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: Chris Grayson Page 3 of 5

The Gap, Bridge Road, Recognising Drowning

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On May 7, 2018

In Uncategorized

Christopher Grayson is a man whose photographs often grace these pages. One of the other strings to Chris’ bow is running.  In this great photo he marries both hobbies. He took the photo while he was taking a rest from running in The Gap of Dunloe.

Sonia O’Sullivan was delighted to meet Chris when he ran the Cobh Marathon, named in her honour, recently.

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St. John’s

An early summer 2018 picture of this Listowel landmark.

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A Rare old Library Photo

Denis Quill sent us this photo of the old library in The Bridge Road. The photo was taken from the church steeple.

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A Timely Warning about water safety


Except in rare circumstances, drowning people are physiologically unable to call out for help. The respiratory system was designed for breathing. Speech is a secondary or overlaid function. Breathing must be fulfilled before speech occurs.

         Drowning people’s mouths alternately sink below and reappear above the surface of the water. The mouths of drowning people are not above the surface of the water long enough for them to exhale, inhale or call out for help. 

When the drowning people’s mouths are above the surface, they exhale and inhale quickly as their mouths start to sink below the surface of the water.

         Drowning people cannot wave for help. Nature instinctively forces them to extend their arms laterally and press down on the water’s surface. Pressing down on the surface of the water permits drowning people to leverage their bodies so they can lift their mouths out of the water to breathe.

         Throughout the Instinctive Drowning Response, drowning people cannot voluntarily control their arm movements. 

Physiologically, drowning people who are struggling on the surface of the water cannot stop drowning and perform voluntary movements such as waving for help, moving toward a rescuer or reaching out for a piece of rescue equipment.

         From beginning to end of the Instinctive Drowning Response, people’s bodies remain upright in the water, with no evidence of a supporting kick. Unless rescued by a trained lifeguard, these drowning people can only struggle on the surface of the water from 20 to 60 seconds before submersion occurs. (Source: On Scene magazine: Fall 2006 page 14)

This doesn’t mean that a person who is yelling for help and thrashing isn’t in real trouble — they are experiencing aquatic distress. Not always present before the instinctive drowning response, aquatic distress doesn’t last long, but unlike true drowning, these victims can still assist in their own rescue. They can grab lifelines, reach for throw rings, etc.

Look for these other signs of drowning when persons are in the water:

o   Head low in the water, mouth at water level

o   Head tilted back with mouth open

o   Eyes glassy and empty, unable to focus

o   Eyes closed

o   Hair over forehead or eyes

o   Not using legs

o   Hyperventilating or gasping

o   Trying to swim in a particular direction but not making headway

o   Trying to roll over onto the back

o   Appears to be climbing an invisible ladder

So, if a crewmember falls overboard and everything looks okay, don’t be too sure. Sometimes the most common indication that someone is drowning is that they don’t look as if they’re drowning. They may just look as if they are treading water and looking up at the deck. 

One way to be sure? Ask them, “Are you alright?” If they can answer at all, they probably are. If they return a blank stare, you may have less than 30 seconds to get to them. And parents — children playing in the water make noise. When they get quiet, you need to get to them and find out why.

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More Humans of Listowel in March 2018, Lars Larsson in Listowel and local people collect for Daffodil Day

By

On March 28, 2018

In Uncategorized

Photo: Chris Grayson

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RTE Mass from St. Mary’s Listowel on March 17 2018

The church was filling up nicely as parishioners made their way to St. Mary’s.

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Continuing Vincent Carmody’s tale of Lars Larsson and Dotie Cronin

………..So began my friendship with Dotie, baptised Mary Ellen Cronin in 1901,
which lasted until her death in 1992. As I grew older and became more aware of
local history, I realised what a font of knowledge she had. Sadly, I realise
now how much more valuable our question and answers would have been if they
had been recorded or written down. Even though she once told me that she had
never travelled outside Kerry, she did however see most of the county, many of
these excursions, in the company of her father, following and supporting the
Listowel Brass and Reed band and the town’s football team of the day, the
Listowel Independents.  Dotie also was an
avid daily newspaper reader, often recalling national news, the Rising, Civil War,
Truce, Treaty, and world events that shaped the world that we know today.

One evening as we sat there, having spoken for some time, she tired and
said, ‘off you go now, you know enough’, Just as I was going out the door, she
said, ‘Did I tell you about the man from Sweden?’

 “Who’s that?’ I said,

I sat down again and she started telling me. ‘My mother died in 1926,
afterwards I looked after the house.  Some
years later, on one Sunday, when my father had gone to a football match, a stranger
came to our front door. He was a foreigner, he explained that he had previously
contacted my father and arranged for him to put up a memorial gravestone over
the resting place of a Swedish man, Lars Larsson, who had died in Listowel in 1929’.

The man had visited the cemetery and was happy with the work that had
been carried out, so he wanted to pay the remainder of the bill. He then paid
Dotie, also giving her two half crowns for herself. Before leaving, he left an
address of a family in Sweden, where he requested Dotie to ask her father to
formally write to confirm completion of the job and receipt of the cash. As I
was unaware of the grave, Dotie then told me where the stone was to be found,
which I visited, out of curiosity.

One fine evening in the mid 1990’s, I had been up at the Sportsfield to
see a game, on coming down past the cemetery I went in to visit our family
grave. Inside the gate were two heavily laden sport bikes. As I went down the
central pathway I was approached by two people, by their style of dress, I
guessed that they owned the bikes. They had been looking at the graves. On introducing
themselves, they enquired if I was a local, was I familiar with the various
graves, or if not, would the local authority have a record of the graves.’ I
would have a fairly good knowledge of the place, so out of curiosity, I asked.
‘What particular grave or stone are you looking for?

They were brother and sister, in their early twenties, from Sweden. They
explained that when they were young, they had been on vacation at a relatives
home in rural Sweden. One wet day, they had taken refuge in the attic of the
house. While up there, they came upon an old trunk, opening it, they found old
clothes and some old letters. Looking through these they found one which was
not in Swedish. Taking it downstairs and showing it, it was explained that it
came from Ireland and concerned the burial of a relative who had lived in that
house and that had died in that far distant land.

So after all these years, the brother and sister, who had found James
Cronin’s letter in the attic trunk, now found themselves back in the town where
Cronin, the stonemason, lived, and where their relative, Lars Larsson had died
in 1929. I found their story amazing. I said, ‘you are lucky, you have just met
the only person that knows the whereabouts of the grave and the history behind
it’.

(more tomorrow)

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More photos from town on Daffodil Day 2018




A Robin, Listowel’s Carnegie Library Remembered and signs of Spring at last

By

On February 19, 2018

In Uncategorized

Ode to a robin

Chris Grayson photographed this robin as it breakfasted on a meal worm.

Dick Carmody wrote his robin a poem.

The Robin……           

            …….companion for a reluctant gardener.

Reluctantly I kneel to tend my garden, derived of some pride, devoid of great pleasure

Painstakingly I toil to keep apace of mother nature, as weeds compete with work rate

Then I am suddenly less aware on my ownliness, a companion ever present at my side

The Robin makes his predictable welcome appearance to distract from my discomfort.

Red-breasted, he sits proud upon the boundary wall to watch my laboured movement

Takes pride in that he fanned the fire in Bethlehem’s stable to keep the Baby warm

And how the flames had burned his then colourless breast to testify his zealousness

Or was it when he pulled the thorn from Jesus’ brow on his way to cross on Calvary

And now carries his blood-stained feathers as if to show his favoured ranking.

At arms length he follows my every move, often playing hide and seek with me     

Standing tall or sometimes with head erect, motionless he stares me eye to eye 

I could believe him God-sent, no other bird in sight in hedgerow or on leafless tree

Or is it just that he sees me as his meal-ticket, as I gather and discard the fallen leaves

Exposing tasty morsels in the unfrozen ground to help him cope with winter’s worst.

I move along, hunched on bended knee, he follows cautiously close behind, beside 

Sometimes out of sight, I seek him out again and know I will not be disappointed

For sure enough he’s back again here, there and everywhere, not taken for granted

Now gardening is less of a chore as I’m gifted a companion, my new forever friend.

© Dick Carmody                                                                                November, 2013.

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Listowel’s Library used to be housed in this elegant building. This is how it looked on Saturday February 17 2018. My friend, Helen, is crossing the road in the foreground.

Recent posts about the old library prompted memories for some blog followers.

Michael O’Sullivan sent us this clarification;

Hello Mary,

Everybody blamed the Black and Tans for burning the library in the bridge road in March 1921. But with access to the military witness statements in recent years it was revealed that the Listowel volunteers burned it as they feared the British were going to use it as a base. The great house a mile away in Tanavalla suffered the same fate in 1920,

Regards,

Michael O’ Sullivan


Mention of the library brought Cyril Kelly back to his boyhood and a memorable visit to the library with his inspirational teacher, Bryan MacMahon. Cyril shares with us this essay which was broadcast on `Sunday Miscellany;

CARNEGIE
LIBRARY   by Cyril Kelly

This
was the man who led us, both literally and metaphorically, from the classroom
every day. This was The Master, our Pied Piper, who was forever bugling a
beguiling tune, a tune sparkling with grace notes of the imagination. He’d have
us on the white steed behind Niamh, her golden fleece romping in our faces.
Transformed by his telling we had mutated into forty spellbound Oisíns.
Knockanore was disappearing in our wake. The briny tang of the ocean was in our
nostrils, bidding us to keep a westward course, forbidding us to glance back at
our broken hearted father, Fionn. We were heading for the land of eternal
youth, Tír na nÓg.

On
the very next antidotal day, we’d be traipsing after him, into the graveyard
beside the school. The narrow paths, with no beginning and no end criss-crossed
the place like some zoomorphic motif. We were on a mission to see who would be
the first to spot a headstone which was decorated with a Celtic design. The
diligent boys leading the line were in danger of overtaking the laggards at the
tail who were hissing that, in the dark recesses of the slightly open tomb,
they had seen, staring back at them, a yella skull.

But,
on very special days, we crossed the road to the Carnegie Library. Master
McMahon told us that it was the most magical building in the whole town. Even
the whole world, if it came to that. He told us that we were so lucky because
Andrew Carnegie, the richest man on earth, had bought all of these books for
us. We were amazed because none of us knew Andrew and we felt sure that he
didn’t know any of us. As a matter of fact, not one of us knew anyone who
bought books, either for us or for anyone else. Master McMahon said that the
Librarian, Maisie Gleeson, was minding the books for Carnegie and, especially
for the boys in 3rd class.

On
our first day in the library, we all had to line up on tippy-toes at Maisie’s
desk to scratch our names with nervous N-nibs on green cards. Maisie eyed us
all over her spectacles, welcoming each one of us ominously by name, telling us
that she knew our mothers and woe-be-tide anyone who didn’t behave themselves,
particularly any boy who did not take good care of Andrew’s books.

If you have a book,boys, Master McMahon’s voice was echoing around us. If you have a book, boys, you have an exciting friend.

Drumming
his fingers along a shelf, humming to himself, he flicked one of the books from
its place, tumbling it into his arms. Turning towards us, he held it like a
trophy in the air.

The Clue of The Twisted
Candle. Nancy Drew, boys. She’s a beauty. Blonde, like Niamh Cinn Óir. Solves
exciting mysteries for her father.

The
Master took his time to scan our expectant faces.

Here, Mickey,proffering the book to Mikey Looby whose father was a detective. Why don’t you sit down there at that table.
Read the first few chapters. See what Nancy Drew is up to this time.

Turning
to the shelves again, The Master threw back over his shoulder; Sure if I know anything, Mikey, you’ll
probably solve the mystery before she does. Mikey, clasping the book in his
arms, stumbled to the nearest chair, thirty nine pairs of envious eyes fastened
to him. Sure it’s in the blood, Mikey
boy. It’s in the blood.

Selecting
another book, The Master faced us once more. This time he called on Dan
Driscoll.

I saw you driving your
father’s pony and cart to the fair last week. Three of the lovliest pink plump
bonavs you had. And what a fine looking pony Dan Driscoll has, boys.

Well, here in my hand I’m
holding Riders of the Purple Sage by Zane Grey. This man is a fantastic story
teller. He’ll take you to the frontier lands of America. I promise that you’ll
see and smell the rolling plains of Wyoming more clearly than if you were in
the Plaza cinema down the street. You’ll ride with cowboys, you’ll hear the
neighing not of ponies but of palominos. You’ll meet deadly gunmen, boys, noble
Red Indians. And on the headstones in Boothill, boys, you won’t find any Celtic
designs.And there, in the vastness of the library,
The Master’s youthful tenor voice startled the silence; Take me back to the Black Hills/ The Black Hills of Dakota/ To the
beautiful Indian country that I love. By the time he was finished he was
besieged by a posse of outstretched hands and beseeching cries of SirSirSir.
Every one of us was demented to get our paws on that book, any book.

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Spring 2018…….at last!



A Robin, a smile, new windows at Listowel Garda Station and the Christmas parcel from America remembered

By

On December 22, 2017

In Uncategorized

A Kerry robin in a Christmassy setting photographed by Chris Grayson

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This Spike Milligan poem is doing the rounds on Twitter.

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A Card and a Caption from the National Library’s Collection




Nat Library Ireland‏ @NLIreland  59m59 minutes ago

An example of a 1918 Christmas card An example of a 1918 Christmas card for you today, issued by the Royal Army Medical Corps, [Great] Northern Central Hospital, for a Christmas social evening. The front of the card reads “Keep Smiling in Ardus Fidelus”- some sound advice!”. you today, issued by the Royal Army Medical Corps, [Great] Northern Central Hospital, for a Christmas so

<<<<<<cial evening. The front of the card reads “Keep Smiling in Ardus Fidelus”- some sound advice!”.

Listowel Garda Station, Christmas 2017

Notice the lovely new windows in the same style as the old ones to fit in with Listowel Garda Station’s status as a heritage building.

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Christmas in Rural
Ireland in the 1950s…….The parcel from America

from Jim Costelloe’s  Asdee  A Rural Miscellany

I remember when
the first sign of the festive season was when the letter from my Aunt Nell in
New York arrived with the news that she was posting a “package” to us. The
parcel was being sent by “ordinary mail” and would take about 6 weeks to
arrive. It was being posted on the same day as the letter which was sent by
airmail. When the package arrived there was great excitement as we waited
patiently to see what each one had got. The label read “old clothes” and the
ritual of opening the parcel kept us in suspense as himself very carefully
opened the knots in the twine, so that none of it would be wasted.

He had a habit of
keeping everything that might come in useful so the twine was carefully made
into a ball and put in his waistcoat pocket. The brown paper which wrapped the
parcel was folded and put away before we might see what was in the package. We
all got some items of clothing. These were duly allocated by my mother. Some
articles were rejected because they were not suitable for wear here and people
would know they were American. The anticipation of what would be in that parcel
was the start of the excitement of Christmas in my youth.

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Meanwhile in Germany 



Philomena Moriarty Kuhn now lives far from her native Listowel. One of the differences this loyal follower of Listowel Connection will experience this year is a white Christmas.

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Slán Tamall



I’m signing off for 2017. I’ll take a short break to recharge the batteries. 

See you back here in 2018, le cúnamh Dé

Eamon Kelly’s 1920s Christmas Customs, a poem and a photo for Christmas ’17

By

On December 19, 2017

In Uncategorized

Love consists not in looking at one another but in looking together in the same direction.

Khalil Gibran

Photo taken in The Gap of Dunloe by Chris Grayson

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Eamon Kelly Remembers Christmas Long Ago


…..Then we’d be
praying for night to fall. for you couldn’t see the right effect until the
candles were lit. The honour would fall to the youngest in the house. The
father would lift the child up saying “In the name of The Father, The Son….”
And when the child had blessed himself, he would put the lighting spill to the
candle, and from that candle the other candles would be lit, and he’s be half
daft with excitement, enjoying the blaze of light, and running fro the rooms
into the kitchen and out into the yard to see what the effect was like from the
outside. When we’d get tired of looking at the candles in our own windows, we’d
turn and try to name the neighbours’ houses as the bunches of lights came on,
two windows here and three windows there, across the dark countryside and away
up to the foot of the hills. And sure as anything, someone would be late and
we’d rush in to my mother saying, ”Faith then there’s no light on yet in
Rossacrew!”

“Go n ye’re
knees,” my mother would say. The time she’d pick for the rosary, just when the
salt ling was ready and the white onion sauce and the potatoes steaming over
the fire. But I suppose there’d be no religion in the world only for the women.
The rosary in our house did not end at five decades. Not at all, after the Hail
Holy Queen our mother would start into the trimmings

“Come Holy Ghost,
send down those beams,

Which sweetly flow
in silver streams.”

She’d pray for
everyone in sickness and in need and the poor souls and the sinful souls who at
that very moment was trembling before the judgment seat above. She’d pray for
the sailor on the seas. “Protect him from the tempest, O Lord, and bring him
safely home.” And the lone traveller on the highway, and, of course, our
emigrants, and, last of all, the members of our own family

God bless and save
us all

St. Patrick,
Bridget and Colmcille

Guard each wall.

May the queen of
Heaven

And the angels
bright

Keep us and our
home

From harm this
night.

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A Christmas Poem




Twinkle Twinkle    by Jane Taylor

Twinkle twinkle
little star.

How I wonder what
you are.

Up above the world
so high,

Like a diamond in
the sky.

When the blazing
sun is gone,

And he nothing
shines upon,

Then you show your
little light.

Twinkle, twinklw
through the night.

Then the traveller
in the dark

Thanks you for
your tiny spark.

He would not see
which way to go,

If you did not
twinkle so.

In the dark blue
sky you keep,

And often through
my curtains peep,

Forr you never
shut your eye

Til the sun is in
the sky.

As your bright and
tiny spark,

Lights the
traveller in the dark.

Though I know not
what you are

Twinkle, twinkle, little star.

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A Welcome Return



Jackie McGillicuddy made a welcome return to his old spot behind the counter at Corbett and Fitzgibbon’s. The shop now names McGillicuddy’s Toys is run by his son Seán who is with him in the photo which they posted on Twitter.

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Thought for the Season    from Dr. Suess





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