A true gentleman

Once upon a time I managed to buy a second hand Ford car which had belonged to a chicken farmer in County Roscommon. Often while  driving I'd see brown and white feathers floating from the back seats. There's something strangely comforting about chicken feathers.

I drove my car to the accompanying sounds of an out of tune orchestra. Bangs, twangs, gulps and wheezes became so familiar that I sang along -- equally out of tune. Whenever a new sound intruded I knew that something which shouldn't be happening was happening. Luckily my local friendly mechanic knew my car better than I did.

LEARNER DRIVER
I signed up for compulsory driving lessons before taking my burgundy beauty around the roads of Ireland. The instructor James Aloysius Kelly, always a true gentleman, was soon puzzled. I just couldn't manage the gears. I simply had to look down at the gear box and count 1--2--3--4 as I manoeuvred the car.

'You mustn't look down,' James Aloysius warned. 'You've to watch the road. See and be seen!

The following afternoon, instead of having a driving lesson he took me to a garage. There I was introduced to an actual out of car gear box so that I could understand how it worked. I saw how the plates came together when the vehicle was put into gear -- a car couldn't be driven when the gears were not engaged.
 'You'll have more confidence after this -- knowing how things work is half the battle.' said James Aloysius.                   

He had a bright idea for the next lesson. We'd try a new location. His reasoning was that I'd be so occupied driving on different roads that I'd shift gears automatically. I drove as directed to a wide road beside a park. There was a slight hill to climb.
 'Step on the gas a bit,' my instructor suggested. 'Now put her into second and don't look down!'
I obeyed.
 'Good on ye Marie,' James Aloysius chuckled. 'Thanks' I smiled, very pleased with myself.
'Right, now foot on the pedal a bit more, and put her into third. Don't look down!

 Doing as he said, I reached out and deftly put the right knee of James Aloysius Kelly into third gear!

Mortified, I apologised profusely. 'Anytime, anytime,' James Aloysius laughed.
A true gentleman indeed.

 

The Olive Tree

 

 

While on holiday in the Peloponnese we came upon a wonderful expanse of old olive trees.It was impossible to pass by without taking some photographs.The tree pictured above is a monument to time.Was it planted to commemorate some great event in the family, a wedding or a birth or some other important achievement?

     Did this tree suffer barren years and winters when snow feel heavily upon its branches.

     Did its enduring presence calm and restore a troubled soul?

    The wood of the olive is strong and can be carved or turned into beautifully crafted bowls, urns and vases. A well kept olive grove implies good husbandry and ownership. It can be inherited, sold or exchanged.

    The olive tree is long lived and a wild olive branch has long been associated with heroism. It was the prize given to runners who completed the course in ancient Olympia. An olive wreath confers honour on the recipient.



          Thannis Paraskevaidis says that:

          Trees can tell a friend from an enemy. Olive trees are not without feelings. Their living fibres

          nourished with the sweat of the labourer on the land, feel his joy and his sorrow. Olive trees     

          are the people who have brought them up. In their flesh you will find human toil. Their root

          smell of human sweat. Man pruned them. He trimmed them.

          Trees are not indifferent to the sufferings of mankind.

          Every misfortune of mankind means a wrinkle on the trunk of the trees.

                                            
           

                                                                                    

                                                                                   

 

The Olive in Crete

   Yesterday we drove past the local olive mill and saw bags of newly harvested olives stacked up outside. This will be a good year in the olive groves. In our area of western Crete the olive is precious and the trees are passed on and cared for from one generation to the next.
   I've been reading about the history of the olive. My source is a book called The Olive in Greece. (Topia Publications) I've read that there is no absolute answer as to when and how the olive reached the shores of the Mediterranean. But in ages past the deliberate destruction of an olive tree became a symbol of total violence.
   The leaves of the olive are green on one side and appear grey on the other. When the wind blows one sees a canopy of silver. The leaves are elongated and are unlike those on any other tree. The fruit of the tree can be green or black or with a reddish hue. The small olive is used in oil production the larger Kalamata olive is a table olive.
   We planted two olive groves on our land. The first planting was twelve years ago. These trees have each grown into individual shapes, spiralling and twisted in places. The younger trees are shining green and glossy following torrential rain storms. Today their juvenile branches sway in a light breeze from the sea. This rain is welcomed by the olive farmers because it helps to swell the fruit.
   There are times when the olive harvest is sparse. Last year we had what looked like a promising crop from our older tress. However, there were very strong gales which blew the fruit onto the ground. This year we won't have a harvest because the trees rest on alternate years. An olive tree which is respected, cared for, pruned and nourished will repay a hundredfold over the years.
   In the local Tavernas Olive oil is always on the table. There's nothing nicer than a plate on which olive oil has been drizzled. Sprinkle pepper on this and dip you hot bread in for a most satisfying appetiser.

To be continued. 

Aunt Rosie

     Known to us all as Aunt Rosie, she ruled the household and our town from her feather bed. Through her bedroom window she watched the comings and goings on each side of the street. She could see the church across the road too and she kept tabs on those who did or did not attend to their religious duties. She knew that Maisie O'Brien would marry Henry Daly before Maisie knew this herself. She also revealed to her daughter that Maisie was pregnant!

     When Aunt Rosie saw Peter O'Brien topple from his bicycle and the neighbours running to help him she knew that he'd never rise again. She told my Mother this and she also told her that the guards had taken Mikey Finnerty away because he'd been drinking and singing in the street. 'They should have left the poor creature alone,' she said, 'he's a great singer.'

     Sometimes I went into the house to talk to Aunt Rosie. 'You won't believe this,' she laughed 'but I watched Maggie O'Rourke's dog chasing the new curate up the driveway this morning. The young man was terrified.' When the curate came to our house to introduce himself, I told him that next time he was chased by a dog, he mustn't run. He should face the dog and if it jumped up he must give it a good knee right into it's doodle. The curate's face turned bright red.' It's her word for stomach' Mammy explained, before asking him if he was beginning go to feel at home yet.

   Small children and big ones too were very careful to behave when passing Aunt Rosie's house. When Jimmy Riley, who should have been at home studying for his exams, got carried away and kissed Irene Martin in Dooley's doorway, she saw them. From her vantage point she shone her torch (for emergency use only) in their direction. Jimmy waved towards the window and Aunt Rosie surprised his puzzled mother by saying that she found Jimmy to be 'quite the little Romeo!'

   Aunt Rosie had a little brass bell on her bedside table. Whenever she needed her pillows fixed or a cup of tea or a chat she'd ring the bell. Her daughter Bridie would do her bidding unless a visiting neighbour, knowing how hard Bridie worked said, 'here let me see to her.'

   'She'll be the death of me yet,' I overheard Bridie saying to Mammy. 'I know she's my mother and all that but my God you should see what she drops under the bed. I have to get down on my knees every night to retrieve her rosary beads and God only knows what else.'

I wrote a poem about this:

Feathers, fluff, crab apple core,
a sagging spring, wooden floor
One shiny penny, soft leather purse,
bits of lace, hair comb and worse--
A long lost hankie, crusts of bread,
underneath Aunt Rosie's bed.
And there she sits atop all that--
wearing feather boa and Grandpa's hat


.





  

when it's time to chime

   We took our antique wall clock from the auction room and thought deeply about where to hang this beautiful specimen. He has since looked down upon us from a vantage point above the stairs.

   I'm calling the clock he because of the lordly and obstinate way he  manages to conduct his time keeping assignments. He has no regard for our sleep patterns, daily appointments, visitors or  television programmes.

   Because our clock was displaying these traits we took him to an horologist /clock psychologist. 'He's very self willed' the expert said. 'You'll have to leave him with me for some timely behavioural therapy. I charge by the hour.' Although his stay in rehab cost a fortune, a more polished looking body and bright face returned to his wall space.

    For a couple of days his behaviour was impeccable. There were no missed hair appointments, we didn't arrive two hours late for a dinner party or get up at some ungodly hour in the night. At last our clock knew when it was time to chime.

   But old habits die hard and our delight turned to disbelief when we heard sixteen chimes when it was four in the afternoon and three when it was ten in the morning. At midnight there was a single chime followed by three and four alternately on the half hour.
  
   Our clock could be stopped forever and become an ornament, a bit like a dog whose been to the taxidermist -- a dead dog of course. But we don't have the heart to do this because this clock is no slacker, just a bit confused. It's now the forty seventh day of the month and the time has yet to be determined.

 

Services of Remembrance

My father's first cousin Patrick went to war in 1914. The theatre of desperation that was Gallipoli destroyed his mind. He was returned to a small town in Ireland to be cared for by his devoted sister. I'd go to see him with my father when I was a small child. Patrick would smile and call out, 'Sadie make tea for Marie,' She'd do so and bring a little tray for me with a mug of milky tea and fairy cakes she'd made. Pat would have his tray too and we'd sit there looking at each other, smiling and chattering, neither knowing what the other was saying. Before Sadie and my father went into the parlour for their tea she'd look in at us and say to him, 'you know that child is a caution. I'd swear she knows what he's saying.

Pat's room had a long window overlooking the back garden. He always sat in a wing back chair with a plaid rug covering his knees. Sadie had a fire lighting for Pat from the time she got him downstairs each afternoon. Rubbing his hands together he'd hold them close to the heat. Sometimes he'd count and I'd join in --1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9, and on reaching 10 we'd stand, clap our hands, and shout ZERO!  I've no idea what all this meant and I didn't know what he spoke to me about either. When I told him stories about my dolls he'd smile. When I asked him why he dribbled like a baby he also smiled. I loved Pat when I was little and now I love him for the sacrifice he made.

I wrote a poem once where I ask him what he saw as he looked through the window into the garden or when he watched the flickering flames. I remembered Sadie too. In the poem she represents all wives, mothers fiancés, sisters -- all women and families whose menfolk were broken in mind and body in the enormous tragedies of war.


                                                   
                                            Upon A Pure White Horse


          Looking beyond that misted pane of glass
          Along the garden path, to low and broken walls,
          Where stones stumble onto withered grass.
          What do you see?

          Sloe hedges, clumped with berries blackish blue.
          And fallow fields of clay, which cling to tortured trees,
          now rooted deep, where clotted poppies grow.
          What do you see?

          Searching, your limpid fingers claw for heat,
          Around metallic grate,
          Where logs asunder burst, recoil, seared, scorched and dreaded war drums beat! 
          What do you feel?

          Flames, rushing into skies, convulsing low,
          To rot in fetid fumes, the bones of splintered men.
          Who cradled softly, lie beneath white crosses, row on row!
          What do you feel?
         
          She strokes your head, the hair all silvered -- thin.
          Hopes fled, your star extinct.
          As mirthless laughter ebbs, decanting warm dribble into hollow chin?
          What do you know?

          Gone! You ride upon a snow white horse.
          And yet, lone vigil she defends.
          Life's metronome upset, you are her symphony unfinished.
          Lest we forget.
          Lest we forget.

What Happens now?

That's a good question. I don't want to bore you by always talking about my writing. This will be the last posting about this for a while.

Many readers have been asking me about a sequel to A Place in the Choir. I've taken a look at the chapters I've already written for this and I've done some rewrites.

Rewriting passages didn't feature as much as it should have done in  A Place in the Choir. That's why there's a revised version of the paperback on Amazon Kindle. I just wrote and wrote without thinking very much about details. I didn't think clearly enough about the relevance of certain scenes. Nor did I always consider the importance of their sequels. I just wrote -- and wrote and wrote!!Even small matters such as being consistent with names and dates escaped my notice. Sometimes Rev. O'Hara metamorphosed into Rev. O'Rourke and Uncle William was interchanged more than once for Uncle Matthew.

My friend Maria discovered some omissions and inconsistencies when we read through parts of the novel. Like Ellie arriving in America a week before she had left Ireland and Tom appearing in England out of nowhere. Acting out a scene was really constructive and frequently made us laugh --how could Ellie open a door while her cut and bloodied hand was being held up in the air by Sister Angel and the other clasped firmly by Miss Prissy?

It will be exciting to watch how Ellie's life unfolds from now on. I'm a little frightened for her because she's been sheltered for so long. She's remained for years almost at a standstill emotionally and psychologically. But she knows this herself -- I think. I hope she will catch up quickly whatever her decision.

Many have hinted that Ellie deserves something lovely to happen to her. I would like this to be the case. Many obstacles lie ahead, let's hope she's stronger now. We know she is resilient but will she be resolute. I don't know. I just hope that in the next book I will be able to recapture the spirit of Ellie and her sense of humour. Above all, I hope that whenever the sequel is published that the reader will be satisfied. 

Rain

   It's rained here on and off in north west Crete for the past ten days. The night skies were frequently on fire with electricity created by spears of fork or layers of sheet lightening. The wind howled while leaves and broken branches from the trees swirled around the place. We're happy to have rain at last because we'd begun to long for it as the final dry and hot days of summer drew to a close.
   Outside in the garden there are pools of water to be seen everywhere. And the trees look glorious, green and refreshed. The olive farmers are rejoicing because the rain is good for plumping up the fruit. Bougainvillaea still blooms along our lane and the sheep in surrounding fields munch wet lush grass and herbs.
   Our youngest cat, who was born in the dry season came home this morning drenched and crying loudly. She'd never encountered rain before. When our other cats saw her being dried with an old towel, they lined up to be dried too -- even though they hadn't been outside at all! We called this tiny kitten --( rescued from a thorny ditch) Mini. She was so sweet and so small that it was obvious she was a girl. When the vet told us that Mini is in fact a boy we laughed, she couldn't be, could she? She was and she is. Her revised name is Mini Haw Haw.