Stories from the Calendar - January to May

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KIELY’S LIST BERNIE HOGAN

Friday was the day for “Kiely's List”. As was the custom our Mam would phone in the order to Mary who worked in the office there on a Friday morning and our Dad would drive down in his black Cortina to the Grocery shop and General Stores about four miles away to collect it that evening. If there weren’t too many jobs to be done in the house, I could go with him and I loved the excursion.

So it was, that every Friday morning my mother would head to the porch with her list usually written on a page from an old copy book in her hand. The porch was where our phone was situated on the wall, you see. It was the old original type with no dial set, she just wound the handle and waited patiently for the operator to put her through to Kiely’s number.

Mam would wear her usual cross-over apron and headscarf with the paisley design tied underneath her chin. Her horn-rimmed glasses were perched on her nose as she waited to be connected.

After the usual exchange of greetings, discussion about the weather and local news, she commenced her list.

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1. Rash, saus, pudding. To translate, rashers from the bacon factory in Cappoquinn, some back and some streaky, always cut in the shop before being wrapped in greaseproof paper. The sausages - always Burke’s - from the factory in nearby Clonmel and the pudding, one black and one white sold in a ring , came from the Galtee Meat factory in Mitchelstown. This would be the breakfast treat after First Mass on a Sunday morning.

2. Kiely's sliced pan x2. This bread was delicious, so fresh and certainly did not live up to its description as recited by the pupils from the local National School at lunchtime: “ Kielys bread would kill a man dead especially one with a baldy head” Sometimes however we got a real treat when a loaf of Cahir Grinder was added to the list, this never lasted any longer than 5 minutes at supper time.

3. Odlum's flour, although it was sold in an 8 stone calico bag never lasted too long either as it was used to bake the daily brown and white breads as well as queen cakes, tea bracks, apple or rhubarb tarts or whatever delight Mam or one of her four daughters would bake. The flour bag would later be cut up and sewn on Mam’s Singer sewing machine to make sheets for the bed.

4. As well as the flour, Bextartar, baking powder, bread soda and Birds' custard powder were added to the baking list as required.

5. Stork margarine, sold by the quarter pound in gold coloured paper, was a baking essential also. This was also accompanied by a lump of lard for the fry.

6. Tipperary creamery butter sold by the pound was an essential purchase for the mashed golden wonder spuds grown by Dad in our own garden.

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7. Delicious Baked Crumbed Ham was sliced freshly on the machine in the shop and when teamed with a tin of Heinz vegetable salad, potato salad, hard boiled eggs, lettuce, tomato, salad cream and beetroot it was a supper fit for a King.

8. Tins of Batchelors beans were purchased and were very quickly heated up to accompany a potato and any meat dish. The TV ad of Beany and Barney singing certainly made it a popular choice with the children.

9. Chivers variety of jams and jellies were regular features on the list.

The jelly was served with a tin of pears or fruit cocktail.

10. Marietta biscuits were bought every week, they came in a red package and when you buttered one and put another one on top the butter squeezed out through the holes. The TV ad pictured an underage GAA match with children having Marietta at half time and “one for the referee !”

11. Loose tea was bought by the pound and even sometimes by the teachest.

12. Taylor Keith Orange or Cidona was a rare treat for a birthday celebration. Other than that Mi Wadi Orange juice was the business.

13. Omo washing powder for washing the endless amount of dirty laundry in the "washing machine" (a green machine that twirled the clothes around in the water with a wringer on top) but Sunlight soap for the more stubborn stains that Mam would attack on the washing board! Other soaps bought were the Lux soap for washing your face and the Lifebuoy for the lads after working all day on the farm. Quix washing up liquid ensured the delph on the dresser was always shining.

14. Mam’s hens had to be fed to ensure our constant supply of eggs on the farm so for this purpose a 10 stone bag of Layers Mash was purchased every few weeks.

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15. The local Clonmel Nationalist (called “the Nashnisht”), the Farmers Journal and Mam’s Ireland’s Own provided great reading for one and all for the week.

16. Glen Abbey stockings were often on the list as were Mrs Cullen’s powders for a headache or any other ailment we might have.

17. Last but not least on the list was the dreaded Pig's Heads, eaten (not by me I hasten to add!) with cabbage, Chef brown sauce, and Golden Wonders with butter. When bought they were hung by hooks and for years I was haunted by the memory of the pigs staring back at me from the kitchen ceiling !

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WHITE DRESSES COLLEEN DAVEY

Scientifically, white is the combination of all the colours of the visible spectrum. I think of it as being the colour of foam-capped waves, of snow, of the moon and stars. It can be brilliant or stark.

That’s probably why paint merchants have so many versions of white, have modified it to have hints of pink, blue or green. They endeavour to soften its brilliance to accommodate our decorating needs. We think of white as virginal, as pure.

I loved my mother wearing white. I mentioned it to her once when she welcomed me home with my first-born and ever after she would have a white cardigan or blouse on when she came to the door to greet me and my family on our frequent visits home.

Her shining face and white clothing signalled good food, love and happy times.

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White is synonymous with First Holy Communions in Ireland.

White satin, cotton, brocade, organdy; the variation of material is huge, but the colour is white. I was to get my cousin’s first communion dress to wear on my big day. It was coming by post from Dublin. My aunt told us that her daughter would wear it for the Corpus Christi procession and immediately afterwards it would be dispatched to me. My mother took the precaution of buying a simple little white crepe dress for me just in case my cousin’s beautiful, long, smocked gown did not arrive in time for my big day. I was not happy about wearing the second best dress, but knew better than to say there was no way I would wear it. It had not arrived two days before, nor the day before and on the morning of the actual day, I was upstairs in the front bedroom reluctantly letting my mother zip up my demure little dress, when the postman arrived with the dress. I was saved!

My wedding dress was the second important white dress in my life. At this point, my dear cousin, who had given me her own beautiful dress for my communion, was wearing deepest black (said scientifically to be the absence of colour!) because she was a nun. She was not allowed to attend my wedding. Rules were strict.

I was living in a flat in Dublin at the time. It was my first year teaching and my salary was modest as was my future husband’s.

We were saving up every spare penny for a house. He was from Sandymount, but even then the prices of houses there were prohibitive, so we scoured the Northside. We found ourselves moving further and further out from the city centre in an effort to buy something within our budget.

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Portmarnock was a tiny village that was getting its very first big housing estate and the houses there were reasonably priced. We had the deposit, but what about the wedding? We found a nice hotel in Killiney called the Kybher Pass and booked it. It must have been in its last throes as very soon after it vanished without a trace! We were quoted the princely sum of £115 13s 6d for the wedding breakfast. A dress was last on the agenda.

Near our home in Lisnaskea there was a row of houses with long flights of steps up to their front doors. It was called Sandy Row. It was here that the Graham family lived. Billy was a postman and his three children, Cyril, Bertie and Violet were very good with their hands. Violet was a wonderful cook, Bertie was a great knitter and Cyril was a dressmaker. I decided that Cyril would make my wedding dress. I had seen a dress I liked in Bride Magazine and put in my order with Cyril. I came home the next week with the material, was measured and told it would be ready well before my July wedding. I had two fittings and got my dress, which was just what I wanted. Now what Cyril and I did not take into account was that in the weeks before the big day, I was having trouble with our local clergy about not getting married in my own parish church, getting a passport with my married name on it and my father, who was threatening to boycott the wedding. The effect of these worries was that the dress was swimming on me when I tried it on on the eve of my wedding. I had never thought of getting further fittings from Cyril in the preceding weeks. It still looked nice and on July 19th 1969, I was so happy that a mere white dress was not going to spoil the best day of my life.

The plane taking us to our honeymoon destination in Spain arrived in the early hours of the following morning, so we took our first steps into our new life just as Neil Armstrong was taking mankind's first steps on the moon on the 20th July 1969.

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WHITE, WHITE, WHITE CATHERINE DODD

A White Christening Robe: It was January 27th Dad brought me and my Godparents to the local church to be christened just one day after I was born.

White Communion Dress: seven years later It was a second-hand dress I wore, but it was beautiful as my cousin had great taste in dresses, and I felt like a princess.

White Confirmation Dress: Mam had this sleek A-line dress made for me for this occasion. It was a stiff cotton with satin effect lines running through it. A pill-box hat was also made from the same material to wear on Sundays after the Confirmation. I was a princess.

White Snowy day going to school: We were having the best of fun sliding and playing on the snowy roads when I fell and broke my wrist. This resulted in a trip to St. Finbarr’s hospital, where I was kept for three days. I wanted to be a Florence Nightingale nurse after that.

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White Nurses Uniform: This, to my bitter disappointment, did not happen for me as it was a time when it was really difficult to get a nursing profession. Florence Nightingale faded!

Long White Wedding Dress: Instead of nursing I joined the Civil Service where I met my husband, Tony. I bought this pretty wedding dress in McDonalds bridal boutique, Henry St. I chose it and bought it for £55 over two lunch-hour breaks. I was beautiful for a day!

Same White Dress: My neighbour borrowed same dress for her wedding. So this £55 garment made two ladies beautiful for a day!

Tumultuous White Snow in January 1982: On a trip to the Phoenix park I felt I was in Fairyland as we hadn’t seen such snow for many, many years. I treaded carefully, though, as I was pregnant with our first child. No snowmobiling that day!

White Christening Gown: this was for my beautiful, first born. It was my first, wonderful experience of being a Mum. Kevin hasn’t worn a dress since!

Same White Christening dress 3 more times: The christenings of my other son, Shane and two daughters, Miriam and Ciara brought a wealth of memories with it. It was in recession time and money was scarce, but we were rich in abundance of family life.

The 80s were tough times though. Thought I was only rearing them for emigration.

White Pallor of Death: This was the face of my dear Mum who died when I was only twenty- nine. Her departure happened way before her time and before she could experience the joy of two of the above grandchildren.

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White Communion Dress Again: this time it was for Miriam’s Communion day. It was a new dress of my choosing and she loved it, It was a great day with all her extended family around her. I fed about thirty people, went on a trip to Malahide castle playground and, then threw a party for the evening. I was younger then!

Same White Communion Dress: It was seven years after Miriam that Ciara made her Communion. She insisted she wanted to wear Miriam’s dress for the occasion. I agreed, but was full of trepidation in case it would show up a little yellow compared to all the new dresses of the other girls. She took her place among her friends and her dress shone just as white and bright as if it was new off the rails. It was a perfect fit for her and it gave both girls great satisfaction at wearing the same dress. It was a good deal for me too, and am so grateful for wrapping that dress in black tissue for seven years.

Serene Ashen Face of Dad: At ninety-seven Dad had a lovely peaceful death. We celebrated a complete and fruitful life of an almost Centenarian. His face in the coffin was one of peace and rest.

Heavy Snowfall of 2011: This was a very severe Winter and a sad one for me as my dear brother lay waiting for death. I had to walk about two miles, cross-country to catch a train to St. Vincents hospital on the other side of town, to visit him, as buses and cars were too dangerous for travelling. He died 2nd. April.

White Christening Suit: this was for the christening of my darling first grand-child, Jack. Life was turning full circle as that bundle of joy came into our lives.

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Long White Dress again: No, not me this time, it was Miriam’s wedding. This was another stand-out day in my life as she married the man of her dreams. What was different for her was that the christening suit came before the wedding dress. Wouldn’t have happened in my day!

White Christening Dress: a second grand-child, a beautiful girl, was christened. She is another bundle of joy. Hopefully she will get to wear many resplendent dresses in her lifetime.

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EASTER EGG OVERSHADOWED TONY BREATHNEACH

Spy Wednesday is reputed to have been the day when Judas betrayed Jesus with a kiss. But at the age of seven I knew nothing of that. It was Holy Week 1957 and I was in “High Babies” with the Mercy Sisters in Coolock. For weeks a big Easter Egg took pride of place at the top of the classroom. It was the largest Easter Egg I had ever seen. The egg was decorated, wrapped in cellophane and sitting on a bed of straw in a small wicker basket surrounded by sweets. Everybody was looking forward with excitement to Spy Wednesday when the raffle would take place as the school broke up for Easter.

That day all the High babies and Low Babies too gathered in anticipation for the raffle to take place. Sister Alonso shook the shoe-box containing the tickets and asked one of the other nuns to reach in and pick out the winning ticket. I couldn't believe my luck when my ticket was drawn and my name announced. I was overjoyed and couldn't wait to get home to share my great news and show off my prize.

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Mrs. McCann, a neighbour, collected me from school along with her daughter Marie. It seemed to take ages to walk the short distance home. I couldn't contain my joy and excitement.

However, I was a little surprised when it was my father who opened the front door. I brushed past him to look for my mother and was surprised to find her still in bed.

Proud as Punch I pushed my prize towards her. “That's lovely love, but I have a better Easter Egg to show you” she said showing me my new baby brother wrapped up beside her. Shane was only a few hours old. My prize no longer had pride of place or held much importance. “Give your new brother a kiss” my mother said.

It was Spy Wednesday and I felt betrayed!!!

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HOW DO YOU LIKE YOUR EGGS? CHRISTINE O'FLYNN

For as long as I can remember, Mam kept hens in the back garden.

Our back garden was a little different from most - where you open the back door - and there it is - the garden. Nothing was that simple in Monard. Our back door led out to a narrow strip of concrete running between the wall of the back kitchen and the rocky, grass covered side of the valley. It was the width of the green barrel lying on its side on concrete blocks, at the right hand side of the door. An inflow pipe come from the gutter and led the water into a hole on the curved top and another pipe came from what should be the top of the barrel, and in through the back kitchen wall. There was a lovely, shiny silver tap on this end and we had running water into our sink - cold rainwater of course, but running water - nonetheless.

Our back garden began with a set of wide, timber steps from the yard, ending level with the roof of the back kitchen. Another set of steps began then, that Dad had cut from the soil, and each one with a board held in place with steel spikes at the edge. This was a simple arrangement but made for easy progress up to the garden.

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The path had a branch off to the right, halfway up, beside the big rock and this led to the clothes line. The other continued, on past the little ash tree that never seemed inclined to grow into a full size tree, but was a sapling for as long as I can remember. The ground levelled out at this point and the path led past the loganberry bush and the gooseberries and came at last to the chicken runs and the part where Dad grew the potatoes, cabbage, lettuce and carrots. There was a little chicken house here, always called the glass house, though the only nod it gave to being worthy of the name was that there were quite a lot of squares of glass in the walls, which couldn’t really be called windows..

Nothing was ever grown there but it was the halfway house for the day-old chicks when they outgrew the comfort of the incubator on my brother’s bed but were still too small for the big hen house.

I hated the chickens that lived in that house, although they were the same fluffy, cuddly chicks that had sung me to sleep every night when they were in the bedroom next to mine. At this point in their life they became the equivalent of scruffy teenagers, looking tatty, with sparse feathers and sounding very raucous.

Soon though, their adult feathers covered their offensive bare patches, reddish brown if they were Rhode Island Reds or a lovely pure white if they were White Wyandottes - then I loved them again. Soon, they were ready to be moved up to the hen house proper, with the perches to sleep on at night and the rows of laying boxes along one wall. They were very special then and I loved going to see how many eggs were there. If a hen was still in a box, she never minded if I put my hand very slowly and gently under her and found an egg. There was a very special feeling about this egg, the smooth, clean shell and the gentle warmth of the hen still in it. This was no chore, I got a real sense of happiness from something as simple as just holding one warm egg..

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These hens were a great source of pride to Mam and she always boasted that she never minded when she had unexpected visitors, she always had plenty of free range eggs, with their deep orange yolks, and freshly made soda bread, so she could produce boiled or scrambled eggs with toast, or soda bread. There was home made loganberry jam too. No one ever went home hungry. When the hens got too old to lay, they provided many a dinner for us, with the extra bonus of chicken sandwiches for Tom amd me for school lunches next day, we were the envy or the class.

I had four first cousins who lived in Dublin. These were the sons of Mam’s older sister, Auntie Peg. She had married young and so her sons were the oldest of all the cousins. They came to Monard when they were young during their holidays. Dad brought them fishing and taught them about baits, rods, different flies at different times of the year. This gave three of the four a lifelong love of fishing, deepwater as well as freshwater. After they married, they still came to stay with us in Monard and Mam always found space for them to stay in our small house. One night while Lennie was staying, they all went to Blarney for a few drinks - I was about twelve or thirteen at the time. They left their two small children fast asleep and I was happy to be left in charge.

They came home and I heard them come in, laughing and chatting. After a while, my bedroom door opened and Lennie came in, a lovely aroma of cooking wafting in with him. “I brought you your supper” he said, handing me a steaming plate of scrambled eggs - but these were scrambled eggs like I'd never tasted before. Ours were nice, but just eggs, a little milk, pepper and salt, cooked in butter - nice, but nothing like these. I think the surprise of a supper in bed gave them an extra flavour. He told me he had added fried onions, and then flavoured them with some curry powder and cayenne pepper to make them spicey. They

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were oh, so delicious. It was a meal fit for a queen. After the cousins' holiday was over and they went home to Dublin, we were back to our plain scrambled eggs - I don’t think Mam and Dad were as enamoured with Lennie’s cooking as I had been.

I have had eggs in many dishes over the years - my favourite is usually an omlette with onions, mushrooms and grated cheese. I love piperade - red and green peppers, onions and tomatoes and covered with beaten eggs and cooked on the hob then finished under the grill. I love meringues and pavlovas, in fact most dishes with lots of eggs, both sweet and savoury, but I have yet to get a flavour as spectacular as those simple, curried eggs, served at midnight in Monard, that summer so long ago.

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BABY MOLLY

TRISH DOYLE

Baby Molly is our third grandchild and was born last June. We see her every Saturday evening. Every conversation starts with her Granda shouting Hello Hello Helloooo. As soon as she hears his voice her whole body turns to him and her face beams. Then follows a couple of hours of playing peepo, clap handies, making silly faces and all that goes with entertaining and enjoying time with a grandchild.

Last Saturday she sat fascinated as her Granda beat a rhythm on the Bodhran that hangs on the wall of the sitting room. Every new sound that came from it caused her to look at her Daddy as much as to say “ How is he doing that Daddy?”

From the time she was born these Saturday catch ups have made our week. At the beginning we would just be content to watch her sleeping and marvel at how big she was getting. Now she can pull herself up to her feet, sit in her high chair and generally make her presence felt by everyone around her. Her two bigger cousins

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idolise her and every so often will say “ Oh baby Molly would love that, lets show it to her” or “ Nana I am keeping this book for baby Molly” Every child brings a new beginning and an added dimension to a family and baby Molly is no different. Molly is part of the new generation that will in years to come be referred to as lockdown babies as she was born in a worldwide pandemic.

Molly and her Mam & Dad live over 7,000 kilometres away in Seattle.

Our Saturday visits with her are virtual. We sit here in Dublin and they organise themselves on their sitting room floor with toys etc all around them. We chat, sing, play silly games and make silly faces. We know Molly and she knows us but oh how we long to hold her.

The hope that we will soon be vaccinated and that international travel will return quickly are what keep us going. I dream of spending time with her, taking her for walks in her buggy and teaching her the things I taught her big cousins.

The world is heading into a time of new beginnings and new ways of living. Our priorities are shifting and I would like to think we will all be better people because of the experience of the last year.

I know we won’t get to celebrate Mollys first birthday with her but already we are thinking about and planning what we will do when we finally get to Seattle.

The virtual world of Zoom, Skype etc has been a lifeline for so many families all over the world but I know there is not a grandparent anywhere who is not counting the days until virtual becomes reality.

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FLOWERS

MARIAN NEARY BURKE

It was from our mother I got my love of flowers. She told us the story about volunteering to mind the geranium from the school during the holidays. She was so proud of her work and was so excited returning to school with the beautiful red flower in the clay pot. Just as she neared the school it slipped from her hand and smashed in smithereens, broken petals and stems all over the road. She was devastated and learned a valuable lesson early in life, pride comes before a fall!

My earliest conscious memory is of seeing seed catalogues in the house, Suttons I think they were called. She had a beautiful flower bed in front of the house. I loved the smell of the dahlias and we brought bunches of them to school along with daffodils in the spring and other flowers to adorn the windows in large jam jars.

As a child I loved to help her with the garden. I remember cycling to neighbour’s houses to swop varieties of bulbs with the clay still stuck to them. I even used to swop plants with one of my school

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pals, Elizabeth. I can still see them, one was a button daisy and another yellow flower, whose name we probably didn’t know.

I loved all the wild flowers. One of our fields, the far field, we called it, had a particular spot which yielded blue bells every year.

I couldn’t wait to go and pick them. We sucked nectar from the primroses and made fairy fingers with the foxgloves. I even loved the blossoms on the crab tress and the hawthorn. Honeysuckle with its distinctive perfume grew furiously along the hedgerows, woodbine we called it and I have that in my garden now.

I also loved the little blue flowers which were really considered weeds. The names of which I never knew of course, but recognise them today as speedwell and violets.

Photos of our own children in Nana’s garden beside Lupins taller than themselves She also loved gladioli, sweet William, phlox, asters and canterbury bells.

Today my garden is full of roots from home. Phlox, Lily of the valley, Chinese lanterns and Hydrangea. As I write this there is an aroma of clematis and viburnum wafting up my nostrils!

My other abiding memory of flowers if of my wedding bouquet. I asked the florist to make something flowing resembling a wild flower style. She didn’t disappoint and I can still remember the perfume of freesia all over the Church. I actually had it dried and it hangs proudly in our home in a beautiful wooden frame.

Mammy came to live with us in Dublin after Daddy died. She had five great happy years with us and when she died, we brought her home to the west of Ireland. I rode in the hearse all the way and I have a comforting memory of that trip with the smell of the lilies and other flowers that adorned her coffin.

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