sacristan. People usually died at home and, since the priest would have visited the sick person to administer Extreme Unction, he would be expecting the call. The sacristan would ring the church bell to spread the news, three tolls of the bell for a man and two for a woman. The news of the identity of the deceased would spread by word of mouth. The creamery was a place where many heard the news.

In every parish there was usually at least one woman who took on the task of washing and laying out the corpse. There was no embalming in those days. There is a very poignant chapter in Peig Sayers much maligned autobiography in which she describes having to wash and lay out the body of her young son who had fallen to his death from a rough ledge on The Great Blasket while trying to collect fuel for their meagre fire.

The dead man was usually dressed in a brown garment known as a “Habit”. This was purchased especially for the purpose. Women sometimes had a blue one if they were members of the Sodality of Our Lady. These women were known as Children of Mary and it was an honour to be allowed to join this sisterhood. They wore a blue cloak and a veil in the Corpus Christi procession. Rosary beads and scapulars were entwined through the fingers of the dead person. There was always at least one wax candle alight to light a path for the soul to Heaven.

In the house of the dead person mirrors were covered and the clock was stopped. A black crepe ribbon was attached to the henhouse door. This custom was called telling the hens.

As soon as the corpse was laid out the wake began. Neighbours, family and friends came and went from then until the burial. The family was never left alone. Drink had to be supplied to the mourners, port for the women, whiskey for the men and a mineral for the children or teetotallers. At one time clay pipes and snuff were also part of the ritual.

It was considered bad luck to open a grave on Monday so if the death occurred on Saturday or  Sunday, a sod would be turned on the grave on Sunday. The neighbours usually dug the grave. The hearse was horse drawn and the priests wore white sashes and a white ribbon round their hats.

I have heard of a custom that others don’t seem to know too much about so maybe I dreamed it. The clothes of the deceased were given to a close friend and he had to wear them to mass for three consecutive Sundays. It was an honour to be asked to wear the clothes.

Black was the colour of mourning. A widow wore black for a full year after the death of her husband. Some women never again wore coloured clothes.  The men of the family wore a black diamond on the sleeves of their jackets. Widows had a special place in the community and got a lot of help from neighbours. Some widows remarried as they were often bereaved while still young and needed the help and protection of a man. A wealthy widow was often a good catch.

All of this is changed now .

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At The Convent



I was back at school last week. Planting on the front lawn has come on well and the foundation stone is now surrounded by a beautiful halo of heather.

I pointed my camera over the wall towards the convent. The lower windows of the convent chapel are now completely covered in ivy. The once beautiful garden is overgrown and untidy and the railing is falling down.





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Smalltown nominated for an IFTA in Best Drama category 


Photo of Smalltown team from Facebook

Sisters at Prayer, The Lartigue and A Stone on Church Street

By

On March 6, 2017

In Uncategorized

Beautiful Kerry

Catherine Moylan took this beautiful landscape photo in the Black Valley in November 2016

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Nuns at Prayer



This rare photo of Listowel’s Presentation sisters at prayer was posted online by Mike Hannon.

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Lartigue Ready for Another Season



There’s only one wheel on the line

And the track like the story is single.

Sure there isn’t a railway so fine

Not excepting the Tralee and Dingle.

The official opening of the original Listowel and Ballybunion Railway (known locally as The Lartigue) took place on February 24 1888. On its first day in business it carried over 100 passengers.

The modern replica locomotive and museum will open for the 2017 season in April. The dedicated team who run this venture posted this picture of the spruced up train and the lovely new standard lamp, all ready for action in April.

Everyone in Listowel should make a firm resolve to take a trip on the train at least once this season.

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What’s the Story of this stone?



If memory serves me right this stone used to be at a location lower down Church St.

What is it?

Did it once serve a useful purpose?

I’m intrigued.

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The Children are in For a Treat



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Bíonn Siúlach Scéalach



I am not a well travelled person bu I am the next best thing, a person who knows lots of people who travel and who bring me back their observations.

Today my wisdom gleaned from traveller’s tales for is this; Concrete balls to prevent drivers parking on pavements are everywhere.

Christina Kennelly, who hails from Ballybunion where I first photographed these balls, spotted these in Torremolinos, Spain.

Vincent Carmody tells me that the big red ones are outside lots of Target stores in the USA. He has often sat on one of them while waiting for his relatives to complete their Target purchases.

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