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kilkennyobserver.ie
The Kilkenny Observer Friday 29 July 2022
Feature
BY FRANK CODY
Saturday mornings, during childhood, brought freedom from classroom confines. There was an escape from ‘bhfuil cead agam”’and the equally repetitive ‘cuir amach do lámh’. Released from the spirit-numbing repression, we welcomed frivolous weekends with exuberance. Admittedly they got off to a slow start, courtesy of mundane chores. Yards had to be tidied, shopping expeditions made, ‘messages’ collected. Yard duty saw me ensconced in the shed, seeking the soft path, perusing the exploits of Desperate Dan or The Bash Street Kids. Again, my easily distracted amblings meant serious delay in obtaining shopping items. Therefore it was my lot to procure the coal. Off with the wheelbarrow, down Ballybought Street across the ’Comer Road, descending into the bowels of the Gas House to collect a half hundred weight of sea coal. If there is a more technical name for this pulverized bituminous fuel, I am unaware of it. The working environs to a young mind was a wonderland. Men were stripped to the waist shovelling coal into sacks and casually throwing them on large scales to be weighed. Satisfied, they would heft it into the wheelbarrow and you were ready.
Jim Langton: Poetry in motion and one of Kilkenny’s greatest stylists. His name was certain to be mentioned as men waited for their haircut at Finns. PHOTO: Courtesy of ‘the Stripy men book’.
Sacred Saturdays, and wonderful memories of shops from John Street to Newpark
enInitial en deavours, with the stuffed sack lying flat along the bottom of the barrow, made the return journey a Enlightenstruggle. Enlighten ment came when my father showed me how to ease the burden by bringing the sack upright to the front of the barrow. My obvious joy at this discovery delighted him: “Typical… You’re so busy learning the tricks of the trade you
haven’t time to learn the trade” (aka ‘The Parable of the Radical Son’). The day, flammable material safely home, was all mine – well, almost. Two other impediments, on alternate Saturdays, halted progress. The first was Confession. Why a preteen needed to attend this service with such regularity baffled me. Attendance during teenage years was, perhaps, a tad more necessary. Reciting my misdemeanours, I appreciated the darkened box.
Always did so until a long time cleric of the parish interrupted “Bless me, Father” with “Hello, Frankie, how are you?” Never again, I pledged, as I regained the daylight. The second impediment was a haircut. Like confession, the twice monthly trip to the barber seemed a smidge excessive. Neither my sins nor my hair, I thought, needed such minute attention. The family barber of choice was John Finn. Making my way, I clutched a ‘tanner’
for the haircut and ‘thruppence’ for a treat afterwards. Distractions multiplied as I neared the destination. Mac Tiernan’s sweet shop had a collection of exotic confectionery. Daly’s ensured a vast array of comic books were visible through the window. The Mascot was full of creamy delights. Entry into the barber shop seemed a visit back in time, even in the 1960s. This emporium was old fashioned. The brightly lit room had, parallel to the back wall, a
