Any Old Iron?

My greatest memory of Saturday nights in our Ringsend house is of my mother ironing in the living room.  Never a woman to rush out and buy the latest gadgets she quite happily made do with what, even then (mid-1960s), resembled an item which would have looked more at home in a glass showcase in the National Museum!  This apparent prehistoric object was in fact an iron made from real iron - now, I don't have to be a Mensa member to guess that this is how it probably got its name.  She had not just one but two for the simple reason that you needed two, one for working with while the other heated on the cooker, in our case, a gas cooker!  I was always terrified watching the blue flame curl around this rusty monstrosity, expecting it to explode through the roof at any given moment.

When mother had cleared away after tea she would place on the oval dining table her ironing paraphernalia which consisted of; a heavy piece of felt on which was placed several old sheets folded into a large square, all of which made for a wonderful deep, thick ironing board.  While this ritual was being carried out, the first iron was heating like billyo on the dreaded gas cooker.  Then, fast as lightning, when the iron had reached the required temperature and for the life of me I'll never know how she knew this, she would place it in its stainless steel shield, put the other iron on to heat then begin work on my father's shirts which would have taken precedence over every other item of clothing.  The trick with this form of ironing was in the speed with which you worked because the irons cooled very quickly.  I wonder now how my mother had such energy at the end of the day, it makes me tired just thinking about it!

I'll never know why she didn't just invest in an electric iron which would have made life so much easier for her but it was probably because of her fear of electric gadgets, she didn't trust them.  Hence, our household didn't possess what would have then been considered luxuries such as a fridge or washing-machine, mother preferring to rely on a tin box hung on our backyard wall to keep the food cool both in summer and winter and rolling up her sleeves each Monday morning which was of course, washday.


Above image via: www.quiltaddictsanonymous.com

FEEL FREE TO COMMENT  

Julia

The subject of the lines below is a lady who was very much part of my early and later life.   At difficult times she always seemed to be there, a warm shoulder to lean on.  Her presence during one very painful life event helped me more than she'll ever know.  Amazingly, her voice has not altered with time, which for me is magic because when I hear her speak, I'm once again that little girl, so excited at being in the company of someone who is very special to me.  It's been a few years since I heard that voice, so before this year is out, I intend to right that.  Meantime, this is for you, dear cousin.



Julia


My newest mother is peering down the Brownie camera lens
while I, in your arms, scowl at the box.
I'm two and a half years old
And not used to having my photograph taken.
My newest backyard is still an unfamiliar playground,
But safe within your arms, the strangeness holds no fear.

I'm eight years old,
It's dark, you hold my hand as we descend the cast-iron steps to your underground workplace.
I've never been in a canteen,
My eyes and ears absorb the sights and sounds of tea trays being delivered through little wall hatches
And the merry chatter of people enjoying their evening meal.

I feel certain it's the same evening, you take me to a big house,
Up the stairway to a room where both cheery mother and bustling brood welcome us with lively banter.
I love being here.
I protest at leaving the joyful spirit of this tenement lodging.

I'm ten years old,
I wait at the corner of our avenue on balmy summer Friday nights.
You bring sixpenny bars of chocolate, that's all I remember.

I'm twelve years old,
You arrive to our house every few weeks with your first-born daughter
In her magnificent high pram with the rose on the side.
I get to wheel her up the avenue.   I get to hold her.
I want to be a mother like you.

I'm seventeen years old,
I'm living with your Mam and Dad.
I don't see you as often as I'd like
But I see your first-born daughter some week-ends.

I'm forty five years old,
You hold me in your arms as I grieve the loss of my not-so-new mother.
She had her problems but she was a good mother.

I'm forty nine years old,
We hold each other as we grieve the loss of my not-so-new father.
He had his problems but he was a good father.

We're both older mothers now.
I don't see you at all.
I want to hear your voice again.
I want to hold you and feel your motherly arms around me.
I want to savour the chocolate bars one more time.


© Ann Brien 2012


Above image:  Me, taken by Julia in my backyard, 1954.

FEEL FREE TO COMMENT

Too Cold For "Piggybeds"

I'm not quite sure what it is about this time of year but I find myself yet again wanting to describe a winter memory as I experienced it during my childhood in Ringsend, Dublin.   I pray all these  memories I will carry with me to the end of my days, and with some luck, into the next life.

How wonderful it would be if we could transfer our happy recollections into our childrens' minds for them to glimpse what life was like for a child in the 1950s and 60s long before street games were replaced by sitting at a computer monitor where the only physical movement is that of your fingers on a keyboard and the periodic clicking of a mouse.   I suppose it has something in its favour, perhaps the children of today have a level of mental fitness that we could never achieve, but Boy, were we physically fit as fiddles!

Below is a little piece I wrote when remembering the other day, the winter's evening my friends and I had been playing "piggybeds" (a kind of hopscotch) at the end of my avenue and when it became too cold, they went home.

I, of course, with my goulish fascination for bleak winter nights remained in the avenue for a while in the hope that a storm-force wind would suddenly blow up and then I'd also get to hear the eerie fog-horn which always excited and terrified me at the same time!


Too Cold For "Piggybeds"


The street lamp casts its amber glow upon the eight-squared white chalk pattern,
A dirt-filled polish tin lies abandoned just outside square four, its abrupt end to play, the consequence of frozen fingers.
Mesmerised by the bleakness of this November evening,
My gaze begins its long fix on nature's tapestry;
The fog-shrouded moon,
The navy clouds, their wispy pink tendrils trailing off in zig-zag directions and, across the road,
The ink-black Liffey as she rhythmically pounds the sea wall.
Enveloped in the freezing mist
My thoughts now turn to bright red flames leaping in our living-room hearth,
And so, without much inner persuasion, I place the long-discarded "piggy" in the safety of neighbouring hedgerow,
Then make my way homeward to the promising comforts of warm hands and Irish stew.


© Ann Brien 2012


Above image: My avenue, taken by me, July 2011 (hedgerow to right still in existence!).

FEEL FREE TO COMMENT

Forgiveness

This afternoon I was browsing through an old shoebox containing bits and pieces from as far back as the mid to late 1990s.  I was amazed to find a piece of paper on which I'd written down my then feelings towards my adoptive mother.  It was a poem I called "Forgiveness" and dated a couple of years after her passing in 1996.  Thankfully, as a result of many years of therapy during the late 90s, in which I dealt with those feelings, no trace of that anger remains.

Mum loved me very much. I will always miss her.



Forgiveness

It can't have been easy for you
I know that now.
There came no reassuring touch or words of comfort as you fought the demons which raged within you
Instead, you unleashed those howling beasts upon a helpless child who could not understand your fury.
They frightened me, damn you
Still, it can't have been easy.

© Ann Brien 2012


Above image taken by me in Allihies, West Cork, February 2011.

FEEL FREE TO COMMENT

A Touch Of Nostalgia

I'm putting it down to the beautiful sunny weather we've been experiencing over the past few days. Yes, it's always the sunshine that triggers them. Memories.

Happy childhood recollections from a time when playing games didn't involve sitting at a computer monitor. No, these games were purely physical in nature. Skipping, playing ball against your house wall (one, two, three o leary!), beds (nearly every street had the chalk markings where you hopped from number one to number eight kicking an old polish tin, Nugget, I think the makers were, which you'd filled up with gravel to give it some weight), chasing, oh! the list goes on and on! All of that along with walking to and from school every day definitely meant you got all the physical exercise you ever needed.

Above is my avenue where my pals and I played all of the above games. Taken by me in 1969.

You might also notice from the above image that not many of my neighbours had cars. Only the families where the husband had any kind of a good job were the ones privileged to own such luxuries and some of these people even had a telephone installed in their hallways! We had neither car nor phone but what you didn't have you didn't miss.

One of my nicest memories of my summer childhood was when I'd be watching out for my Dad to arrive home on his bike just after mid-day for his dinner, yes, back then we had dinner in the middle of the day and tea at between five and six o'clock. While I'd be waiting for him the bread man, driving a Kennedy's electric van, would hover up the avenue to deliver his freshly baked loaves and pans but not to our house. We only got white bread from him on a Saturday as a treat because during the rest of the week my mother baked her own brown bread. Being a country woman my mother only approved of white bread being eaten in small amounts. What she didn't know was that sometimes my friends, when they'd go in for something to eat, would bring me out a jam sandwich or nicer still, a mashed banana and sugar sambo. I can still feel and hear the sugar crunching between my teeth! Sadly my molars' sorry state still bear testiment to those moments of Heaven.

Another treasured memory is again during the summer months when the monotonous sound of the dredger cleaning the bottom of the sea (my avenue faced onto the sea wall) and the subsequent cry of the overhead gulls looking for food would take me into a very relaxed state of mind, it was almost hypnotic. I still long for that sound. Those were moments I usually enjoyed by myself without the constant distraction of conversation. (You can view some of my Ringsend photos on: My Flickr Photostream) As a kid I was very aware of the sounds around me e.g. traffic in the distance (thin on the ground in those days), again the cry of the gulls first thing in the morning and on a winter's night the fog horn, its eerie signal guiding the ships home through a dense sea fog.

Above was the view from the end of my avenue. Taken by me in March, 1981.

It was wonderful living so close to the sea and of course we also had Sandymount strand on the other side, sure we were blessed! My dream is to retire back there some day. Some of the sounds may have long since been silenced but it's still a magic place no matter.

FEEL FREE TO COMMENT

Happiest Days Of Our Lives?

After many years of promising myself a return visit to my old primary school I finally took the bull by the horns yesterday and made the appointment for today at 12.00pm, the time when the children would be on their lunch break in the playground and I could visit the classrooms without disturbing them or their teachers.

The weather was showery and quite blustery as I set off on my journey. I was amazed that I actually felt a little bit anxious almost as if I was going to be scrutinized by the very teachers who once towered over me and scolded me harshly when I didn't get my sums right. Fifty years ago schools were places to be feared, corporal punishment the order of the day so there was little sympathy to be gained from showing your mother the raised welts on your hands from a beating with either a bamboo cane or leather strap or both on a really bad day, you'd just be told "you must have deserved it"! Having said all that I did have three wonderful teachers who actually made learning an enjoyable experience for everyone. So good were these teachers that most of what I learned, I learned from them. Alongside the bad times were some really great fun times too.

Approaching the doorway from which some children were still making their way out to the playground I visualized myself at their age walking out that same door. I found myself mentally saying to them "remember this moment for it will soon become just a memory".

In the forty five year period since I left the school its interior hasn't really changed all that much. Yes, the classrooms are much brighter, the once dark wood panelled walls are now brightly painted, childrens' multi-coloured paintings and notices adorn the walls of these classrooms and front stairway, in the corridors computer monitors rest on their trolleys, a stark reminder that this is part of twenty-first century learning. The once long wooden windows have now all been replaced by white PVC ones which do not require a pole with a hook to open and close them.

I was delighted to see that the corridors retained their original mosiac floors and tiled walls, they brought back some fleeting memories like the feel of my white runners (nowadays track shoes) as I walked out to the main playground for drill display. Also the front and rear staircases are just as I remember. At one point while I was in the classroom that for some reason I remember very clearly, fourth class it was, I had a very strange feeling. For a brief moment I was back there re-experiencing a memory of sitting at my old wooden desk with its iron frame and me staring out the long timber-framed window. It was a little bit scary.

With permission from the staff I took about eight interior photographs which I will always cherish. Speaking of the staff, they were absolutely wonderful and made me feel so welcome. We also talked about my teachers, some of whom have sadly passed on.

It was certainly a day to remember, I shall never forget it. I'm glad I finally made that return journey. I wish the children and their teachers all the very best. May they too have happy memories.

FEEL FREE TO COMMENT